PMNTEDBy SIR THO'LAWBENCE. ^MSSA'/EDSY^J-JK^LTEK. 4* MISCELLANEOUS YORKS t^'7/-;-, THK RIGHT HONOURABLE SIR JAMES MACKINTOSH THREE VOLUMES, COiMPLETE IN ONE. NEW \ O E K : D. APPLETON & CO., 90, 92 & 94 GRAND STKEET. 1871. "ByTnaatti ADVERTISEMENT TO THE LONDON EDITION, BY THE EDITOR. These Volumes* contain whatever (with the exception of his History of England) ife Delieved to be of the most value in the writings of Sir James Mackintosh. Something of method, it will be observed, has been attempted in their arrangement by commencing with what is more purely Philosophical, and proceeding through Literature to Politics; each of those heads being generally, though not quite precisely, referable to each volume respectively. With such selection would naturally have terminated his responsibility; but in committing again t:« the press matter originally for the most part hastily printed, the Editor has assumed — us the lesser of two evils — a larger exercise of discretion in the revision of the text than he could have wished to have felt had been imposed upon him. Instead, therefore, of continually arresting the eye of the reader by a notification of almost mechanical alterations, he has to premise here that where inaccuracies and redundancies of expression were obvious, these have been throughout corrected and retrenched. A few transpositions of the text have also been made ; — as where, by the detachment of the eleventh chapter of what the present Editor, on its original publication allowed to be called, perhaps too largely, the "History of the Revolution of 1688," a stricter chronological order has been observed, at the same time that the residue — losing thereby much of its frag- mentary character — may now, it is hoped, fairly claim to be all that is assumed in its new designation. Of the contributions to periodical publications, such portions only find place here as partake most largely of the character of completeness. Some extended quota- tions, appearing for the most part as notes on former occasions, have been omitted, with a view to brevity, on the present ; while, in addition to a general verification of the Author's references, a few explanatory notes have been appended, wherever apparently needful, by the Editor. R. J. MACKINTOSH. • The Miscellaneous Works of the Right Honourable Sir James Mackintosh, 3 vols. 8vo., Lon don: Longman, Brown, Green, and Longm&n, 1846. CONTENTS. PAGE On the Philosophical Genius of Lord Bacon and Mr. Locke 17 k Discourse on the Law of Nature and Nations 27 Life of Sir Thomas Mom 43 Appendix 81 A Refutation of the Claim on behalf of King Charltis I. to the Authorship of the EIKQN BA2IAIKH 82 Dissertation on the Progress of Kthiril Philosophy, chiefly during the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries 94 Introduction ib. Section L Preliminary Observations 96 n. Retrospect of Ancient Ethics 99 in. Retrospect of Scholastic Ethics 104 IV. Modern Ethics Ill V. Controversies concerning the Moral Faculties and the Social Affections 1 17 VI. Foundations of a more just Theory of Ethics 131 V'll. (General Remarks 1 'i' Notes and Illustrations 188 An account of the Partition of Poland 198 Sketch of the Administration and Fall of Struensee 217 Statement of the Case of Doinia Maria da Gloria, as a Claimant to the Crown of Por- tugal 225 Character of Charles, First Marquis Cornwallis 235 Character of the Right Honourable George Canning 238 Preface to a Reprint of the Edinburgh Review of 1755 242 On the Writings of Machiavel 245 Review of Mr. Godwin's Lives of Edward vnui John Philips, &c. &c 249 Review of Rogers' Poems 254 Review of Madame de Slael's " De L'Aliemagne" 260 Review of the Causes of the Revolution of 1688 271 CHAPTER I.— General state of affairs at home.— Abroad.— Characters of the Ministry.— Sunderland.— Rochester.— Halifax.— Godolphin.— Jeffreys.— Fever- eliam.— His conduct after the victory of Sedgemoor. — Kirke.— Judicial pro- ceedings in the AVest.— Trials of Mrs. Lisle.— Behaviour of the King.— Trial of Mrs. Gaunt and others. — Case of Hampden. — Prideaux.— Lord Brandon.— Delamere 'h CHAPTER II.— Dismissal of Halifax.— Meeting of Parliament.— Debates on the Address.— Prorogation of Parliament. — Habeas Corpus Act.— State of the Ca- tholic Party.— Character of the Queen.— Of Catherine Sedley.— Attempt to support the Dispensing Power by a Judgment of a Court of Law.— Godden V. Hales.— Consideration of the Arguments.— Attack on the Church.— Establisn- ment of the Court of Commissioners for ecclesiastical causes.— Advancement of Catholics to offices. — Inti^rconrse with Rome 284 Kii CONTENTS. PARE CHAPTER III. — State of the Army. — Attempts of the King to conven it.— The Princess Anne. — Dryden. — Lord Middleton and others. — Revocation of the Edict of Nantes. — Attempt to convert Rochester. — Conduct of the Queen. — Religious conference. — Failure of the attempt. — His dismissal 299 CEIAPTER IV.— Scotland. — Administration of Queensberry.— Conversion of Perth. — Measures contemplated by the King.— Debates in Parliament on the King's letter. — Proposed bill of toleration — unsatisfactory to James. — Adjournment of Parliament. — Exercise of prerogative. Ireland. — Character of Tyrconnel. — Review of the state of Ireland. — Arrival of Tyrconnel. — His appointment as Lord Deputy. — Advancement of Catholics to offices. — Tyrconnel aims at the sovereign power in Ireland. — Intrigues with France 30< CHAPTER V. — Rupture with the Protestant Tories. — Increased decision of the King's designs. — Encroachments on the Church establishment. — Charter-House. — Oxford, University College. — Christ Church. — Exeter College, Cambridge.— Oxford, Magdalen College. — Declaration of liberty of conscience. — Similar at- tempts of Charles. — Proclamation at Edinburgh.— Resistance of the Church — Attempt to conciliate the Nonconformists. — Review of theii' sufferings. — Bax- ter. — Bunyan. — Presbyterians. — Independents. — Baptists. — Quakers. — Ad- dresses of thanks for the declaration 319 CHAPTER VI. — D'Adda publicly received as the Nuncio. — Dissolution of Parlia- ment. — Final breach. — Preparations for a new Parliament. — New charters. — Removal of Lord Lieutenants. — Patronage of the Crown. — Moderate views of Sunderland. — House of Lords. — Royal progress. — Pregnancy of the Queen. — London has the appearance of a Catholic city 337 CHAPTER VII. — Remarkable quiet. — Its peculiar causes. — Coalition of Notting- ham and Halifax. — Fluctuating counsels of the Court. — "Parliamentum Paciii- cum." — Bill for liberty of conscience. — Conduct of Sunderland. — Jesuits 350 CHAPTER VIII. — Declaration of Indulgence renewed. — Order that it should be read in Churches. — Deliberations of the clergy. — Petition of the Bishops to the King. — Their examination before the Privy Council, committal, trial, and ac- quittal. — Reflections. — Conversion of Sunderland. — Birth of the Prince of Wales. — State of Affairs 359 CHAPTER IX. — Doctrine of obedience. — Right of resistance. — Comparison of foreign and civil war. — Right of calling auxiliaries. — Relations of the people of England and of Holland 380 iJlemoir of the Affairs of Holland, 1667—1686 384 Discourse read at the opening of the Literary Society of Bombay 398 Vindicae GallicBB : — A Defence of the French Revolution and its English Admirers, against the accusations of the Right Hon. Edmund Burke, including some Strictures on the late Production of Mons. de Calonne 404 Introduction ib. Section I. The General Expediency and Necessity of a Revolution in France. . . . 406 II. Of the composition and character of the National Assembly 424 III. Popular excesses which attended the Revolution 430 IV. New Constitution of France 43* V. English admirers vindicated 448 VI. Speculations on the probable consequences of the French Revolution in Europe 157 Reasons against the French War of 1793 461 On the State of France in 1815 4f?6 On the Right of Parliamentary Suffrage -172 A Speech in Defence of John Peltier, accused of a Libel on the First Consul of France 484 A Charge, delivered to the Grand Jury of the Island of Bombay, on the 20th July, 1811 501 Speech on the Annexation of Genoa to the Kingdom of Sardinia, delivered in the Houso of Commons, April 27, 1815 50«» CONTENTS. xm PAGE Speech on moving for a Committee to inquire into the State of the Criminal Law ; delivered in the House of Commons, March 2. 1819 524 Speech on Mr. Brougham's Motion for an Address to the Crown, with Reference to the Tria' and Condemnation of the Rev. John Smith, of Demerara ; delivered in the House of Commons, June 1, 1824 534 Speech on presenting a Petition from the Merchants of London for the Recognition of the Lidependent Stales, established in the Countries of America, formerly sub- ject to Spain; delivered in the House of Commons, June 15, 1824 549 Speech on the Civil Government of Canada; delivered in the House of Commons, May 2, 1828 564 Speech on moving for Papers relative to the Affairs of Portugal; delivered in the House of Commons, June 1, 1829 569 Speech on the second Reading of the Bill to amend the Representation of the People of England and Wales ; delivered in the House of Commons, July 1, 1831 . . . . 580 Appendix ^. 591 GAfNf CELL EDS PHILOSOPHICAL' GENIUS LORD BACON AND MR. LOCKE.* " History," says Lord Bacon, " is Natural, Civil or Ecclesiastical, or Literary; whereof of the three first I allow as extant, the fourth I note as deficient. For no man hath pro- pounded to himself the general state of learn- ing, to be described and represented from age to age, as many have done the works of Nature, and the State civil and ecclesias- tical; without which the history of the world seemeth to me to be as the statue of Poly- phemus with his e)^e out; that part being wanting which doth most show the spirit and life of the person. And yet I am not ignorant, that in divers particular sciences, as of the jurisconsults, the mathematicians, the rhetoricians, the philosophers, there are set down some small memorials of the schools, — of authors of books; so hkewise some bar- ren relations touching the invention of arts or usages. But a just story of learning, con- taining the antiquities and originals of know- ledges, and their sects, their inventions, their traditions, their divers administrations and managings, their oppositions, decay.s. depres- sions, oblivions, removes, with the causes and occasions of them, and all other events concerning learning throughout the ages of the world, I may truly affirm to be wanting. The use and end of which work I do not so much design for curiosity, or satisfaction of those who are lovers of learning, but chiefly for a more serious and grave purpose, which is this, in few words, ' that it ii-ill make learned men wise in the use and administration of learning.^ "t Though (here are passages in the writings of Lord Bacon more splendid than the above, few, probably, better display the union of all the qualities which characterized his philo- i^phica. genius. He has in general inspired u fervour of admiration which vents itself in indiscriminate praise, and is very adverse to a calm examination of the character of his understanding, which was very peculiar, and on that account described with more than ordinary imperfection, by that unfortunately * These remarks are extracted from the Edin- burgh Review, vol. xxvii. p. ISO ; vol. xxxvi. p. 829.— Ed. t Advancement of Learnina;. hook ii. vague and weak part of language which at- tempts to distinguish the varieties of mental superiority. To this cause it may be as- cribed, that perhaps no great man has been either more ignorantly censured, or more un- instructively commended. It is easy to de- scribe his transcendent merit in general terms of commendation; for some of his great qualities lie on the surface of his writings. But that in which he most excelled all other men, was the range and compass of his in- tellectual view and the power of contemplai- ing many and distant objects together without indistinctness or confusion, which he himself has called the "discursive" or "comprehen- sive" understanding. This wide ranging in- tellect was illuminated by the brightest Fancy that ever contented itself with the office of only ministering to Reason : and from this singular relation of the two grand faculties of man, it has resulted, that his phi- losophy, though illustrated still more than adorned by the utmost splendour of imagery, continues still subject to the undivided su- premacy of Intellect. In the midst of all the protligality of an imagination which, had it been independent, would have been poetical, his opinions remained severely ra- tional. It is not so easy to conceive, or at least to describe, other equally essential elements of his greatness, and conditions of his success. His is probably a single instance of a mind which, in philosophizing, always reaches the point of elevation whence the whole prospect is commanded, without ever rising to such a distance as to lose a distinct perception of every part of it.* It is perhaps not less singu- * He himself who alone was qualified, has de- scribed the genius of his philosophy both in respect to the degree and manner in which he rose from particulars to generals: " Axiomata intima non multum abexperieniia nuda discrepant. Suprema vero ilia et generalissima(quae habentur) notionalia sunt et abstracta, et nil habent solidi. At media sunt axiomata ilia vera, et solida, et viva, in quibua humanjB res et fortunse sitae sunt, et supra haec quoque, tandem ipsa ilia generalissima, talia scili- cet quse non abstracta sint, sed per haec media verelimilantur." — Novum Organum, bL>. :. sph:>. ris. 104. i: 18 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. lar, that his philosophy should be founded at once on disregard for the authority of men, and on reverence for the boundaries pre- scribed by Nature to human inquiry; that he who thought so little of what man nad done, hoped so highly of what he could do ; that so daring an innovator in science should be so wholly exempt from the love of singularity or paradox; and that the same man who re- nounced imaginary provinces in the empire of science, and withdrew its landmarks with- in the limits of experience, should also exhort posterity to push their conquests to its utmost verge, with a boldness which will be fully justified only by the discoveries of ages from which we are yet far distant. No man ever united a more poetical style to a less poetical philosophy. One great end of his discipline is to prevent mysticism and fanaticism from obstructing the pursuit of truth. With a less brilliant fancy, he would have had a mind less qualified for philoso- phical inquiry. His fancy gave him that power of illustrative metaphor, by which he seemed to have invented again the part of language which respects philosophy; and it rendered new truths more distinctly visible even to his own eye, in their bright clothing of imagery. Without it, he must, like others, have been driven to the fabrication of uncouth technical terms, which repel the mind, either by vulgarity or pedantry, instead of gently leading it to novelties in science, through agreeable analogies with objects already fa- miliar. A considerable portion doubtless of the courage with which he undertook the re- formation of philosophy, was caught from the general spirit of his extraordinary age, when the mind of Europe was yet agitated by the joy and pride of emancipation from long bondage. The beautiful mythology, and the poetical history of the ancient world, — not yet become trivial or pedantic, — appeared before his eyes in all their freshness and lus- tre. To the general reader they were then a discovery as recent as the world disclosed by Columbus. The ancient literature, on which his imagination looked back for illustration, had then as much the charm of novelty as that rising philosophy through which his rea- son dared to look onward to some of the last periods in its unceasing and resistless course. In order to form a just estimate of this wonderful person, it is essential to fix stead- ily in our minds, what he was not, — what he did not do, — and what he professed neither to be, nor to do. He was not what is called a metaphysician : his plans for the improve- ment of science were not inferred by ab- stract reasoning from any of those primary principles to which the philosophers of Greece struggled to fasten their systems. Hence he has been treated as empirical and superficial by those who take to themselves the exclusive name of profound speculators. He was not, on the other hand, a mathema- tician, an astronomer, a physiologist, a chem- ist. He was not eminently conversant with t^e particular truths of any of those sciences which existed in his time. For this reason, he was underrated even by men themselves of the highest merit, and by some who had acquired the most just reputation, by adding new facts to the stock of certain knowledge. It is not therefore very surprising to find, that Harvey, " though the friend as well as physician of Bacon, though he esteemed him much for his wit and style, would not allow him to be a great philosopher;" but said to Aubrey, "He writes philosophy like a Lord Chancellor," — "in derision," — as the honest biographer thinks fit expressly to add. On the same ground, though in a manner not so agreeable to the nature of his own claims on reputation, Mr. Hume has decided, that Ba- con was not so great a man as Galileo, be- cause he was not so great an astronomer. The same sort of injustice to his memory has been more often committed than avowed, by professors of the exact and the experimental sciences, who are accustomed to regard, as the sole test of service to Knowledge, a pal- pable addition to her store. It is very true that he made no discoveries: but his life was employed in teaching the method by which discoveries are made. This distinc- tion was early observed by that ingenious poet and amiable man, on whom we. by our unmerited neglect, have taken too severe a revenge, for the exaggerated praises be- stowed on him by our ancestors : — " Bacon, like Moses, led us forth at last. The barren wilderness he past, Did on the very border stand Of the blest promised innd ; And froin the mountain top of his exalted wit Saw it himself, and showed us it."* The writings of Bacon do not even abounc? with remarks so capable of being separated from the mass of previous knowledge and reflection, that they can be called new. This at least is very far from their greatest dis- tinction : and where such remarks occur, they are presented more often as examples of his general method, than as important on their own separate account. In physics, which presented the principal field for dis- covery, and which owe all that they are. or can be, to his method and spirit, the experi- ments and observations which he either made or registered, form the least valuable part of his writings, and have furnished some cul- tivators of that science with an opportunity for an ungrateful triumph over his mistakes. The scattered remarks, on the other hand, of a moral nature, where absolute novelty is precluded by the nature of the subject, mani- fest most strongly both the superior force and the original bent of his understanding. We more properly contrast than compare the experiments in the Natural History, with the moral and political observations which enrich the Advancement of Learning, the speeches, the letters, the History of Henry VII., and, above all, the Essays, a book which, though it has been praised with equal Cowley, Ode to the Royal Societv. ON THE PHILOSOPHICAL GENIUS OF BACON AND LOCKL 19 fervour by Voltaire, Johnson and Burke, has never been characterized with such exact justice and such exquisite felicity of expres- sion, as in the discourse of Mr. Stewart.* It will serve still more distinctly to mark the natural tendency of his mind, to observe that his moral and political reflections relate to these practical subjects, considered in their most practical point of view ; and that he has seldom or never attempted to reduce to theory the infinite particulars of that '-'civil knowledge," which, as he himself tells us, is, "of all others, most immersed in matter, and hardliest reduced to axiom." His mind, indeed, was formed and exer- cised in the affairs of the world : his genius vi'^as eminently civil. His understanding was peculiarly tilted for questions of legislation and of policy ; though his character was not an instrument well qualified to execute the dictates of his reason. The same civil wis- dom which distinguishes his judgments on human affairs, may also be traced through his reformation of philosophy. It is a prac- tical judgment applied to science. What he effected was reform in the maxims of state, — a reform which had always before been unsuccessfully pursued in the republic of letters. It is not derived from metaphysical reasoning, nor from scientific detail, but from a species of intellectual prudence, which, on the practical ground of fadure and dis- appointment in the prevalent modes of pur- suing knowledge, builds the necessity of alteration, and inculcates the advantage of administering the sciences on other princi- ples. It is an error to represent him either as imputing fallacy to the syllogistic method, or as professing his principle of induction to be a discovery. The rules and forms of ar- gument will always form an important part of the art of logic : and the method of induc- tion, which is the art of discovery, was so far from being unknown to Aristotle, that it was often faithfully pursued by that great observer. What Bacon aimed at, he accom- plished ; which was, not to discover new principles, but to excite a new .^spirit, and to render observation and experiment the pre- dominant characteristics of philosophy. It is for this reason that Bacon could not have been the author of a system or the founder of a sect. He did not deliver opinions; he taught modes of philosophizing. His early * " Under the same head of Eihics, may be mentioned the small volume to w.iicii he has given the title of ' Essays,' — the best known and most popular of all his works. It is also one of those where the superiority -jf his genius appears to the greatest advantage ; the novelty and depth of his refectio7is often receiving a stronsr relief from the triteness of the subje' . It may be read from be- ginning to end in a few hours ; and yet, after the twentieth perusal, one seldom fails to remark in it something unobserved before. This, indeed, is a characteristic of all Bacon's writings, and is only to be accounted for by the inexhaustible aliment they furnish to our own thoughts, and the sympa- thetic activity they impart to our torpid faculties.'" Encyclopaedia B-»'annica, vol. i. p. 36. immersion in civil affairs fitted him for fhi.- species of scientific reformation. His politi- cal course, though in itself unhappy, proba- bly conduced to the success, and certainly influenced thecharacter, of the contemplative piart of his life. Had it not been for his ac- tive habits, it is likely that the pedantry and quaintness of his age would have still more deeply corrupted his significant and majestic style. The force of the illustrations which he takes from his experience of ordinary life, is often as remarkable as the beauty of those which he so happily borrows from his study of antiquity. But if we have caught the leading principle of his intellectual character, we must attribute efl'ects still deeper and more extensive, to his familiarity with the active world. It guarded him against vain subtlety, and against all speculation that was either visionary or fruitless. It preserved him from the reigning prejudices of contem- plative men, and from undue preference to particular parts of knowledge. If he had been exclusively bred in the cloisterer the schools, he might not have had courage enough to reform their abuses. It seems necessary that he should have been so placed as to look on science in the free spirit of an intelligent spectator. Without the pride of professors, or the bigotry of their followers; he surveyed from the world the studies which reigned in I he schools ; and, trying them by their fruits, he saw that they were barren, and therefore pronounced that they Avere unsound. He himself seems, indeed, to have indicated as clearly as modesty would allow, in a case that concerned himself, and where he de- parted from an universal and almost na- tural sentiment, that he regarded scholastic seclusion, then more unsocial and rigorous than it now can be, as a hindrance in the pursuit of knowledge. In one of the noblest passages of his writings, the conclusion " of the Interpretation of. Nature," he tells us, "That there is no composition of estate or society, nor order or qualit}' of persons, which have not some point of contrariety towards true knowledge; that monarchies incline wits to profit and pleasure; commonwealths to glory and vanity ; universities to sophistry and affectation ; cloisters to fables and unpro- fitable subtlety ; study at large to variet} ; and that it is hard to say whether mixture of contemplations with an active life, or retiring wholly to contemplations, do disable or hin- der the mind more." But, though he was thus free from the prejudices of a science, a school or a sect, other prejudices of a lower nature, and be- longing only to the inferior class of those who conduct civil affairs, have been ascribed to him by encomiasts as well as ly opponents. He has been said to consider the great end of science to be the increase of the outward accommodations and enjoyments of human life : we cannot see any foundation for this charge. In labouring, indeed, to correct the direction of study, and to withdraw it from these unprofitable subtleties, it was r.ece- 20 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. sary to attract it powerfully towards outward lets and woiks. He no doubt duly valued ■' the dignity of this end, the endowrnent of .nan's life with new commodities;" and he strikingly observes, that the moBt poetical people of the world had admitted the inven- tors of the useful and manual arts among the highest beings in their beautiful mytho- logy. Had he lived to the age of Walt and Davy, he would not have been of the vulgar and contracted mind of those who cease to admire grand exertions of intellect, because they are useful to mankind : but he would certainly have considered their great works rather as tests of the progress of knowledge than as parts of its highest end. His im- portant questions to the doctors of his time were : — " Is truth ever barren 1 Are w-e the richer by one poor invention, by reason of all the learning that hath been these many hundred years'?" His judgment, we may also hear from himself: — "Francis Bacon thought in this manner. The knowledge whereof the world is now possessed, espe- cially that of nature, extendeth not to magni- tude and certainty of works.''^ He found knowledge barren ; he left it fertile. He did not underrate the utility of particular inven- tions; but it is evident that he valued them most, as being themselves among the high- est exertions of superior intellect, — as being- monuments of the progress of knowledge, — as being the bands of that alliance between action and speculation, wherefrom spring an appeal to experience and utility, checking the proneness of the philosopher to extreme refinements ; while teaching men to revere, and exciting them to pursue science by these splendid proofs of its beneficial power. Had he seen the change in this respect, which, produced chiefly in his own country by the spirit of his philosophy, has made some de- gree of science almost necessary to the sub- sistence and fortune of large bodies of men, he would assuredly have regardetl it as an additional security for the future growth of the human understanding. He taught, as he tells us, the means, not of the "amplification of the power of one man over his country, nor of the amplification of the power of that coun- try over other nations; but the amplification of the power and kingdom of mankind over the world," — "a restitution of man to the sovereignty of nature,"* — "and the enlarg- ing the bounds of human empire to the ef- fecting all things possible. "t — From the enlargement of reason, he did not separate the growth of virtue, for he thought that "truth and goodness were one, differing but as the seal and the print ; for truth prints goodness."! A s civil history teaches statesmen to profit by the faults of their predecessors, he pro- poses that the history of philosophy should teach, by example, " learned men to become * Of ilie Interpretation of Nature, t New Atlaniis. * .\dvaiiceinent of Leavniriff. hook; wise in the administration of learning." Early immersed in civil affairs, and deeply imbued with their spirit, his mind in this place con- templates science only through the analogy of government, and considers principles of philosophizing as the easiest maxims of po licy for the guidance of reason. It seems also, that in describing the objects of a his- tory of philosophy, and the utility to be de- rived from it, he discloses the principle of his own exertions in behalf of knowledge ; — whereby a reform in its method and maxims, justified by the experience of their injurious efTects, is conducted with a judgment analo- gous to that civil prudence which guides a wise lawgiver. If (as may not improperly be concluded from this passage) the reforma- tion of science was suggested to Lord Bacon, by a review of the history of philosophy, it must be owned, that his outline of that history has a very important relation to the general character of his philosophical genius. The smallest circumstances attendant on that out- line serve to illustrate the powers and habits of thought which distinguished its author. It is an example of his faculty of anticipating, — not insulated facts or single discoveries, — but (what from its complexity and refinement seem much more to defy the power of pro- phecy) the tendencies of study, and the modes of thinking, which were to prevail in distant generations, that the parts which he had chosen to unfold or enforce in the Latin versions, are those which a thinker of the pre- sent age would deem both most excellent and most arduous in a history of philosophy; — "the causes of literary revolutions; the study of contemporary writers, not merely as the most authentic sources of information, but as enabling the historian to preserve in his own description the peculiar colour of every age, and to recall its literary genius from the dead." This outline has the un- common distinction of being at once original and complete. In this province. Bacon had no forerunner; and the most successful fol- lower will be he, who most faithfully ob- serves his precepts. Here, as in every province of knowledge, he concludes his review of the performances and prospects of the human understanding, by considering their subservience to the grand purpose of improving the condition, the faculties, and the nature of man, without which indeed science would be no more than a beautiful ornament, and literature would rank no higher than a liberal amusement. Yet it must be .Acknowledged, that he rather perceived than felt the connexion of Truth and Good. Whether he lived too early to have sufficient e.xperience of the moral benefit of civilization, or his mind had early acquired too exclusive an interest in science, to look fre- quently beyond its advancement; or whether the infirmities and calamities of his life had blighted his feelings, and turned away his eyes from the active world ; — to what- ever cause we may ascribe the defect, cer- tain it is. that his works want one exceliencf ON THE PHILOSOPHICAL GENIUS OF BACON AND LOCKE. 2i of the highest kind, which they would have possessed if he had habitually represented the advancement of knowledge as the most effectual means of realizing the hopes of Benevolence for the human race. The character of Mr. Locke's writings can- not be well understood, without considering the circumstances of the writer. Educated among the English Dissenters, during the short period of their political ascendency, he early imbibed the deep piety and ardent spirit of liberty which actuated that body of men ; and he probably imbibed also, in their schools, the disposition to metaphysical inquiries which has every where accompanied the Calvinistic theology. Sects, founded on the right of private judgment, naturally tend to purify themselves from intolerance, and in time learn to respect, in others, the freedom of thought, to the exercise of which they owe their own existence. By the Independent divines who were his instructors, our philoso- pher was taught those principles of religious liberty which they were the first to disclose to the world.* When free inquiry led him to milder dogmas, he retained the severe mo- rality which was their honourable singulari- t)', and which continues to distinguish their successors in those communities which have abandoned their rigorous opinions. His pro- fessional pursuits afterwards engaged him in the study of the physical sciences, at the mo- ment when the spirit of experiment and ob- servation was in its youthful fervour, and when a repugnance to scholastic subtleties was the ruling passion of the scientific world. At a more mature age, he was admitted into the society of great wits and ambitious poli- ticians. During the remainder of his life, he was often a man of business, and always a man of the world, without much undisturbed leisure, and probably with that abated relish for merely abstract speculation, which is the inevitable result of converse with society and experience in affairs. But his political connexions agreeing with his early bias, made him a zealous advocate of liberty in opinion and in government ; and he gradually limited his zeal and activity to the illustration of such general principles as are the guardians of these great interests of human society. Almost all his writings (even his Essay it- self) were occasional, and intended directly to counteract the enemies of reason and free- dom in his own age. The first Letter on Toleration, the most original perhaps of his * Orme's Memoirs of Dr. Owen, pp. 99 — 110. In this very ahie volume, it is clearly proved that the Independents were the first teachers of reli- gions liberty. The industrious, ingenious, and tolerant writer, is unjust to Jeremy Taylor, who had no share (as Mr. Orme supposes) in the per- secuiing councils of Charles II. It is an import- ant fact in the history of Toleration, that Dr. Owen, the Independent, was Dean of Christ- church in 1651. when Locke was admitted a mem- ber of that College, '' under a fanatical lulor,''^ as Antony Wood says. works, was composed in Holland, in a retire ment where he was forced to conceal him« self from the tyranny which pursued him into a foreign land ; and it was published in England, in the year of the Revolution, to vindicate the Toleration Act, of which he lamented the imperfection.* His Treatise on Government is composed of three parts, of difl'erent character, and very unequal merit. The confutation of Sii Robert Filmer, with which it opens, has long lost all interest, and is now to be considered as an instance of the hard fate of a philoso- pher who is compelled to engage in a conflict with those ignoble antagonists who acquire a momentary importance by the defence of pernicious falsehoods. The same slavish ab- surdities have indeed been at various times revived : but they never have assumed, ana probably never will again assume, the form in which they were exhibited by Filmer. Mr. Locke's general principles of eoveinment were adopted by him, probably without much examination, as the doctrine which had for ages prevailed in the schools of Europe, and which afforded an obvious and adequate jus- tification of a re.sistance to oppression. He delivers them as he found them, without even appearing to have made them his own by new modifications. The opinion, that the right of the magistrate to obedience is founded in the original delegation of power by the people to the government, is at least as old as the writings of Tfromas Aquinas :t and in the beginning of the seventeenth century, it was regarded as the common doctrine of all the divines, jurists and philo- sophers, who had at that time examined the moral foundation of political authority.! It then prevailed itrdeed so universally, * " We have reed," says he. " of more gene- rous remedies than have yet been used in our distempers. It is neither declarations of indul- gence, nor acts of comprehension such as have yet been practised or projected ainongsi us, that can do the work among us. Absolute liberty, just and true liberty, equal and impartial liberty, is the thing that we stand in need of Now, though this has indeed been much talked of, I doubt it has not been much understood, — I am sure not at all practised, either by our governors towards the people in general, or by any dissenting parties of the people towards one another." How far are we, at this moment [1821] , from adopting these admir- able principles! and with what absurd confidence do the enemies of religious liberty appeal to the authority of Mr. Locke for continuing those re- strictions on conscience which he so deeply lamented ! t " Non cujuslibet ratio facit legem, sed miilii- tudinis, aut principis, vicem muUitudinis gererdis." — .Summa TheologicB, pars i. quaesl 90. X " Opinionem jam factam communem omnium Scholnsiicorum." Antonio de Dominis, Do Re- publica Ecclesiastica, lib. vi. cap. 2. Antonio de Dominis, Archbishop of Spalato in Dalmatia, having imbibed the free spirit of Father Paul, inclined towards Protestantism, or at least towards such reciprocal concessions as might reunite the churches of the West. During Sir Henry Wo;- lon's remarkable embassy at Venice, he was pur- snaded to go to England, where he was niad« Dean of Windsor. Finding, perhaps, the I'roies' 22 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. that it was assumed by Hobbes as the basis of his system of universal servitude. The di- vine right of kingly government was a jjrinci- ple very little known, till it was inculcated in the writings of English court divines after the accession of the Stuarts. The purpose of Mr. Locke's work did not lead him to inquire more anxiously into the solidity of these uni- versally received principles ; nor were there at the time any circumstances, in the condi- tion of the country, which could suggest to his mind the necessity of qualifying their application. His object, as he says himself, was " to establish the throne of our great Restorer, our present King William ; to make good his title in the consent of the people, which, being the only one of all lawful go- vernments, he has more fully antl clearly than any prince in Christendom ; and to jus- tify to the world the people of England, whose love of their just and natural rights, with their resolution to preserve them, saved the nation when it was on the very brink of slavery and ruin." It was essential to his purpose to be exact in his more particular observations : that part of his work is, ac- cordingly, remarkable for general caution, and every where bears marks of his own considerate mind. By calling VV^illiam "a Restorer," he clearly points out the charac- teristic principle of the Revolution ; and suf- ficiently shows that he did not consider it as intended to introduce novelties, but to defend or recover the ancient laws and lib- erties of the kingdom. In enumerating cases which justify resistance, he confines himself, almost as cautiously as the Bill of Rights, to the grievances actually suffered under the late reign : and where he distinguishes be- tween a dissolution of government and a dis- solution of society, it is manifestly his object to guard against those inferences which would have rendered the Revolution a source of an- archy, instead of being the parent of order and security. In one instance only, that of taxation, where he may be thought to have introduced subtle and doubtful speculations into a matter altogether practical, his purpose was to discover an immovable foundation for that ancient principle of rendering the government dependent on the representatives of the people for pecuniary supply, which first established the English Constitution ; which improved and strengthened it in a course of ages; and which, at the Revolution, finally triumphed over the conspiracy of the Stuart princes. If he be ever mistaken in his premises, his conclusions at least are, in this part of his work, equally just, generou.", and prudent. Whatever charge of haste or inac- ants more inflexible ilian lie expected, he returned to Rome, possibly with the iiope of more success ;n that quarter. But, though he publicly abjured his errors, he was soon, in consequence of some free language in conversation, thrown into a dun- geon, vvliere lie died. His own writings are for- gotten; but mankind are indebted to him for the admirable history of the Council of Trent by Fa- ther Paid, of which he brought the MSS. with him -ti London- curacy may be brought against his abstrac* principles, he thoroughly weighs, and mature- ly considers the practical results. Those who consider his moderate plan of Parliamentary Reform as at variance with his theory of government, may perceive, even in this re- pugnance, whether real or apparent, a new indication of those dispositions which ex- posed him rather to the reproach of being an inconsistent reasoner, than to that of being a dangerous politician. In such works, how- ever, the nature of the subject has. in some degree, obliged most men of sense to treat it with considerable regard to consequences; though there are memorable and unfortunaio examples of an opposite tendency. The metaphysical object of the Essay on Human Understanding, therefore, illustrates the natural bent of the author's genius more forcibly than those writings which are con- nected with the business and interests of men. The reasonable admirers of Mr. Locke would have pardoned Mr. Stewart, if he had pro- nounced more decisively, that the first b(?bk of that work is inferior to the others; and we have satisfactory proof that it was so considered by the author himself, who, in the abridgment of the Essay which he pub- lished in Leclerc's Review, omits it altoge- ther, as intended only to obviate the preju- dices of some philosophers against the more important contents of his work.* It must be owned, that the very terms "innate ideas" and '•innate principles," together with the division of the latter into " speculative and practical," are not only vague, but equivo- cal ; that they are capable of difTerent senses; and that they are not always employed in the same sense throughout this discussion. Nay, it will be found very difficult, after the most careful perusal of Mr. Locke's first book, to state the question in dispute clearly and shortly, in language so strictly philoso- phical as to be free from any hypothesis. As the antagonists chiefly contemplated by Mr. Locke were the followers of Descartes, perhaps the only proposition for which he must necessarily be held to contend was, that the mind has no ideas which do not aiise from impressions on the senses, or from re- flections on our own thoughts and feelings. But it is certain, that he sometimes appears to contend for much more than this proposi- tion ; that he has generally been understood in a larger sense ; and that, thus interpreted, his doctrine is not irreconcilable to those philosophical systems with which it has been supposed to be most at variance. These general remarks may be illustrated by a reference to some of those ideas which are more general and important, and seem .ruire les prejuges de qiielques philosoplies, j'ai cru que dans ce petit abrege de mes principes, je devois passer toutes les di.'jputes preliminaires qui composent le livre premier." Bibliolhcque Uni- verseile, Janv. J68fi ON THE PHILOSOPHICAL GENIUS OF BACON AND LOCKE. 23 more dark than any others ; — perhaps only because we seek in them for what is not to be found in any of the most simple elements of human knowledge. The nature of our notion of space, and more especially of that of time, seems to form one of the mysteries of Oar intellectual being. Neither of these notions can be conceived separately. Nothing outward can be conceived without space ; for it is space which gives ow^ness to objects, or renders them capable of being conceived aa outward. Nothing can be conceived to exist, without conceiving some time in which it exists. Thought and feeling may be con- ceived, without at the same time conceiving space; but no operation of mind can be re- called which does not suggest the conception of a portion of time, in which such mental operation is performed. Both these ideas are so clear that they cannot be illustrated, and so simple that they cannot be defined : nor indeed is it possible, by the use of any words, to advance a single step towards ren- dering them more, or otherwise intelligible than the lessons of Nature have already made them. The metaphysician knows no more of either than the rustic. If we confine ourselves merely to a statement of the facts which we discover by experience concerning these ideas, we shall find them reducible, as has just been intimated, to the following ; — namely, that they are simple ; that neither space nor time can be conceived without some other conception ; that the idea of space always attends that of every outward object ; and that the idea of time enters into every idea which the mind of man is capable of forming. Time cannot be conceived sepa- rately from something else; nor can any thing else be conceived separately from time. If we are asked whether the idea of time be innate, the only proper answer consists in the statement of the fact, that it never arises in the human mind otherwise than as the concomitant of some other perception ; and that thus understood, it is not innate, since it is always directly or indirectly occasioned by some action on the senses. Various modes of expressing these facts have been adopted by different philosophers, according to the variety of their technical language. By Kant, space is said to be the /orm of our per- ceptive faculty, as applied to outward ob- jects ; and time is called the form of the same faculty, as it regards our mental ope- rations: by Mr. Stewart, these ideas are con- sidered "as suggested to the understanding'''* by sensation or reflection, though, according to him, •' the mind is not directly and imme- diately /«?-nisAcd" with such ideas, either by sensation or reflection : and, by a late emi- nent metaphysician,! they were regarded as perceptions, in the nature of those arising from the senses, of which the one is attend- ant on the idea of every outward object, and the other concomitant with the consciousness • Philosophical E fiv. of our reasons for doubting whether Locko be much indebted to Hobbes for his specu- lations; and certainly the mere coincidence of the opinions of two metaphysicians ia slender evidence, in any case, that either of them has borrowed his opinions from the other. Where the premises are difierent, and they have reached the same conclusion by different roads, such a coincidence ia scarcely any evidence at all. Locke and Hobbes agree chiefly on those points in which, except the Cartesians, all the specu- lators of their age were also agreed. They differ on the most momentous questions, — the sources of knowledge, — the power of ab- straction, — the nature of the will ; on the two last of which subjects, Locke, by his very failures themselves, evinces a strong repug- nance to the doctrines of Hobbes. They dif- fer not only in all their premises, and many of their conclusions, but in their manner of philosophising itself. Locke had no preju- dice which could lead him to imbibe doc- trines from the enemy of liberty and religion. His style, with all its faults, is that of a man who thinks for himself; and an original style is not usually the vehicle of borrowed opin- ions. Few books have contributed more [hxn Mr. Locke's Essay to rectify prejudice ; to undermine established errors ; to diffuse a just mode of thinking; to excite a fearless spirit of inquiry, and yet to contain it within the boundaries which Nature has prescribed to the human understanding. An amend- ment of the general habits of thought is, in most parts of knowledge, an object as impor- tant as even the discovery of new truths; though it is not so palpable, nor in its nature so capable of being estimated by superficial observers. In the mental and moral world, which scarcely admits of any thing which can be called discovery, the correction of the intellectual habits is probably the greatest service which can be rendered to Science. In this respect, the merit of Locke is unri- valled. His writings have diffused through- out the civilized world, the love of civil lib- erty and the spirit of toleration and charity in religious differences, with the disposition to reject whatever is obscure, fantastic, or hypothetical in speculation, — to reduce ver- bal disputes to their proper value, — to aban- don problems which admit of no solution, — to distrust whatever cannot clearly be ex- pressed, — to render theory the simple ex- pression of facts, — and to prefer those studies which most directly contribute to human happiness. If Bacon first discovered the rules by which knowledge is improved, Locke has most contributed to make man- kind at large observe them. He has done most, though often by remedies of silent and almost insensible operation, to cure those mental distempers which obstructed the adoption of these rules; and has thus led to that general diffusion of a healthful and vigorous understanding, which is at once I he greati:"st of all improvements, and th? ON THE STUDV OF THE LAW OF NATURE AND NATIONS. instrument by which all other progress must De accompiisheJ. Ho has left to posterity the instructive example of a prudent re- former, and of a philosophy temperate as well as liberal, which spares the feelings of the good, and avoids direct hostility with obsti- nate and formidable prejudice. These bene- fits are very slightly counterbalanced by some political doctrines liable to misapplica- tion, and by the scepticism of some of his ingenious followers; — an inconvenience to which every philosophical school is exposed, which does not steadily limit its theory to a mere exposition of experience. If Locke made few discoveries, Socrates made none : yet both did more for thj improvement of the understanding, and not less for the progress of knowledge, than the authors of the most brilliant discoveries. Mr. Locke will ever be regarded as one of the great ornaments of the English nation ; and the most distant posterity will speak of him in the language addressed to him by the poet — " O Decus AngiiacEcerte, O Lux altera gentis!"* * Gray, De Principiis Cogitandi. A DISCOURSE ON THE LAW OP NATURE AND NATIONS. Before I begin a course of lectures on a science of great extent and importance, I think it my duty to lay before the public the reasons which have induced me to undertake such a labour, as well as a short account of the nature and objects of the course which I propose to deliver. I have always been un- willing to waste in unprofitable inactivity that leisure which the first years of my pro- fession usually allow, and which diligent men, even with moderate talents, might of- ten employ in a manner neither discreditable to themselves, nor wholly useless to others. Desirous that my own leisure should not be consumed in sloth, I anxiously looked about for some way of filling it up, which might enable me according to the measure of my humble abilities, to contribute somewhat to the stock of general usefulness. I had long been convinced that public lectures, which have been used in most ages and countries to teach the elements of almost every part of learning, were the most convenient mode in which these elements could be taught ; — that they were the best adapted for the im- portant purposes of awakening the attention of the student, of abridging his labours, of guiding his inquiries, of relieving the tedious- •ness of private study, and of impressing on his recollection the principles of a science. I saw no reason why the law of England should be less adapted to this mode of in- struction, or less likely to benefit by it, than * This discourse was tlie preliminary one of a jourse of lectures delivered in the hall of Lincoln's »nn during the spring of the year 1799. From the state of the original MSS. notes of these lectures, m the possession of the editor, it would seem that tlie lecturer had trusted, with the exception of a few passages prepared in extenso, to his powerful memory for all the aid that was required beyond what mere catchwordx could supply. — Er>. any other part of knowledge. A learned gen- tleman, however, had already occupied that ground.* and will, I doubt not, persevere in the useful labour which he has undertaken. On his province it was far from my wish to intrude. It appeared to me that a course of lectures on another science closely con- nected with all liberal professional studies, and which had long been the subject of my own reading and reflection, might not only prove a most useful introduction to the law of England, but might also become an inter- esting part of general study, and an import- ant branch of the education of those who were not destined for the profession of the law. I was confirmed in my opinion by the assent and approbation of men, whose names, if it were becoming to mention them on so slight an occasion, would add authority to truth, and furnit^h some excuse even for error. Encouraged by their approbation, I resolved without delay to commence the un- dertaking, of which i shall now proceed to give some account ; without interrupting the i:)rogress of ray discourse by anticipating or answering the remarks of those who may, perhaps, sneer at me for a departure from the usual course of my profession, because I am desirous of employing in a rational and useful pursuit that leisure, of which the same men would have required no account, if it had been wasted on trifles, or even abused in dissipation. The science which teaches the rights and duties of men and of states, has, in mode«-n times, been called " the law of nature and nations." Under this comprehensive title * See " A Syllabus of Lectures on the Law of Enirland, to be delivered in Jj^'ncoln's Inn Hall by M/Nolen, Esq." 28 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. are Included the rules of morality, as they pj-escribe the conduct of private men towards each other in all the various relations of hu- man life ; as they regulate both the obedi- ence of citizens to the laws, and th^ authority of the magistiate in framing laws, and ad- ministering government ; and as they modify the intercourse of independent common- wealths in peace, and prescribe limits to their hostility in war. This important science comprehends only that part of private ethics which is capable of being reduced to tixed and general rules. It considers only those general principles of jurisprudence and poli- tics vvhich the wisdom of the lawgiver adapts to the peculiar situation of his own country, and which the skill of the statesman applies to the more fluctuating and infinitely varying circumstances which affect its immediate welfare and safety. " For there are in nature certain fountains of justice whence all civil laws are derived, but as streams ; and like as waters do take tinctures and tastes from the soils through which they run, so do civil laws vary according to the regions and govern- ments where they are planted, though they proceed from the same fountains."* On the great questions of morality, of poli- tics, and of municipal law, it is the object of this science to deliver only those funda- mental truths of which the particular appli- cation is as extensive as the whole private and public conduct of men ; — to discover those '-fountains of justice," without pursu- ing the '-streams" through the endless va- riety of their course. But another part of the subject is to be treated with greater ful- ness and minuteness of application ; namely, that important branch of it which professes to regulate the relations and intercourse of states, and more especially, (both on account of their greater perfection and their more immediate reference to use), the regulations of that intercourse as they are modified by the usages of the civilized nations of Chris- tendom. Here this science no longer rests on general principles. That province of it which we now call the " law of nations," has, in many of its parts, acquired among Euro- pean ones much of ihe precision and cer- tainty of positive law ; and the particulars of that law are chiefly to be found in the works of those writers who have treated the science of which I now speak. It is because they have classed (in a manner which seems peculiar to modern times) the duties of indi- viduals with those of nations, and established their obligation on similar grounds, that the whole science has been called, " the law of nature and nations." Whether this appellation be the happiest that cculd have been chosen for the science, and by what steps it came to be adopted Advancement of Learning, book ii. I have not been deterred by some petty incongruity of metaphor from quoting this noble sentence. Mr. Hume had, perhaps, this sentence in his recollec- tion, when he wrote a remarkable passage of his work.s. See his Essays, vol. ii. p. 352. among our modern moralists and lawyers * are inquiries, perhaps, of more curiosity than use, and ones which, if they deserve any where to be deeply pursued, will be puisued with more propriety in a full examination of the subject than within the short limits of an introductory discourse. Names are, how- ever, in a great measure arbitrary; but the distribution of knowledge into its parts, though it may often perhaps be varied with little disadvantage, yet certainly depends upon some fixed principles. The modern method of considering individual and na- tional morality as the subjects of the same science, seems to me as convenient and rea- sonable an arrangement as can be adopted. The same rules of morality which hold toge- ther men in families, and which form families into commonwealths, also link together these commonwealths as members of the great so- ciety of mankind. Commonwealths, as well as private men, are liable to injury, and ca- pable of benefit, from each other; it is, therefore, their interest, as well as their duty, to reverence, to practise, and to en- force those rules of justice which control and restrain injury, — which regulate and augment benefit, — which, even in their pre- sent imperfect observance, preserve civilized states in a tolerable condition of security from wrong, and which, if they could be gen- erally obeyed, would establish, and perma- nently maintain, the well-being of the uni- versal commonwealth of the human race. It is therefore with justice, that one part of th s science has been called "the natural law of individuals i''^ and the other •' the natural law of states f^ and it is too obvious to require observation,! that the application of both these laws, of the former as much as of the latter, is modified and varied by customs^ * The learned reader is aware that the "jus naturfe" and "jus gentium" of ihe Roman law- yers are phrases of very difi'erent import from the modern phrases, "law of nature" and " law of nations." "Jus naturale," says Ulpian, "est quod natura omnia animalia docuit." " Quod naturalis ratio inter omnes homines constiiuit, id apud omnes peraque custoditur; vocaiurque jus gentium." But they sometimes neglect this subtle distinction — "Jure natural! quod appellalur jus gentium." " Jus feciale" was the Roman term ibr our law of nations. " Belli quidem sequiias sanctissime populi Rom. fecial! j\ire perscripta est." De Officiis, lib. i. cap. ii. Our learned ci- vilian Zouch has accordingly entitled his work, " De Jure Feciali, sive de Jure inter Gentes." The Chancellor D'Aguesseau, probably without knowing the work of Zouch, suggested that this law should be called, " Droit entre les Gens" (CEuvres, vol. ii. p. 337), in which he has been followed by a late ingenious writer, Mr. Bentham, (Introduction to the Principles of Morals and Le- gislation, p. 324.) Perhaps these learned writer* do employ a phrase which expresses the subject of this law with more accuracy than our connnon language ; but I doubt whether innovations in the terms of science always repay us by their superior precision for the uncertainty and confusion vvhich the change occasions. t This remark is suggested by an objection of Vattel, which is more specious than solid. Se« : his Preliminaries. ^ 6, ON THE STUDY OF THE LAW OF NATURE AND NATIONS. 29 conventions, character, and situation. With a view to these principles, the writers on general jurisprudence have considered states as moral persons; a mode of expression which has been called a fiction of law, but which may be regarded with more propriety as a bold metaphor, used to convey the im- portant truth, that nations, though they ac- knowledge no common superior, and neither can, nor ought, to be subjected to human punishment, are yet under the same obliga- tions mutually to practise honesty and hu- manity, which would have bound individu- als, — if the latter could be conceived ever to have subsisted without the protectmg re- straints of government, and if they were not compelled to the discharge of their duty by the just authority of magistrates, and by the wholesome terrors of the laws. With the same views this law has been styled, and (notwithstanding the objections of some writ- ers to the vagueness of the language) ap- pears to have been styled wiih great pro- priety, '•' the law of nature." It may with sufficient correctness, or at least by an easy metaphor, be called a "law," inasmuch as it is a supreme, invariable, and uncontrolla- ble rule of conduct to all men, the violation of which is avenged by natural punishments, necessarily flowing from the constitution of things, and as fixed and inevitable as the order of nature. It is " the law of nature," because its general precepts are essentially adapted to promote the happiness of man, as long as he remains a being of the same nature with which he is at present endowed, or, in other words, as long as he continues to be man, in all the variety of times, places, and circumstances, in which he has been known, or can be imagined to exist ; because it is discoverable by natural reason, and suit- able to our natural constitution: and because its fitness and wisdom are founded on the general nature of human beings, and not on any of those temporary and accidental situ- ations in which they may be placed. It is with still more propriety, and indeed with the highest strictness, and the most perfect accuracy, considered as a law, when, accord- ing to those just and magnificent views which philosophy and religion open to us of the government of the world, it is received and reverenced as the sacred code, promul- gated by the great Leaislator of the Universe for the guidance of His creatures to happi- ness; — guarded and enforced, as our own experience may inform us, by the penal sancti )ns of shame, of remorse, of infamy, and o! misery; and still farther enforced by the reasonable expectation of yet more awful penalties in a future and more permanent state of existence. It is the contemplation of the law of nat'jire under this full, mature, and perfect idea of its high origin and trati- gcendeiit dignity, that called forth the enthu- siasm of the greatest men, and the greatest writers of ancient and modern times, in those sublime descriptions, in which they have exhausted all tne powers ol language; and surpassed all the other exertions, even of their own eloquence, in the display of its beauty and majesty. It is of this law that Cicero has spoken in so many parts of his writings, not only with all the splendour and copiousness of eloquence, but with the sen- sibility of a man of virtue, and with the gra- vity and comprehension of a philosopher.* It is of this law that Hooker speaks in so sublime a strain : — " Of Law, no less can be said, than that her seat is the bosom of God, her voice the harmonyof the world; all things in heaven and earth do her homage, the very least as feeling her care, the greatest as not exempted from her power; both angels and men. and creatures of what condition soever, though each in different sort and manner, yet all with uniform consent admiring her as the mother of their peace and joy."t Let not those who, to use the language of the same Hooker, '' talk of truth," without •' ever sounding the depth from whence it springeth," hastily take it for granted, that these great masters of eloquence and reason were led astray by the specious delusions ot mysticism', from the sober consideration of the true grounds of morality in the nature, necessities, and interests of man. They studied and taught the principles of morals; but they thought it still more necessary, and more wise, — a much nobler task, and more becoming a true philosopher, to inspire men with a love and reverence for virtue'.! They were not contented with elementary specu- lations: they examined the foundations of our duty; but they felt and cherished a most natural, a most seemly, a most rational en- thusiasm, when they contemplated the ma- jestic edifice which is reared on these solid foundations. They devoted the highest ex- ertions of their minds to spread that benefi- cent enthusiasm among men. They conse- crated as a homage to Virtue the most perfect * " Est quidem vera lex recta ratio, naiiirffi congruens, difTusa in omnes, cnnslans, sempiter- na; qwfB vocet ad officium jubendo, veiando a fraude delerreat, quas tamen neque probos irusira jubet aut vetat, neque improbos jubendo aut ve- tando movet. Huic iegi neqne obrogari fas est, neque derogari ex hac aliquid licet, neque tola abr'ogari potest. Nee vero aut per senaium aut per populum solvi hac lege possumus: neque est quffirendus explanalor aut interpres ejus alius. Nee erit alia lex Romse, alia Aihenis, alia nunc, alia posihac ; scd et onines gentes et omiii tem- pore una lex et setnpiierna, et immutabilis con- tint'bit ; unusque erit communis quasi niagister et imperator omnium Deus, iile legis hujus inventor, disceplator, Jaior: cui qui non parebit ipse $c fugiet et naturam hominis aspcrnabitur, aique hoc ipso luet ma.ximas pcenas, etiamsi casiera sup- plicia, quae putantur, efTugerit." — De Repub. lib. iii. cap 23. t Ecclesiastical Polity, book i. in the conclusion. t " Age vero urbibus constitutis, ut fidem co- lere et jusiitiam retinere discerent, et aliis parere sua voluniate consuescerent, ac non niodo laborei excipiendos communis commodi causa, sed eiiair vitam amittendam exisiimarent ; qui tandem fier potuit, nisi homines ea, quse ratione -n'-enis^ti.t eloquenti.a persuiiere poiuissent?'" — De .nverit Rhet. lib. i. cap. 2. 30 MACKINTOSH'S I^IISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. fruits of their genius. If these grand senti- ments of ''the good and fair" have some- times prevented them from delivering the principles of ethics with the nakedness and dryness of science, at least we must own that they have chosen the better part, — that they have preferred virtuous feeling to moral theory, and practical benefit to speculative exactness. Perhaps these wise men may have supposed that the minute dissection and anatomy of Virtue might, to the ill-judg- ing eye, weaken the charm of her beauty. It is not for me to attempt a theme which has perhaps been exhausted by these great writers. I am indeed much less called upon to display the worth and usefulness of the law of iiatious, than to vindicate myself from presumption in attempting a subject which has been already handled by so many mas- ters. For the purpose of that vindication it will be necessary to sketch a very short and slight account (for such in this place it must unavoidably be) of the progress and present state of the science, and of that succession of able writers who have gradually brought it to its present perfection. We have no Greek or Roman treatise re- maining on the law of nations. From the title of one of the lost works of Aristotle, it appears that he composed'a treatise on the laws of war,* which, if we had the good for- tune to possess it, would doubtless have am- ply satisfied our curiosity, and would have taught us both the practice of the ancient nations and the opinions of their moralists, with that depth and precision which distin- guish the other works of that great philoso- pher. We can now only imperfectly collect that practice and those opinions from various passages which are scattered over the writ- ings of philosophers, historians, poets, and orators. When the time shall arrive for a more fall consideration of the state of the government and manners of the ancient world, I shall be able, perhaps, to ofTer satis- factory reasons why these enlightened na- tions did not separate from the general pro- vince of ethics that part of morality which regulates the intercourse of states, and erect it into an independent science. It would re- quire a long discussion to unfold the various causes which united the modern nations of Europe into a closer society, — which linked ^hem together by the firmest bands of mutual dependence, and which thus, in process of time, gave to the law that regulated their intercourse, greater importance, higher im- provement, and more binding force. Among these causes, we may enumerate a common extraction, a common religion, similar man- ners, institut>ons, and languages; in earlier ages the aulhorit)' of the See of Rome, and the extravagant claims of the imperial crown ; in latter times the connexions of trade, the jealousy of power, the refinement of civiliza- tion, the cultivation of science, and, above all, ihat general mildness of character and man- ^IKM-^/A^TX TMIJ T'^KiUen. ners Avhich arose from the combined and progressive influence of chivalry, of com- merce, of learning and of religion. Nor must we omit the similarity of those political in- stitutions which, in every country that hac been overrun by the Gothic conquerors, bora discernible marks (which the revolutions of succeeding ages had obscured, but not ob- literated) of the rude but bold and noble out- line of liberty that vi-as originally sketched by the hand of these generous barbarians. These and many other causes conspired to unite the nations of Europe in a more inti- mate connexion and a more constant inter- course, and, of consequence, made the regu- lation of their intercourse more necessary, and the law that was to govern it more im- portant. In proportion as they approached to the condition of provinces of the same em- pire, it became almost as essential that Europe should have a precise and compre- hensive code of the law of nations, as that each country should have a system of mu- nicipal law. The labours of the learned, accordingly, began to be directed to this sub- ject in the sixteenth century, soon after the revival of learning, and after that regular distribution of power and territory which has subsisted, with little variation, until our times. The critical examination of these early writers would, perhaps, not be very in- teresting in an extensive work, and it would be unpardonable in a short discourse. It is sufficient to observe that they were all more or less shackled by the barbarous phi- losophy of the schools, and that they were impeded in their progress by a timorous def- erence for the inferior and technical parts of the Roman law, Avithout raising their views to the comprehensive principles which will for ever inspire mankind with veneration for that grand monument of human wisdom. It was only, indeed, in the sixteenth century that the Roman law Avas first studied and understood as a science connected with Ro- man history and literature, and illnstrated by men whom Ulpian and Papinian would not have disdained to acknowledge as their suc- cessors.* Among the writers of that age we may perceive the ineffectual attempts, the partial advances, the occasional stieaks of light which always precede great discov- e]-ies, and works that are to instruct pos- terity. The reduction of the law of nations to a system was reserved for Grotius. It was by the advice of Lord Bacon and Peiresc that he undertook this arduous task. He produced a work which we now, indeed, justly deem im- perfect, but which is perhaps the most con>' plete that the world has yet owed, at so early a stage in the progress of any science, to the * Cujncins, Brissonins, Hottomannns?, &c., &c — See Gravina Origiiies Juris Civilis (Lips. 1737), l)p. 132 — 138. Leibnitz, a great mathematician as well as philosopher, declares that he knows no- thing which approaches so near to the melhoa and precision of Geometry a.s the Roman law.-— Op. vol. iv. D. 354. ON THE STUDY OF THE LAW OF NATURE AND NATIONS. =1 genias and learninj^ of one man. So great is the uncertainty of posthumous reputation, and so liable is the fame even of the greatest men to be obscured by those new fashions of thinking and writing which succeed each other so rapidly among polished nations, that Grotius, who filled so large a space in the eye of his contemporaries, is now perhaps known to some of my readers only by name. Yet if we fairly estimate both his endow- ments and his virtues, we may justly consider him as one of the most memorable men who have done honour to modern times. He combined the discharge of the most impor- tant duties of active and public life with the attainment of that exact and various learning which is generally the portion only of the recluse student. He was distinguished as an advocate and a magistrate, and he com- posed the most valuable works on the law of his own country; he was almost equally celebrated as an historian, a scholar, a poet, and a divine ;— a disinterested statesman, a philosophical lawyer, a patriot who united moderation with firmness, and a theologian who was taught candour by his learning. Unmerited exile did not damp his patriot- ism ; the bitterness of controversy did not extinguish his charity. The sagacity of his numerous and fierce adversaries could not discover a blot on his character; and in the midst of all the hard trials and galling provo- cations of a turbulent political life, he never once deserted his friends when they were unfortunate, nor insulted his enemies when they were weak. In times of the most fu- rious civil and religious faction he preserved his name unspotted, and he knew how to reconcile fidelity to his own party, with moderation towards his opponents. Such was the man who was destined to give a new form to the law of nations, or ra- ther to create a science, of which only rude sketches and undigested materials were scattered over the writings of those who had gone before him. By tracing the laws of his country to their principles, he was led to the contemplation of the law of nature, which he justly considered as the parent of all mu- nicipal law.* Few works were more cele- brated than that of Grotius in his own days, and in the age which succeeded. It has, however, been the fashion of the last half- century to depreciate his work as a shape- less compilation, in which reason lies buried under a mass of authorities and quotations. This fashion originated among French wits and declaimers, and it has been, I know not for what reason, adopted, though with far greater moderation and decency, by some respectable writers among ourselves. As to those who first used this language, the most candid supposition that we can make with respect to them is, that they never read the work ; for, if they had not been deterred from the perusal of it by such a formidable * " Proavia juris civilis." De Jure Belli ac Pacis, prolcg. ^ .\vi. display of Greek characters, they must soon have discovered that Grotius never quotes on any subject till he has first appealed to some principles, and often, in my humble opinion, though not always, to the soundest and most rational principles. But another sort of answer is due to soma of those* who have criticised Grotius, and that answer might be given in the words of Grotius himself.!' He was not ot such a stu- pid and servile cast of mind, as to quote the opinions of poets or orators, of historians and philosophers, as those of judges, from whose decision there was no appeal. He quotes them, as he tells us himself, as wit- nesses whose conspiring testimony, mightily strengthened and confirmed by their discord- ance on almost every other subject^ is a conclusive proof of the unanimity of the whole human race on the great rules of duty and the fundamental principles of morals. On such matters, poets and orators are the most unexceptionable of all witnesses; for they address themselves to the general feel- ings and sympathies of mankind ; they are neither warped by system, nor perverted by sojohistry; they can attain none of their ob- jects, they can neither please nor persuade, if they dwell on moral sentiments not in uni- son with those of their readers. No system of moral philosophy can surely disregard the general feelings of human nature and the according judgment of all ages and nations. But where are these feelings and that judg- ment recorded and preserved ? In those very writings which Grotius is gravely blamed for having quoted. The usages and laws of nations, the events of history, the opinions of philosophers, the sentiments of orators and poets, as well as the observation of common life, are, in truth, the materials out of which the science of morality is formed ; and those who neglect them are justly charge- able with a vain attempt to philosophise without regard to fact and experience, — the sole foundation of ail true philosophy. If this were merely an objection of taste, I should be willing to allow that Grotius has indeed poured forth his learning with a pro- fusion that sometimes rather encumbers than adorns his work, and which is not always necessary to the illustration of his subject. Yet, even in making that concession, I should rather yield to the taste of others than speak from my own feelings. I own that such rich- ness and splendour of literature haveapower- ful charm for me. They fill my mind with an endless variety of delightful recollections and associations. They relieve the under- standing in its progress through a vast science, by calling up the memory of great men and of interesting events. By this means we see the truths of morality clothed with all the eloquence, — not that could be produced by the powers of one man, — but that could be bestowed on them by the col- * Dr. Paley, Principles of Moral and Politica.. Philosophy, pref. pp. xiv. ,\v. t De Jure Belli, proleg. MO. 32 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. leclive genius of the world. Even Virtue and Wisdom themselves acquire new majesty in my eyes, when I thus see ail the great masters of thinking and writing called to- gether, as it were, from all times and coun- tries, to do them homage, and to appear in their train. But this is no place for discussions of taste, and I am very ready^to own that mine may be corrupted. The work of Grotius is liable to a more serious objecliqji, though I do not recollect ihat it has ever been made. His method is inconvenient and unscientilic: he has inverted the natural order. That natural order undoubtedly dictates, that we should first search for the original principles of the science in human nature; then apply them to the regulation of the conduct of indivi- duals; and lastly, employ them for the decision of those difficult and complicated questions that arise with respect to the intercourse of nations. But Grotius has chosen the re- verse of this method. He begins with the consideration of the states of peace and war, and he examines original principles only oc- casionally and incidentally, as they grow out of the questions which he is called upon to decide. It is a necessary consequence of this disorderly method, — which exhibts the ele- ments of the science in the form of scattered digressions, that he seldom employs suliicient discussion on these fundamental truths, and never in the place where such a discussion would be most instructive to the reader. This defect in the plan of Grotius was per- ceived and supplied by PufTendorfT, who re- stored natural law to that superiority which belonged to it, and, with great propriety, treat- ed the law of nations as only one main branch of the parent stock. Without the genius of his master, and with very inferior learning, he has yet treated this subject with sound sense, with clear method, with extensive and accurate knowledge, and with a copious- ness of detail sometimes indeed tedious, but always instructive and satisfactory. His work will be always studied by those who spare no labour to acquire a deep knowledge of the subject; but it will, in our times, I fear, be oftener found on (he .shelf than on the desk of the general stiulent. In the time of Mr. Locke it was considered as the manual of those who were intended for active life; but in the present age, I believe it will be found that men of business are too much occu- pied, — men of letters are too fastidious, and men of the world too indolent, for the study or even the perusal of such works. Far be it from me to derogate from the real and great merit of so useful a writer as PufTen- dorfT. His treatise is a mine in which all his Fuccessors must dig. I only presume to sug- gest, that a book so prolix, and so utterly void of all the attractions of composition, is likely to repel many readers who are interested in its subject, and who might perhaps be dis- posed to acquire some knowledge of the kirinciples of public law. Many other circumstances might be men- tioned, which conspire to prove that neifhei of the great works of which I have spoken, has superseded the necessity of a new at- tempt to lay before the public a system of the law of nations. The language of Science is 60 completely changed snice both ihesfl woiks were written, that whoever was now to employ their terms in his moral reasonings would be almost unintelligible to some of his hearers or readers, — and to some among them, too, who are neither ill qualified, nor ill disposed, to study such subjects with con- siderable advantage to themselves. The learned, indeed, well know how little novelty or variety is to be found in scientific disputes. The same truths and the same errors have been repeated from age to age, with- little va- riation but in the language ; and novelty of expression is often mistaken by the ignorant for substantial discovery. Perhaps, too, very nearly the same portion of genius and judg- ment has been exerted in most of the various forms under which science has been culti- vated at difTerent periods of history. The superiority of those writers who continue to be read, perhaps often consists chiefly in taste, in prudence, in a happy choice of sub- ject, in a favourable moment, in an agreeable styte, in the good fortune of a prevalent lan- guage, or in other advantages which are either accidental, or are the result rather of the secondary, than of the highest, faculties of the mind. But these reflections, while they moderate the pride of invention, and dispel the extravagant conceit of superior illumination, yet serve to prove the use, and indeed the necessity, of composing, from time to time, new systems of science adapt- ed to the opinions and language of each suc- ceeding period. Every age must be taught in its own language. If a man were now to begin a discourse on ethics with an acccunt of the -'moral entities" of PufTendoriT,* he would speak an unknown tongue. It is not, however, alone as a mere trans- lation of former writers into modern language that a new system of public law seems likely to be useful. The age in which we live possesses many advantages which are pe- culiarly favourable to such an undertaking. Since the composition of the great works of Grotius and PufTendorfT, a more modest, simple, and intelligible philosophy has been introduced into the schools; which has in- deed been grossly abused by sophists, but which, from the time of Locke, has been cultivated and im.proved by a succession of disciples worthy of their illustrious master. We are thus enabled to discuss with pre- cision, and to explain with clearness, the principles of the science of human nature, * r do not mean to impeach liie soundness of any part of PiiffeiidorfT's reasoning founded on moral entities : ii may be e.vplained in a manner consistent wiih the most just philosophy. He used, as every writer must do, the scientific language o( his own time, I only assert thai, to those who are unacquainted wiih ancient systems, his philo- sophical vocabulary is obsolete and uninlellij^iblo ON THE STUDY OF THE LAW OF NATURE AND NATIONS. 33 which are in themselves on a level with the capacity of every man of good sense, and which only appeared to be abstruse from the unprofitable subtleties with which they were loaded, and the barbarous jargon in which they were expressed. The deepest doctrines of morality have since that time been treated in the perspicuous and popular style, and with some degree of the beauty and elo- quence of the ancient moralists. That phi- losophy on which are founded the principles f I our duty, if it has not become more cer- tain (for morality admits no discoveries), is at least lees " harsh and crabbed," less ob- scure and haughty in its language, and less forbidding and disgusting in its appearance, than in the days of our ancestors. If this progress of leaning towards popularity has engendered (as it must be owned that it has) a multitude of superficial and most mis- chievous sciolists, the antidote must come from the same quarter with the disease : popular reason can alone correct popular sophistry. Nor is this the only advantage which a writer of the present age would possess over the celebrated jurists of the last century. Since that time vast adilitions have been made to the stock of our knowledge of hu- man nature. Many dark periods of history have since been explored: many hitherto unknown regions of the globe have been visited and described by travellers and navi- gators not less intelligent than intrepid. We may be said to stand at the confluence of the greatest number of streams of knowledge flowing from the most distant sources that ever met at one point. We are not confined, as the learned of the last age generally were, to the history of those renowned nations who are our masters in literature. We can bring- before us man in a lower and more abject condition than any in which he was ever before seen. The records have been partly opened to us of those mighty empires of Asia* where the beginnings of civilization are lost in the darkness of an unfathomable antiquity. We can make human society pass in review before our mind, from the brutal and helpless barbarism of Terra del Fuego, and the mild and voluptuous savages of Otaheite, to the tame, but ancient and immovable civilization of China, Vv-hich be- stows its own arts on every successive race * I cannot prevail on myself to pass over this subject without paying my humble tribute to the memory of .Sir William Jones, who has laboured so successfully in Oriental liieraiure ; whose fine genius, pure taste, unwearied industry, unrivalled and almost prodigious variety of acquirements, — not to speak of his ainiable manners, and spotless integrity, --must fill every one who cultivates or r.diriires letters wiih reverence, tinned with a me- lancholy whicli the recollection of his recent death is so well adapted to inspire. I hope I shall be pardoned if I add my applause to the genins and learnino- of Mr. Maurice, who treads in the steps pf his illustrious friend, and who has bewailed his death in a .strain of genuine and beautiful poetry, not unworthy of happier periods of our English literature. of conquerors, — to the meek and servi .e na- tives of Hindostan, who preserve their inge- nuity, their skill, and their science, through a long series of ages, under the yoke of foreign tyrants,— and to the gross and in- corrigible rudeness of the Ottomans, incapa- ble of improvement, and extinguishing the remains of civilization among their unhappy subjects, once the most ingenious nations of the earth. We can examine almost every imaginable variety in the character, man- ners, opinions, feelings, prejudices, and in- stitutions of mankind, into which they can be thrown, either by the rudeness of barba- rism, or by the capricious corruptions of re- finement, or by those innimierable combina- tions of circumstances, which, both in these opposite conditions, and in all the interme- diate stages between them, infiuence or direct the course of human affairs. History, if I may be allowed the expression, is now a vast museum, in which specimens of every variety of human nature may be studied. From these great accessions to knowledge, lawgivers and statesmen, but, above all, moralists and political philosophers, may reap the most important instruction. They may plainly discover in all the useful and beautiful variety of governments and insti- tutions, and under all the fantastic multitude of usages and rites which have prevailed among men, the same fundamental, compre- hensive truths, the sacred master-principles which are the guardians of human societj^, recognised and revered (with few and slight exceptions) by every nation upon earth, and uniformly taught (with still fewer excep- tions) by a succession of wise men from the first dawn of speculation to the present mo- ment. The exceptions, few as they are, will, on more reflection, be found rather apparent than real. If we could raise ourselves to that height from which we ought to survey so vast a subject, these exceptions would altogether vanish; the brutality of a handful of savages would disappear in the immense prospect of human nature, and the murmurs of a few licentious so]^hists would not ascem to break the general harmony. This consen of mankind in first principles, and this end less variety in their application, which is one among many valnable truths which we rnay collect from our present extensive acquaint- ance with the history of man. is itself of vast importance. Much of the majesty and au- thority of virtue is derived from their consent, and almost the whole of practical wisdom is founded on their variety. What former age could have supplied facta for such a work'as that of IMontesquieu ? He indeed has been, perhaps justly, charged with abusing this advantage, by the undis- tinguishing "adoption of the narratives of travellers of very different degrees of accu- racy and veracity. But if we reluctan^y confess the justness of this objection ; if we are compelled to own that he exaggerates the influence of climate, — that he ascribes too much to the foresight and forming "lilV M MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAVS. of legislators, and far too little to time and circumstances, in the growth of political con- stitutions, — that the substantial character and essential dilferences of governments are often lost and confounded in his technical language and arrangement, — that he often bends the free and irregular outline of nature to the imposing but Jallacious geometrical regularity of system, — that he has chosen a s'tyle of affected abruptness, sententious- ness, and vivacity, ill suited to the gravity of his subject ; — after all these concessions (for his fame is large enough to spare many concessions), the Spirit of Laws will still re- main not only one of the most solid and du- rable monuments of the powers of the hu- man mind, but a striking evidence of the inestimable advantages which political philo- sophy may receive from a wiile survey of all the various conditions of human society. la the present century a slow and silent, but very substantial, mitigation has taken place in the practice of war ; and in propor- tion as that mitigated practice has received the sanction of time, it is raised from the rank of mere usage, and becomes part of the law of nations. Whoever will compare our pre- sent modes of warfare with the system of Grotius* will clearly discern the immense irjiprovements which have taken place in that respect since the publication of his work, during a period, perhaps in every point Oif view the happiest to be found in the his- tory of the world. In the same period many important points of public law have been the subject of contest both by argu.ment and by arms, of which we find either no mention, or very obscure traces, in the history of prece- ding times. There are other circumstances to which I allude with hesitation and reluctance, though it must be owned that they afford to a writer of this aye some degree of unfortunate and deplorable advantage over his predecessors. Recent events have accumulated more terri- ble practical instruction on every subject of politics than could have been in (jther times icquired by the e.xperience of ages. Men's wit sharpened by their passions has penetra- ted to the bottom of almost all political ques- tions. Even the fundamental rules of moral- ity themselves have, for the first time, unfor- tunately for mankind, become the subject of doub'; and discussion. I shall consider it as my duty to abstain from all mention of these awful events, and of these fatal controversies. But the mind of that man must indeed be in- curious and indocile, who has either over- looked all these things, or reaped no instruc- tion from the contemplation of them. From these reflections it appears, that, since the composition of those two great works on the law of nature and nations which continue to be the classical and stand- ard works on that subject, we have gained both more convenient instruments of reason- * Especially those chapters of the third book, entitled, " Temperamen'.um circa Capiivos." &.c. ing and more extensive materials for scicucej — that the code of war has been enlargeu and improved, — that new questions have been practically decided, — and tliat new con- troversies have arisen regarding the inter- course of independent states, and the first principles of morality and civil government. Some readers may, however, think that in these observations which I ofler, to excuse the presumption of my own attempt. I have omitted the mention of later writers, to whom some part of the remarks is not justly applicable. But, perhap.s, further considera- tion will acquit me in the judgment of such readers. Writers on particular questions of public law are not within the scope of my observations. They have furnished the most valuable materials; but I speak only of a system. To the large work of W^olfiius, the observations which I have made on Pufl'en- dorff as a book for general use, will surely apply with tenfold force. Hisabridger, Vat- tel, deserves, inileed, considerable praise : he is a very ingenious, clear, elegant, and useful writer. But he only considers one part of this extensive subject, — namely, the law of na- tions, strictly so called ; and I cannot help thinking, that, even in this department of the science, he has adopted some doubtful and dangeious principles, — not to mention his constant deficiency in that fulness of e.vample and illustration, which so much embellishes and strengthens reason. It is hardly neces- sary to take any notice of the text-book of Heineccius, the best writer of elementary books with whom I am acquainted on any subject. Burlamaqui is an author of superior merit; but he confines himself too much to the general principles of morality and politics, to require much observation from me in this place. The same reason w ill excuse me for passing over in silence the works of many philosophers and moralises, to whom, in the course of my proposed lectuies, I shall owe and confess the greatest obligations; and it might perhaps deliver me from the neces- sity of .speaking of the work of Dr. Paley, if I were not desirous of this public opportu- nity of professing my gratitude for the in- struction and pleasure which I have received from that excellent writer, who possesses, in so eminent a degree, those invaluable quali- ties of a moralist, — good sense, caution, sobriety, and perpetual reference to conve- nience and practice ; and who certainly is thought less original than he really is, merely because his taste and modesty have led him to disdain the ostentation of novelty, and be- cause he generally employs more art to blend his own arguments with the body of received opinions (so as that they are scarce to be distinguished), than other men in the pursuit of a transient popularity, have exert- ed to disguise the most miserable common- places in the shape of paradox. No writer since the time of Grotius, of Puffendorff, and of Wolf, has combined an investigation of the principles of natural and public law, with a full application of the.^n ON THE STUDY OF THE LAW OF NATURE AND NATIONS. 35 principles to particular cases; and in these circumstances. I trust, it ^vill not be deemed extravagant presumption in me to hope that I shall be able to exhibit a view of this science, vA'hich shall, at least, be more intelligible and attractive to students, than the learned trea- tises of these celebrated men. I shall n >w proceed to state the general plan and sub- jects of the lectures in which [ am t^ make this attempt. I. The being whose actions the law of nature professes to regulate, i? man. It is on the knowledge of his nature that the Bcieuce of his duly must be founded.* It is impossible to approach the threshold of moral philosophy without a previous examination of the faculties and habits of the human mind. Let no reader be repelled from this examination by the odious and terrible name of " metaphysics;" for it is, in truth, nothing more than the employment of good sense, in observing our own thoughts, feelings, and actions ; and v.'hen the facts which are thus observed are expressed, as they ought to be, in plain language, it is, perhaps, above all other sciences, most on a level with the capacity and information of the generality of thinking men. When it is thus expressed, it requires no previous qualification, but a sound judgment perfectly to comprehend it ; and those who wrap it up in a technical and mysterious jargon, aUvays give us strong reason to suspect that they are not philoso- phers, but impostors. Whoever thoroughly understands such a science, must be able to teach it plainly to all men of common sense. The proposed course will therefore open with a very short, and, I hope, a very simple and intelligible account of the powers and operations of the human mind. By this plain statement of facts, it will not be ditfi- r;,ult to decide many celebrated, though frivo- lous and merely verbal, controversies, which have long amused the leisure of the schools, and which owe both their fame and their existence to the ambiguous obscurity of scholastic language. It will, for example, only require an appeal to every man's ex- perience, that we often act purely from a regard to the happiness of others, and are therefore social beings ; and it is not neces- sary to be a consummate judge of the de- ceptions of lano'uage, to despise the sophis- tical trifler, who tells us, that, because we experience a gratification in our benevolent actions, v,e t^re therefore exclusively and uniformly selfish. A correct examination of facts will lead us to discover that quality which is common to all virtuous actions, and which distinguishes them from those which are vicious and criminal. But we shall see that it is necessary for man to be governed, not by his own transient and hasty opinion upon the tendency of every particular action, Dut by those fixed and unalterable rules, which are the joint result of the impartial * " Natura enim juris e.\plicancla est nobis, eaque ab hominis repetenda natura." — De Lea. lib. i. c. 5. judgment, the natural feelings, and the em- bodied experience of mankind. The autho- rity of these rules is, indeed, founded only on their tendency to promote private and public welfare; but the morality of actions will appear solely to consist in their corres- pondence with the rule. By the help of thia obvious distinction we shall vindicate a just theory, which, far from being modern, is, in fact, as ancient as philosoph)', both from plausible objections, and from the odious imputation of supporting those absurd and monstrous systems which have been built upon if. Beneficial tendency is the founda- tion of rules, antl the criterion by which habits and sentiments are to be tried : but it is neither the immediate standard, nor can it ever be the principal motive of action. An action to be completely virtuous, must accord with moral rules, and must flow from our natural feelings and affections, moderated, matured, and improved into steady habits of right conduct.* W^ilhout, however, dwelling longer on subjects which cannot be clearly stated, unless they are fully unfolded, I content myself with observing, that it shall be my object, in this preliminary, but most important, part of the course, to lay the foundations of morality so deeply in hu- man nature, as to satisfy the coldest inquirer; and, at the same time, to vindicate the para- mount authority of the rules of our duty, at all times, and in all places, over all opinions of interest and speculations of benefit, so ex- tensively, so universally, and so inviolably, as may well justify the grandest and the most apparently extravagant effusions of mo- ral enthusiasm. If, notwithstanding all my endeavours to deliver these doctrines with the utmost simplicity, any of my auditors should still reproach me for introducing such abstruse matters, I must shelter myself be- hind the authority of the wisest of men. '' II they (the ancient moralists), before they had come to the popular and received notions of virtue and vice, had staid a little longer upoi\ the inquiry concerning the roots of good and evil, they had given, in my opinion, a great light to that which followed ; and especiallv if they had consulted with nature, they had made their doctrines less prolix, and more profound. "t What Lord Bacon desired for the mere gratification of scientific curiosity, the welfare of mankind now imperiously de- mands. Shallow systems of metaphysics have given birth to a brood of abominable and pestilential paradoxes, which nothing but a more profound philosophy can destroy. However we may, perhaps, lament the neces- sity of discussions which may shake the ha- bitual reverence of some men for those rules Vvhich it is the chief interest of all men to practise, we have now no choice left. Wtt must either dispute, or abandon the ground Undistinguishing and unmerited invectives' * " Est autem virtus nihil aliud, quain in so perfecta atque ad summum perducta naj-jra." • Ibid. lib. i. c. 8. t Advancemem of Learning, book ii 36 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. against philosophy will only harden sophists and their disciples in the insolent conceit, that they are in possession of an undisputed superiority of reason; and that their antago- nists have no arms to employ against them, but those of popular declamation. Let us not for a moment even appear to suppose, that philosophical truth and human happiness are so irreconcilably at variance. I cannot express my opinion on this subject so well as in the words of a most valuable, though ge- nerally neglected writer: '-The science of abstruse learning, when completely attain- ed, is like Achilles' spear, that healed the wounds it had made before ; so this know- ledge serves to repair t|ie damage itself had occasioned, and this perhaps is all that it is good for; it casts no additional light upon the paths of life, but disperses the clouds with which it had overspread them before; it ad- vances not the traveller one step in his jour- ney, but conducts him back again to the spot from whence he wandered. Thus the land of philosophy consists partly of an open cham- paign country, passable by every common understanding, and partly of a range of woods, traversable only by the speculative, and where ihey too frequently delight to amuse them- selves. Since then we shall be obliged to make incursions into this latter track, and shall probably find it a region of obscurity, danger, and difficulty, it behooves us to use our utmost endeavours for enlightening and smoothing the way before us."* We shall, however, remain in the forest only long enough to visit the fountains of those streams which flow from it, and which water and fertilise the cultivated region of morals, to become acquainted with the modes of warfare practised by its savage inhabitants, and to learn the means of guarding our fair and fruitful land against their desolating incur- sions. I shall hasten from speculations, to which I am naturally, perhaps, but too prone, and proceed to the more profitable considera- tion of our practical duty. The first and most simple part of ethics is that which regards the duties of private men towards eachother, when they are considered apart from the sanction of positive laws. I say apart from that sanction, not antecedent to it; for though we separate private from politi- cal duties for the sake of greater clearness and order in reasoning, yet we are not to be BO deluded by this mere arrangement of con- venience as to suppose that human society ever has subsisted, or ever couki subsist, without being protected by government, and bound together by laws. All these relative duties of private life have been so copiously and beautifully treated by the moralists of antiquity, that few men will now choose to follow them, who are not actuated by the wild ambition of equalling Aristotle in precision, OT rivalling Cicero in eloquence. They have been also admirably treated by modern mo- •alisls, among whom it would be gross in- * Liglit of Nature, vol.i. pref. p. xxxiii. justice not to number many of the preacher* of the Christian religion, whose peculiar char- acter is that spirit of universal charity, which is the living principle of all our social duties. Fir it was long ago said, with great truth, by Lord Bacon, "that there never was any phi- losophy, religion, or other discipline, which did so plainly and highly exalt that good which is communicative, and depress the good which is private and particular, as the Christian faith."* The appropriate praise of this religion is not so much that it has taught new duties, as that it breathes a milder and more benevolent spirit over the whole extent of morals. On a subject which has been so exhausted, I should naturally have contented myself with the most slight and general survey, if some fundamental principles had not of late been brought into question, which, in all former times, have been deemed too evident to require the support of argument, and almost too sacred to admit the liberty of dis- cussion. I shall here endeavour to strengthen some parts of the fortifications of morality which have hitherto been neglected, because no man had ever been hardy enough to attack them. Almost all the relative duties of hu- man life will be found more immediately, or more remotely, to arise out of the two great institutions of property and marriage. They constitute, preserve, and improve society. Upon their gradual improvement depends the progressive civilization of mankind ; on them rests the whole order of civil life. We are told by Horace, that the first efforts of law- givers to civilize men consisted in strength- ening and regulating these institutions, and fencing them round with rigorous penal laws. " Oppida ccEpenint munire, et ponere leges, Ne quis fur esset, neu latro, neu quis adulter. "t A celebrated ancient orator.l of who.se poems we have but a few fragments remain- ing, has well described the progressive order in which human society is gradually led to its highest improvements under the guardian- ship of those laws which secure property and regulate marriage. " Et leges sanctas docuit, et chara jugavit Corpora coiijugiis; et magnas condidit urbes." These two great institutions convert the selfish as well as the social passions of our nature into the firmest bands of a peaceable and orderly intercourse; they change the sources of discord into principles of quiet • they discipline the most ungovernable, they refine the grossest, and they e.xalt the most sordid propensities; so that they become the perpetual fountain of all that strengthens, and preserves, and adorns society : they sus- tain the individual, and they perpetuate the race. Around these institutions all our social duties will be found at various distances to range themselves; som.e more near, obviously * Advanremein of Learning, book ii. t Sermon, lib. i. Serm. iii. 105 t C. Licinius Calvus. ON THE STUDY OF THE LAW OF NATURE AND NATION'o. 37 essential to ihe good order of human life; others more remote, and of which the ne- cessity is not at first view so apparent; and some so distant, that their importance has been sometimes doubted, though upon more mature consideration they will be found to be outposts and advanced guards of these fundamental principles, — that man should securely enjoy the fruits of his labour, and that the society of the sexes should be so wisely ordered, as to make it a school of the kind affections, and a fit nursery for the com- monweahh. The subject of property is of great extent, [t will be necessary to establish the founda- tion of the rights of acquisition, alienation, and transmission, not in imaginary contracts or a pretended state of nature, but in their subserviency to the subsistence and well- being of mankind. It will not only be curious, but useful, to trace the history of property from the first loose and transient occupancy of the savage, through all the modifications which it has at different times received, to that comprehensive, subtle, and anxiously minute code of property which is the last result of the most refined civilization. 1 shall observe the same order in consider- ing the society of the sexes, as it is regulated by the institution of marriage.* I shall en- deavour to lay open those unalterable princi- ples of general interest on which that institu- tion rests; and if I entertain a hope that on this subject I may be able to add something to what our masters in morality have taught ^s. I trust, that the reader will bear in mind. a.s an excuse for my presumption, that they were not likely to employ much argument where they did not foresee the possibility of doubt. I shall also consider the historyt of marriage, and trace it through all the forms which it has assumed, to that descent and happy permanency of union, which has, per- haps above all other causes, contributed to the quiet of society, and the refinement of manners in modern times. Among many other inquiries which this subject will sug- gest, I shall be led more particularly to e.\- amine the natural station and duties of the female sex, their condition among different * See on this subjecr an incomparable frasment of the first book of Cicero's Economics, which is too long for insertion here, but which, if it be closely examined, may perhaps dispel the illusion of those gentlemen, who have so strangely taken t for granted that Cicero was incapable of e.xact reasoning. t This progress is traced with great accuracy in lome beautiful lines of Lucretius: — Mulier, conjuncta viro, concessit in unurn ; Castaque privatae Veneris connubia laeta Cognila sunt, prolemque ex se videre creatam ; Tum genus humanum primum moUescere ccepit. puerique parentum Blanditiis facile ingenium fregere superbum. Tunc et amicitiam ccsperunt jungere. habentes Finitimi inter se, nee laedere, nee violare ; Fa pueroscommendarunt, muliebreque sseclum, Vocibus et gestu ; cum balbe significarent, Imbeciliorum esse aequum miserier omni. De Rtnum Nat. lib. v. nations, its improvement in Europe, and .he bounds which nature herself has prescribei. to the progress of that improvement : beyond which every pretended advance will be a real degradation. Having established the principles of private duty. I shall proceed to consider man under the important relation of subject and sove- reign, or, in other words, of citizen and ma- gistrate. The duties which arise from this relation I shall endeavour to establish, not upon supposed compacts, which are alto- gether chimerical, which must be admitted to be false in fact, and which, if they are to be consitlered as fictions, will be found to serve no purpose of just reasoning, and to be equally the foundation of a system of uni- versal despotism in Hobbes, and of universal anarchy in Rousseau ; but on the solid basLs of general convenience. Men cannot subsist without society and mutual aid ; they can neither maintain social intercourse nor re- ceive aid from each other without the pro- tection of government ; and they cannot en- joy that protection without submitting to the restraints which a just goverment im- poses. This plain argument establishes the duty of obedience on the part of the citizens, and the duty of protection on that of magis- trates, on the same foundation with that of evtry other moral duty; and it shows, with sufficient evidence, that these duties are re- ciprocal ; — the only rational end for which the fiction of a contract should have been invented. I shall not encumber my reason- ing by any speculations on the origin of government, — a question on which so much reason has been wasted in modern times : but which the ancients* in a higher spirit of philosophy have never once mooted. If our principles be just, our origin of government must have been coeval with that of man- kind ; and as no tribe has ever been dis- covered so brutish as to be without some government, and yet so eidightened as to establish a government by common consent, it is surely unnecessary to employ any seri- ous argument in the confutation of the doc- trine that is inconsistent with reason, and unsupported by experience. But though all inquiries into the origin of government be chimerical, yet the history of its progress is curious and useful. The various stages through which it passed from savage inde- pendence, which implies every man's power of injuring his neighbour, to legal liberty, which consists in every man's security against wrong; the manner in which a family ex- pands into a tribe, and tribes coalesce into a * The introduction to the first book of Aristotle'a Politics is the best demonstration of the necessity of political society to the well-being, and indeed to the very being, of man, with which I am ac- quainted. Having shown the circumstances which render man necessarily a social being, lie justly concludes, " Kit/ qt/ (iiv9^*T(-c fuTU ■proXtTixcv ^usv." The same scheme of pliilosophy is admirably pur^ sued in the short, but invaluable fragment of th? sixth book of Polybius, which describes the .\in tory and revolutions of governmen'.. 38 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. nation. — in which public justice is giadually engrailed on private revenge, and temporary submission ripened into habitual obedience: form a most important and extensive subject of inquiry, which comprehends all the im- provements of mankind in police, in judica- ture, and in legislation. I have already given the reader to under- stand that the description of liberty which seems to me the most comprehensive, is that of security against icrong. Liberty is there- fore the object of all government. Men are more free under every government, even the most imperfect, than they would be if it were possible for them to exist without any government at all : they are more secure from wrong, more undisturbed in the exer- cise of their natural powers, and therefore more free, even in the most obvious and grossest sense of the word, than if they were altogether unprotected against injury from each other. But as general security is en- joyed in very different degrees under dif- ferent governments, those which guard it most perfectly, are by the way of eminence called " free." Such governments attain most completely the end which is common to all government. A free constitution of govern- ment and a good constitution of government are therefore different expressions for the same idea. Another material distinction, however, soon presents itself. In most civilized states the subject is tolerably protected against gross injustice from his fellows by impartial laws, which it is the manifest interest of the sove- reign to enforce : but some commonwealtiis are so happy as to be founded on a principle of much more refined and provident wisdom. '^he subjects of such commonwealths are guarded not only against the injustice of each other, but (as far as human prudence can con- trive) against oppression from the magistrate. Such states, like all other extraordinary exam- ples of public or private excellence and hap- piness, are thinly scattered over the diflerent ag'^s and countries of the world. In them the will of the sovereign is limited with so exact a measure, that his protecting authority is not we;ikened. Such a combination of skill and fortune is not often to be expected, and indeed never can arise, but from the constant though gradual exertions of wisdom and virtue, to improve a long succession of most favourable circumstances. There is, indeed, scarce any society so wretched as to be destitute of some sort of weak provision against the in- justice of their governors. Religious institu- tions, favourite prejudices, national manners, have in different countries, with unequal de- grees of force, checked or mitigated the ex- ercise of supreme power. The privileges of tt ]K)werfnl nobility, of opulent mercantile communities, of great judicial corporations, tiave in some monarchies approachetl more near to a control on the sovereign. Means have been devised with more or less wisdom to temper the despotism of an aristocracy over their subjectSj and in democracies to protect the minority against the majority and the whole people against the tyranny ol demagogues. But in these unmi.ved forms of government, as the right of legislation is vested in one individual or in one order, it is obvious that the legislative power may shake off all the restraints which the laws have imposed on it. AH such governments, there- fore, tend towards despotism, and the se- curities which they admit against misgovern- ment are extremely feeble and precarious. The best security which human wisdom can devise, seems to be the distribution of poli- tical authority among different individuals and bodies, with separate interests, and separate characters, corresponding to the variety of classes of which civil society is composed; — each interested to guard their ov.-n order fiom oppression by the rest, — each also interested to prevent any of the others from seizing on exclusive, and there- fore despotic power; and all having a com- mon interest to co-operate in carrying on the ordinary and necessary administration of government. If there were not an interest to resist each other in extraordinary cases, there would not be liberty: if there were not an interest to co-operate in the ordinary course of affairs, there could be no govern- ment. The object of such wise institutions, which make selfishness of governors a se- curity against their injustice, is to protect men against wrong both fiom their rulers and their fellows. Such governments are, with justice, peculiarly and emphatically called " free ;" and in ascribing that liberty to the skilful combination of mutual dependance and mutual check, I feel my own conviction greatly strengthened by calling- to mind, that in this opinion I agree with all the wise men who have ever deeply considered the prin- ciples of politics ; — with Aristotle and Poly- bius, with Cicero and Tacitus, with Bacon and Machiavel, with Montesquieu and Hume.* It is impossible in such a cursory sketch aa the present, even to allude to a very small part of those philosophical principles, poli- * To the weight of these great names let me add the opinion of two illustrious men of the pre- sent age, as both their opinions are combined by one of tliem in the following passages: "He (Mr. Fox) always thought any of the simple un- balanced governments bad ; simple monarchy, simple aristocracy, simple democracy ; he held ihem all imperfect or vicious, all were bad by themselves ; the composition alone was good. These iiad been always his principles, in which he agreed with his friend, Mr. Burke.'' — Speech on the Army Estimates, 9th Feb. 1790. In speak- ing of both these illustrious men, whose names I here join, as they will be joined in fame by poste- rity, which will forget their temporary differences in the recollection of their genius and their friend- ship, I do not entertain the vain imagination that I can add to their glory by any thing that I can say. But it is a gratification to me to give utter ance to my feelings ; to express the profound ve- neration with wiiicii I am filled for the memory of the one, and the warm afTeciion which I cherish for the other, whom no one ever heard in public without admiration, or knew in private life v'th out lovinff. ON THE STUDY OF THE LAW OF NATURE AND NATIONS. 39 Mcal reasonings, and historical facts, which are necessary for the illustration of this mo- mentous subject. In a full discussion of it I shall be obliged to examine the general frame of the most celebrated governments of ancient and modem times, and especially of those which have been most renowned for their freedom. The result of such an exa- mination will be, that no institution so de- testable as an absolutely unbalanced govern- ment, perhaps ever existed; that the simple governments are mere creatures of the ima- gination of theorists, who have transformed names used for convenience of arrangement into real politics ; that, as constitutions of government approach more nearly to that unmixed and uncontrolled simplicity they become despotic, and as they recede farther from that simplicity they become free. By the constitution of a state, I mean "the body of those written and unwritten funda- mental laws which regulate the most import- ant rights of the higher magistrates, and the most essential privileges* of the subjects." Such a body of political laws must in all countries arise out of the character and situation of a people; they must grow with its progress, be adapted to its peculiarities, change with its changes, and be incorporated with its habits. Human wisdom cannot form such a constitution by one act, for human wisdom cannot create the materials of which it is composed. The attempt, always inef- fectual, to change by violence the ancient habits of men, and the established order of society, so as to fit them for an absolutely new scheme of government, flows from the most presumptuous ignorance, requires the support of the most ferocious tyranny, and leads to consequences which its authors can never foresee, — generally, indeed, to institu- tions the most opposite to those of which they profess to seek the establishment.! But human wisdom indefatigably employed in remedying abuses, and in seizing favour- able opportunities of improving that order of society which arises from causes over wliich we have little control, after the re- forms and amendments of a series of ages, has sometimes, though very rarely, shown itself capable of building up a free constitu- tion, which is '-the growth of time and na- ture, rather than the work of human inven- * Privilege, in Roman jurisprudence, means the exe?nption of one individual from the operaiion of a law. Poliiical privileses, in the sense in which I employ the terms, mean liiose rights of the Bubjecis of a free stale, which are deemed so es- Reniial to the well-being of the commonwealth, that they are excepted from the ordinary discretion of the magistrate, and guarded by the same fun- damental laws which secure his authority. + Hee an admirable passage on this subject in Dr. Smith's Theory of Moral Sentiments (vol. ii. pp. 101 — 112), in which the true doctrine of re- formation is laid down with singular ability by that tloquent and philosophical writer. See also Mr. Burke's Speech on Economical Reform ; and Sir M. Hale on the Amendment of Laws, in the Collection of my learned and most excellent friend, Mr. Harf^rave, p. 248. tion."* Such a constitution can only bo formed by the wise imitation of '• the great innovater Time, which, indeed, innovateth greatly, but quietly, and by degrees scarce to be perceived."! Without descending to the puerile ostentation of panegyric, on that of which all mankind confess the excellence, I may observe, with truth and soberness, that a free government not only establishes a universal .security against wrong, but that it also cherishes all the noblest powers of the human mind; that it tends to banish both the mean and the ferocious vices; tiiat it improves the national character to which it is adapted, and out of which it grows ; that its whole administration is a practical school of honesty and humanity ; and that there the social affections, expanded into public spirit, gain a wider sphere, and a more active spring. I shall conclude what 1 have to offer on government, by an accoimt of the constitu- tion of England. I shall endeavour to trace the progress of that constitution by the light of history, of laws, and of records, from the earliest times to the present age ; and to show how the general principles of liberty, originally common to it with the other Go- thic monarchies of Europe, but in other countries lost or obscured, were in this more fortunate island preserved, matured, and adapted to the progress of civilization. I shall attempt to exhibit this most complicat- ed machine, as our history and our laws show it in action ; and not as some celebrated writers have most imperfectly represented it, who have torn out a few of its more simple springs, and putting them together, miscal them the British constitution. So prevalent, indeed, have these imperfect representations hitherto been, that I v.'ill venture to afRrm, there is scarcely any subject which has been less treated as it deserved than the govern- ment of England. Philosophers of^reat and merited reputation;' have told us that it con- sisted of certain portions of monarchy, aris- tocracy, and democracy, — names which are, in truth, very little applicable, and which, if they were, would as little give an idea of this government, as an account of the weight of bone, of flesh, and of blood in a human body, would be a picture of a living man. Nothing but a patient and minute investigation of ths * Pour foriner un gouvernement moilere, i! faut combiner Ics puissances, les regler, les tem- pcrer, les faire atjir ; donner pour ainsi dire un lest a I'une, pour la'mettreen etaf de resisler a uno autre ; c'est un chef-d'osuvre de legislation que le hasard fait rarement, et que rarement on laisse faire a la prudence. Un gouvernement despot- ique au contraire saute, pour ainsi dire, aux yeux ; il est unifirme partout : comme il ne faut que des passions pour I'ctablir. tout lo monde est bon pour cela. — Monte-squieu, De I'Esprit de Loix, liv. v. c. 14. + Bacon, Essay xxiv. (Of Innovations.) t The reader will perceive that I allude to Mon- tesquieu, whom 1 never name without reverence, though I shall presume, with humility, to criticise his account of a government which he only saw at a distance. 40 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. practice of the government in all its parts, and through its whole history, can give us just notions on this important subject. If a lawyer, without a philosophical spirit, be un- equal to the examination of this great work of liberty and wisdom, still more unequal is a philosopher without practical, legal, and historical knowledge ; for the lirst may want skill, but the second wants materials. The observations of Lord Bacon on political writ- ers in general, are most applicable to those who have given us systematic descriptions cf the English constitution. " All those wdio have writfen of governments have written as philosophers, or as lawyers, and none as states- men. As for 1 he philosophers, they make ima- ginary laws for imaginary commonwealths, and their discourses are as the stars, which give little light because they are so high." — "HaDC cognilio atl viros civUes proprie perti- net," as he tells us in another part of his writings; but unfortunately no experienced philosophical British statesman has yet de- voted his leisure to a delineation of the con- stitution, which such a statesman alone can practically and perfectly know. In the discussion of this great subject, and in all reasonings on the principles of politics, I shall labour, above all things, to avoid that which appears to me to have been the con- stant source of political error : — I mean the attempt to give an air of system, of simpli- city, and of rigorous demonstration, to sub- jects which do not admit it. The only means by which this could be done, was by refer- ring to a few simple causes, what, in truth, arose from immense and intricate combina- tions, and successions of causes. The con- seJjuence was very obvious. The system of the theorist, disencumbered from all re- gard to the real nature of things, easily as- sumed an air of speciousness : it required little dexterity, to make his arguments appear conclusive. But all men agreed that it was utterly inapplicable to human affairs. The theorist railed at the folly of the world, in- stead of confessing his own ; and the man of practice unjustly blamed Philosophy, in- stead of condemning the sophist. The causes which the politician has to consider are. above all others, multiplied, mutable, minute, subtile, and, if I may so speak, evanescent, — perpetually changing their form, and vary- mg their combinations, — losing their nature, while they keep their name, — exhibiting the most different consequences in the endless variety of men and nations on whom they operate, — in one degree of strength produc- ing the most signal benefit, and, under a slight variation of circumstances, the most tremendous mischiefs. They admit indeed of being reduced to theory; but to a theory formed on the most extensive views, of the most comprehensive and flexible principles, to embrace all their varieties, and to fit all their rapid transmigrations, — a theory, of •which the most fundamental maxim is, dis- trust in itself, and deference for practical prudence. Only two writers of former times have, as far as I know, observed this genera, defect of political reasoners ; but these two are the greatest philosophers who have evei appeared in the world. The first of them is Aristotle, who. in a passage of his politics,* to which I cannot at this moment turn, plainly condemns the pursuit of a delusive geometrical accuracy in moral reasonings as the constant source of the grossest error. The second is Lord Bacon, who tells us, with that authority of conscious wisdom which belongs to him, and with that power of richly adorn- ing Truth from the wardrobe of Genius which he possessed above almos! all men, '•Civil knowledge is conversant about a subject which, above all others, is most immersed in matter, and hardliest reduced to axiom. "t I shall next endeavour to lay open the general principles of civil and criminal laws. On this subject I may with some confidence hope that I shall be enabled to philosophise with better materials by my acquaintance with the laws of my own countrj-, which it is the business of my life to practise, and of which the study has by habit become my favourite pursuit. The first principles of jurisprudence are simple maxims of Reason, of which the ob- servance is immediately discovered by expe- rience to be essential to the security of men's rights, and which pervade the laws of all countries. An account of the gradual appli- cation of these original principles, first to more .simple, and afterwards to more com- plicated cases, forms both the history and the theory of law. Such an historical ac- count of the progress of men, in reducing justice to an applicable and practical system, will enable us to trace that chain, in which so many breaks and interruptions are per- ceived by superficial observers, but which in truth inseparably, though with many dark and hidden windings, links together the se- curity of life and property with the most minute and apparently frivolous formalities of legal proceeding. We shall perceive that no human foresight is sufficient to establish such a system at once, and that, if it were so established, the occurrence of unforeseen cases would shortly altogether change it ; that there is but one way of forming a civil code, either consistent with common sense, or that has ever been practised in anj" coun- try, — namely, that of gradually building up the law in proportion as the facts arise which it is to regulate. We shall learn to appre- * Probably book iii. cap. 11. — Ed. t This principle is expressed by a writer of a very different character from these two greni phi iosophers, — a writer, " qu'on n'appellera plus phi losophe, mais qu'on appellera leplus eloquent des sophistes," with great force, and, as his manner is, with some exao;geratinn. " II n'y a point de principes abstraits dans la politique. C'est une science des caiculs, des combinaisons, et des ex- ceptions, selon les lieux, les terns, ct les circonstan- ces." — Lettre de Rousseau au Marquis de Mira- beau. 'I'lie second proposition is true ; but the first is not a iust iiilerence from it. ON THE STUDY OF THE LAW OF NATURE AND NATIONS. il oiate the merit of vulgar objections against the subtilty and complexity of laws. We shall estimate the good sense and the grati- tuae of ihose mIio reproach lawyers for em- ploying all the powers of their mind to dis- cover subtle distinctions for the prevention of justice ;* and we shall at once perceive that laws ought to be neither more simple nor more complex than the state of society which they are to govern, but that they ought exactly to correspond to it. Of the two faults, however, the excess of simplicity would certainly be the greatest ; for laws, more complex than are necessary, would only pro- duce embarrassment ; whereas laws more simple than the affairs which they regulate would occasion a defeat of Justice. More understanding has perhaps been in this man- ner exerted to fix the rules of life than in any other science ;t and it is certainly the most honourable occupation of the understanding, because it is the most immediately subservi- ent to general safety and comfort. There is not so noble a spectacle as that which is dis- played in the progress of jurisprudence; where we may contemplate the cautious and unwearied exertions of a succession of wise men, through a long course of ages, with- drawing every case as it arises from the dangerous power of discretion, and subject- ing it to inflexible rules, — extending the do- minion of justice and reason, and gradually contracting, within the narrowest possible limits, the domain of brutal force and of ar- oitrary will. This subject has been treated with such dignity by a writer who is ad- mired by all mankind for his eloquence, but who is, if possible, still more admired by all competent judges for his philosophy, — a writ- er, of whom I may justly say, that he was "gravissimus et dicendi et intelligendi auc- tor et magister," — that I cannot refuse my- self the gratification of quoting his words : — ''The science of jurisprudence, the pride of the human intellect, which, with all its de- fects, redundancies, and errors, is the collect- ed reason of ages combining the principles of original justice with the infinite variety of human concerns."!: I shall exemplify the progress of law, and illustrate those principles of Universal Jus- tice on which it is founded, by a compara- tive review of the two greatest civil codes that have been hitherto formed, — those of Rome and of England, § — of their agreements " "The casuistical subtilties are not perhaps greater than the subtilties of lawyers ; but the lat- ter are innocent, and even necessarj'." — Hume, Essays, vol. ii. p. 558. t "Law," said Dr. Johnson, "is the science in which the greatest powers of the understanding are applied to the greatest number of facts." No- body, who is acquainted with the variety and mul- tiplicity of the subjects of jurisprudence, and with the prodigious powers of discrimination employed upon them, can doubt the truth of this observation. t Burke, Works, vol. iii. p. 134. ^ On the intimate connection of these two codes, let us hear the words of Lord Holt, whose name never can be pronounced without veneration, as and disagreements, both in general provi- sions, and in some of the most important parts of their minute practice. Li this part of the course, which I mean to pursue with such detail as to give a view of both codes that may perhaps be sufficient for the pur- poses of the general student, I hope to con- vince him that the laws of civilized nations, particularly those of his own. are a subject most worthy of scienti.'ic curiosity; that prii> ciple and system run through them even to the minutest particular, as really, though not so apparently, as in other sciences, and ap- plied to purposes more important than those of any other science. Will it be presump- tuous to express a hope, that such an in- quiry may not be altogether a useless intro- duction to that larger and more detailed study of the law of England, which is the duty of those who are to profess and prac- tise that law? In considering the important subject of criminal law it will be my duty to found, on a regard to the general safety, the right of the magistrate to inflict punishments, even the most severe, if that safety cannot be effectually protected by the example of infe- rior punishments. It will be a more agreea- ble part of my office to explain the tempera- ments which Wisdom, as well as Humanity, prescribes in the exercise of that harsh right, unfortunately so essential to the preservation of human society. I shall collate the penal codes of different nations, and gather to- gether the most accurate statement of the result of experience with respect to the effi- cacy of lenient and severe punishments; and I shall endeavour to ascertain the princi- ples on which must be founded both the prr^ portion and the appropriation of penalties tv crimes. As to the law of criminal proceed- ing, my labour will be very easy; for on thai subject an English lawyer, if he were to d^ lineate the model of perfection, would fif"" that, with few exceptions, he had trans- cribed the institutions of his own country. The next great division of the subject ip the "law of nations," strictly and properly so called. I have already hinted at the general principles on which this law is founded. They, like all the principles of natural jurisprudence, have been more hap- pily cultivated, and more generally obeyed, in some ages and countries than in others; and, like them, are susceptible of great va- riety in their application, from the character and usage of nations. I shall consider these principles in the gradation of those which are necessary to any tolerable intercourse between nations, of those which are essen- tial to all well-regulated and mutually ad- long as wisdom and integrity are revered among men : — " Inasmuch as the laws of all nations are doubtless raised out of the ruins of the civil law, as all governments are sprung out of the ruins of the Roman empire, it must be owned that the principles of our law are borrowed from the civil law, therefore grounded upon the same reason in many things." -12 Mod. Rep. 482. MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. rantageous intercourse, and of those which are highly conducive to the preservation of a mild and friendly intercourse between civilized states. Of the first class, every understanding acknoHdRd;>-es the necessity, and some traces of a faint reverence foi- them are discovered even among the most barbarous tribes; of the second, every well- informed man perceives the important use, and they have generally been respected by all polished nations; of the third, the great benefit may be read in the history of modern Europe, where alone they have been carried to their full perfection. In unfolding the first and second class of principles, I shall naturally be led to give an account of that law of nations, which, in greater or less perfection, regulated the intercourse of sa- vages, of the Asiatic empires, and of the an- cient republics. The third brings me to the consideration of the law of nations, as it is now acknowledged in Christendom. From the great extent of the subject, and the par- ticularity to which, for reasons already given, I must here descend, it is impossible for me, within my moderate compass, to give even an outline of this part of the course. It com- prehends, as every reader will perceive, the principles of national independence, the in- tercourse of nations in peace, the privileges of ambassadors and inferior ministers, the commerce of private subjects, the grounds of just war, the mutual duties of belligerent and neutral powers, the limits of lawful hos- tility, the rights of conquest, the faith to be observed in warfare, the force of an armis- tice, — of safe conducts and passports, the nature and obligation of alliances, the means of negotiation, and the authority and inter- pretation of treaties of peace. All these, and m.any other most important and compli- cated subjects, with all the variety of moral reasoning, and historical examples which is necessary to illustrate them, must be fully examined in that part of the lectures, in which I shall endeavour to put together a tqlerably complete practical system of the law of nations, as it has for the last two centuries been recognised in Europe. •'■■ Le droit des gens est naturellement fonde sur ce principe, que les diverses nations doi- vent se faire, dans la paix le plus de bien, et dans la guerre le moins de mal, qu'il est pos- sible, sans nuire a leurs veritables interets. L'objet de la guerre c'est lavictoire, celui de lavictoire laconquete; celui de la con- quete la consei"vation. De ce principe et du precedent, doivent deriver toutes les loix qui forment le droit des gens. Toutes les na- tions ont un droit des gens; et les Iroquois meme, qui mangent leurs prisonniers, en ont un. lis envoient et re^oivent des embas- sades; ils connoissent les droits de la guerre ct de la paix: le mal est que ce droit des gens n'est pas fonde sur les vrais principes."* As an important supplement to the practi- cal system of our modern law of nations, or He I'Esorit c5es Loix. Iiy. i. c. 3. rather as a necessary part of it, I shall con- clude with a survey of the diplomatic and conventional law of Europe, and of the trea- ties which have materially affected the dis- tribution of power and territory among the European states, — the circumstances which gave rise to them, the changes which the) eflected, and the principles which they in troduced into the public code of the Christian commonwealth. In ancient times the know- ledge of this conventional law was thought one of the greatest praises that could be be- stowed on a name loaded with all the honours that eminence in the arts of peace and war can confer: "Equidem existimo judice.'^, ciim in omni genere ac varietate artium, etiam illarum, qua; sine summo otio non facile discuntur, Cn. Pompeius excellat, sin- gnlarem quandam laudem ejus et prsestabi- lem esse scientiam, in fcoderibus, pactioni- bus, conditionibus, populorum, regum, exte- rarum nationum : in universe denique belli jure ac pacis.''* Information on this subject is scattered over an immense variety of voluminous compilations, not accessible to every one. and of which the perusal can be agreeable only to a very few. Yet so much of these treaties has been embodied into the general law of Europe, that no man can be master of it who is not acquainted with them. The knowledge of them is necessary to ne- gotiators and statesmen; it may sometimes be important to jirivate men in various situ- ations in which they may be placed ; it is useful to all men who wish either to be ac- quainted with modern history, or to form a sound judgment on political measures. I shall endeavour to give such an abstract ot it as may be sufficient for some, and a con- venient guide for others in the farther pro- gress of their studies. The treaties which 1 shall more particularly consider, will be those of Westphalia, of Oliva, of the Pyrenees, oi Breda, of Nimesuen, of Ryswick, of Utrecht, of Aix-la-Chapelle, of Paris (1763). and of Versailles (1783). I shall shortly explair the other treaties, of which the stipulations, are either alluded to, confirmed, or abro- gated in those which I consider at length. I shall spbjoin an account of the diplomatic intercourse of the European powers with the Ottoman Porte, and with other princes and states who are without the pale of our ordi- nary federal law; together with a view of the most important treaties of commerce, their principles, and their consequences. As an useful appendix to a practical trea- tise on the law of nations, some account will be given of those tribunals which in different countries of Europe decide controversies arising out of that law ; of their constitution, of the extent of their authority, and of their modes of proceeding; more especially of those courts which are peculiarly appointed for that purpose by the laws of Great Brilair.. Though the course, of which I have sketch- ed the outline, may seem to comprehend so I * C'l'. Oral. Dro L. Corp. Balbn, c. vi. LIFE OF SIR THOMAS MORE. 43 ^reat a variety of miscellaneous subjects, yet they are all in truth closely and inseparably interwoven. The duties of men, of subjects, of princes, of lawgivers, of magistrates, and of states, are all parts of one consistent sys- tem of universal morality. Between the most abstract and elementary maxim of moral philosoph}-. and the most complicated con- troversies of civd or public law, there sub- sists a connection which it will be the main object of these lectures to trace. The princi- ple of justice, deeply rooted in the nature and interest of man, pervades the whole system, and is discoverable in every part of it, even to its minutest ramification in a legal formality^ or in the construction of an article in a treat}'. I know not whether a philosopher ought to confess, that in his inquiries after truth he is biassed by any consideration, — even by the love of virtue. But 1, who conceive that a real philosopher ought to regard truth itself chiefly on account of its subserviency to the happiness of mankind, am not ashamed to confess, that I shall feel a great consola- tion at the conclusion of these lectures, if, by a wide survey and an exact examination of the conditions and relations of human na- ture, I shall have confirmed but one indivi- dual in the conviction, that justice is the permanent interest of oil men, and of all commonwealths. To discover one new link of that eternal chain by which the Author of the universe has bound together the hap. ■ piness and the duty of His creatures, and in- dissolubly fastened their interests to each other, would fill my heart with more plea- sure than all the fame with which the most ingenious paradox ever crowned the most eloquent sophist. I shall conclude this Dis- course in the noble language of two great orators and philosophers, who have, in a few words, stated the substance, the object, and the result of all morality, and politics, and law. '-'Nihil est quod adhuc de republica. putem dictum, et quo possim longius pro- gredi. nisi sit confirmatum, non mode falsum esse illud, sine injuria non posse, sed hoc verissimum, sine summa justitia rempubli- cam geri nuUo modo posse.''* "Justice is itself the great standing policy of civil so- ciety, and any eminent departure from it, under any circumstances, lies under the sus- picion of being no policy at all."t ♦ Cic De Repub. lib. ii. t Burke, Works, vol. iii. p. 207. IIFE OE SIE THOMAS MORE. Aristotle and Bacon, the greatest philo- sophers of the ancient and the modern world, agree in representing poetry as being of a more excellent nature than history. Agree- ably to the predominance of mere under- standing in Aristotle's mind, he alleges as his cause of preference that poetry regards general truth, or conformity to universal nature ; while history is conversant only with a confined and accidental truth, dependent on time, place, and circumstance. The ground assigned by Bacon is such as naturally issued from that fusion of imagination with reason, which constitutes his philosophical genius. Poetry is ranked more highly by him, be- cause the poet presents us with a pure ex- cellence and an unmingled grandeur, not to be found in the coarse realities of life or of history ; but which the mind of man, although not destined to reach, is framed to contem- plate with delight. The general difference between biography and history is obvious. There have been many men in every age whose lives are full of interest and instruction ; but who, having never taken a part in public affairs, are alto- gether excluded from the province of the historian : there have been also, probably, equal numbers who have influenced the for- tune of nations in peace or in war, of the peculiaritif^s of whose character we have no mformation ; and who, for the purposes of the i.>:o:rrapher, m.iy be said to have ha:! no private life. These are extreme cases : but there are other men, whose manners and acts are equally well known, whose indi- vidual lives are deeply interesting, v.-hose characteristic qualities are peculiarly striking, who have taken an important share in events connected with the most extraordinary revo- lutions of human affairs, and whose biogra- phy becomes more difficult from that com- bination and intermixture of private -with public occurrences, which render it instruc- tive and interesting. The variety and splen- dour of the lives of such men render it often difficult to distinguish the portion of them which ought to be admitted into history, from that which should be reserved for biography. Generally speaking, these two parts are so distinct and unlike, that they cannot be con- founded without much injury to both ;■— as when the biographer hides the portrait of the individual by a crowded and confined picture of events, or when the historian al- lows unconnected narratives of the lives of men to break the thread of history. The historian contemplates only the surface of human nature, adorned and disguised (ag when actors perform brilliant parts before a great audience), in the midst of so many dazzling circumstances, that itis hard to estimate the intrinsic worth of individuals, — and impossible, in an historical relation, to exhibit the secret springs of ^heir cou duct. 44 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. The biographer endeavours to follow the hero and the statesman, from the field, the council, or the senate, to his private dwell- ing, where, in the midst of domestic ease, or of social pleasure, he throws aside the robe and the mask, becomes again a man instead of an actor, and, in spite of himself, often betrays those frailties and singularities which are visible in the countenance and voice, the gesture and manner, of every one when he is not playing a part. It is par- ticularly difficult to observe the distinction in the case of Sir Thomas More, because he was so perfectly natural a man that he car- ried his amiable peculiarities into the gravest deliberations of slate, and the most solemn acts of law. Perhaps nothing more can be universally laid down, than that the biogra- pher never ought to introduce public events, except in as far as they are absolutely neces- sary to the illustration of character, and that the historian should rarely digress into bio- graphical particulars, except in as far as they contribute to the clearness of his narrative of political occurrences. Sir Thomas More was born in Milk Street, in the city of London, in the year 1480, three years before the death of Edward IV. His family was respectable, — no mean advantage at that time. His father, Sir John More, who was born about 1440, was entitled by his descent to use an armorial bearing, — a privi- lege guarded strictly and jealously as the badge of those who then began to be called gentry, and who, though separated from the lords of parliament by political rights, yet formed with them in the order of society one body, corresponding to those called noble in the other countries of Europe. Though the political power of the barons was on the wane, the social position of the united body of nobility and gentry retained its dignity.* Sir John More was one of the justices of the court of King's Bench to the end of his long life ; and, according to his son's account, well performed the peaceable duties of civil life, being gentle in his deportment, blameless, meek and merciful, an equitable judge, and zn upright man.t Sir Thomas More received the first rudi- ments of his education at St. Anthony's school, in Thread-needle Street, under Nicho- las Hart : for the daybreak of letters was now * " In Sir Thomas More's epitaph, he describes himself as ' born of no noble family, but of an honest stock,' (or in the words of the original, familia non celebri, sed honesia natus.) a true Iransiaiion, as we here take nobiUly and nohle; for none under a baron, except he be of tlie privy council, doth cliallenge it; and in this sense he meant it ; but as the Latin word noh'dis is taken in other countries for gentrie, it was otherwise. Sir John More bare arms from his birth ; and though we cannot certainly tell who were his ancestors, they must needs be gentlemen." — Life of More (commonly reputed to be) by Thomas More, his g;reat grandson, pp. 3, 4. This book will be cited Henceforward as " More." t " Homo civilis, innocens, mitis, integer." — Epitaph so bright, that the reputation of schools waj carefully noted, and schoolmasters began to be held in some part of the estimation which they merit. Here, however, his studies were confined to Latin ; the cultivation of Greek, which contains the sources and models of Roman literature, being yet far from having descended to the level of the best among the schools. It was the custom of that age that young gentlemen should pass part of their boyhood in the house and service of their superiors, where they might profit by listen- ing to the conversation of men of experience, and gradually acquire the manners of the world. It was not deemed derog-atory from youths of rank, — it was rather thought a beneficial expedient for inuring them to stern discipline and implicit obedience, that they should be trained, during this noviciate, in humble and even menial offices. A young gentleman thought himself no rnore lowered by serving as a page in the family of a great peer or prelate, than a Courtenay or a How- ard considered it as a degradation to be the huntsman or the cupbearer of a Tudor. More was fortunate in the character of hia master : when his school studies were thought to be finished, about his fifteenth year, he was placed in the house of Cardinal Morton, archbishop of Canterbury. This prelate, who was born in 1410, was originally an emi- nent civilian, canonist, and a practiser of note in the ecclesiastical courts. He had been a Lancastrian, and the fidelity with which he adhered to Henry VI., till that un- fortunate prince's death, recommended him to the confidence and patronage of Edward IV. He negotiated the marriage with the princess Elizabeth, which reconciled (with whatever confusion of titles) the conflicting pretensions of York and Lancaster, and raised Henry Tudor to the throne. By these services, and by his long experience in af- fairs, he continued to be prime minister till his death, which happened in 1500, at the advanced age of ninety.* Even at the time of More's entry into his household, the old cardinal, though then fourscore and five years, was pleased with the extraordinary promise of the sharp and lively boy; as aged persons sometimes, as it were, catch a glimpse of the pleasure of youth, by enter- ing for a moment into its feelings. More broke into the rude dramas performed at the cardinal's Christmas festivities, to which he was too young to be invited, and often in- vented at the moment speeches for himself, '' which made the lookers-on more sport than all the players beside." The cardinal, much delighting in his wit and towardness, would often say of him unto the nobles that dined with him, — " This child here waiting at the table, whosoever shall live to see it, will * Dodd's Church History, vol. i. p. 141. The Roman Catholics, now restored to their just rank in society, have no longer an excuse for not con- tinuing this useful woi k. [This has been accord* ingly done since this note was written, by the Re» M. A. Tierney.— Ed.] LIFE OF SIR THOMAS MORE. 45 prove a marvellous man."* More, in his historical work, thus commemorates this ^arly friend, not without a sidelong glance at the acts of a courtier: — "He was a man of great natural wit, very well learned, hon- ourable in behaviour, lacking in no wise to win favour."t In Utopia he praises the car- dinal more lavishly, and with no restraint from the severe justice of history. It was in Morton's house that he was probably first known to Colet, dean of St. Paul's, the foun- der of St. Paul's school, and one of the most eminent restorers of ancient literature in England; who was wont to say, that '-'there was but one wit in England, and that was young Thomas More. "I More went to Oxford in 1497, where he appears to have had apartments in St. Mary's Hall, but to have carried on his studies at Canterbury College,§ on the spot where Wolsey afterwards reared the magnificent edifice of Christchurch. At that university he found a sort of civil war waged between the partisans of Greek literature, who were then innovators in education and suspected of heresy, if not of infidelity, on the one hand ; and on the other side the larger body, comprehending the aged, the powerful, and the celebrated, who were content to be no wiser than their forefathers. The younger followers of the latter faction affected the ridiculous denomination of Trojans, and as- sumed the names of Priam, Hector, Paris, and ^neas, to denote their hostility to the Greeks. The puerile pedantry of these cox- combs had the good effect of awakening the zeal of More for his Grecian masters, and of inducing him to withstand the barbarism which would exclude the noblest produc- tions of the human mind from the education of English )'outh. He expostulated with the university in a letter addressed to the whole body, reproaching them with the better ex- ample of Cambridge, where the gates were thrown open to the higher classics of Greece, as freely as to their Roman imitators.il The established clergy even then, though Luther had not yet alar.med them, strangers as they were to the new learning, affected to con- temn that of which they were ignorant, and could not endure the prospect of a rising- generation more learned than themselves. Their whole education was Latin, and their instruction was limited to Roman and canon law, to theology, and school philosophy. They dreaded the downfal of the authority of the Vulgate from the study of Greek and Hebrew. But the course of things was irrre- sistible. The scholastic system was now on the verge of general disregard, and the pe- rusal of the greatest Roman writers turned all eyes towards the Grecian masters. What * Roper's Life ofSir T. More, edited liy .Singer. This hook will be cited henceforward as " Roper.'' t History of Richard III. t More, p. 25. $ Athenaj O.xonienses, vol. i. p. 79. 'I See this Letter in the Appendix to the second ■oluine of Jortin's Life of Erasmus. man of high capacity, and of ambition be- coming his faculties, could read Cicero with- out a desire to comprehend Demosthenes and Plato 1 What youth desirous of excellence but would rise from the L-vtudy of the Georgica and the iE.'.eid, with a wish to be acquainted with Hesiod and Apollonius, with Pindar, and above all with Homer ? These studies were then pursued, not with the dull languor and cold formality with which the indolent, in- capable, incui-ious majority of boys obey the prescribed rules of an old establishment, but with the enthusiastic admiration with which the supei-ior few feel an earnest of their own higher powers, in the delight which ai-isea in their minds at the contemplation of new- beauty, and of excellence unimagined before. More found several of the restoi-ers of Grecian literature at Oxford, who had been the scholars of the exiled Greeks in Italy ; — Grocyn, the first professor of Greek in the university ; Linacre, the accomplished foun- der of the college of physicians; and Wil- liam Latimer, of whom we know little more than what we collect from the general tes- timony borne by his most eminent contem- poraries to his learning and virtue. Grocyn, the first of the English restorers, was a late learner, being in the forty-eighth year of his age when he went, in 1488, to Italy, where the fountains of ancient learning were once more opened. After having studied under Politian, and learnt Greek from Chalcon- dylas, one of the lettered emigrants who educated the teachers of the western nations, he returned to Oxford, where he taught thai language to More, to Linacre, and to Eras- mus. Linacre followed the example of Gro- cyn in visiting Italy, and profiting by the in- structions of Chalcondylas. Colet spent four years in the same country, and in the like studies. William Latimer repaired at a matui-e age to Padua, in quest of that know- ledge which was not to be acquired at home. He was afterwards chosen to be tutor to Reginald Pole, the King's cousin ; and Eras- mus, by attributing to him "maidenly mo- desty." leaves in one word an agreeable im- pression of the character of a man chosen for his scholarship to be Linacre's colleague in a projected translation of Aristotle, and solici- ted by the latter for aid in his edition of the New Testament.* At Oxford More became known to a man far more extraordinary than any of these scholars. Erasmus had been Invited to Eng- land by Lord Mountjoy, who had been hia pupil at Paris, and continued to be his friend during life. He resided at Oxford during a great part of 1497; and having returned to Paris in 1498, spent the latter portion of the same vear at the university of Oxford, where he again had an opportunity of pouring hia zeal for Greek study into the mind of More. Their friendship, though formed at an age ot considerable disparity, — Erasmus being then * For Latimer, see Dodd, Church Hictory,vol' i. p. 219. : for Grocyn, Ibid. p. 2-27: for Colet ami Linacre, all biographical compilations. 46 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. thirty and More only seventeen, — lasted throughout the whole of their lives. Eras- mus had acquired only the rudiments of • Greek at the age most suited to the acquisi- tion of languages, and was now completing * his knowledge on that subject at a period of mature manhood, which he jestingly com- pares with the age at which the elder Cato commenced his Grecian studies.* Though Erasmus himself seems to have been much excited towards Greek learning by the e.\- araple of the English scholars, yet the cul- tivation of classical literature was then so small a part of the employment or amuse- ment of life, that William Latimer, one of the most eminent of these scholars, to whom Erasmus applied for aid in his edition of the Greek Testament, declared that he had not read a page of Greek or Latin for nine years,! that he had almost forgotten his ancient lite- rature, and that Greek books were scarcely procurable in England. Sir John More, in- flexibly adhering to the old education, and dreading that the allurements of literature might seduce his son from law, discouraged the pursuit of Greek, and at the same time reduced the allowance of Thomas to the level of the most frugal life ; — a parsimony for which the son was afterwards, though not then, thankful, as having taught him good husbandry, and preserved him from dissipation. At the university, or soon after leaving it, young More composed the greater part of his English verses; which are not such as. from their intrinsi-c merit, in a more advanced state of our language and literature, would be deserving of particular attention. But as the poems of a contemporary of Skelton, they may merit more consideration. Our language was still neglected, or confined chiefly to the vulgar uses of life. Its force, its compass, and its capacity of harmony, were untried: for though Chaucer had shone brightly for a season, the century which followed was dark and wintry. No master genius had impreg- nated the nation with poetical sensibility. In these inauspicious circumstances, the com- position of poems, especially if they mani- fest a sense of harmony, and some adapta- tion of the sound to the subject, indicates a delight in poetry, and a proneness to that beautiful art, which in such an age is a more than ordinary token of a capacity for it. The experience of all ages, however it may be accounted for, shows that the mind, when melted into tenderness, or exalted by the contemplation of grandeur, vents its feelings in language suited to a state of excitement, and delights in distinguishing its diction from * " Delibavimus et olini hns litems, sed summis dunta.xat labiis ; at nuper paulo aliius iiicrc.^si, videmiis id quod saepeiiumero apiid gravissinios auctores legiinus, — Laiinain eriidiiionem, quamvis inipendiosam, citra Gia3cismuni mancam esse ac diiindiatam. A pud nos eiiini riviili vix qiiidam gunt, et laciinulEe luiulentas ; apud illos fontes pu- rissinii nt flumina auruni volventia." — Opera, hn". Bai. 1703. vol. iii. p. fi3. t Hud. vol. iii. p. 293. common speech by some species of measure and modulation, which combines the gratifi- cation of the ear with that of the fancy and the heart. The secret connection between a poetical ear and a poetical soul is touched by the most sublime of poets, who consoled himself in his blindness by the remembrance of those who, under the like calamity, Feed on thoughts that voluntary move Harmonious numbers. We may be excused for throwing a glanca over the compositions of a writer, who is represented a century after his death, by Ben Jonson, as one of the models of English lite- rature. IMore's poem on the death of Eliza- beth, the wife of Henry VII., and his merry jest How a Serjeant would play the Friar^ may be considered as fair samples of hia pensive and sportive vein. The superiority of the latter shows his natural disposition to pleasantry. There is a sort of dancing mirth in the metre which seems to warrant the observation above hazarded, that in a rude period the structure of verse may be regarded as some presumption oi a genius for poetry. In a refined age, indeed, all the circumstances are difTerent: the frame-work of metrical composition is known to all the world ; it may be taught by rule, and ac- quired mechanically; the greatest facility of versification may exist without a spark of genius. Even then, however, the secrets of the art of versification are chiefly revealed to a chosen few by their poetical sensibility; so that sufficient remains of the original tie still continue to attest its primitive origin. It is remarkable, that the most poetical of the poems is written in Latin : it is a poem atldressed to a lady, with whom he had been in love when he was sixteen years old, and she fourteen; and it turns chiefly on the pleasing reflection that his affectionate re- membrance restored to her the beauty, of which twenty-five years seemed to others to have robbed her.* When More had completed his time at Oxford, he applied himself to the study of the law, which was to be the occupation of his life. He first studied at New Inn, and afterwards at Lincoln's Inn.t The societies of lawyers having purchased some inns, or noblemen's residences, in London, were hence called "inns of court." It was not then a metaphor to call them an university ; they had profes.sors of law; they conferred the characters of barrister and Serjeant, ana- logous to the degrees of bachelor, master, and doctor, bestowed by the universities; and every man, before he became a barrister, was subjected to examination, and c'Lliged * " Gratulatur quod cam repererit incolumem qtiam olim ferme puer aniaveiai." — Not. in Poem, It does not seem reconcilable with dates, that hia lady could have been the younger sister of Jane Colt. Vide infra. t Inn was successively applied, like the French word hntel. first to the town mansion of a greai man, and afterwards to a house where all man kmd were entertained for money. LIFE OF SIR THOMAS MORE. 47 w» defend a thesis. More was appointed reader at Furnival's Iim, where he delivered lectures for three years. The English law had already grown into a science, formed by a process of generalisation from usages and decisions, with less help from the Roman law than the jurisprudence of any other country, though not with that total indepen- dence of it which English lawyers in former times considered as a subject of boast : it was rather formed as the law of Rome itself had been formed, than adopted from that noble system. When More began to lecture on English law, it was by no means in a disorderly and neglected state. The eccle- siastical lawyers, whose arguments and de- terminations were its earliest materials, were well prepared, by the logic and philosophy of their masters the Schoolmen, for those exact and even subtle distinctions which the precision of the rules of jurisprudence emi- nently required. In the reigns of the Lan- castrian princes, Littleton had reduced the law to an elementary treatise, distinguished by a clear method and an elegant concise- ness. Fortescue had during the same time compared the governments of England and France with the eye of a philosophical ob- server. Brooke and Fitzherbert had com- piled digests of the law, which they called (it might be thought, from their size, ironi- cally) "Abridgments." The latter composed a treatise, still very curious, on "writs;" that is, on those commands (formerly from the king) which constitute essential parts of every legal proceeding. Other writings on jurisprudence occupied the printin,-; presses of London in the earliest stage* of iheir ex- istence. More delivered lectures also at St. Lawrence's church in the Old Jewry, on the work of St. Augustine, De Civitale Dei, that is, on the divine government of the moral world; which must seem to readers who look at ancient times through modern habits, a very singular occupation for a young lawyer. But the clergy were then the chief depositaries of knowledge, and were the sole canonists and civilians, as they had once been the only lawyers.! Religion, morals, and law, were then taught together without due distinction between them, to the injury and confusion of them all. To these lectures, we are told by the affectionate biographer, "there resorted Doctor Grocyn, an excellent cunning man, and all the chief learned of the city of London. "t More, in his lectures, however, did not so much dis- cuss "the points of divinity as the precepts of moral philosophy and history, wherewith these books are replenished. "§ The effect of the deep study of the first was, perhaps, however, to embitter his polemical writings, and somewhat to sour that naturally sweet temfier, which was so deeply felt by his * Doctor and Student (by St. Germain) and Di- versite des Courtes were both printed by Rastell ill 1534. t Nullitg causidicus nisi clerlrnn. I Roper, p. 5. ^ Mure, p. 44. companions, that Erasmus scarcely ever ro/t- eludes a letter to him without epithets n /ore indicative of the most tender affection than of the calm feelings of friendship.* The tenderness of More's nature combinea with the instructions and habits of his edu- cation to predispose him to piety. As ne lived in the neighbourhood of the great Car- thusian monastery, called the " Charter- house," for some years, he manifested a predilection for monastic life, and is said to have practised some of those austerities and self-iniiictions which prevail among the gloomier and sterner orders. A pure mind in that age often sought to extinguish some of the inferior impulses of human nature, in- stead of employing them for their appointed purpose, — that of animating the domestic affections, and sweetening the most impor- tant duties of life. He soon learnt, however, by self-examination, his unfitness for the priesthood, and relinquished his project of taking orders, in words which should have warned his church against the imposition of unnatural self-denial on vast multitudes and successive generations of men. t The same affectionate disposition which had driven him towards the visions, and, strange as it may seem, to the austerities of the monks, now sought a more natural chan- nel. "He resorted to the house of one Mais- ter Colt, a gentleman of Essex, who had often invited him thither; having three daughters, whose honest conversation and virtuous edu- cation provoked him there especially to set his affection. And albeit his mind most served him to the second daughter, for that he thought her the fairest and best favoured, yet when he considered that it would be both great grief, and some shame also, to the eldest, to see her younger sister prefer- red before her in marriage, he then of a cer- tain pity framed his fancy toward her, and soon after married her, neverthemore dis- continuing his study of the law at Lincoln's Inn."}' His more remote descendant adds, that Mr. Colt " proffered unto him the choice of any of his daughters; and that More, out of a kind of compassion, settled his fancy on the eldest. "§ Erasmus gives a turn to More's marriage with Jane Colt, which is too inge- nious to be probable : — "He wedded a very young girl of respectable family, but who had hitherto lived in the country with her parents and sisters, and was so uneducated, that he could mould her to his own tastes and manners. He caused her to be in- structed in letters: and she became a very skilful musician, which peculiarly pleased him."il The plain matter of fact seems to iiave been, that in an age when marriage chiefly depended upon a bargain between parents, * " Suavissime More." " Charissiine More. " Meliiiissime More." t " Maluit mariius esse castiis quam sacerdo* impiirus." Erasmus, Op. vol. iii. p. 475, t Roper, p. 6. ^ More, p. 30, 11 R^rasmus. Op. vol. iii. p. 475. 48 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS on which sons were little consulted, and daughters not at all, More, emerging at twenty-one from the toil of acquiring Greek, and the voluntary self-torture of Carthusian mystics, was delighted at his first entry among pleasing young women, of whom the least attractive might, in tnese circum- stances, have touched him ; and that his slight preference for the second easily yield- ed to a good-natured reluctance to mortify the elder. Most young ladies in Essex, in the beginning of the sixteenth century, must have required some tuition to appear in Lon- don among scholars and courtiers, who were at that time more mingled than it is now usual for them to be. It is impossible to ascertain the precise shade of feeling which the biographers intended to denote by the words " pity" and " compassion," for the use of which they are charged with a want of gallantry or delicacy by modern writers; although neither of these terms, when the context is at the same time read, seems un- happily employed to signify the natural re- finement, which shrinks from humbling the harmless self-complacency of an innocent girl. . The marriage proved so happy, that no- thing was to be regretted in it but the short- ne.ss of the union, in consequence of the early death of Jane Colt, who left a son and three daughters; of whom Margaret, the eldest, inherited the features, the form, and the ge- nius of her father, and requited his fond par- tiality by a daughterly love, which endured to the end. In no long time* after the death of Jane Colt, he married Alice Middleton, a widow, seven years older than himself, and not hand- some ; — rather, for the care of his family, and the management of his house, than as a com- panion and a friend. He treated her, and in- deed all females, except his daughter Mar- garet, as better qualified to relish a jest, than to take a part in more serious conversation ; and in their presence gave an unbounded scope to his natural inclination towards plea- santry. He even indulged himself in a Latin play of words on her want of youth and beauty, calling her "nee bella nee puella."t '■'She was of good years, of no good favour jr complexion, nor very rich, and by disposi- tion near and worldly. It was reported that he wooed her for a iriend of his; but she answering that he might speed if he spoke for himself, he married her with the consent of his friend, yielding to her that which per- haps he never would have done of his own accord. Indeed, her favour could not have bewitched, or scarce moved, any man to love her; but yet she proved a kind and careful mother-in-law to his children." Eras- mus, who was often an inmate in the family, speaks of her as " a keen and watchful ma- * " In a few monilis," says Erasmus, Op. vol. ui p. 475. : — "within two or three years," ac- rordinj; to his great grandson. — More, p. 32. t Erasmus, vol. iii. p. 475. nager, with whom More lived on terms of as much respect and kindness as if she had been fair and young." Such is the happ) power of a loving disposition, which over- flows on companions, though their attrac- tions or deserts should be slender. "No husband," continues Erasmus, " ever gained so much obedience from a wife byauthcvity and severity, as ]\Iore won by gentleness and pleasantry. Though verging on old age, and not of a yielding temper, he prevailed on hei to take lessons on the lute, the cithara, the viol, the monochord, and the flute, M'hich she daily practised to him. With the same gen- tleness he ruled his whole family, so that it was without broils or quarrels. He com- posed all differences, and never parted with any one on terms of unkindness. The house was fated to the peculiar felicity that those who dwelt in it were always raised to a higher fortune; and that no spot ever fell on the good name of its happy inhabitants." The course of More's domestic life is mi- nutely described by eye-witnesses. "Hia custom was daily (besides his private prayers with his children) to say the seven psalms, the litany, and the suffrages following; so was his gnaise with his wife, children, and household, nightly before he went to bed, to go to his chapel, and there on his knees or- dinarily to say certain psa]m,s and collects with them."* "With him," says Erasmus, " you might imagine yourself in the acade- my of Plato. But I should do injustice to his house by comparing it to the academy of Plato, where numbers, and geometrical figures, and sometimes moral virtues, were the subjects of discussion ; it would be more just to call it a school and exercise of the Christian religion. All its inhabitants, male or female, applied their leisure to liberal studies and profitable reading, although piety was their first care. No wrangling, no angry word, was heard in it ; no one was idle : every one did his duty with alacrity, and not with- out a temperate cheerfulness. "t Erasmus had not the sensibility of More ; he was more prone to smile than to sigh at the concerns of men : but he was touched by the remem- brance of these domestic solemnities in the household of his friend. He manifests an agreeable emotion at the recollection of these scenes in daily life, which tended to hallow the natural authority of parents, to bestow a sort of dignity on humble occupation, to raise menial offices to the rank of virtues, and to spread peace and cultivate kindness among those who had shared, and were soon again to share, the same modest rites, in gently breathing around them a spirit of meek equality, which rather humbled the pride of the great than disquieted the spirits of the lowly. More himseir ]ustly speaks of the hourly interchange of the smaller ajts of kindness which flow from the charities ot domestic life, as having a claim on his time as strong as the occupations which seemed * Roper, p. 25. t Op. vol. iii. p. 1812. I LIFE OF SIR THOMAS MORE. 4$ to others so much more serious and impor- tant. "While," says he, "in pleading, in hearing; in deciding causes or composing differences, in waiting on some men about business, and on others out of respect, the greatest part of the day is spent on other men's affairs, the remainder of it must be given to my family at home ; so that I can reserve no part of it to myself, that is. to study. I must talk with my wife, and chat with my children, and I have somewhat to say to my servants ; for all these things I reckon as a part of my business, except a man will resolve to be a stranger at home ; and with whomsoever either nature, chance, or choice, has engaged a man in any com- merce, he must endeavour to make himself as acceptable to those about him as he can."* His occupations now necessarily employed a large portion of his time. His professional practice became so considerable, that about the accession of Henry VHI., in 1509, with his legal ofRce in the city of London, it pro- duced 4001. a year, probably equivalent to an annual income of 5000Z. in the present day. Though it be not easy to determine the exact period of the occurrences of his life, from his establishment in London to his ac- ceptance of political ofhce, the beginning of Henry VIH.'s reign may be considered as the time of his highest eminence at the bar. About this time a ship belonging to the Pope, or claimed by his Holiness on behalf of some of his subjects, happened to come to South- ampton, where she was seized as a forfei- ture, — probably as what is called a droit of the crown, or a droit of the admiralty. — though under what circumstances, or on what grounds we know not. The papal minister ;nade suit to the King that the case might be argued for the Pope by learned counsel in a public place, and in presence of the minister himself, who was a distinguished civilian. None was found so well qualified to be of counsel for him as More, who could report in Latin all the arguments to his client, and who argued so learnedly on the Pope's side, that he succeeded in obtaining an order for the resiitution-of the vessel detained. It has been already intimated, that about the same time he had been appointed to a judicial office in the city of London, which is described by his son-in-law as '•' that of one of the under-sheriffs." Roper, who was himself for many years an officer of the court of King's Bench, gives the name of the office correctly; but does not describe its nature and importance so truly as Erasmus, who tells his correspondent that More passed several years in the city of London as a judge in civil causes. "This office." he says, '•' though not laborious, for the court sits only on the forenoon of every Thursday, is ac- counted very honourable. No judge of that court ever went through more causes; none decided them more uprightly ; often remit- ting the fees to which he was entitled from * Dedication of Utopia to Peter Giles, vBurnet's tranalaiion,) IG84. the suitors. His deportment in this capacity endeared him extremely to his fellow-citi- zens."* The under-sheriff was then appa rently judge of the sheriffs court, which, being the county court for London and Mid- dlesex, was, at that time, a station of honour and advantage.! For the county courts in general, and indeed all the ancient subordi nate jurisdictions of the common law, hac not yet been superseded by that concen- tration of authority in the hands of the su- perior courts at Westminster, which con- tributed indeed to the purity and dignity of the judicial character, as well as to the uni- formity and the improvement of the admin- istration of law, — but which cannot be said to have served in the same degree to pro- mote a speedy and cheap redress of the wrongs suffered by those suitors to whom cost and delay are most grievous. More's office, in that state of the jurisdiction, might therefore have possessed the importance which his contemporaries ascribed to it; although the denomination of it M'ould not make such an impression on modern ears. It is apparent, that either as a considerable source of his income, or as an honourable token of public confidence, this ofifce was valued by More ; since he informs Erasmus, in 1516, that he had declined a handsome pension offered to him by the king on his return from Flanders, and that he believed he should always decline it ; because either it woukl oblige him to resign his office in the city, which he preferred to a better, or if he retained it, in case of a controversy of the city with the king for their privileges, he might be deemed by his fellow-citizens to be disabled by dependence on the crown from sincere- ly and faithfully maintaining their rights. t This last reasoning is also interesting, as the first intimation of the necessity of a city law- officer being independent of the crown, and of the legal resistance of the corporation of London to a Tudor king. It paved the way for those happier times in which the great city had the honour to number the Holts and the Denmans among her legal advisers. § * Erasmus, Op. vol. ill. p. 476. t " In urbe sua pro sliyievo di-^it." — Epilaph. t Erasmus, Op. vol. iii. p. 220. ^ From communications obtained for me from the records of ilie ("Jity, I am enabled to ascertain some particulars of the nature of More's appoint- ment, wliich have occasioned a difference of opin- ion. On the 8th of May, 1514. it was agreed by ilie common council, " that, Thomas More, gen- tleman, one of the under-sheriffs of London, should occupy his otTice and chamber by a sufficient depu- ty, during his absence as the king's ambassadoi in Flanders." It appears from several entries in ilie same records, from 1496 to 1502 inclusive, that tlie under-sheriff was annually elecied, or rather confirmed ; for the practice was not to remove him without his own application or some serious fimlt. For si.K years of Henry's reign, Edward Dudley was one of the under-sheriffs; a circum- siance'which renders the stiperior importance of the office at ihat time probable Thomas Marowe, the auiiior of works on law esteemed in his time, though not published, appears also in the abov« records as under-sherifT. 50 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. More IS the fust person in our history dis- tinguished by the faculty of public speaking. A remarkable occasion on which it was suc- cessfull}' employed in parliament against a lavi.sh grant of money to the crown is thus recorded by his son-in-law as follows: — "In the latter time of king Henry VII. he was made a burgess of the parliament, wherein was demanded by the king about three fifteenths for the marriage of his eldest daughter, that then should be the Scottish queen. At the last debating whereof he made such arguments and reasons there against, that the king's demands were there- by clean overthrown ; so that one of the king's privy chamber, named maister Tyler, being present thereat, brought word to the king out of the parliament house, that a beardless boy had disappointed all his pur- pose. Whereupon the king, conceiving great indignation towards him, could not be satis- fied until he had some vi'ay revenged it. And forasmuch as he, nothing having, could nothing lose, his grace devised a causeless quarrel against his father; keeping him in the Tower till he had made him to pay lOOl. fine," (probably on a charge of having in- fringed some obsolete penal law). "Shortly after, it fortuned that Sir T. More, coming m a s'ait to Dr. Fox, bi.shop of Winchester, one of the king's privy council, the bishop called him aside, and, pretending great fa- Tour towards him, promised that if he would be ruled by him he would not fail into the king's favour again to restore him ; meaning, as it was afterwards conjectured, to cause him thereby to confess his offences against the king, whereby his highness might, with the better colour, have occasion to revenge his displeasure against him. But when he came from the bishop he fell into communi- cation with one maister Whitforde, his fami- liar friend, then chaplain to that bishop, and showed him what the bishop had said, praying for his advice. Whitforde prayed him by the passion of God not to follow the counsel ; for my lord, to serve the king's turn, will not stick to agree to his own fa- ther's death. So Sir Thomas More returned to the bishop no more ; and had not the king died soon after, he was determined to have gone over sea."* That the advice of Whit- forde was Avise, appeared from a circum- stance which occurred nearly ten years after, which exhibits a new feature in the character of the King and of his bishops. When Dud- ley was sacrificed to popular resentment, under Henry VIII., and when he was on his way to execution, he met Sir Thomas, to whom he said, — "Oh More, More! God was your good friend, that you did not ask she king forgiveness, as manie would have had you do ; for if you had done so, perhaps * Roper, p. 7. There seems to be some for- getfulness ofdates in the latter part of this passage, which has been ropied by succeeding wri'ers. Margaret, it is well known, was married in 1503 ; the debate was not, therefore, later than ihat year : but Henry VIL lived till 1509. you should have been in the like case with v> now.''* It was natural that the restorer of political eloquence, which had slumbered for a long series of ages,t should also be the earliest of the parliamentary champions of liberty. But it is lamentable that we have so little infor- mation respecting the oratorical powers which alone could have armed him for the noble conflict. He may be said to hold the same station among us, which is assigned by Cicero, in his dialogue On the Celebrated Orators of Rome, to Cato the censor, whose consulship was only about ninety years prior to his own. His answer, as Speaker of the House of Commons, to Wolsey, "of which more will be said presently, is admirable for its proinptitiide, quickness, seasonableness, and caution, combined with dignity and spirit. It unites presence of mind and adap- tation to the person and circumstances, with address and management seldom surpassed. If the tone be more submissive than suits modern ears, it is yet remarkable for that ingenious refinement which for an instant shows a glimpse of the sword generally hid- den under robes of state. "His eloquent tongue," says Erasmus, "so well seconds his fertile invention, that no one speaks bet- ter when suddenly called forth. His atten- tion never languishes; his mind is always before his words; his memory has all its stock so turned into ready money, that, with- out hesitation or delay, it gives out whatever the time and the case may require. His acuteness in dispute is unrivalled, and he often perplexes the most renowned theolo- gians when he enters their province."! Though much of this encomium may be applicable rather to private conversation than to public debate, and though this pre- sence of mind may refer altogether to prtjmp- titude of repartee, and comparatively little to that readiness of reply, of which his ex- perience must have been limited ; it is still obvious that the great critic has ascribed to his friend the higher part of those mental qualities, which, when justly balanced and perfectly trained, constitute a great orator. As if it had been the lot of More to open all the paths through the wilds of our old English speech, he is to be considered also as our earliest prose writer, and as the firs; Englishman who wrote the history of hi. country in its present language. The his torical fragment§ commands belief by sim- plicity, and by abstinence from too confident aflirmation. It betrays some negligence about minute particulars, which is not dis- pleasing as a symptom of the absence of eagerness to enforce a narrative. The com- position has an ease and a rotundity (which gratify the ear without awakening the sus- * More, p. 38. t " Posiquam pugnatum est apud Actiuin, magna ilia ingenia cessere." — Tacitus, Hist, lib i. cap. 1. t Erasmus, Op. vol. iii. p. 476. ^ History of Richard III. LIFE OF SIR THOMAS MORE. 01 picion of art) of which there was no model in any preceding writer of English prose. In comparing the prose of More with the modern style, we must distingxiish the words from the composition. A very small part of his vocabulary has been superannuated ; the number of terms which require any expla- nation is inconsiderable: and in that respect the stability of the language is remarkable. He is, indeed, in his words, more English than the great writers of a century after him, who loaded their native tongue with expres- sions of Greek or Latin derivation. Cicero, speaking of '-old Cato," seems almost to de- scribe More. '-His style is rather antiquated ; he has some words displeasing to our ears, but which were then in familiar use. Change those terms, which he could not, you will then prefer no speaker to Cato.'-'* But in the combination and arrangement of words, in ordinary phraseology and com- mon habits of composition, he differs more widely from the style that has now been prevalent among us for nearly two centuries. His diction seems a continued experiment to discover the forms into which the language naturally runs. In that attempt he has fre- quently failed. Fortunate accident, or more varied experiment in aftertimes, led to the adoption of other combinations, which could scarcely have succeedeil, if they had not been more consonant to the spirit of the lan- guage, and more agreeable to the earantl the feelings of the people. The structure of his sentences is frequently not that which the English language has finally adopted : the language of his countrymen has decided, without appeal, against the composition of the father of Engii.sh prose. T!ie speeches contained in his fragment, like many of those in the ancient historians, were probably substantially real, but bright- ened by ornament, and improved in compo- sition. It ccald, indeed, scarcely be olher- wise : for the history was written in 1513, t and the death of Edward IV., with which it opens, occurred in 1483; while Cardinal Morton, who became prime minister two years after that event, appears to have taken }/oung More into his household about the year 1493. There is, therefore, little scope, in so short a time, for much falsification, by tradition, of the arguments and topics really employed. These speeches have the merit of being accommodated to the circumstances, and of being of a tendency to dispose those to whom they were addressed to promote the object of the speaker; and this merit, rare in similar compositions, shows that More * De Clar. Oral. cap. 17. + Holinshed, vol. ill. p. 360. Holinshed called More's work " unfinished." That it was meant to e.xtend to ihe death of Richard III. seems pro- vable from the following sentence: — "But, for- asmuch as this duke's (ihe Duke of Gloucester) demeanour mitiistereth in effect all the whole matter whereof this book shall entreat, it is there- fore convetnent to show you, as we farther go, What manner of man this was that could find in lis; heart such mischief to conceive" — p. 361. had been taught, by the praciict! df speaking in contests where objects the most importan are the prize of the victor, that eloquence ' the art of persuasion, and that the end of tha orator is not the display of his talents, but dominion over the minds of his hearers. The dying speech, in which Edward exhorts the two parties of his friends to harmony, is a grave appeal to their prudence, as well as an affecting address from a father and a king to their public feelings. The surmises thrown out by Richard against the Widvilles are short, tlark, and well adapted to awaken sus- picion and alarm. The insinuations against the Queen, and the threats of danger to the lords themselves from leaving the person of the Duke of York in the hands of that prin- cess, in Richard's speech to the Privy Coun- cil, before the Archbishop of York was sent to Westminster to demand the surrerrder of the boy. are admirable specimens of the address and art of crafty ambition. Gene- rally speaking, the speeches have little of the vague comrnon-place of rhetoricians and declaimers ; and the time is nc wasted in parade. In the case, indeed, of Jae dispute between the Archbishop and the Queen, about taking the Duke of York out of his mother's care, and from the Sanctuary at Westminster, there is more ingenious argu- ment than the scene allows; and the mnid rejects logical refinements, of which the use, on such an occasion, is quite irreconcilable to dramatic verisimilitude. The Duke of Buck- ingham alleged in council, that sanctuary could be claimed only against danger; and that the royal infant had neither wisdom to desire sanctuary, nor the malicious intention in his acts without which he could not re- quire it. To this notable parado.x, which amounted to an affirmation that no certainly innocent person could ever claim protection from a sanctuary, when it was carried to the Queen, she answered readily, that if she could be in sanctuary, it followed that her child, who was her ward, was included in her protection, as much as her servants, who were, without contradiction, allowed to be. The Latin epigrams of More, a small vo- lume which it required two years to carry though the press at Basle, are mostly trans- lations from the Anthologia, which were rather made known to Europe by the fanre of the writer, than calculated to increase it. They contain, however, some decisive proofa that he always entertained the opinions re- specting the dependence of all government on the consent of the people, to which he professed his adherence almost in his dying moments. Latin versification was not in that early period successfully attempted in any Transalpine country. The rules of pros- ody, or at least the laws of metrical compo- sition, were not yet sufficiently studied for such attempts. His Latinity was of the same school with that of his friend Erasmus; which was, indeed, common to the first geii- eration of scholars after the revival of classi- cal study. .Finding Latin a sort of genera. MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. language emplo)-ed by men of letters in their conversation ami correspondence, they con- tinued the use of it in the mixed and cor- rupted state to which such an application had necessarily reduced it : they began, indeed, to purify it from some grosser cor- ruptions; but they built their 6tyle upon the foundation of this colloquial dialect, with no rigorous observation of the good usage of the Roman language. Writings of business, of pleasantry, of familiar inter- course, could never have been composed in pure Latinity; which was still more in- co!isistent with new^ manners, institutions, and opinions, and with discoveries and in- ventions added to those which were trans- mitted by antiquity. Erasmus, who is the master and model of this system of compo- sition, admirably shows how much had been gained by loosening the fetters of a dead speech, and acquiring in its stead the na- ture, ease, variety, and vivacity of a spoken and living tongue. The course of circum- stances, however, determined that this lan- guage should not subsist, or at least flourish, for much more than a century. It was as- sailed on one side by the purely classical, whom Erasmus, in derision, calls "Cicero- nians ;"' and when it was sufficiently emas- culated by dread of their censure, it was finally overwhelmed by the rise of a national literature in every European language. More exemplified the abundance and flexi- bility of the Erasmian Latinity in Utopia, with which this short view of all his writings, except those of controversy, may be fitly con- cluded. The idea of the work had been sug- gested by some of the dialogues of Plato, who speaks of vast territories, formerly culti- vated and peopled, but afterwards, by some convulsion of nature, covered by the Atlantic Ocean. These Egyptian traditions, or le- gends, harmonised admirably with that dis- covery of a new continent by Columbus, which had roused the admiration of Europe about twenty years before the composition of Utopia. This was the name of an island feigned to have been discovered by a sup- posed companion of Amerigo Vespucci, who is made to tell the wondrous tale of its con- dition to More, at Antwerp, in 1514 : and in it was the seat of the Platonic conception of an imaginary commonwealth. All the names which he invented for men or places* were *The following specimen oT Utopian ety mologies may amuse some readers : — Utopia - - (•/Ti.Tot - nowhere. Achoiians - &-y(_u:fi; - ofno country Atlemiaiis - - d-SHuoi; - ofno people. fTbe in Anydev (a river) a-ufa^p - waterless Amaurot (acity) CL-/u:t~fo; daric, llythloday - ixlai-'jBKo; visible city is ■ on the a learner of river trifles, &c. water- [ less. Some are intentionally unMneari.-'ig, and oth- ars are taken from little known lanjruase in intimations of their being unreal, and weie, perhaps, by treating with raillery his own notions, intended to silence gainsayers. Tho first book, which is preliminary, is naturally pjid ingeniously opened by a conversation, in wnich Raphael Hythloday, the Utopian traveller, describes his visit to England; where, as much as in other countries, he found all proposals for improvement encoun- tered by the remark, that, — " Such things pleased our ancestors, and it were well for us if we could but match them; as if it were a great mischief that any should be found wiser than his ancestors." "I met," he goes on to saj-, '■ these proud, morose, and absurd judgments, particularly once when dining with Cardinal Morton at London." '■'There happened to be at table an English lawyer, who run out into high commenda- tion of the severe execution of justice upon thieves, who were then hanged so fast that there were sometimes twenty hanging upon one gibbet, and added, 'that he could not wonder enough how it came to pass that there were so many thieves left robbing in all places.'" Raphael answered, -'that it was because the punishment of death was neither just in itself, nor good for the public; for as the severity was too great, so the rem- edy was not effectual. You, as well as other nations, like bad schoolmasters, chastise their scholars because they have not the skill to teach them." Raphael afterwards more spe- cially ascribed the g-angs of banditti who, after the suppression of Perkin VVarbeck'a Cornish revolt, infested England, to two causes; of which the first was the frequent disbanding of the idle and armed retainers of the nobles, who, when from necessity let loose from their masters, were too proud for industry, and had no resource but rapine; and the second was the conversion of much corn field into pasture for sheep, because the latter had become more profitable, — by which base motives many landholders were tempted to expel their tenants and destroy the food of man. Raphael suggested the substitution of hard labour for death; for which he quoted the example of the Ro- mans, and of an imaginary community in Persia. "The lawyer answered, 'that it could never be so settled in England, with- out endangering the whole nation by it:' he shook his head, and made some grimaces, and then held his peace, and all the com- pany seemed to be of his mind. But the cardinal said, 'It is not easy to say whether this plan would succeed or not, since no trial has been made of it; but it might be tried on thieves condemned to death, and adopted if found to answer; and vaga- bonds might be treated in the same way.' When the cardinal had said this, they all fell to commend the motion, though order to perplex pedants. Joseph Scaligei represents Utopia as a word not formed ac- cording to the analogy which regulates the formation of Greek words. LIFE OF SIR THOMAS MORE. 63 they had despised it when it came from me. They more particularly commended that concerning the vagabonds, because it had been added by him." * From some parts of the above extracts it is apparent that JMore, instead of having an- ticipated the economical doctrines of Adam Smith, as some modern writers have fancied, was thoroughly imbued with the prejudices of his contemporaries against the inclosure of commons, and the extension of pasture. It is, however, observable, that he is per- fectly consistent with himself, and follows his principles through all their legitimate consequences, though they may end in doc- trines of very startling sound. Considering separate property as always productive of unequal distribution of the fruits of labour, and regarding that inequality of fortune as the source of bodily suffering to those who labour, and of mental depravation to those who are not compelled to toil for subsistence, Hylhloday is made to say. that, "as long as there is any property, and while money is the standard of all other things, he cannot expect that a nation can be governed either justly or happily."! More himself objects to Hythloday : "It seems to me that men cannot live conveniently where all things are common. How can there be any plenty where every man will excuse himself from labouring 1 for as the hope of gain does not excite him, so the confidence that he has in other men's industry may make him slothful. And if people come to be pinched with want, and yet cannot dispose of any thing as their own, what can follow but perpetual sedition and bloodshed ; especially when the reverence and authority due to magistrates fall to the ground ; for I cannot imagine how they can be kept among those that are in all things equal to one another." These remarks do in reality contain the germs of unanswerable objections to all those projects of a community of goods, which suppose the moral character of the majority of mankind to continue, at the mo- ment of their adoption, such as it has been heretofore in the most favourable instances, -f, indeed, it be proposed only on the suppo- sition, that by the influence of laws, or by the agency of any other cause, mankind in general are rendered more honest, more be- nevolent, more disinterested than they have hitherto been, it is evident that they will, in the same proportion, approach to a practice more near the principle of an equality and a community of all advantages. The hints of an answer to Plato, thrown out by More, are BO decisive, that it is not easy to see how he left this speck on his romance, unless we may be allowed to suspect that the specula- tion was in part suggested as a convenient 30ver for that biting satire on the sordid and •apacious government of Henry VII., which •Burnet's translation, p. 13, et seg. t Burnet's translation, p. 57. Happening to ivrite where I have no access to the original, I use Burnet's translation. There can be no doubt •f Burnet's learning or fidelity. occupies a considerable portion of Hythlo. day's first discourse. It may also be supposed that More, not anxious to save visionary re formers from a few light blows in an altacl aimed at corrupt and tyrannical statesmen, thinks it suitable to his imaginary personage, and conducive to the liveliness of his fiction, to represent the traveller in Utopia as touched by one of the most alluring and delusive of political chimeras. In Utopia, farm-houses were built over the whole country, to which inhabitants were sent in rotation from the fifty-four cities. Every family had forty men and women, besides two slaves; a master and mistress preside over every family ; and over thirty families a magistrate. Every year twenty of the family return to town, being two years in the country; so that all acquire some knowledge of agriculture, and the land is never left in the hands of persons quite unacquainted with country labours. When they want any thing in the country which it doth not produce, they fetch it from the cit) without carrying anj- thing in exchange : the magistrates take care to see it given to them The people of the towns carry their commo dities to the market place, where they are taken away by those who need them. The chief business of the magistrates is to take care that no man may live idle, and that every one should labour in his trade for six hours of every twenty-four; — a portion of time, which, according to Hythloday, was sufficient for an abundant supply of all the necessaries and moderate accommodations of the community; and which is not inad equate where all labour, and none apply extreme labour to the production of super- fluities to gratify a few, — where there are no idle priests or idle rich men, — and where women of all sorts perform their light allot- ment of labour. To women all domestic offices which did not degrade or displease were assigned. Unhappily, however, the iniquitous and unrighteous expedient was devised, of releasing the better order of fe- males from offensive and noisome occupa- tions, by throwing them upon slaves. Their citizens were forbidden to be butchers, "be- cause they think that pity and good-nature, which are among the best of those affections that are born within us, are much impaired by the butchering of animals;" — a striking representation, indeed, of the depraving ef- fects of cruelty to animals, but abused for the iniquitous and cruel purpose of training inferiors to barbarous habits, in order to pre- serve for their masters the exclusive benefit of a discipline of humanity. Slaves, too, were employed in hunting, which was deemed too frivolous and barbarous an amusement for citizens. " They look upon hunting as one of the basest parts of a butcher's business, for they account it moie decent to kill beasts for the sustenance ot mankind, than to taku pleasure in seeing a weak, harmless, and fearful hare torn in pieces by a strong, fierce, and cruel dog." An excess of populatio:i •54 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLA.-^EOUS ESSAYS. was remedied by planting colonies ; a defect, by the recall of the necessary number of for- mer colonists ; irregularities of distribution, by transferring the superfluous members of one township to supply the vacancies in an- other. They did not enslave their prisoners, nor the children of their own slaves. In those maladies where there is no hope of cure or alleviation, it was customary for the Utopian priests to advise the patient voluntarily to shorten his useless and burthensome life by opium or some equally easy means. In cases of suicide, without permission of the priests and the senate, the party is excluded from the honours of a decent funeral. They allow divorce in cases of adultery, and incorrigible perverscness. Slavery is the general punish- ment of the highest crime. They have few laws, and no lawyers. "Utopus, the founder of the slate, made a law that every man might be of what religion he pleased, and might endeavour to draw others to it by force of argument and by amicable and modest ways; but those who used reproaches or violence in their attempts were to be con- demned to banishment or slavery." The following passage is so remarkable, and has hitherto been so little considered in the history of toleration, that I shall insert it at length : — " This law was made by Utopus, not only for preserving the public peace, which, he said, suffered much by daily con- tentions and irreconcilable heat in these matters, but because he thought the interest of religion itself required it. As for those who so far depart from the dignity of human nature as to think that our souls died with our bodies, or that the world was governed by chance without a wise and over-ruling Providence, the Utopians never raise them to honours or offices, nor employ them in any public trust, but despise them as men of base and sordid minds; yet they do not punish such men, because they lay it down as a ground, that a man cannot make himself believe any thing he pleases : nor do they drive any to dissemble their thoughts; so that men are not tempted to lie or disguise their opinions among them, which, being a sort of fraud, is abhorred by the Utopians :" — a beautiful and conclusive reason, which, when it was used for the first time, as it probably was in Utopia, must have been drawn from so deep a sense of the value of sincerity as of itself to prove that he who thus employed it was sincere. "These un- believers are not allowed to argue before the common people ; but they are suffered and even encouraged to dispute in private with their priests and other grave men, being confident that they will be cured of these mad opinions by having reason laid before them." It maybe doubted whether some extrava- gancies in other parts of Utopia were not in- troduced to cover such passages as the above, by enabling the writer to call the whole a mere sport of wit, and thus exempt him from Ihe perilous responsibility of havir£j main- tained such doctrines seriously. In othei cases he seems diffidently to propose opiniong to which he was in some measure inclined, but in the course of his statement to have warmed himself into an indignation against the vices and corruptions of Europe, which vents itself in eloquent invectives not un- worthy of Gulhver. He makes Hythloday at last declare, — "As I hope for mercy, I can have no other notion of all the other govern- ments that I see or know, but that they are a conspiracy of the richer sort, who, on pre- tence of managing the public, do only pursue their private ends.'' The true notion of Uto- pia is, however, that it intimates a variety of doctrines, and exhibits a multiplicity of pro- jects, which the writer regards with almost every possible degree of approbation and shade of assent ; from the frontiers of serious and entire belief, through gradations of de- scending plausibility, where the lowest are scarcely more than the exercises of inge- nuity, and to which some wild paradoxes are appended, either as a vehicle, or as an easy means (if necessary) of disavowing the se- rious intention of the whole of this Platonic fiction. It must be owned, that though one class of More's successors was more susceptible of judicious admiration of the beauties of Plato and Cicero than his less perfectly form- ed taste could be, and though another divi- sion of them had acquired a knowledge of the words of the Greek language, and per- ception of their force and distinctions, for the attainment of which More came too early into the world, yet none would have been so heartily welcomed by the masters of the Lyceum and the Academy, as qualified to take a part in the discussion of those grave and lofty themes which were freely agitated in these early nurseries of human reason. The date of the publication of Utopia would mark, probably, also the happiest pe- riod of its author's life. He had now acquired an income equivalent to four or five thousand pounds sterling of our present money, by his own independent industry and well-earned character. He had leisure for the cultivation of literature,' for correspondence with his friend Erasmus, for keeping up an intercourse with European men of letters, who had al- ready placed him in their first class, and for the composition of works, from which, un- aware of the rapid changes which were to ensue, he probably promised himself more fame, or at least more popularity, than they have procured for him. His affections and his temper continued to insure the happiness of his home, even M'hen his son with a wife, three daughters with their husbands, and a proportionable number of grandchildren, dwelt under his patriarchal roof. At the same period, the general progress of European literature, and the cheerful pros- pects of improved education and diffused knowledge, had filled the minds of More and Erasmus with delight. The expectation of an age of pacific improvement seems to have LIFE OF SIR THOMAS MORE. 55 prevailed among studious men in the twenty years which elapsed between the migration of classical learning across the Alps, and the rise of the religious dissensions stirred up by the preaching of Luther. •' I foresee," says Bishop Tunstall, writing to Erasmus, "that our posterity will rival the ancients in every sort of study ; and if they be not ungrateful, they will pay the greatest thanks to those who have revived these studies. Go on, and deserve well of posterity, who will never suf- fer the name of Erasmus to perish."* Eras- mus, himself, two years after, expresses the same hopes, which, with unwonted courtesy, he chooses to found on the literary character of the conversation in the palace of Henry VIII.: — '-'The world is recovering the use of its senses, like one awakened from the deepest sleep ; and yet there are some who cling to their old ignorance with their hands and feet, and will not suffer themselves to be torn from it."t To Wolsey, he speaks in still more sanguine language, mixed with the like personal compliment: — ''I see another golden age arising, if other rulers be animat- ed by your spirit. Nor v.'ill posterity be un- grateful. This new felicity, obtained for the world by you, will be commemorated in im- mortal monuments by Grecian and Roman eloquence. "t Though the judgment of pos- terity in favour of kings and cardinals is thus confidently foretold, the writers do not the less betray their hope of a better age, which will bestow the highest honours on the pro- moters of knowledge. A better age was, in truth, to come ; but the time and circum- stances of its appearance did not correspond to their sanguine hopes. An age of iron was to precede, in which the turbulence of refor- mation and the obstinacy of establishment were to meet in long and bloody contest. When the storm seemed readj' to break out, Erasmus thought it his duty to incur the obloquy which always attends mediatorial counsels. "You know the character of the Germans, who are more easily led than driven. Great danger may arise, if the na- tive ferocity of that people be exasperated by untimely severities. We see the perti- nacity of Bohemia and the neighbouring pro- vinces. A bloody policy has been tried with- out succe.s3. Other remedies must be em- ployed. The hatred of Rome is fixed in the minds of many nations, chiefly from the ru- mours believed of the dissolute manners of that city, and from the immoralities of the representatives of the supreme pontiff abroad." The uncharitableness, the turbu- lence, the hatred, the bloodshed, which fol- lowed the preaching of Luther, closed the bright visions of the two illustrious friends, who agreed in an ardent love of peace, though lot without a difference in the shades and * Erasmi Operii, vol. iii. p. 267. t ilml. p. 321. t Ibid. p. 591. To this theory neither of the parlies about to cotitend could have assented ; but It ie not on that account the less iikoly to be in a (E:T€at measure true. modifications of their pacific temper, arising from some dissimilarity of original character. The tender heart of More clung more strong ly to the religion cf his youth; while Eras- mus more anxiously apprehended the dis- turbance of his tastes and pursuits. The last betrays in some of his writings a tem- per, which might lead us to doubt, whether he considered the portion of truth which was within reach of his friend as equivalent to the evils attendant on the search. The public life of More may be said tc have begun in the summer of 1514,* with a mission to Bruges, in which Tunstall, then Master of the Rolls, and afterwards Bishop of Durham, was his colleague, and of which the object was to settle some particulars re- lating to the commercial intercourse of Eng- land with the Netherlands. He was consoled for a detention, unexpectedly long, by the company of Tunstall, whom he describest as one not only fraught with all learning, and severe in his life and morals, but inferior to no man as a delightful companion. On this mission he became acquainted with several of the friends of Erasmus in Flanders, where he evidently saw a progress in the accom- modations and ornaments of life, to which he had been hitherto a stranger. With Peter Giles of Antwerp, to whom he intrusted the publication of Utopia by a prefatory dedica- tion, he continued to be closely connected during the lives of both. In the year follov/ ing, he was again sent to the Netherlands on a like mission ; the intricate relations of traf fie between the two countries having given rise to a succession of disputes, in which the determination of one case generally produced new complaints. In the beginning of 1516 More was made a privy-councillor; and from that time may be dated the final surrender of his own tastes for domestic life, and his predilections for studious leisure, to. the flattering impor- tunities of Henry VIII. '• He had resolved, "•■ says Erasmus, "to be content with his pri- vate station ; but having gone on more than one mission abroad, the King, not discour- aged by the unusual refusal of a pension, did not rest till he had drawn More into the palace. For why should I not say 'drawn,^ since no man ever laboured with more in- dustry for admission to a court, than More to avoid it 1 The King would scarcely ever suffer the philosopher to quit him. For if serious affairs were to be considered, who could give more prudent counsel? or if the King's mind was to be relaxed by cheerful conversation, where could there be a more facetious companion?"!. Roper, who was an eye-witness of these circumstances, re- lates them with an agreeable simplicity. " So from time to time was he by the King advanced, continuing in his singular favour and trusty service for twenty years. A good * Records of the Common Council of London, t In a letter to Erasmus, 30th April, 1516. t Erasmus, Op. vol. iii. p. 4~6. 56 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. part thereof used the King, upon holidays, vvhen he had done his own devotion, to send for him ; and there, sometimes in matters of astronomy, geometry, divinity, and such other faculties, and sometimes on his worldly affairs, to converse with him. And other whiles in the night woidd he have him up into the leads, there to consider with him the diversities, courses, motions, and opera- tions of the stars and planets. And because he was of a pleasant disposition, it pleased the King and Queen, after the council had supped at the time of their own [i. e. the royal) supper, to call for him to be merry with them." What Roper adds could not have been discovered by a less near ob- server, and would scarcely be credited upon less authority: "When them he perceived so much in his talk to delight, that he could not once in a month get leave to go home to his wife and children fwhose company he most desired), he. mucn misliking this re- straint on his liberty, began thereupon some- what to dissemble his nature, and so by Jiltle and little from his former mirth to dis- use himself, that he was of them from thenceforth, at such seasons, no more so ordinarily sent for."*' To his retirement at Chelsea, however, the King followed him. '•'He used of a particular love to come of a sudden to Chelsea, and leaning on his shoul- der, to talk with him of secret counsel in his garden, yea, and to dine with him upon no inviting. "t The taste for More's conversa- tion, and the eagerness for his company thus displayed, would be creditable to the King, if his behaviour in after time had not con- verted them into the strongest proofs of utter depravity. Even in Henry's favour there was somewhat tyrannical ; and his very friend- ship was dictatorial and self-willed. It was reserved for him afterwards to exhibit the singular, and perhaps solitary, example of a man unsoftened by the recollection of a communion of counsels, of studies, of amuse- ments, of social pleasures with such a com- panion. In the moments of Henry's par- tiality, the sagacity of More was not so ut- terly blinded by his good-nature, that he did not in some degree penetrate into the true character of these caresses from a beast of prey. '-When I saw the King," says his son-in-law, " walking with him for an hour, holding his arm about his neck, I rejoiced, and said to Sir Thomas, how happy he was whom the King had so familiarly entertained, as I had never seen him do to any one before, except Cardinal Wolsey. ' I thank our Lord, son,' said he, 'I find his grace my very good lord indeed, and I believe he doth as singu- la.r]y favour me as any other subject within this realm : howbeit, son Roper, I may tell thee, I have no cause to be proud thereof; (or if my head would win him a castle in France, when there was war between us, it tho.uld not fail to go.' "t * Roper, p. 12. t More, p. 49. t Roocr, pp. 21, 22, Compare this insight into All edition of Utopia had been printed in- correctly, perhaps clandestinely, at Paris' but, in 1518, Erasmus' friend and printer, Froben, brought out a correct one at Basle, the publication of which had been retarded by the expectation of a preface from Eudasus, the restorer of Greek learning in France, and probably the most critical scholar in that province of literature on the north of the Alps. The book was received with loud ap- plause by the scholars of France and Ger- many. Erasmus in confidence observed to an intimate friend, that the second book having been written before the first, had oc- casioned some disorder and inequality of style ] but he particularly praised its novelty and originality, and its keen satire on the vices and absurdities of Europe. So important was the office of under-sheriff then held to be, that More did not resign it till the 23d of July, 1519,* though he had in the intermediate time served the public in stations of trust and honour. In 1521 he was knighted, and raised to the office of treasurer of the exchequer,! a station in some respects the same with that of chancellor of the exchequer, who at present is on his ap- pointment designated by the additional name of under-treasurer. It is a minute but some- what remarkable, stroke in the picture of manners, that the honour of knighthood should be spoken of by Erasmus, if not as of superior dignity to so important an office, at least as observably adding to its consequence. From 1517 to 1522, More was employed at various times at Bruges, in missions like his first to the Flemish government, or at Calais in watching and conciliating Francis I., with whom Henry and Wolsey long thought it convenient to keep up friendly appearances. To trace the date of More's reluctant journeys in the course of the unin- teresting attempts of politicians on both sides to gain oi- dupe each other, would be vain, without some outline of the negotiations in which he was employed, and repulsive to most readers, even if the inquiry promised a better chance of a successful result. — Wolsey appears to have occasionally ap- Henry's character with a declaration jiost of an opposite nature, though borrowed also from cas- tles and towns, made by Charles V. when he heard of More's murder. * Records of the city of London. t Est quod Moro gratuleris ; nam Rex hunc nee amhientcm, iiec fagkantem munere magnifico ho- nestavit, addito salario nequaquam peniiendo : est enim principi suo a thesauris. . . Nee hoc con- tentus, equitis aurati dignitatem adjecit. — Eras- mus, Op. vol. iii. p. 378. " Then died Master Weston, treasurer of the exchequer, whose office the King, of his own ac- cord, without any asJiing, freely gave unto Sir Thomas More." — Roper, 13. The minute verbal coir occur between Erasmus and Koper explained otherwise than by the probable suppo- sition, that copies or originals of the correspond- ence between More and Erasmus were preserv<;d by Roper after the death of the former ', jreeiy gave unio oir , 13. J incidences which often "1 and Roper, cannot be ' LIFE OF SIR THOMAS MORE. Si pointed commissioners to conduct his own affairs, as well as those of his master, at Calais. At this place they could receive in- structions from London with the greatest rapidity, and it was easy to manage negotia- tions, and to shift them speedily, with Brus- sels and Paris; with the additional advan- tage, that it might be somewhat easier to conceal from each one in turn of those jealous courts the secret dealings of his employers with the other, than if the despatches had been sent directly from London to the place of their destination. Of this commission More was once at least an unwilling mem- ber. Erasmus, in a letter to Peter Giles on the 15th of November, 1518. says, -'More is still at Calais, of which he is heartily tired. He lives with great expense, and is engaged in business most odious to him. Such are the rewards reserved by kings for their fa- vourites."* Two years afterwards, More writes more bitterly to Erasmus, of his own residence and occupations. '•' I approve your determination never to be involved in the busy triiiing of princes ; from which, as you love me, you must wnsh that I were extri- cated. You cannot imagine how painfully I feel myself plunged in them, for nothing can be more odious to me than this legation. I am here banished to a petty sea-port, of which the air and the earth are equally dis- agreeable to me. Abhorrent as I am by na- ture from strife, even when it is profitable, as at home, you may judge how wearisome it is here where it is attended by loss."t — On one of his missions, — that of the summer of 1519 — More had harboured hopes of being- consoled by seeing Erasmus at Calais, for all the tiresome pageantr}-, selfish scuffles, and paltry frauds, which he was to witness at the congress of kings,! where he could find little to alter those splenetic views of courts, which his disappointed benevolence breathed in Utopia. Wolsey twice visited Calais du- ring the residence of More, who appears to have then had a weight in council, and a place in the royal favour, second only to those of the cardinal. In 1523, § a parliament was held in the middle of April, at Westminster, in which More took a part so honourable to his me- mory, that though it has been already men- tioned wdien touching on his eloquence, it cannot be so shortly passed over here, be- cause it was one of those signal acts of his life which bears on it the stamp of his cha- racter. Sir John, his father, in spite of very advanced age, had been named at the be- ginning of this parliament one of '• the triers of petitions from Gascony," — an ofRce of which the duties had become nominal, but which still retained its ancient dignity; while of the House of Commons. Sir Thomas him- * Od. vol. ii. p. 357. t Op. vol. ill. p. 589. t Ibid. From the dates of the followina letters of Erasmus, it appears that the hopes of More were disappoinien. * 14 Henry VIII. self was chosen to be the speaker. He ex- cused himself, as usual, on the ground of alleged disability; but his excuse was justly pronounced to be inadmissible. The Jour- nals of Parliament are lost, or at least have not been printed ; and the Rolls exhibit only a short account of what occurred, which is necessarily an unsatisfactory substitute for the deficient Journals. But as the matter personally concerns Sir Thomas More, and as the account of it given by his son-in-law, then an inmate in his house, agrees with the abridgment of the Rolls, as far as the latter goes, it has been thought proper in this place to insert the very words of Roper's narrative. It may be reasonably conjectured that the speeches of INIore were copied from his manuscript by his pious son-in-law."* — '•'Sith I perceive, most redoubted sovereign, that it standeth not with your pleasure to reform this election, and cause it to be changed, but have, by the mouth of the most reverend father in God the legate, your high- ness's chancellor, thereunto given your most royal assent, and have of your benignity de- termined far above that I may bear for this office to repute me meet, rather than that you should seem to impute unto your com- mons that they had unmeetly chosen, I am ready obediently to conform myself to the accomplishment of your highness's pleasure and commandment. In most humble wise I beseech your majesty, that I may make to you two lowly petitions;— the one privately concerning myself, the other the whole as- sembly of your commons' house. For my- self, most gracious sovereign, that if it mishap me in any thing hereafter, that is, on the be- half of your commons in your high presence to be declared, to mistake my message, and in lack of good utterance by my mishearsal to prevent or impair their prudent instruc- tions, that it may then like your most noble majest}^ to give me leave to repair again unto the commons' house, and to confer with them and take their advice what things I shall on their behalf utter and speak before your royal grace. "Mine other humble request, most excel- lent prince, is this: forasmuch as there be of your commons here by your high com- mandment assembled for your parliament, a great number of which are after the accus- tomed manner appointed in the commons' house to heal and advise of the common affairs among themselves apart; and albeit, most dear liege lord, that according to your most prudent advice, by your honourable writs every where declared, there hath been * This conjecture is almost raised above that name by what precedes. "Sir Thomas More made an oration, not now extant, to the king'." highness, for his discharge from the speakership, whereunto when the king would not consent, thd speaker spoke to his grace in the form foUowinf — It cannot be doubted, without injustice to the honest and amiable biographer, that he w-ould have his readers to understand that the original of the speeches, which actually follow, were ex*anf in his hands. f>S MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAY'S. as due diligence used in sending up to your highness's court of parliament the most dis- creet persons out of every quarter that men could esteem meet thereunto ; whereby it is not to be doubted but that there is a very substantial assembly of right wise, meet, and politique persons : yet, most victorioua prince, sith among so many w^ise men, neither is every man wise alike, nor among so many alike well witted, every man well spoken ; and it often happeth that as much folly is uttered w'ith painted polish speech, so many boisterous and rude in language give right substantial counsel; and sith also in matters of great importance, the mind is often so oc- cupied in the matter, that a man rather stu- dieth what to say than how ; by reason whereof the wisest man and best spoken in a whole country fortuneth, when his mind is fervent in the matter, somewhat to speak in such wise as he would afterwards wish to have been uttered otherwise, and yet no worse will had when he spake it than he had when he would so gladly change it; there- fore, most gracious sovereign, considering that in your high court of parliament is nothing treated but matter of weight and importance concerning your realm, and your own royal estate, it could not fail to put to silence from the giving of their advice and counsel many of your discreet commo.is, to the great hindrance of your common afTairs, unless every one of your commons were ut- terly discharged from all doubt and fear how any thing that it should happen them to speak, should happen of your highness to be taken. And in this point, though your well- known and proved benignity putteth every man in good hope ; yet such is the weight of ihe matter, such is the reverend dread that the timorous hearts of your natural sub- jects conceive towards your highness, our most redoubted king and undoubted sove- reign, that they cannot in this point find themselves satisfied, except your gracious bounty therein declared put away the scruple of their timorous minds, and put them out of doubt. It may therefore like your most abundant grace to give to all your commons here assembled your most gracious licence and pardon freely, without doubt of your dreadful displeasure, every man to discharge his conscience, and boldly in every thing in- cident among us to declare his advice ; and whatsoever happeneth any man to say, that it may like your noble majesty, of your in- estimable goodness, to take all in good part, interpreting every man's w'ords. how uncun- ningly soever they may be couched, to pro- ceed yet of good zeal towards the profit of your realm, and honour of your royal person ; and the prosperous estate and preservation whereof, most excellent sovereign, is the ihiiig which we all, your majesty's humble Joviiig subjects, according to the most bound- en duty of our natural allegiance, most highly desire and pray for." This speech, the substance of which is in '*»e Rolls denominated '-the protest," is con- formable to former usage, and the model of speeches made since that time in the like circumstances. What follows is more sin* gular, and not easily reconciled with the in- timate connection then subsisting betweei* the speaker and the government, especially with the cardinal : — "At this parliament Cardinal Wolsey found himself much aggrieved with the burgesses thereof; for that nothing was so soon done or spoken therein, but that it was immediately blown abroad in every alehouse. It fortuned at that parliament a very great subsidy to be demanded, which the cardinal, fearing would not pass the commons' house, deter- mined, for the furtherance thereof, to be there present himself. Before where coming, after long debating there, whether it was better but with a few of his lords, as the most opinion of the house was, or with his whole train royally to receive him; 'Mas- ters,' quoth sir Thomas More, 'forasmuch as my lord cardinal lately, ye wot well, laid to our charge the lightness of our tongues for things uttered out of this house, it shall not in my mind be amiss to receive him with all his pomp, with his maces, his pillars, his poll-axes, his hat, and great seal too ; to the intent, that if he find the like fault with us hereafter, we may be the bolder from our- selves to lay the blame on those whom his grace bringeth here with him.' Whereunto the bouse wholly agreeing, he was received accordingly. Where after he had by a solemn oration, by many reasons, proved how neces- sary it was the demand then moved to be granted, and farther showed that less would not serve to maintain the prince's purpose ; he seeing the company sitting still silent, and thereunto nothing answering, and, contrary to his expectation, showing in themselves towards his request no towardness of ineli nation, said to them, 'Masters, you have many wise and learned men amongst you, and sith I am from the king's own person sent hitherto unto you, to the preservation of yourselves and of all the realm, I think it meet you give me some reasonable answer.' Whereat every man holding his peace, then began to speak to one IMaster Marne}', after- wards lord Marney; 'How say you,' quoth he, 'Master Marney?' who making him no answer neither, he severally asked the same question of divers others, accounted the wisest of the company ; to whom, when none of them all Avould give so much as one word, being agreed before, as the custom was, to give answer by their speaker; 'Mas- ters,' quoth the cardinal, 'unless it be the manner of j'our house, as of likelihood it is^ by the mouth of your speaker, whom you have chosen for trusty and wise (as indeed he is), in such cases to utter your minds, here is, without doubt, a marvellously onsti- nate silence :' and thereupon he required answer of Mr. Speaker; who first reverently, on his knees, excusing the silence of the house, abashed at the presence of so noble & ]"ersonngp, able to amaze the wisest and be8> LIFE OF SIR THOMAS MORE. 59 learned in a realm, and then, by many proba- ble arguments proving that for them to make answer was neither expedient nor agreeable with the ancient liberty of the house, in con- clusion for himself, showed, that though they had all with their voices trusted him, yet except every one of them could put into his own head their several wits, he alone in so weighty a matter was unmeet to make his grace answer. Whereupon the cardinal, displeased with Sir Thomas More, that had not in this parliament in all things satisfied his desire, suddenly arose and departed." * This passage deserves attention as a speci- men of the mild independence and quiet steadiness of More's character, and also as a proof how he perceived the strength which the commons had gained by the power of die purse, which was daily and silently growing, and which could be disturbed only by such an unseasonable show of an imma- ture authority as might too soon have roused the crown to resistance. It is one among many instances of the progress of the influ- ence of parliaments in the midst of their apparently indiscriminate submission, and it affords a pregnant proof that we must not estimate the spirit of our forefathers by the humility of their demeanour. The reader will observe how nearly the example of JMore was followed by a succeed- ing speaker, comparatively of no distinction, but in circumstances far more memorable, in the answer of Lenthall to Charles I., when that unfortunate prince came to the House cf Commons to arrest the five members of that assembly, who had incurred his dis- pleasure. There is another point from which these early reports of parliamentar}' speeches may be viewed, and from which it is curious to consider them. They belong to that critical moment in the history of our language when it was forming a prose style, — a written dic- tion adapted to grave and important occa- sions. In the passage just quoted, there are about twenty words and phrases (some of them, it is true, used more than once) which would not now be employed. Some of them are shades, such as " lowly," where we say "humble;" "company," for "a. house of parliament;" "simpleness," for "simpli- city," with a deeper tinge of folly than the single word now ever has; "right," then used as a general sign of the superlative, where we say "very," or "most;" "reve- rend," for "reverent," or "'reverential." •'If it mishap me," if it should so hap- pen, " to mishap in me," "it often hap- peth," are instances of the employment of the verb "hap" for happen, or of a conjugation of the former, which has fallen into irrecoverable disuse. A phrase was then so frequent as to become, indeed, the established mode of commencing an address to a superior, in which the old usa^e was, " It may like," or " It may please your Ma- jesty," where modern language absolutely requires us to say, " May it please," by s slight inversion of the words retained, but with the exclusion of the word "hke" in that combination. "Let" is used for "hinder," as is still the case in some public forms, and in the excellent version of the Scriptures. " Well wilted" is a happy phrase lost to the language except on familiar occasions with a smile, or by a master in the art of combining words. Perhaps "enable me," for "give me by your countenance the ability which I have not," is the only phrase which savours of awkwardness or of harsh effect in the ex- cellent speaker. The whole passage is a remarkable example of the almost imper- ceptible differences which mark various stages in the progress of a language. In several of the above instances we see a sort of contest for admission into the language between two phrases extremely similar, and yet a victory which excluded one of ihem as rigidi}' as if the distinction had been very wide. Every case where subsequent usage has altered or rejected words and phrasef. must be regarded as a sort of national ver- dict, which is necessarily followed by their disfranchisement. They have no longer any claim on the English language, other than that which may be possessed by all alien suppliants for naturalization. Such examples should warn a writer, desiious to be lastingly read, of the danger which attends new words, or very new acceptations of those which are established, or even of attempts to revive those which are altogether supe: annuated. They show in the clearest lig-l that the learned and the vulgar parts of lan- guage, being those which are most liable r change, are unfit materials for a durable style ; and they teach us to look to those words which form the far larger portion of ancient as well as of modern language, — that " well of English undellled," which has been happily resorted to from More to Cowper, as being proved by the unimpeachable evidence of that long usage to fit the rest of our speech more perfectly, and to flow more easily, clearly, and sweetly, in our composition. Erasmus tells us that Wolsey rather fear- ed than liked More. When the short sessior of parliament was closed, Wolsey, in his gal- lery of Whitehall, said to More, " I wish to God yon had been at Rome, Mr. More, when I made yon speaker." — "Your Grace not of- fended, so would I too, my lord," replied Sir Thomas; "for then should I have seen the place I long have desired to visit."* More turned the conversation by saying that he liked this gallery better than the cardinal's at Hampton Court. But the latter secretly brooded over his revenge, which he after- wards tried to gratify by banishing More, under the name of an ambassador to Spain. He tried to effect his purpose by magnifying the learning and wisdom of More, his pecu^ liar fitness for a concihatory adjustment of * Roper, pp. 13—21. * Roper, p. JO. 60 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. the difficult matters which were at issue be- tween the King and his kinsman the Empe- ror. The King suggested this proposal to More, who, considering the unsuitableness of the Spanish climate to his constitution, and perhaps suspecting Wolsey of sinister purposes;, earnestly besought Henry not to send his faithful servant to his grave. The King, who also suspected Wolsey of being actuated by jealousy, answered, " It is not our meaning, Mr. More, to do you any hurt : but to do you good we should be glad ; we shall therefore employ you otherwise."* More could boast that he had never asked the King the value of a penny for himself, when on the 25th of December, 1525,t the King appointed him chancellor of the duchy of Lancaster, as successor of Sir Anthony Wingfield — an office of dignity and profit, which he continued to hold for nearly three years. In the summer of 1527, Wolsey went on his magnificent embassy to France, in which More and other officers of state were joined with him. On this occasion the main, though secret object of Henry was to pave the way for a divorce from Queen Catharine, with a view to a marriage with Anne Boleyn, a young beauty who had been bred at the French court, where her father, Sir Thomas Boleyn, created Earl of Wiltshire, had been repeatedly ambassador. On their journey to the coast, Wolsey pounded Archbishop Wareham and Bishop Fisher on the important secret with which he was intrusted. Wareham, an estimable and amiable prelate, appears to have inti- mated that his opinion was favourable to Henry's pursuit of a divorce. t Fisher, bi- shop of Rochester, an aged and upright man, promised Wolsey that he would do or say nothing in the matter, nor in any way coun- sel the Queen, except what stood with Hen- ry's pleasure; "for," said he, "though she be queen of this realm, yet he acknowledg- eth you to be his sovereign lord :"§ as if the rank or authority of the parties had any con- * More, p. 53. with a small variation. t Such is the information which I have received from ihe records in the Tower. 'l"he accurate writer of the article on More, in the Biograpliia Britannica, is perplexed by finding Sir Thomas More, chancel- lor of the duchy, as one of the negotiators of a treaty in August, 1526, which seems to the writer in the Biographia to bring down the death of Wing- field to near that lime ; he beinar on all sides ac- knowledged to be More's immediate predecessor. Bat there is no difficulty, unless we needlessly as- suiTie that the negotiation with which Wingfield was concerned related to the same treaty which More concluded. On the contrary, the first ap- pears to have been a treaty with Spain ; the last a treaty with France. t State Papers, Hen. VIII. vol. i. p. 196. Wol- sey"s words are, — " He expressly affirmed, that however displeasantly the queen took this matter, yet the truth and judgment of the lavv must take place. I have instructed him how he shall order himself if the queen shall demand his counsel, ivhich he promises me to follow." 5 State Papers, Hen. VIII. vol. i. p. 168. cern with the duty of honestly giving coun- sel where it is given at all. The overbearing deportment of Wolsey probably overawed both these good prelates: he understood them in the manner most suitable to his pur- pose J and, confident that he should by some means finally gain them, he probably colour- ed very highly their language in his commu- nication to Henry, whom he had himself just before displeased by unexpected scruples. It was geneially believed by their contem poraries that More and Fisher had corrected the manuscript of Henry's answer to Luther; while it is certain that the propensity of the King to theological discussions constituted one of the links of his intimacy with the former. As More's writings against the Lu- therans were of great note in his own time, and as they were probably those of his works on which he exerted the most acuteness, and employed most knowledge, it would be wrong to omit all mention of them in an estimate of his mind, or as proofs of his disposition. They contain many anecdotes which throw consideri>i)le light on our ecclesiastical his- tory during the first prosecution of the Pro- testants, or, as they were then called, Lu- therans, under the old statutes against Lol- lards, during the period which extended from 1520 to 1532; and they do not seem to have been enough examined with that view by the historians of the Church. Legal responsibility, in a well-constituted commonwealth, reaches to all the avowed advisers of the government, and to all those whose concurrence is necessary to the va- lidity of its commands: but moral responsi- bility is usually or chiefly confined to the actual authors of each particular measure. It is true, that when a government has at- tained a state of more than usual regularity, the feelings of mankind become so well adapted to it, that men are held to be even morally responsible for sanctioning, by a base continuance in office, the bad policy which may be known not to originate with them- selves. The.se refinements were, however, unknown in the reign of Henry VIH. The administration was then carried on under the personal direction of the monarch, who gene- rally admitted one confidential servant only into his most secret counsels; and all the other ministers, whatever their rank might be, commonly confined their attention to the business of their own offices, or to the exe- cution of special commands intrusted to them. This system was probably carried to its utmost height imder so self-willed a prince as Henry, and by so domineering a minister as Wolsey. Although there can be no doubt that More, as a privy-councillor, attended and co-operated at the examination of the unfortunate Lutheran,?, his conduct in that respect was regarded by his contemporaries as little more than the enforcement of orders which he could not lawfully decline to obey. The opinion that a minister who disap- proves measures which he cannot control ia bound to resign his office, is of very mode*? LIFE OF SIR THOMAS MORE. 61 srigin, and still not universally entertained, especially if fidelity to a party be not called in to its aid. In the time of Henry, he was not thought even entitled to resign. The fact of More's attendance, indeed, appears in his controversial writings, especially by his answer to Tyndal. It is not equitable to treat him as effectively and morally, as well as legall)', answerable for measures of state, till the removal of Wolsey, and the delivery of the great seal into his own hands. The injustice of considering these transactions in any other light appears from the circum- stance, that though he was joined with VVol- .sey in the splendid embassy to France in 1527, there is no reason to suppose that More was intrusted with the secret and main pur- pose of the embassy, — that of facilitating a divorce and a second marriage. His respon- sibility, in its most important and only practi- cal part, must be contracted to the short time which extends from the 25th of October, 1529, when lie was appointed chancellor, to the I6lh of May, 1532, when he was removed from his office, not much more than two years and a half.* Even after confining it to these narrow limits, it must be remember- ed, that he found the system of persecution established, and its machinery in a state of activity. The prelates, like most other pre- lates in Europe, did their part in convicting the Protestants of Lollarcly in the spiritual courts, which were the competent tribunals for trying that offence. Our means of deter- mining what executions for Lollardy (if any) took place when More had a decisive ascend- ant in the royal councils, are very imperfect. If it were certain that he was the adviser of such executions, it would only follow that he executed one part of the criminal law, with- out approving it, as succeeding judges have certainly done in cases of fraud and theft ; — where they no more approved the punish- ment of death than the author of Utopia might have done in its application to heresy. If the progress of civilization be not checked, we seem not far from the period when such capital punishments will appear as little consistent with humanity, and indeed with justice, as the burning of heretics now ap- pears to us. More himself deprecates an appeal to his writings and those of his friend Erasmus, innocently intended by themselves, but abused by incendiaries to inflame the fury of the ignorant multitude. t "Men," says he (alluding evidently to Utopia), "can- not almost now speak of such things inso- much as in play, but that such evil hearers were a great deal the worse." •'•'I would not now translate the Moria of Erasmus, — even some works that I myself have written ere this, into English, albeit there be none harm therein." It is evident that the two phiilosopners deeply felt the injustice of citing Rgainst them, as a proof of inconsistency, * Records in the Tower. ■t More's answer to Tvndal, part i. p. 128. — (Printed by John Rastell,'l532.) that they departed from the pleasantiies, tho gay dreams, — at most the fond speculations, of their early days, when they saw these harmless visions turned into weapons of de- struction in the blood-stained hands of the boors of Saxony, and of the ferocious fanatics of Munster. The virtuous love of peace might be more prevalent in More ; the Epi- curean desire of personal ease predominated more in Erasmus : but both were, doubtless from commendable or excusable causes, in- censed against those odious disciples, who now, "with no friendly voice," invoked their authority against themselves. If, however, we examine the question on the grounds of positive testimony, it is impossible to appeal to a witness of .uoie weight than Erasmus. -'It is," said he, "'a sufficient proof of his clemency, that while he was chancellor no man was put to death for these pestilent dogmas, while so many have suffered capital punishment for them in France, in Germany, and in the Netherlands."* The only charges against him on this subject, which are adverted to by himself, relate to minor severities; but as these may be marks of more cruelty than the inffiction of death, let us listen on this subject to the words of the merciful and righteous man :t " Divers of them have said that of such as were in my house when I was chancellor, I used to examine them with torments, causing them to be bound to a tree in my garden, and there piteously beaten. Except their sure keeping, I never did else cause any such thing to be done unto any of the heretics in all my life, ex- cept only twain : one was a child and a ser- vant of mine in mine own house, whom his father, ere he came to me, had nursed up in such matters, and set him to attend upon George Jay. This Jay did teach the child his ungracious heresy against the blessed sacrament of the altar; which heresy this child in my house began to teach another child. And upon that point I caused a ser- vant of mine to strip him like a child before mine household, for amendment of himself and ensample of others." " Another was one who, after he had fallen into these fran- tic heresies, soon fell into plain open frensy: albeit that he had been in Bedlam, and after- wards by beating and correction gathered his remembrance;!: being therefore set at lib- erty, his old frensies fell again into his head Being informed of his relapse, I caused hirr. to be taken by the constables and bounden to a tree in the street before the whole town, and there striped him till he wa.ved weary. Verily, God be thanked, I hear no harm of him now. And of all who ever came in my hand for heresy, as help me God, else had never any of them any stripe or stroke given them, so much as a fillip in the forehead. ''''h * Op. vol. iii. p. 1811. t More's Apology, chap. 36. t Such was then the mode of curing insanity • ^ Apology, chap. 36. f)2 MACKLNTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS. ESSAYS. This statement, so minute, so capable of easy confutation, if in any pait false, was made public after his fall from power, when he was surrounded by enemies, and could have no friends but the generous. It relates circumstances of public notoriety, or at least so known to all his own household (from nhich it appears that Protestant servants Ave;? not excluded), which it would have been rttlher a proof of insanity than of im- prudence to have alleged in his defence, if they had not been indisputably and confes- sedly true. Wherever he touches this sub- ject, there is a quietness and a circumstan- tiality, which are among the least equivocal marks of a man who atlheres to ihe teiriper most favourable to the truth, because he is conscious that the truth is favourable to him.* Without relying, therefore, on the character of More for probity and veracity (which it is derogatory to him to employ for such a purpose), the evidence of his hu- manity having prevailed over his opinion decisively outweighs the little positive testi- mony produced against him. The charge against IMore rests originally on Fox alone, from whom it is copied by Burnet, and with considerable hesitation by Strype. But the honest martyrologist writes too inaccurately to be a weighty witness in this case ; for he tells us that Firth was put to death in June 1533, and yet imputes it to More, who had resigned his office a year before. In the case of James Baynham, he only says that the accused was chained to two posts for two nights in More's house, at some unspe- cified distance of time before his execution. Burnet, in mentioning the extreme tolera- tion taught in Utopia, truly observes, that if More had died at the time of its publication, •' he would have been reckoned among those who only wanted a fit opportunity of decla- ring themselves openly for a reformation." t The same sincere and upright writer was too zealous for an historian, when he added : — ''When More was raised to the chief post in the ministry, he became a persecutor even to blood, and defiled those hands which were never polluted wilh bribes." In excuse for the total silence of the honest bishop re- specting the opposite testimony of IMore him- self (of whom Burnet speaks even then with reverence), the reader must be reminded that the third volume of the History of the * There is a remarkable instance of this obscr- valion in More's Dialoirue, book iii. chap, xvi., where he tells, with some prolixity, the story of Richard Dunn, who was found dead, and hanging in the Lollard's Tower. The only part taken by More in this affair was his share as a privy coun- cillor in the inquiry, whether Dunn hanged him- self, or was murdered and then hanged up by the Bishop of London's chancellor. The evidence to prove that the death could I'ot be suicide, was as absurd as the story of the bishop's chancellor was improbable. He was afterwards, however, con- victed by a jury, but pardoned, it diould seem rightly, by the King. t History of the Reformation (Lend. 1820), /ul. in. pLiTt i. p. 45. Reformation was written in the old age o! the Bishop of Salisbury, thirty years afte: those more laborious researches, which at tended the composition of the two former vo lumes, and under the influence of those ani- mosities against the Roman Catholic Cbuich, which the conspiracy of Queen Anne's lasl ministers against the Revolution had revived with more than their youthful vigour. I must be owned that he from the commence ment acquiesced too lightly in the allegations of Fox; and it is certain, that if the fact, however deplorable, had been better proved, yet in that age it would not have warranted such asperity of condemnation.* The date of the work in which More de- nies the charge, and challenges his accusers to produce their proofs, would have aroused the attention of Burnet if he had read it. This book, entitled "The Apology of Sir Thomas More," was written in 1533. "after he had given over the office of lord chancel- lor," and when he was ii. daily expectation of being committed to the Tower. Defence- less and obnoxious as he then was, no man was hardy enough to dispute his truth. Fox was the first who, thirty years afterwards, ventured to oppose it in a vague statement, which we know to be in some respects inac- curate ; and on this slender authority alone has rested such an imputation on the ve- racity of the most sincere of men. Who- ever reads the Apology Vv'ill perceive, from the melancholy ingenuousness with which he speaks of the growing unpopularity of hia religion in the court and country, that he could not have hoped to escape exposure, if it had been then possible to question his declaration. t On the whole, then. More must not only be absolved ; but when we consider that his ad- ministration occurred during a hot paroxysm of persecution, — that intolerance was the creed of his age, — that he himself, in his days of compliance and ambition, had been drawn over to it as a theory, — that he was filled with alarm and horror by the excesses of the heretical insuigents in Germany, we must pronounce him, by his abstinence from any practical share in it, to have given stronger proofs than any other man, of a re- pugnance to that execrable practice, founded * The change of opinion in Erasmus, and the less remarkable change of More in the same re- spect, is somewhat excused by the excesses and disorders which followed the Reformation. "To believe," says Bayle, " that the church required reformation, and to approve a particular manner of reforming it, are two very different things. Tc blame the opponents ol reformation, and to dis- approve the conduct of the reformers, are two things very compatible. A man may then imi- tate Erasmus, without being an apostate or a trai- tor." — Diciionaiy, art. Castellan. These are po- sitions too reasonable to be practically believei at the time when their adoption would be rnosi useful. t In tbe Apology, More states that four-tenths of the people were unable to read ; probably ar i overrated estimate of the number of readers. LIFE OF SIR THOMAS MORE. ti3 on me unshaken basis of his natural hu- manity. The fourth book of the Dialogue* exhibits a lively picture of the horror with which the excesses of the Reformers had filled the mind of this good man, whose justice and even humanity were disturbed, so far at least as to betray him into a bitterness of language and harshness of opinion foreign from his general temper. The events themselves are, it must be owned, sufficient to provoke the meekest, — to appal the firmest of men. '•'The temporal lords," he tells us, "were glad to hear the cry against the clergy; the people were glad to hear it against the clergy and the lords too. They rebelled first against an abbot, and after against a bishop, w^here- with the temporal lords had good game and sport, and dissembled the matter, gaping after the lands of the spirituality, liJl they had almost played, as iEsop telleth of the dog, which, to snatch at the shadow of the chee'Se in the water, let fall and lost the cheese w-hich he bare in his mouth. The uplandish Lutherans set upon the temporal lords: they slew 70,000 Lutherans in one summer, and subdued the remnant in that part of Almayne into a right miserable servi- tude. Of this sect was the great partj of those ungracious people which of late en- tered Rome with the Duke of Bourbon." The description of the horrible crimes per- petrated on that occasion is so disgusting in some of its particulars, as to be unfit for the decency of historical narrative. One speci- men will suffice, which, considering the constant intercourse between England and Rome, is not unlikely to have been related to More by an eye-witness : — " Some took children and bound them to torches, and brought them gradually nearer to the fire to be roasted, while the fathers and mothers were looking on, and then began to speak of a price for the sparing of the children; ask- ing firsf 100 ducats, then fifty, then forty, then at last offered to take twain : after they had taken the last ducat from the father, then would they let the child roast to death." This wickedness (More contended) was the fruit of Luther's doctrine of predestination ; "for what good deed can a man study or labour to do, who believeth Luther, that he hath no free wiil of his o\vn."1: "If the world wrere not near an end, and the fervour of devotion almost quenched, it could never have come to pass that so many people should fall to the following of so beastly a sect." He urges at very great length, and with great ability, the tendency of belief in destiny to overthrow morality ; and repre- sents it as an opinion of which, on account of its incompatibility with the order of so- * Dialogue of Sir Thomas More, touching the pestilent sect of Luther, composed and published when he was chancellor of the duchy of Lancaster, "but newly oversene by the said Sir T. More, chancellor of England," 1530. t A violent exnrrgeration. 1 Dialogue, book iv. chap. 8. ciety, the civil magistrate may law fully pun- ish the promulgation ; little aware how de^ cisively experience was about to confute such reasoning, however specious, by thd examples of nations, w-ho, though their whole religion was founded on predestination, were, nevertheless, the most moral portion of man- kind.* "The fear." says More, "of out- rages and mischiefs to follow upon such here- sies, with the proof that men have had in some countries thereof, have been the cause that princes and people have been constrained to punish heresies by a terrible death; where- as else more easy ways had been taken with them. If the heretics had never begun with violence, good Christian people had perad- venture used less violence against them : while they forbare violence, there was little violence done unto them. 'By my soul,' quoth your friend, t 'I would all the world were agreed to take violence and compulsion away.' 'And sooth,' said I, 'if it were so, yet would God be too strong for his ene- mies.' " In answer, he faintly attempts to distinguish the case of Pagans, who may be tolerated, in order to induce them to tolerate Christians, from that of heretics, from which no such advantage was to be obtained in ex- change ; — a distinction, however, which dis- appeared as soon as the supposed heretics acquired supreme power. At last, however, he concludes with a sentence which suffi- ciently intimates the inclination of his judg- ment, and shows that his ancient opinions still prevailed in the midst of fear and ab- horrence. "And yet; as I said in the begin- ning, never were they by any temporal pun- ishment of their bodies any thing sharply handled till they began to be violent them- selves." It is evident that his mind misgave him when he appeared to assent to intoler- ance as a principle ; for otherwise there was no reason for repeatedly relying on the de- fence of society against aggression as its jus- tification. His silence, however, respecting the notorious fact, that Luther strained every nerve to suppress the German insurgents, can never be excused by the sophistry which ascribes to all reformers the evil done by those who abuse their names. It was too much to saj' that Luther should not have uttered what he believed to be sacred and necessary truth, because evil-doers took occasion from it to screen their bad deeds. This contro- versial artifice, however grossly unjust, is yet so plausible and popular, that perhaps no polemic ever had virtue enough to resist the temptation of employing it. What other controversialist can be named, who, having the power to crush antagonists whom he viewed as the disturbers of the qwiet of hia own declining age, — the destroyers of all the hopes which he had cherished for mankind, contented himself with severity of language (for which he humbly excuses himself in his * Switzerland. Holland, Scotland, English puii- tans, Nevv England, French Huguenois, &c. t This wish is put inio the mouih of the adverse speaker in the Dialogue. 64 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. Apology — in some measure a dying work), and with one instance of unfair inference against opponents who were too zealous to be merciful. In the autumn of 1529, More, on his return from Cambray, where he had been once more joined in commission with his friend Tunstall as ambassador to the emperor, paid a visit to the court, then at Woodstock. A letter written from thence to his wife, on oc- casion of a mishap at home, is here inserted as affording' a little glimpse into the manage- ment of his most homely concerns, and es- pecially as a specimen of his regard for a deserving woman, who was, probably, too "coarsely kind" even to have inspired him with tenderness.* "Mistress Alyce, in my most harty will, I recomend me to you. And whereas I am enfourmed by my son Heron of the loss of our barnes and our neighbours also, w' all the corne that was therein, albeit (saving God's pleasure) it is gret pitie of so much good corne lost, yet sith it hath liked hym to send us such a chance, we must sale bounden, not only to be content, but also to be glad of his visitation. He sent us all that we have lost : and sith he hath by such a chance taken it away againe, his pleasure be fulfilled. Let us never grudge thereat, but take it in good worth, and hartely thank him, as well for adversitie, as for prosperitie. And par adventure we have more cause to thank him for our losse, than for our winning: for his wisedom belter seeth what is good for us then we do ourselves. Therefore I pray you be of good cheere, and take all the howsold with you to church, and there thank God both for that he hath given us, and for that he has left us, which if it please hym, he can increase when he will. And if it please him to leave us yet lesse, at hys plea- sure be it. I praye you to make some good ensearche what my poor neighbours have loste, and bidde them take no thought there- fore, and if I shold not leave myself a spone, there shall no poore neighbour of mine bere no losse by any chance happened in my house. I pray you be with my children and household mery in God. And devise some- what with your friends, what way wer best to take, for provision to be made for corne for our household and for sede thys yere coming, if ye thinke it good that we keepe the ground still in our handes. And whether ye think it good y' we so shall do or not, yet I think it were not best sodenlye thus to leave it all up, and to put away our folk of our farme, till we have somewhat advised as thereon. Howbeit if we have more nowe than ye shall neede, and which can get the other maisters, ye may then discharge * In More's metrical inscripiion for his own monument, we find a just but Ion?, and somewhat laboured, commendation of Alice, wliich in ten- derness is outweighed by one word applied to the long-departed companion ofhis youth. " Cliara Thomas jacet hie Joanna uxorcula Mori." US of them. But I would not that any nuB wer sodenly sent away he wote nere we- ther. At my coming hither, I perceived none other, but that I shold tary still with the kinges grace. But now I shall (I think)^ because of this chance, get leave this next weke to come home and se you ; and then shall we further devise together uppon all thinges, what order shall be best to take : and thus as hartely fare you well with all our chil- dren as you can wishe. At Woodstok the thirde daye of Septembre, by the hand of "Your loving husband, " Thomas More, Knight." A new scene now opened on More, of whose private life the above simple letter enables ua to form no inadequate or unpleasing estimate. On the 25th of October 1529, sixteen days after the commencement of the prosecution against Wolsey, the King, by delivering the great seal to him at Greenwich, constituted him lord chancellor, — the highest dignity of the state and of the law. and which had previously been generally held by ecclesias- tics.* A very summary account of the na- ture of this high ofiice. may perhaps prevent some confusion respecting it among those who know it only in its present state. The office of chancellor was known to all the European governments, who borrowed it, like many other institutions, from the usage of the vanquished Romans. In those of England and France, which most resembled each other, and whose history is most fa- miliar and most interesting to us,t the chan- cellor, whose office had been a conspicuous dignity under the Lower Empire, was origi- nally a secretary who derived a great part of his consequence from the trust of holding the king's seal, the substitute for subscription under illiterate monarchs, and the stamp of legal authority in more cultivated times. From his constant access to the king, he acquired every where some authority in the cases which were the frequent subject of complaint to the crown. In France he be- came a minister of state with a peculiar superintendence over courts of justice, and some remains of a special jurisdiction, which continued till the downfal of the French monarchy. In the English chancellor were gradually united the characters of a legal magistrate and a political adviser; and since that time the office has been confined to lawyers in eminent practice. He has been presumed to have a due reverence for the law, as well as a familiar acquaintance with it; and his presence and weight in the counsels of a free commonwealth have been regarded as links which bind the state to the law. One of the earliest branches of the chan- cellor's duties seems, by slow degrees, to have enlarged his jurisdiction to the extent * Thorpe, in 1371, and Knivet, in 1372, seem to be the last exceptions. t Ducanae and Spelman, voce Cancellarius, who give us the series of Chancellors in botk countries. i LIFE OF SIR THOMAS MORE. 65 which it reached in modem times.* From the chancery issued those writs which first put the machinery of law in motion in every case where legal redress existed. In that court new writs were framed, when it was fit to adapt the proceedings to the circum- stances of a new case. When a case arose in which it appeared that the course and order of the common law could hardly be adapted, by any variation in the forms of procedure, to the demands of justice, the complaint was laid by the chancellor, before the king, who commanded it to be considered in council, — a practice which, by degrees, led to a reference to that magistrate by himself. To facilitate an equitable determination in such complaints, the writ was devised called the writ of ''sufe/jasraa," commanding the person complained of to appear before the chancellor, and to answer the complaint. The essential words of a petition for this writ, which in process of time has become of so great importance, were in the reign of Richard III. as follows : " Please it therefore, your lordship, — considering that your orator has no remedy by course of the common law, — to grant a writ subpxnd, commanding T. Coke to appear in chancery, at a certain day, and upon a certain pain to be limited by you, and then to do what by this court shall be thought reasonable and according to conscience." The form had not been materially different in the earliest instances, which appear to have occurred from 1380 to 1400. It would seem that this device was not first employed, as has been hitherto supposed,! to enforce the observance of the duties of trustees who held lands, but for cases of an extremely different nature, where the failure of justice in the ordinary courts might ensue, not from any defect in the common law, but from the power of turbu- lent barons, who, in their acts of outrage and lawless violence, bade defiance to all ordinary jurisdiction. In some of the earliest cases we find a statement of the age and poverty of the complainant, and of the power, and even learning, of the supposed wrongdoer ; — topics addressed to compassion, or at most to equity in a very loose and popular sense of the word, which throw light on the original nature of this high jurisdiction. t It is apparent, from the earliest cases in the reign of Richard II., * " Non Facile est digito monstrare quibus grad.hus, sed conjecturam accipe.'' — Spelman, voce Oanfellarius. t t51acK.stone, book iii. chap. 4. t Calendars of Proceedings in Chancerj', temp. Eliz. London. 1827. Of ten of these suiis which occurred ui the last ten years of the fourteenth century, one complains of ouster from land by violence ; another, of exclusion from a benefice, by a writ obtained from the king under false sug- gestions ; a third, for the seizure of a freeman, \inder pretext of being a slave (or nief) ; a fourth, for being disturbed in the enjoyment of land by a trespasser, abetted by the sheriff; a fifth for im- prisonment on a false allegation of debt. No case 13 extant prior to the first year of Henry V., which relat^" to the trust of lands, which eminent writers that the occasional relief proceeding frcrn mixed feelings of pity and of regaid to sub- stantial justice, not effectually aided by Jaw, or overpowered by tyrannical violence, had then grown into a regular system, and was subject to rules resembling those of legal jurisdiction. At first sight it may appear difficult to conceive how ecclesiastics could have moulded into a regular form this ano- malous branch of jurisprudence. But many of the ecclesiastical order. — originally the only lawyers, — were eminently skilled in the civil and canon law, which had attained an order and precision unknown to the digests of barbarous usages then attempted in France and England. The ecclesiastical chancellors of those countries introduced into their courts a course of proceeding very similar to that adopted by other European nations, who all owned the authority of the canon law, and were enlightened by the wisdom of the Ro- man code. The proceedings in chancer}', lately recovered from oblivion, show the sys- tem to have been in regular activity about a century and a half before the chancellor- ship of Sir Thomas More, — the first common lawyer who held the great seal since the Chancellor had laid any foundations (known to us) of his equitable jurisdiction. The course of education, and even of negotiation in that age, conferred on Moore, who was the most distinguished of the practisers of the common law, the learning and ability of a civilian and a canonist. Of his administration, from the 25th of October 1529, to the 16th of May 1532, four hundred bills and answers are still preserved, which afford an average of about a hundred and sixty suits annually. Though this ave- rage may by no means adequately represent the whole occupations of a court which had many other duties to perform, it supplies us with some means of comparing the extent of its business under him with the number of similar proceedings in succeeding times. The whole amount of bills and answers in the reign of James I. was thirty-two thousand. How far the number may have differed at different parts of that reign, the unarranged state of the records does not yet enable us to ascertain. But supposing it, by a rough estimate, to have continued the same, the annual average of bills and answers during the four years of Lord Bacon's administration was fourteen hundred and sixty-one, being an increase of nearly ten-fold in somewhat less than a century. Though cases con- nected with the progress of the juri.sdiction and the character of the chancellor must have somewhat contributed to this remarka- ble increase, yet it must be ascribed princi- pally to the extraordinary impulse given to have represented as the original object of tlija jurisdiction. In the reign of Henry VI. there ia a bill against certain VVyclifFites for outrages done to the plaintiff, Robert Burton, chanter of the cathedral of Lincohi, on account of his zeal as an inquisitor in the diocese of Lincoln, to convict and punish heretics. 6(3 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. daring enterprise and national -wealth by the splendid administration of Elizabeth, which multiplied alike the occasions of liti- gation and the means of carrying it on.* In a century and a half after, when equitable jurisdiction was completed in its foundations and most necessary parts by Lord Chancellor Nottingham, the yearly average of suits was, during his tenure of the great seal, about sixteen hundred. t Under Lord Hardwicke, the chancellor of most professional celebrity, the yearly average of bills and answers ap- pears to have been about two thousand ; Erobablyin part because more questions had een finally determined, and partly also be- cause the delays were so aggravated by the multiplicity of business, that parties aggriev- ed chose rather to submit to wrong than to be ruined in pursuit of right. This last mis- chief arose in a great measure from the variety of affairs added to the original duties of the judge, of which the principal were bankruptcy and parliamentary appeals. Both these causes continued to act with increas- ing force ; so that, in spite of a vast increase of the properly and dealings of the kingdom, the average number of bills and ansvvers was considerably less from 1800 to 1802 than it had been from 1745 to 1754.1: It must not be supposed that men trained in any system of jurisprudence, as were the ecclesiastical chancellors, could have been indifferent to the inconvenience and vexa- tion which necessarily harass the holders of a merely arbitrary power. Not having a law, they were a law unto themselves ; and every chancellor who contributed by a de- termination to establish a principle, became instrumental in circumscribing the power of his successor. Selden is, indeed, represented to have said, "that equity is according to the conscience of him who is chancellor; which is as uncertain as if we made the chancellor's foot the standard for the mea- sure which we call a foot."^ But this was spoken in the looseness of table-talk, and under the influence of the prejudices then prevalent among common lawyers against equitable jurisdiction. Still, perhaps, in his time what he .said might be true enough for a smart saying: but in process of years a system of rules has been established which has constantly tended to limit the originally discretionary powersof the chancery. Equity, in the acceptation in which that word is used in English jurisprudence, is no longer to be confounded with that moral equity which * From a letter of Lord Bacon (Lords' Journals, 20lh March, 1680,) it appears that he made two thousand decrees and orders in a year; so that in his time the hills and answers amounted to about two-thirds of the whole business. t The numbers have been obligingly supplied by the gentlemen of the Record Office in the Tower. t Account of Proceedings in Parliament rela- tive to the Court of Chancery. By C. P. Cooper, Esq. (Lond. 1828,) p. 102, &.c. — A work equally temarkable for knowledge and acuteness. ^ Table Talk. (Edinb, 1809,) p. 55. generally corrects the unjust operation of law, and with which it seems to iiave been synonymous in the days of Selden and Bacon It is a part of law formed from usages and determinations which sometimes dilier from what is called '-common law" m its subjects, but chiefiy varies from it in its modes of proof, of trial, and of relief; it is a jurisdic- tion so irregularly formed, and often .so little dejiendent on general principles, that it can hardly be defined or made intelligible other- wise than by a minute enumeration of the matters cognisable by it.* It will be seen from the above that Sir Thomas More's duties difl'ered very widely from the various exertions of labour and in- tellect required from a modern chancellor. At the utmost he did not hear more than two bundled cases and arguments yearly, inclu- ding those of every description. No authentic account of any case tried before him, if any such be extant, has been yet brought to light. No law book alludes to any part of his judg- ments or reasonings. Nothing of this higher part of his judicial life is preserved, which can warrant us in believing more than that it must have displayed his never-failing- in- tegrity, reason, learning, and eloquence. The particulars of his instalment are not unworthy of being specified as a proof of the reverence for his endowments and excel- lences professed by the King and entertained by the public, to whose judgment the min- isters of Henry seemed virtually to appeal, with an assurance that the King's appoint- ment would be ratified by the general voice, •' He was led between the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk up Westminster Hall to the Stone Chamber, and there they honourably placed him in the high judgment-seat of chancel- lor ^"t (for the chancellor was, by his office, the president of that terrible tribunal.) "The Duke of Norfolk, premier peer and lord high treasurer of England," continues the biogra- pher, "by the command of the king, spoke thus unto the people there with great applause and joy gatJiertd together : — " ' The King's majesty (which, I pray Cod, may prove happie and fortunate to the whole realme of England) hath raised to the most high dignitie of chancellourship Sir Thomas More, a man for his extraordinarie worth and sufficiencie well knowne to himself and the whole realme, for no other cause or earth- lie respect, but for that he hath plainely per- ceaved all the gifts of nature and grace to be heaped upon him, which either the people could desire, or himself wish, for the dis- charge of so great an office. For the ad- mirable wisedome, integritie, and innocencie. joyned with most pleasant facilitie of witt, that this man is endowed wit hall, have been sufficiently knowen to all Englishmen from his youth, and for these manie yeares also to * Blacksione, book iii. chap. 27. Lord Hard- wicke's Leiler to Lord Karnes, 30ih June, 1757 — Lord VVoodhouselee's Life of Lord Karnes, vol i. p. 237. t More, pp. 156. :63. LIFE OF SIR THOMAS MORE. 67 Ihe King's majestie himself. This hath the King abundantly found in manie and weightie affayres, which he hath happily dispatched both at home and abroad, in divers offices which lie hath born, in most honourable em- bassages which he hath undergone, and in his daily counsell and advises upon all other occasions. He hath perceaved no man in his realme to be more wise in deliberating, more sincere in opening to him what he thought, nor more eloquent to adorne the matter which he uttered. Wherefore, be- cause he saw in him such excellent endow- ments, and that of his especiall care he hath a particular desire that his kingdome and people might be governed with all equitie and justice, integritie and wisedome, he of his owne most gracious disposition hath created this singular man lord chancellor ; ihat, by his laudable performance of this office, his people may enjoy peace and jus- tice; and honour also and fame may re- dounde to the whole kingdome. It may perhaps seem to manie a strange and un- usuall matter, that this dignitie should be bestowed upon a layman, none of the nobili- tie, and one that hath wife and children ; be- cause heretofore none but singular learned prelates, or men of greatest nobilitie, have possessed this place; but what is wanting in these respects, the admirable vertues, the matchless guifts of witt and wisedome of this man, doth most plentifully recompence the same. For the King's majestie hath not regarded how great, but what a man he was; he hath not cast his eyes upon the nobilitie of his bloud, but on the worth of his person ; he hath respected his sufficiencie, not his profession; finally, he would show by this his choyce, that he hath some rare subjects amongst the rowe of gentlemen and laymen, who deserve to manage the highest offices of the realme, which bishops and noblemen think they only can deserve. The rarer therefore it was, so much both himself held it to be the more excellent, and to his people he thought it would be the more gratefull. Wherefore, receave this your chancellour with joyful acclamations, at whose hands you may expect all happines'se and content.' " Sir Thomas More, according to his wont- ed modestJe, was somewhat abashed at this the duke's speech, in that it sounded so much to his praise, but recollecting himself as that place and time would give him leave, he answered in this sorte : — ' Although, most noble duke, and you right honourable lords, and worshipfnll gentlemen, I knowe all these things, which the King's majestie, it seemeth, hath bene pleased should be spoken of me at this time and place, and your grace hath with most eloquent wordes thus amplifyed, are as far from me, as I could wish with all my hart they were in me for the better per- formance of so great a charge; and although this your speach hath caused in me greater feare than I can well express in words : yet chis incomparable favour of my dread soue- raigne, by which he showeth how well, yea how highly he conceaveth of my weake- nesse, having commanded that my meanesse should be so greatly commended, cannot be but most acceptable unto me; and I cannot choose but give your most noble grace ex- ceeding thankes, that what his majestie hath willed you briefly to utter, you, of the abun- dance of your love unto me, have in a large and eloquent oration dilated. As for myself, I can take it no otherwise, but that his ma« jestie's incomparable favour towards me, the good will and incredible propension of his royall minde (wherewith he has these manie yeares favoured mo continually) hath alone without anie desert of mine at all, caused both this my new honour, and these youi undeserved commendations of me. For who am I, or what is the house of my father, that the King's highnesse should heape upon me by such a perpeiuall streame of afTection, these so high honours? I am farre lesse then anie the meanest of his benefitts bestowed on me; how can I then thinke myself wor- thie or fitt for this so peerlesse dignitie ? I have bene drawen by force, as the King's majestie often professeth, to his highnesse's service, to be a courtier; but to take this dignitie upon me, is most of all against my will ; yet such is his highnesse's beuignitie, such is his bountie, that he highly esleem- eth the small dutiefulnesse of his meanest subjects, and seeketh still magnificently to recompence his servants; not only such as deserve well, but even such as have but a desire to deserve well at his hands, in which number I have alwaies wished myself to be reckoned, because I cannot challenge myself to be one of the former; which being so, you may all perceave with me how great a bur- den is layde upon my backe, in that I must strive in some sorte with my diligence and dutie to corresponde with his royall benevo- lence, and to be answerable to that great ex- pectation, which he and you seeme to have of me; wherefore those so high praises are by me so much more grievous unto me, by how much more I know the greater charge I have to render myself worthie of, and the fewer means I have to make them goode. This weight is hardly suitable to my weake shoulders; this honour is not correspondent to my poore desert; it is a burden, not a glorie ; a care, not a dignitie ; the one there- fore I must beare as manfully as I can, and discharge the other with as much dexteritie as I shall be able. The earnest desire which I have alwaies had and doe now acknow- ledge myself to have, to satisfye by all meanes I can possible, the most ample be- nefitts of his highnesse, will greatly excite and ayde me to the diligent performance of all, which I trust also I shall be more able to doe. if I finde all your good wills and wishes both favourable unto me, and con- formable to his royall munificence : because my serious endeavours to doe well, pyned with your favourable acceptance, will easily procure thr.t whatsoever is performed oy me, though it be in itself but small, ye' will il 68 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. seeme great and praiseworthie ; for those things are alvvaies atchieved happily, which are accepted willingly; and those succeede fortunately, which are receaved by others courteously. As you therefore doe hope for great matters, and the best at my hands, so though I dare not promise anie such, yet do I pronfiise truly and affectionately to per- forme the best I shall be able.' '' When Sir Thomas More had spoken ihese wordes, turning his face to the high ludgment seate of the chancerie, he pro- 3eeded in this manner : — ' But when I looke upon this seate, when I thinke how greate and what kinde of personages have possessed this place before me, when I call to minde who he was that sate in it last of all — a man of what singular wisdome, of what notable experience, what a prosperous and favour- able fortune he had for a great space, and how at the last he had a most grevious fall, and dyed inglorious — I have cause enough by my predecessor's example to think hon- our but slipperie, and this dignitie not so grateful to me as it may seeme to others; for both is it a hard matter to follow with like paces or praises, a man of such admira- ble witt, prudence, authoritie, and splendour, to whome I may seeme but as the lighting of a candle, when the sun is downe ; and also the sudden and unexpected fall of so irreat a man as he was doth terribly putt me m minde that this honour ought not to please me too much, nor the lustre of this glistering seate dazel mine eyes. Wherefore I ascende this seate as a place full of labour and dan- ger, voyde of all solide and true honour; the which by how much the higher it is, by so much greater fall I am to feare, as well in respect of the verie nature of the thing it selfe, as because I am warned by this late fearfuU example. And truly I might even now at this verie just entrance stumble, yea faynte, but that his majestie's most singular favour towardes me, and all your good wills, which your joyfull countenance doth testifye in this most honorable assemblie, doth some- what recreate and refresh me; otherwise this seate would be no more pleasing to me, than that sword was to Damocles, which hung over his head, tyed only by a hayre of a horse's tale, when he had store of delicate fare before him, seated in the chair of slate of Denis the tirant of Sicilie; this therefore shall be always fresh in my minde, this will I have stiil before mine eies, that this seate will be honorable, famous, and full of glorie unto me, if I shall with care and diligence, fidelitie and wisedome, endeavour to doe my dutie, and shall persuade myself, that the enjoying thereof may be but short and uncertaine : the one whereof my labour ought to performe ; the other my predecessor's ex- ample may easily teach me. All which be- ing so, you may easily perceave what great pleasure I take in this high dignitie, or in this most noble duke's praising of me.' " All the world took notice now of sir Thomas's dignitie, whereof Erasmus writeth to John Fabius, bishop ci Vienna, thus: — ' Concerning the new increase of honoui lately happened to Thomas More, I should easily make you believe it, if I should show you the letters of many famous men, rejoi- cing with much alacritie, and congratulating the King, the realme, himself, and also me, for More's honor, in being made lord chan- cellour of England.' " At the period of the son's promotion, Sir John More who was nearly of the age ot ninety, was the most ancient judge of the King's Bench. -'What a grateful spectacle was it," says their descendant, " to see the son ask the blessing of the father every day upon his knees before he sat upon his own seat ?"* Even in a more unceremonious age, the simple character of More would have protected these daily rites of fibal re- verence from that suspicion of affectation, which could alone destroy their charm. But at that time it must have borrowed its chief power from the conspicuous excellence of the father and son. For if inward worth had then borne any proportion to the grave and reverend ceremonial of the age, we might be -well warranted in regarding our forefathers as a race of superior beings. The contrast which the humble and affa- ble More afforded to the haughty cardinal, astonished and delighted the suitors. No application could be made to Wolsey, which did not pass through many hands; and no man could apply, whose fingers were not tipped with gold : but More sat daily in an open hall, that he might receive in person the petitions of the poor. If any reader should blame his conduct in this respect, as a breach of an ancient and venerable pre- cept, — "Ye shall do no unrighteousness in judgment ; thou shalt not respect the person of the poor, nor honour the person of the mighty; but in righteousness shalt ihou. judge thy neighbour,"t let it be remembered, that there still clung to the equitable jurisdiction some remains of that precarious and eleemo- synary nature from which it originally sprung; which, in the eyes of the compassionate chancellor, might warrant more preference for the helpless poor than could be justified in proceedings more rigorously legal. Courts of law were jealous then, as since, of the power assumed by chancellors to issue injunctions to parties to desist from doing ceitain acts which they were by law entitled to do, until the court of chancery should determine whether the exercise of the legal right would not work injustice. There are many instances in which irreparable wrong may be committed, before a right can be ascertained) in the ordinary course of pro- ceedings. In such cases it is the piovince of the Chancellor to take care that affairs shall continue in their actual condition until the questions in dispute be determined. A considerable outcry against this necessary though invidious authority, was raised at th« * More, p. 163. + Leviiicus, chap. xix. v. 15, LIFE OF SIR THOMAS MORE. 6tf commencement of More's chancellorship. He silenced this clamour with his wonted prudence and meekness. Having caused one of the six clerks to make out a list of the injunctions issued by him, or pending before him, he invited all the judges to dinner. He laid the list before themj and explained the circumstances of each case so satisfactorily, that they all confessed that in the like case they would have done no less. Nay, he offered to desist from the jurisdiction, if they would undertake to contain the law within the boundaries of righteousness, which he thought they ought in conscience to do. The judges declined to make the attempt ; on which he observed privately to Roper, that he saw they trusted to their influence for obtaining verdicts which would shift the re- sponsibility from them to the juries. " Where- fore," said he, ''I am constrained to abide the adventure of their blame." Dauncey, one of his sons-in-law, alleged that under Wolsey "even the door-keepers got great gains," and was so perverted by the venality there practised that he expostu- lated with More for his churlish integrity. The chancellor said, that if '• his father, whom he reverenced dearly, were on the one side, and the devil, whom he hated with all his might, on the other, the devil should have his right." He is represented by his descendant, as softening his answer by pro- mising minor advantages, such as priority of hearing, and recommendation of arbitration, where the case of a friend was bad. The biographer, however, not being a lawyer, might have misunderstood the conversation, whicii had to pass through more than one generation before the tradition reached him; or the words may have been a hasty effusion of good nature, uttered only to qualify the roughness of his honesty. If he had been called on to perform these promises, his head and heart would have recoiled alike from breaches of equality which he would have felt to be altogether dishonest. When Heron, another of his sons-in-law, relied on the bad practices of the times, so far as to entreat a favourable judgment in a cause of his own. More, though the most affectionate of fathers, immediately undeceived him by an adverse decree. This act of common justice is made an object of panegyric by the biographer, as if it were then deemed an extraordinary in- stance of virtue; a deplorable symptom of that corrupt state of general opinion, which, half a century later, contributed to betray into ignominious vices the wisest of men, aind the most illustrious of chancellors, — if the latter distinction be not rather due to the virtue of a More or a Somers. He is said to have despatched the causes oefore him so speedily, that, on asking for the next, he was told that none remained ; which is boastfully contrasted by Mr. More, his descendant, with the arrear of a thousand in the time of that gentleman, who lived in \lie reign of Charles I. ; though we have already seen that this difference may be re- ferred to other causes, and therefore that the fact, if true, proves no more than his exem- plary diligence and merited reputation. The scrupulous and delicate integrity oi INIore (for so it must be called in speaking oi that age) was more clearly shown after his resignation, than it could have been during his continuance in office. One Parnell com- plained of him for a decree obtained by his adversary Vaughan. whose wife had bribed the chancellor by a gilt cup. More surprised the counsel at first, by owning that he re- ceived the cup as a new year's gift. Lord Wiltshire, a zealous Protestant, indecently, but prematurely, exulted : '• Did I not tell you, my lords," said he, "that you would find this matter true?" "But, my lords," replied More, " hear the other part of my tale." He then told them that, "having drank to her of wine with which his butler had filled the cup, and she having pledged him, he restored it to her, and would listen to no refusal." When Mrs. Croker. for whom he had made a decree against Lord Arundel, came to him to request his accep- tance of a pair of gloves, in which were con- tained 40/. in angels, he told her, with a smile, that it were ill manners to refuse a lady's present ; but though he should keep the gloves, he must return the gold, which he enforced her to receive. Gresham, a suitor, sent him a present of a gilt cup, of which the fashion pleased him : More ac- cepted it ; but would not do so till Gresham received from him another cup of greater value, but of which the form and workm.an- ship were less suitable to the Chancellor. It would be an indignity to the memory of such a man to quote these facts as proofs of hia probity ; but they may be mentioned as spe- cimens of the simple and unforced honesty of one who rejected improper offers with all the ease and pleasantry of common courtesy. Henry, in bestowing the great seal on More, hoped to dispose his chancellor to lend his authority to the projects of divorce and second marriage, which were now agitating the King's mind, and were the main objects of his policy.* Arthur, the eldest son of Henry VII., having married Catharine, the daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella, sove- reigns of Castile and Arragon, and dying very shortly after his nuptials, Henry had obtained a dispensation from Pope Julius II. to enable the princess to marry her brother- in-law, afterwards Henry VIII. ; and in this last-mentioned union, of which the Princess Mary was the only remaining fruit, the par- ties had lived sixteen years in apparent har mony. But in the year 1527, arose a con- currence of events, which tried and estab- lished the virtue of More, and revealed to the world the depravity of his master. Henry had been touched by the charms of Anne Boleyn, a beautiful young lady, in her twenty- *" Thomas Morus, doctrina et probitate specta bills vir, cancellarius in Wolsaei locum cnnsiiiu' tur. Nenliquam Reiris causes eeqztior." — 'rii>i»rius, Historia sui Temporis, lib. ii. c. 16. 70 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. eecond year, the daughter of Sir Thomas Boleyn, Earl of WiUshire, who had lately returned from the court of France, where her youth had been spent. At the same moment it became the policy of Francis I. to loosen all the ties which joined the King of England to the Emperor. When the Bishop of Tarbes, his ambassador in Eng- land, found, on his arrival in London, the growing distaste of Henry for his inoflensive and exemplary wife, he promoted the King's inclination towards divorce, and suggested a marriage with Margaret Duchess of Alen- con, the beautiful and graceful sister of Francis I.* At this period Henry for the first time professed to harbour conscientious doubts whether the dispensation of Julius 11. could suspend the obligation of the divine prohibi- tion pronounced against such a marriage as his in the Levitical law.t The court of Rome did not dare to contend that the dis- pensation could reach the case if the prohi- bition were part of the universal law of God. Henry, on the other side, could not consistent- ly question its validity, if he considered the precept as belonging to merely positive law. To tliis question, therefore, the dispute was confined, though both parties shrunk from an explicit and precise avowal of their main ground. The most reasonable solution that it was a local and temporary law, forming a part of the Hebrew code, might seem at first sight to destroy its authority altogether. But if either party had been candid, this prohi- bition, adopted by all Christendom, might be justified by that general usage, in a case where it was not remarkably at variance with reason or the public welfare. But such a doctrine Avould have lowered the ground of the Papal authority too much to be ac- ceptable to Rome, and yet, on the other hand, rested it on too unexceptionable a foundation to suit the case of Henry. False allegations of facts in the preamble of the bull were alleged on the same side; but they were in- conclusive. The principal arguments in the King's favour were, that no precedents of such a dispensation seem to have been pro- duced ; and that if the Levitical prohibitions * " Margarita Francisci soror, spectataj forinaj ct venustatis focmina, Carolo Alenconio duc-e marito pauio ante mortuo, vidua permanserat. Ea destinata uxor Henrico: missique Wolsaeus et Bioerronurn Prcesul qui de dissolvendo matrimo- iiio cum Gallo ogerent. Ut Caletum appulit, Wolsaeus mandatuin a rege contrarium accipir, rescivitque per amicos Henricum non tarn Galli ddfinitaiem quam insanum amorem, quo Annani Boienani prosequebalur, explere velle." — Ibid. No trace of the latter part appears in tlie .Stale Papers just (1831) published. t Leviticus, chap. xx. v. 22. But see Deutero- nomy, chap. XXV. v. 5. The latter text, which allows an exception in the case of a brother's wife being left childless, may be thought to strengthen the prohibition in all cases not e.xcepted. Tt may veem applicable to the precise case of Henry. But the application of that text is impossible ; for It contains an injunction, of which the breach is fhasiiscd bv a disgraceful punishment. do not continue in force under the Gospei, there is no prohibition against incestuou* marriages in the system of the New Testa- ment. It was a disadvantage to the Church of Rome in the controversy, that being driven from the low ground by its supposed ten- dency to degrade the subject, and deterred from the high ground by the fear of the re- proach of daring usurpation, the inevitable consequence was confusion and fluctuation respecting the first principles on which the question was to be determined. To pursue this subject through the long negotiations and discussions which it occa- sioned during six years, would be to lead us far from our subject. Clement VII. {Aledici) had been originally inclined to favour the suit* of Henry, according to the usual policy of the Roman Court, which sought plausible pretexts for facilitating the divorce of kings, whose matrimonial connections might be represented as involving the quiet of nations. The sack of Rome, however, and his own captivity left him full of fear of the Empe- ror's power and displeasure; it is even said that Charles V., who had discovered the secret designs of the English court, had ex- torted from the Pope, before his release, a pro- mise that no attempt would be made to dis- honour an Austrian princess by acceding to the divorce. t The Pope, unwilling to provoke Henr}^, his powerful and generous protector, instructed Campeggio to attempt, at first, a reconciliation between the King and Queen ; secondly, if that failed, to endeavour to per- suade her that she ought to acquiesce in her husband's desires, by entering into a cloister — (a proposition which seems to show a rea- diness in the Roman court to waive their theological difliculties); and thirdly, if nei- ther of these attempts were successful, to spin out the negotiation to the greatest length, in order to profit by the favourable incidents which time might bring forth. The impa- tience of the King and the honest indigna- tion of the Queen defeated these arts of Italian policy; while the resistance of Anne Boleyn to the irregular gratification of the King's desires, — without the belief of which it is impossible to conceive the motives for his perseverance in the pursuit of an unequal marriage, — opposed another impediment to the counsels and contrivances of Clement, which must have surprised and perplexed a Florentine pontiff". The proceedings, how- ever, terminated in the sentence pronounced by Cranmer annulling the marriage, the espousal of Anne Boleyn by the King, and the rejection of the Papal jurisdiction by the kingdom, which still, however, adhered to the doctrines of the Roman Catholic Church. The situation of More during a great part of these memorable events was embarrass- ing. The great ofllces to which he had been raised by the King, the personal favoui hitherto constantly shown to him, and thl Palla lib. ii. c. 15. 1- Ibid. LIFE OF SIR THOMAS MORE. 71 latural lendenc}* of his gentle and quiet dis- position, combined to disincline him to re- sistance against the wishes of his friendly master. On the other hand, his growing dread and horror of heresy, with its train of disorders; his belief that universal anarchy would be the inevitable result of religious dissension, and the operation of seven years' controversy on behalf of the Catholic Church, in heating his mind on all subjects involving the extent of her authority, made him re- coil from designs which were visibly tend- ing towards disunion with the Roman pon- tifl', — the centre of Catholic union, and the supreme magistrate of the ecclesiastical commonwealth. Though his opinions re- lating to the Papal authority were of a mo- derate and liberal nature, he at least respect- ed it as an ancient and venerable control on licentious opinions, of which the prevailing heresies attested the value and the necessity. Though he might have been better pleased with another determination by the supreme pontiff, it did not follow that he should con- tribute to weaken the holy See, assailed as it was on every side, by taking an active part in resistance to the final decision of a lawful authority. Obedience to the supreme head of the Church in a case which ultimately related only to discipline, appeared peculiarly incumbent on ail professed Catholics. But however sincere the zeal of More for the Catholic religion and his support of the legi- timate supremacy of the Roman See un- doubtedly were, he was surely influenced at the same time by the humane feelings of his just and generous nature, which engaged his heart to espouse the cause of a blame- less and wronged princess, driven from the throne and the bed of a tyrannical husband. Though he reasoned the case as a divine and , a canonist, he must have felt it as a man ; and honest feeling must have glowed be- neath the subtleties and formalities of doubt- ful and sometimes frivolous disputations. It was probably often the chief cause of con- duct for which other reasons might be sin- cerely alleged. In steering his course through the intrigues and passions of the court, it is very observa- ble that More most ^varily retired from every opposition but that which Conscience abso- lutely required : he shunned unnecessary disobedience as much as unconscientious compliance. If he had been influenced solely by prudential considerations, he could not have more cautiously shunned every need- less opposition ; but in that case he would not have gone s that I should so unadvisedly overshoot myself, as to trust Mr. Rich with what I have concealed from the King, or any of his noble and grave counsellors'?" The credit of Rich' was so deeply wounded, that he was compelled to call Sir Richard Southwell and Mr. Paimer, who were present at the conversation, to prop his tottering evidence. They made a paltry excuse, by alleging that they were so occupied in removing More's books, that they did not listen to the words of this ex- traordinary conversation. The jury,* in spite of all these circ>im- stances, returned a verdict of "guilty." Chancellor Audley, who was at the head of the commission, of which Spelman and Fitz- herbert, eminent lawyers, were members, was about to pronounce judgment, when he was interrupted by More, who claimed the usual privilege of being heard to show that judgment should not be passed. More urged, that he had so much ground for his scruples as at least to exempt his refusal from the imputation of disaffection, or of what the law deems to be malice. The chancellor asked him once more how his scruples could balance the weight of the parliament, peo- ple, and Church of England 1 — a topic which had been used against him at every inter- view and conference since he was brought prisoner to Lambeth. The appeal to weight of authority influencing Conscience was,how- ever, singularly unfortunate. More answer- ed, as he had always done, "Nine out of ten of Christians now in the world think with me ; nearly all the learned doctors and holy fathers who are already dead, agree with me ; and therefore I think myself not bound j to conform my conscience to the conncell of I one realm against the general consent of all ' Christendom." Chief Justice Fitzjames con- curred in the sulTiciency of the indictment; which, after the verdict of the jury, was the only matter before the court. The chancellor then pronounced the sa- | vage sentence which the law then directed ^ in cases of treason. More, having no longer any measures to keep, openly declared, that after seven years' study, "'he could find no colour for holding that a layman could be head of the Church." The commissioners once more offered him a favourable audience for any matter which he had to propose. — "'More have I not to say, my lords," he re- plied, "but that as St. Paul held the clothes of those who stoned Stephen to death, and as they are both now saints in heaven, and shall continue there friends for ever; so I verily trust, and shall therefore right heartily pray, that though your lordships have now here on earth been judges to my condemna- tioHj we may, nevertheless, hereafter cheer- * Sir T. Palmer, Sir T. Bent, G. Lovell, es- quire, Thomas Burbage, esquire, and G. Cham- ber, Edward Stockmore, William Brown, Jaspei Leake, Thomas Bellington, John Parnell, Ri- chard Bellamy, and G. Stoakes, gentlemen, wer« ihe jury. LIFE OF SIR THOMAS ]\IORE. 7i> fuJJ/ meet in heaven, in everlasting salva- tion."* Sir W. Kingston, "his very dear friend," constable of the Tower, as, with tears run- ning down his cheeks, he conducted him from Westminster, condoled with his prison- er, who endeavoured to assuage the sorrow of his friend by the consolations of religion. The same gentleman said afterwards to Roper, — " I was ashamed of myself when I found my heart so feeble, and his so strong." Margaret Roper, his ^ood angel, watched for his landing at the Tower wharf. "After his blessing upon her knees reverently received, without care of herself, pressing in the midst of the throng, and the guards that were about him. with halberts and bills, she hastily ran to him, and openly, in sight of them all, em- braced and kissed him. He gave her again his fatherly blessing. After separation she, all ravished with the entire love of her dear father, suddenly turned back again, ran to him as before, took him about the neck, and divers times kissed him most lovingly, — a sight which made many of the beholders weep and mourn. "t Thus tender was the heart of the admirable woman who had at the same time the greatness of soul to strengthen her father's fortitude, by disclaim- ing the advice for which he, having mistaken her meaning, had meekly rebuked her, — to prefer life to right. On the 14th of June, IMore was once more examined by four civilians in the Tower. "He was asked, first, whether he would obey the King as supreme head of the Church of England on earth immediately ander Christ ? to which he said, that he could make no answer: secondly, whether he would consent to the King's marriage with Queen Anne, and affirm the marriage with the lady Catharine to have been unlawful 1 to which he answered that he did never speak nor meddle against the same : and, thirdly, whether he was not bound to answer the said question, and to recognise the head- ship as aforesaid 1 to which he said, that he could make no answer."! It is evident that these interrogatories, into which some terms peculiarly objectionable to More were now for the first time inserted, were contrived for the sole purpose of reducing the illustri- ous victim to the option of uttering a lie, or of suff"ering death. The eonepirators against him might, perhaps, have had a faint idea that they had at length broken his spirit; and if he persisted, they might have hoped that he could be represented as bringing de- struction on himself by his own obstinacy. Such, however, was his calm and well-order- ed mind, that he said and did nothing to pro- Toke his fate. Had he given affirmative answers, he would have sworn falsely : he was the martyr of veracity ; he perished only because he was sincere. On Monday, the 5th of July, he wrote a farewell letter to Margaret Roper, with his * Roper, p. 90. t Ibid. p. 90. t IbiJ. p. 92. usual materials of coal. It contained bless- ings on all his children byname, with a kind reniembrance even to one of Margaret's maids. Adverting to their last interview, on the quay, he says, — "I never liked your rnanner towards me better than when you kissed me last ; for I love when daughterly love and dear charity have no leisure to look to worldly courtesy." Early the next morning Sir Thomas Pope, "his singular good friend," came to him with a message from the King and council, to say that he should die before nine o'clock of the same morning. "The King's plea- sure," said Pope, "is that you shall not use many words." — "I did purpose," answered More, " to have spoken somewhat, but I will conform myself to the King's command- ment, and I beseech you to obtain from him that my daughter Margaret may be present at my burial." — "The King is already con- tent that your wife, children, and other friends shall be present thereat." The lieu- tenant brought him to the scaffold, which was so weak that it was ready to fall ; on which he said, merrily, " Master lieutenant, I pray you see me safe up, and for my com- ing down let me shift for myself." When he laid his head on the block he desired the executioner to wait till he had removed his beard, "for that had never offended his highness," — ere the axe fell. He has been censured by some for such levities at the moment of death. These are censorious cavils, which would not be wor- thy of an allusion if they had not occasioned some sentences of as noble reflection, and beautiful composition, as the English lan- guage contains. " The innocent mirth, which had been so conspicuous in his life, did not forsake him to the last. His death was of a piece with his life; there was nothing in it new, forced, or afi'ected. He did not look upon the severing his head from his bodyaa a circumstance which ought to produce any change in the disposition of his mind ; and as he died in a fixed and settled hope of im- mortality, he thought any unusual degree of sorrow and concern improper."* According to the barbarous practice of laws which vainly struggle to carry their cruelty beyond the grave, the head of Sir Thomas More was placed on London bridge. His darling daughter, Llargaret, had the courage to procure it to be taken down, that she might exercise her aflection by contir_u- ing to look on a relic so dear; and carrying her love beyond the grave, she desired that it might be buried with her when she d^ed.t The remains of this precious relic are said to have been since observed, lying on what had once been her bosom. The male de- scendants of this admirable woman appear to have been soon extinct : her descendants through females are probably numerous.J * Spectator, No. 349. t She survived her father about nine years, t One of tliem. I\Ir. James Hinten B»"'ersto( k, inser'-"d his noble pedigree from Margaret, la 80 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. She resembled her father in mind, in man- ner, in the features and expression of her countenance, and in her form and gait. Her learning was celebrated throughout Christen- dom. It is seldom that literature wears a more agreeable aspect than when it becomes a bond of union between such a father and such a daughter. Sir Thomas More's eldest son, John, mar- ried Anne Cresacre, the heiress of an estate, still held by his posterity through females, at Barnborough, near Doncaster,* where the mansion of the Mores still subsists. The last male desendant was Thomas More, a Jesuit, who was principal of the college of Jesuits at Bruges, and died at Bath in 1795, having survived his famous order, and, according to the appearances of that time, his ancient re- ligion; — as if the family of More were one of the many ties which may be traced, through the interval of two centuries and a half, between the revolutions of religion and those of government. The letters and narratives of Erasmus dif- fused the story of his friend's fate through- out Europe. Cardinal Pole bewailed it with elegance and feeling. It filled Italy, then the most cultivated portion of Europe, with horror. Paulo Jovio called Henry "a Phala- ris," though we shall in vain look in the story of Phalaiis, or of any other real or legendary tyrant, for a victim worthy of being compared to More. The English ministers throughout Europe were regarded with averted eyes as the agents of a monster. At Venice, Henry, after this deed, was deemed capable of any crimes : he was believed there to have mur- dered Catharine, and to be about to murder his daughter Mary.t The Catholic zeal of Spain, and the resentment of the Spanish people against the oppression of Catharine, quickened their sympathy with More, and aggravated their detestation of Henry. Ma- son, the envoy at Valladolid, thought every pure Latin phrase too weak for More, and describes him by one as contrary to the rules of that language as '-'thrice greatest" j would be to those of ours. When intelli- gence of his death was brought to the Em- peror Charles V., he sent for Sir T. Elliot, the English ambassador, and said to him, "Myloul ambassador, we understand that the king your master has put his wise coun- sellor Sir Thomas More to death." Elliot, abashed; made answer that he understood nothing thereof. " Well," said the Emperor, " it is too true ; and this we will say, that, if we had been master of such a servant, we sho'jild rather have lost the best city in our dominions than have lost such a worthy counsellor;" — " which matter," says Roper, in the concluding' words of his beautiful narrative, " was by Sir T. Elliot told to m}'- IWiy, in a copy of More's English Works, at this moment t)elore me. * Hunter's South Yorkshire, vol. i. pp. 374, 375. T Kills' Original Letters, 2d series, lett. c.wii. t Ibid, le'.t. ex. " 'I'er maximus ille Morus." self; my wife, to Mr. Clement and his wife^ and to Mr. Heywood and his wife."* Of all men nearly perfect. Sir Thomas More had, perhap.s. the clearest marks of in- dividual character. His peculiarities, though distinguishing him from all others, were yet withheld from growing into moral faults. It is not enough to say of him that he was unaffected, that he was natural, that he was simple; so the larger part of truly great men have been. But there is something home- spun in More which is common to him with scarcely any other, and which gives to all his faculties and qualities the appearance of being the native growth of the soil. The homeliness of his pleasantry purifies it from show. He walks on the scaffold clad only in his household goodness. The unrefined benignity with which he ruled his patri- archal dwelling at Chelsea enabled him to look on the axe without being disturbed by feeling hatred for the tyrant. This quality bound together his genius and learning, his eloquence and fame, with his homely and daily duties. — bestowing a genuineness on all his good qualities, a dignity on the most ordinary offices of life, and an accessible fa- miliarity on the virtues of a hero and a mar- tyr, which silences every suspicion that his excellencies were magnified. He thus sim- ply performed great acts, and uttered great thoughts, because they were familiar to his great soul. The charm of this inborn and homebred character seems as if it would have been taken off by polish. It is this household character which relieves our no- tion of him from vagueness, and divests per- fection of that generality and coldness to which the attempt to paint a perfect man is so liable. It will naturally, and very strongly, excite the regret of the good in every age, that the life of this best of men should have been in the power of one who has been rarely sur- passed in wickedness. But the execrable Henry was the means of drawing forth the magnanimity, the fortitude, and the meek- ness of More. Had Henry been a just and merciful monarch, we should not have known the degree of excellence to which human nature is capable of ascending. Catholics ought to see in More, that mildness and can- dour are the true ornaments of all modes of faith. Protestants ought to be taught hu- mility and charity from this instance of the wisest and best of men falling into, what they deem, the most fatal errors. All men, in the fierce contests of contending factions, should, from such an example, learn the wisdom to fear lest in their most hated antagonist they may strike down a Sir Thomas More: for assuredly virtue is not so narrow as to be confined to any party ; and we have in the * Instead of Hej'wood, perhaps we ought to read " Heron ?" In that case the three daughters of Sir Thomas More would be present: Mrs, Roper was the eldest, Mrs. Clement the second, and Cecilia Heron the youngest. LIFE OF SIR THOMAS MORE. 81 case of More a signal example that the near- 1 proof, that we should beware of hating men est approach to perfect excellence does not for their opinions, or of adopting their doc- exempt men from mistakes which we may trines because we love and venerate theii instly deem mischievous. It is a pregnant | virtues. APPENDIX. A. Some particulars in the life of Sir Thomas More I am obliged to leave to more fortunate inquirers. Tiiey are, indeed, very minute ; but they may ap- pear to others worthy of being ascertained, as they appeared to me, from their connection with the life of a wise and good man. The records of the Privy Council are preserved only since 1540, so that we do not exactly know the date of his admission into that body. The time when he was knighted (then a matter of some moment) is not known. As the whole of his life passed during the great chasm in writs for elec- tion, and returns of members of parliainent, from 1477 to 1542, the places for which he sat, and the year of his early opposition to a subsidy, are un- ascertained ; — notwithstanding the obliging exer- tion of the gentlemen employed in the repositories at the Tower, and in the Rolls' chapel. We know that he was speaker of the House of Com- mons in 1523 and 1524.* Browne Willis owns his inability to fix the place which he represented ;t but he conjectured it to have been "either Mid- dlesex, where he resided, or Lancaster, of which duchy he was chancellor." But that laborious and useful writer would not have mentioned the latter branch of his alternative, nor probably the former, if he had known that More was not Chan- cellor of the D uchy till two years after his speaker- ship. B. An anecdote in More's chancellorship is con- nected with an English phrase, of which the origin is not quite satisfactorily explained. An attorney in his court, named Tubb, gave an account in court of a cause in which he was concerned, which the Chancellor (who with all his gentleness loved a joke) thought so rambling and incoherent, that he said at the end of Tubb's speech, " This is a tale of a tub ;" plainly showing that the phrase was then familiarly known. The learned Mr. Douce has informed a friend of mine, that in Se- bastian Munster's Cosmography, there is a cut of a ship, to which a whale was coming too close for her saiety. and of the sailors throwing a tub to the whale, evidently to play with. The practice of throwing a tub or barrel to a large fish, to divert the animal from gambols dangerous to a vessel, is also mentioned in an old prose translation of The Ship of Fools. These passages satisfactorily explain the common phrase of throwing a tub to a whale ; but they do not account for leaving out the whale, and introducing the new word " tale." The transition from the first phrase to the second is a considerable stride. It is not, at least, directly explained by Mr. Douce's citations ; and no ex- planation of it has hitherto occurred which can be supported by proof It may be thought probable that, in process of time, some nautical wag com- pared a rambling story, which he suspected of being lengthened and confused, in order to turn his thoughts from a direction not convenient to the ♦ Koils cf Parliament in Lords' Journals, vol. i. t Notiiia Pailiamentaria, vol. iii. p. 112. Story-teller, with the tub which he and his ship- mates were wont to throw out to divert the whala from striking the bark, and perhaps said, " Thw tale is, like our tub to the whale." The com- parison might have become popular ; and it might gradually have been shortened into " a tale of a tub." EXTRACTS FROM THE RECORDS OF THE CITY OF LONDON RELATING TO THE APPOINTMENT OF SIR THOMAS MORE TO BE UNDER-SHERIFF OF LONDON, AND SOME APPOINTMENTS OF HIS IMMEDIATE PREDECESSORS AND OF HIS SUC- CESSOR. (A. D. 149G. 27th September.) " Commune consilium tentum die Martij VicPsimo Septimo die Septembf Anno Regni Regis Henr^ Septinii duo decimo. " In isto Comiin Consilio Thomas Sail et Thomas Marowe confirmati sunt in Subvic Civi- tati : London p anno sequent, &c." (1497.) " Comiine Consiliii tent die Lune xxv'" die SepTanno Regni Regs Hen? vii. xiij". " Isto die Thomas Marowe et Ed' Dudley con- firmat sunt in Sub Vic Sit' London p anno seqii.'' (1498 & 1501.) Similar entries of the confirmation of Thomas Marowe and Edward Dudley are made in the 14th, 15th, 16ih, and 17th Henry VII., and at a court of aldermen, held on the (1502.) 17th Nov. 18 Henry 7. the following entry appears : — "Ad banc Cuf^ Thomas Marowe uiis sub vice comitii sponte resignat offitii suri." And at a Common Council held on the same day, is entered — " In isto Communi Consilio Radiis adye Gen- tilman elecT est in unit Subvic Civitats London loco Thome Marwe Gentilman qui ijlud officiu sponte resignavit, capiendfeoQ' consuet." " Coe Consiliii tent die Martis iij° die Sep- tembris anno Regni Reg' Hemici Oc- tavi Secundo. ^ " Eodin die Thorns More Gent elecT est in unii Subvic" Civitats London loc Ric" Broke Gent qui nup elec't fuit in Recordator London." " Martis viij die I\Iaii 6"" Henry 8. " Court of Aldermen. " Yt ys agreed that Thomas More Gent oon of Undersheryfes of London which shall go ov the Kings AmbasseTin to fflaunders shall occnpie his Rowme and office by his sufficient Deoutfl untyll his ciiimyng home ageyn" " Blariis xj die March 7 Henry VUI"" " Court of Aldermen. 82 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. " Ye shall sweare that ye shall kepe the Secrets of this Courte and not to disclose eny thing ther Bpoken for the coen welthe of this citie that niyght nurt cny psone or brother of the seyd courte onles yt be spoken to his broilir or to other which in his conscience and discrecon shall thynk yt to be lor the coen welthe of this citie. So help you God." " Jovis xiij die Marcii 7 Henry 8. " Court of Aldermen. " Itm ad ista Cur Thomas More and Wills Shelley Subvice™ Ci'" London jur sunt ad articlm Bupdcin spect xj die marcii." " VeTiis 23 July, 10 Henry 8. Court of Aldermen. " Ad istam Cur Thomas More Gent -in Sub vie Ci" in CompuT PuUetr London libe et sponte Sur? et resigii officm pdcm in manu Maioris at Aldror." " Coie Consiliu tenT die Veiiis xxiij die Julii anno regni regis Henrici Ociavi de- cimo." " Isto die Johes Pakyngton Gent admissus est in unu subvic Civitats London loco Thome More qui spoilt et libe resignavit Officiu illud in Mau Maioris aldror et Cois consilii. Et jur est &c " A REFUTATION OF THE CLAIM ON BEHALF OF KING CHAELES I. TO THE AUTHORSHIP OF THE EIKXIN BA^IAIKH.* A SUCCESSION of problems or puzzles in the literary and political history of modern times nas occasionally occupied some ingenious writers, and amused many idle readers. Those who think nothing useful which does not yield some palpable and direct advan- tage, have, indeed, scornfully rejected such inquiries as frivolous and useless. But their disdain has not repressed such discussions : and it is fortunate that it has not done so. Amusement is itself an advantage. The vigour which the understanding derives from exercise on every subject is a great advan- tage. If there is to be any utility in history, the latter must be accurate, — which it never will be, unless there be a solicitude to ascer- tain the truth even of its minutest parts. History is read with pleasure, and with moral fiflect, only as far as it engages our feelings in the merit or demerit, in the fame or for- .une, of historical personages. The breath- less anxiety with which the obscure and con- flicting evidence on a trial at law is watched by the bystander is but a variety of the same feeling which prompts the reader to examine the proofs against Mary, Queen of Scots, with as deep an interest as if she were alive, and were now on her trial. And it is wisely ordered that it should be so : for our condi- tion would not, upon the whole, be bettered * Contributed to the Edinburgh Review (vol. jtliv. p. 1.) as a review of " Who wrote Elu^v B*3-i\tic>iV^ by Christopher Wordsworth, D. D., Master of Trinity College, Cambridge. London, 1824.— Ed. by our feeling les.s strongly about each other's concerns. The question ''Who wrote Icon Basilike ]" seemed more than once to be finally deter mined. Before the publication of the pri- vate letters of Bishop Gauden, the majority of historical inquirers had pronounced it spurious; and the only writers of great acuteness who maintained its genuineness — Warburton and Hume — spoke in a tone which rather indicated an anxious desire that others should believe, than a firm belief in their own minds. It is perhaps the only matter on which the former ever expressed himself with diffidence ; and the case must indeed have seemed doubtful, which com- pelled the most dogmatical and arrogant of disputants to adopt a language almost scep- tical. The successive publications of those letters in Maty's Review, in the third volume of the Clarendon Papers, and lastly, but most decisively, by Mr. Todd, seemed to have closed the dispute. The main questions on which the whole dispute hinges are. Whether the acts and words of Lord Clarendon, of Lord Bristol, of Bishop Morley, of Charles IL, and James II., do not amount to a distinct acknowledgment of Gauden's authorship? and. Whether an admission of that claim by these persons be not a conclusive evidence of its truth ? If these questions can be answered affiima- tively, the other parts of the case will not require very long consideration. The Icon Basilike was intended to pro- duce a favourable effect duno« the Kina's ICON BASILIKE. 83 Ilia] ; but its publication was retarded till Bome days after his death, by ihe jealous and rigorous precautions of the ruling powers. The impression made on the public by a work which purported to convey the pious and eloquent language of a dying King, could not fail to be very considerable ; and, though its genuineness was from the begin- ning doubted or disbelieved by some,* it would have been wonderful and unnatural, if unbounded faith in it had not become one of the fundamental articles of a Royalist's creed. t Though much stress, therefore, is laid by Dr. Wordsworth on passages in anony- mous pamphlets published before the Re- fetoration, we can regard these as really no more than instances of the belief which must then have only prevailed among that great majority of Royalists who had no pe- culiar reasons for doubt. Opinion, even ndien it was impartial, of the genuineness of a writing given before its authenticity was seriously questioned, and when the at- tention of those who gave the opinion was not strongly drawn to the subject, must be classed in the lowest species of historical evidence. One witness who bears testimony to a forgery, when the edge of his discern- ment is sharpened by an existing dispute, outweighs many whose language only indi- cates a passive acquiescence in the unex- amined sentiments of their own party. It is obvious, indeed, that such testimonies must be of exceedingly little value ; for every im- posture, in any degree successful, must be able to appeal to them. Without them, no question on such a subject could ever be raised ; since it would be idle to expose the spuriousness of what no one appeared to think authentic. Dr. Gauden, a divine of considerable ta- lents, but of a temporizing and interested character, was, at the beginning of the Civil War, chaplain to the Earl of Warwick, a Presbyterian leader. In November 1640, after the close imprisonment of Lord Straf- ford, he preached a sermon before the House of Commons, so agreeable to that assembly, that it is said they presented him with a silver tankard, — a token of their esteem which (if the story be true) may seem to be the stronger for its singularity and unseemli- ness.! This discourse seems to have con- tained a warm invective against the eccle- siastical policy of the Court; and it was preached not only at a most critical time, but on the solemn occasion of the sacrament being first taken by the whole House. As a reward for so conspicuous a service to the Parliamentary cause, he soon after received * Milton, Goodwyn, Lilly, &c. t See Wagsiaffe's Vindication of King Charles, pp. 77 — 79. London, 1711. t The Journals sny nothing of the tankard, which was probably the gift of some zealous mem- bers, but bear, " That the thanks of this house be given to Mr. Gaudy and Mr. Mnriey for their lermons last Sunday, and that they be desired, if 'he? please, to print the same." Vol. ii. p. 40. the valuable living of Bocking in Essex which he held through all the succeeding changes of government, — forbearing, of ne- cessity, to use the Liturgy, and complying with all the conditions which the law then required from the beneficed clergy. It has been disputed whether he took the Cove- nant, though his own evasive answers imply that he had : but it is certain that he pub- lished a Protest* against the trial of the King in 1648, though that never could have pretended to the same merit with the sclemn Declaration of the whole Presbyterian clergy of London against the same proceeding, which, however, did not save them at the Restoration. At the moment of the Restoration of Charles II., he appears, therefore, to have had as little public claim on the favour of that prince as any clergyman who had con- formed to the ecclesiastical principles of the Parliament and the Protectorate ; and he was, accordingly, long after called by a zealous Royalist "the false Apostate !"t Bishoprics were indeed ofTered to Baxter, who refused, and to Reynolds, who accepted, a mitre; but if they had not been, as they were, men venerable for every virtue, they were the acknowledged leaders of the Pres- byterians, whose example might have much effect in disposing that powerful body to con- formity. No such benefit could be hoped from the preferment of Gauden: and that his public character must have rendered him rather the object of disfavour than of patron- age to the Court at this critical and jealous period, will be obvious to those who are conversant with one small, but not insignifi cant circumstance. The Presbyterian party is well known to have predominated in the Convention Parliament, especially when it first assembled ; and it was the policy of the whole assembly to give a Presbyterian, or moderate and mediatorial colour, to their collective proceedings. On the 25lh April 1660, they chose Mr. Calamy, Dr. Gauden, and Mr. Baxter, to preach before them, on the fast which they then appointed to be held, — thus placing Gauden between two eminent divines of the Presbyterian persua- sion, on an occasion when they appear stu- diously to have avoided the appointment of an Episcopalian. It is evident that Gauden was then thought nearer in principle to Ba.v- ter than to Juxon. He was sufficiently a Presbyterian in party to make him no favour- ite with the Court : yet he was not so deci- ded a Presbyterian in opinion as to have the influence among his brethren which could make him worth so high a price as a mitre. They who dispute his claim to be the writei of the Icon, will be the last to ascribe hia preferment to transcendent abilities: he is not mentioned as having ever shown kind- ness to Royalists; there is no trace of his correspondence with the exiled Court; he * The Religious and Loyal Protestation of John Gauden, &,c. London, 1648. t Kennet, Register, p. 773. 84 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. contributed nothing to the recall of the King; nor indeed had he the power of performing such atoning services. Let ihe reader then suppose himself to be acqufJnted only with the above circum- stances, and let him pause to consider whe- ther, in the summer of 1660, there could be many clergymen of the Established Church who had fewer and more scanty pretensions to a bishopric than Gauden : yet he was appointed Bishop of Exeter on the 3d of November following. He received, in a few months, 20,000Z. in fines for the renewal of leases;* and yet he had scarcely arrived at his epispocal palace when, on the 21st of December, he wrote a letter to the Lord Chancellor Clarendon,! bitterly complaining of the "distress." " infelicity," and "horror" of such a bishopric! — "a hard fate which" (he reminds the Chancellor) " he had before deprecated." "I make this complaint," (he adds,) "to your Lordship, because you chiefly put me on this adventure. Your Lordship commanded mee to trust in your favour for an honourable maintenance and some such additional support as might sup- ply the defects of the bishopric." * * * '■•Nor am I so unconscious to the service I have done to the Church and to his Majcstifs family, as to bcare with patience such aruine most un- deservedly put upon mee. Are these the effects of his liberall expressions, who told mee I might have u-hat I would desire ? * * * Yf your Lordship will not concern yourselfe in my affaire, I must make my last complaint to the King." In five days after (26th De- cember 1660) he wrote another long letter, less angry and more melancholy, to the same great person, Avhich contains the fol- lowing remarkable sentence : — "Dr. Morly once offered mee my option, upon account of some service ivhich he thought I had done ex- traordinary for the Church and the Royall Family, of which he told mee your Lordship was informed. This made mee modestly secure of your Lordship's favour; though I found your Lordship would never owne your consciousnes to mee, as if it would have given mee too much confidence of a proportionable expectation. * * * I knew your Lord- ship knew my service and merit to be no way inferior to the best of your friends^ or enemyes.^'t In these two letters, — more covertly in the first, more openly in the second, — Gauden apprises Lord Clarendon, that Dr. Morly (who was Clarendon's most intimate friend) had acknowledged some extraordinary service done by Gauden to the Royal Family, which had been made known to the Chancellor ; thoHgh that nobleman had avoided a direct acknowledgment of it to the bishop before he left London. Gauden appears soon after to have written to Sir E.Nicholas, Secretary of State, a letter of so peculiar a character * Binejrapliin Britaniiica, article " Gauden." t Wordsworth, Documentary Supplement, p. ^ t Ibid. pp. 11—13. as to have been read by the King; for an answer was sent to him by Nicholas, dated on the 19th January 1661, in which the fol- lowing sentence deserves attention: — "As( for your owne particular, he desires yoa not to be discouraged at the poverty of your bishoprick at present ; and if that answer not the expectation of what was promised you. His Majesty u'ill take you so particularly into his care, that he bids me assure you, that you shall have no cause to remember Backing.^'* These remarkable words by no means imply that Gauden did not then believe that the nature of his "extraordinary service" had been before known to the King. They evi- dently show his letter to have consisted of a complaint of the poverty of his bishopric, with an intelligible allusion to this service, probably expressed with more caution and reserve than in his addresses to the Chan- cellor. What was really then first made known to the King was not his merits, but his poverty. On the 21st January, the im- portunate prelate again addressed to Claren- don a letter, explicitly stating the nature of his services, probably rendered necessary in his opinion by the continued silence of Clarendon, who did not answer his applica- tions till the 13th March. From this letter the following extract is inserted : — " All I desire is an augment of 500/. per annum, 5't if cannot bee at present had in a comniendam ; yet possible the King's favor to me will not grudg mee this pension out of the first fruits and tenths of tliis diocesse ; till I bee removed or otherwayes provided for : Nor will y"' Lordship startle at this motion, or wave the presenting of it to hys Ma- jesty, yf you please to consider the pretensions I may have beyond any of my calling, not as to j merit, but duly performed to Ihe Eoyall Family. I True, I once presumed y' Lordship had fully 1 known lhatnrca?ia7n, forsoe Dr. Morlev told mee, at the King's first coming; when he assured mee the greatnes of that service was such, that I might have any preferment I desired. This consciousnes of your Lordship (as I supposed) and Dr. Morley, made mee confident my affaires would bee carried on to some proportion of what I had done, and he thought deserved. Hence my silence of it to your Lordship : as to the King and Duke of York, whom before I came away I acquainted with it, when I saw myself not so much considered in my present disposition as I did hope I should have beene, what trace theii Royall goodnes hath of it is liest e.xpressed by themselves ; nor do I doubt but I shall, by your Lordship's favor, find the fruits as to somlhing extraordinary, since the service was soe : not aa to what was hnomn to the world under my name, in order to vindicate the Crowne and the Church, hut what goes under ihe late blessed King's 7iame, ' the (Ik^v or portraiture of hys Miijesty in hys solitudes and sufferings.' This book and figure was wholy and only my invention, making and designe ; in order to vindicate the King's wisdome honor and piety. My wife indeed was conscious to it, and had an hand in disguising the letters of that copy which I sent to the King in the ile of Wight, by favor of the late Marquise of Hartford, which was delivered to the King by the now Bishop of Winchester :t hys Majesty graciously accepted, owned, and adopted it as hys sense and * Wordsworth, Documentary Supplement, p. H + Duppa. ICON BASILIKF. S5 genius ; not only with great approbation, but ad- miration. Hee kept it with iiym ; and thougli hys cruel murtherers went on to perfect hys mar- tyrdome, yet God preserved and prospered this book to revive hys honor, and redeeme hys Ma- jesty's name from that grave of contempt and abhorrence or infamy, in which they aymed to bury hym. When it came out, just upon the King's death; Good God ! what shame, rage and despite, filled hys murtherers ! What comfort hys friends ! How many enemyes did it convert ! How many hearts did it mollify and melt ! What devotions it raysed to hys posterity, as children of such a father! What preparations it made in all men's minds for this happy restauration, and which I hope shall not prove my affliction ! In a word, it was an army, and did vanquish more than any sword could. My Lord, every good subject con- ceived hopes of restauration ; meditated reveng and separation. Your Lordship and all good sub- jects with hys Majesty enjoy the recall and now ripe fruites of that plant. O let not mee wither ! who was the author, and ventured wife, children, estate, liberty, life, and all but my soule, in so great an atchievement, which hath filled England and all the world with the glory of it. I did lately present my faylh in it to the Duke of York, and by hym to the King; both of them were pleased to give mee credit, and owne it as a rare service in those horrors of times. True, I played this best card in my hand something too late ; else I might have sped as well as Dr. Reynolds and some others ; but I did not lay it as a ground of ambition, nor use it as a ladder. Thinhing my- selfe secure in the just valew of Dr. Morehj, who I V)as sure knew it, and told mee your Lordship did soe too;* who, I believe, intended mee som- thing at least competent, ihougli lesse convenient, in this preferment. All that 1 desire is, that yoin- Lordship would make that good, which I think you designed ; and which I am confident the King will not deny mee, agreeable to hys royall munificence, which promiseth extraordinary re- wards to extraordinary services : Certainly this service is such, for the matter, manner, timing and efficacy, as was never exceeded, nor will ever be equalled, yf I may credit the judgment of the best and wisest men that have read it ; and I know your Lordship, who is soe great a master of wisdome and eloquence, cannot but esteeme the author of that peice ; and accordingly, make mee to see those effects which may assure mee that my loyalty, paines, care, h.^zard and silence, are accepted by the King and Royall Family, to which your Lordship's is now grafted." The Bishop ^yrote three letters more to Clarendon, — on the 25th January, 20th Feb- ruary, and 6lh of March respectively, to which on the 13th of the last month the Chancellor sent a reply containing the fol- lowing sentence : — The particular which you often reneived, I do confcsse was imparted to me] vruisr secrecy, and of which I did not take myself lo he at liberty to take notice ; and truly when it ceases to be a secrett, I knoiv nobody will be gladd of it but Mr. Milton ; I have very often xvished I had never been trusted wtih it. It is proper here to remark, that all the letters cf Gauden are still extant, endorsed * It is not to be inferred from this and the like passages, that Gauden doubted the previous com- munication of Morley to Clarendon : he uses euch language as a reproach to the Chancellor for his silence. tFviiJently by Morley. by Lord Clarendon, or by his eldest son. Ir the course of three months, then, it appears that Gauden, with unusual importunity and confidence, with complaints which were dis- guised reproaches, and sometimes with an approach to menaces, asserted his claim to be richly rewarded, as the author of the Icon. He affirms that it was sent to the King by the Duke of Somerset, who died about a month before his first letter, and delivered to his Majesty by Dr. Duppa, Bishop of Wirtchester, who was still alive. He adds, that he had ac- quainted Charles II. with the secret through the Duke of York, that Morley, then Bishop of Worcester, had infornaed Clarendon of it, and that Morley himself had declared the value of the service to be such, as to entitle Gauden to choose his own preferment. Gau- den thus enabled Clarendon to convict hirri of falsehood, — if his tale was untrue, — in three or four circumstances, difTering indeed in their importance as to the main question, but equally material to his own veracity. A single word from Duppa would have over- whelmed him with infamy. How easy was it for the Chancellor to ascertain whether the information had been given to the King and his brother ! Morley was his bosom- friend, and the spiritual director of his daugh- ter, Anne Duchess of York. How many other persons might have been quietly sounded by the numerous confidential agents of a great minister, on a transaction which had occur- red only twelve years before ! To suppose that a statesman, then at the zenith of his greatness, could not discover the truth on this subject, whhout a noise like that of a judicial inquiry, would betray a singular ignorance of affairs. Did Clarendon relin- quish, without a struggle, his belief in a book, which had doubtless touched his feel- ings when he read it as the work of his Royal Master? Eveir curiosity might have led Charles II., when receiving the blessing of Duppa on his deathbed, to ask him a short confidential question. To how many chances of detection did Gauden e.xpose himself? How nearly impossible is it that the King, the Duke, the Chancellor, and Morley shoultl have abstained from the safest means of in- quiry, and, in opposition to their former opi- nions and prejudices, yielded at once to Gauden's assertion. The previous belief of the Royalist party in the Icon very much magnifies the im- probability of such suppositions. The truth might have been discovered by the pailiea appealed to. and conveyed to the audacious pretender, without any scandal. There was no need of any public exposure : a private intimation of the falsehood of one materia"! circumstance must have silenced Gauden. But what, on the contrary, is the answer of Lord Clarendon"? Let any reader consider the above cited sentence of his letter, and determine for himself whether it does not express such an unhesitating assent to the claim as could only have flowed from ir quiry and evidence. By c\-r..^ the justness will be felt by all who consider the state to which some of the most import- j ant arts would be reduced, if the coarse tools of the common labourer were the only in- struments to be employed in the most deli- cate operations of manual expertness. The watchmaker, the optician, and the surgeon, are provided with instruments which are fitted, by careful ingenuity, to second their skill; the philosopher alone is doomed to use the rudest tools for the most refined purposes. He must reason in words of which the loose- ness and vagueness are suitable, and even agreeable, in the usual intercourse of life, but which are almost as remote from the extreme exactness and precision required, not only in the conveyance, but in the search of truth, as the hammer and the axe would be unfit for the finest exertions of skilful handiwork : for it is not to be forgotten, that he must himself think in these gross words as unavoidably as he uses them in speaking to others. He is in this respect in a worse condition than an astronomer who looked at the heavens only with the naked eye, whose limited and partial observation, however it might lead to error, might not directly, and would not necessarily, deceive. He might be more justly compared to an arithmetician compelled to employ numerals not only cum- brous, but used so irregularly to denote dif- ferent quantities, that they not only often deceive others, but himself. The natural philosopher and mathemati- cian have in some degree the privilege of framing their own terms of art ; though that liberty is daily narrowed by the happy dif- fusion of these great branches of knowledge, which daily mixes their language with the general vocabulary of educated men. The cultivator of mental and moral philosophy can seldom do more than mend the faults of his words by definition ; — a necessary, but very inadequate expedient, and one in a great measure defeated in practice by the unavoidably more frequent recurrence of the terms in their vague, than in their definite acceptation. The mind, to which such de- finition is faintly, and but occasionally, pre- sent, naturally suffers, in the ordinary state of attention, the scientific meaning to disap- pear from remembrance, and insensibly as- cribes to the vi'ord a great part, if not the whole, of that popular sense which is so very much more familiar even to the most vete- ran speculator. The obstacles which stood in the way of Lucretius and Cicero, when they began to translate the subtile philoso phy of Greece into their narrow and barren tongue, are always felt by the philosopher when he struggles to express, with the neces- sary discrimination, his abstruse reasonings in words which, though those of his own lan- guage, he must take from the mouths of those to whom his distinctions would be without meaning. The moral philosopher is in this respect subject to peculiar difficulties. His state- ments and reasonings often call for nicer dis- criminations of language than those which are necessary in describing or discussing the purely intellectual part of human nature; but his freedom in the choice of words is more circumscribed. As he treats of mat- ters on which all men are disposed to forma judgment, he can as rarely hazard glaring innovations in diction, — at least in an adult and mature language like ours, — as the ora- tor or the poet. If he deviates from com- mon use, he must atone for his deviation by hiding it, and can only give a new sense to an old word by so skilful a position of it af to render the new meaning so quickly un- derstood that its novelty is scarcely per ceived. Add to this, that in those most difficult inquiries for which the utmost cool- ness is not more than sufficient, he is often DISSERTATION ON THE PROGRESS OF ETHICAL PHILOSOPHY. 95 forced to use terms commonly comiected with warm feeling, with high praise, with severe reproach; — which excite the passions of his readers when he most needs their calm attention and the undisturbed exer- cise of their impartial judgment. There is scarcely a neutral term left in Ethics ) so quickly are such expressions enlisted on the side of Praise or Blame, by the address of contending passions. A true philosopher must not even desire that men should less love Virtue, or hate Vice, in order to fit them for a more unprejudiced judgment on his speculations. There are, perhaps, not many occasions where the penury and laxity of language are more felt than in entering on the history of sciences where the first measure must be to mark out the boundary of the whole subject with some distinctness. But no exactness in these important operations can be ap- proached without a new division of human knowledge, adapted to the present stage of its progress, and a reformation of all those barbarous, pedantic, unmeaning, and (what is worse) wrong-meaning names which con- tinue to be applied to the greater part of its branches. Instances are needless where nearly all the appellations are faulty. The term '-'Metaphysics" affords a specimen of all the faults which the name of a science can combine. To those who know only their own language, it must, at their entrance on the study, convey no meaning: it points their attention to nothing. If they examine the language in which its parts are signifi- cant, they will be misled into the pernicious error of believing that it seeks something more than the interpretation of nature. It is only by examining the history of ancient philosophy that the probable origin of this name will be found, in its application, as the running title of several essays of Aristotle, placftl in a collection of the manusci'ipts of that great philosopher, after his treatise on Physics. It has the greater fault of an un- steady and fiuctualing signification ; — deno- ting one class of objects in the seventeenth century, and another in the eighteenth: — even in the nineteenth not quite of the same import in the month of a German, as in that of a French or English philosopher ; to say nothing of the farther objection that it con- tinues to be a badge of undue pretension among some of the followers of the science, vrhile it has become a name of reproach and derision among those who altogether decry it. The modern name of the very modern science called "Political Economy," though deliberately bestowed on it by its most emi- nent teachers, is perhaps a still more notable sample of the like faults. It might lead the ignorant to confine it to retrenchment in na- tional expenditure' and a consideration of Hs etymology alone would lead us into the more mischievous error of believing it to teach, that national wealth is best promoted by the contrivance and interference of law- j^ivers, in ojiposition to its sures' doctrine, and the one which it most justly boasts of having discovered and enforced. It is easy to conceive an exhaustive analy- sis of human knowledge, and a consequent division of it into parts corresponding to all the classes of objects to which it relates : — a representation of that vast edifice, contain- ing a picture of what is finished, a sketch of what is building, and even a conjectural out- line of what, though required by complete- ness and convenience, as well as symmetry, is yet altogether untouched. A system oi names might also be imagined derived from a few roots, indicating the objects of each part, and showing the relating of the parts to each other. An order and a language some- what resembling those by which the objects of the sciences of Botany and Chemistry have, in the eighteenth century, been ar- ranged and denoted, are doubtless capable of application to the sciences generally, when considered as parts of the system of know- ledge. The attempts, however, which have hitherto been made to accomplish that ana- lytical division of knowledge which must necessarily precede a new nomenclature of the sciences, have required so prodigious a superiority of genius in, the single instance of approach to siTCcess by Bacon, as to dis- courage rivalship nearly as much as the fre- quent examples of failure in subsequent times could do. The nomenclature itself is attended with great difficulties, not indeed in its conception, but in its adoption and use- fulness. In the Continental languages to the south of the Rhine, the practice of deriving the names of science from the Greek must be continued ; which would render the new- names for a while unintelligible to the ma- jority of men. Even if successful in Ger- many, where a flexible and fertile language affords unbounded liberty of derivation and composition from native roots or elements, and where the newly derived and com- pounded words would thus be as clear to the mind, and almost as little startling to the ear of every man, as the oldest terms in the language, yet the whole nomenclature would be unintelligible to other nations. But, the intercommunity of the technical terms of science in Europe having been so far broken down by the Germans, the influence of their literature and philosophy is so rapidly in- creasing in the greater part of the Continent, that though a revolution in scientific nomen- clature be probably yet far distant, the foun- dation of it may be considered as already prepared. Although so great an undertaking must be reserved for a second Bacon and a future generation, it is necessary for the historian of any branch of knowledge to introduce his work by some account of the limits and con- tents of the sciences of which he is about to trace the progress ; and though it will be found impossible to trace throughout this treatise a distinct line of demarcation, yet a general and imperfect sketch of the bounda- ries of the whole, and of 'he parts, of on/ 96 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. present subject, may be a considerable help to the reader, as it has been a useful guide to the writer. There is no distribution of the parts of knowledge more ancient than that of them into the physical and moral sciences, which seems liable to no other objection than that it does not exhaust the subject. Even this division, however, cannot be safely employed, without warning the reader that no science is entirely insulated, and that the principles of one are often only the conclusions and re- sults of another. Every branch of know- ledge has its root in the theory of the Under- standing, from which even the mathemati- cian must learn what can be known of his magnitude and his numbers; moral science is founded on that other, — hitherto unnamed, — part of the philosophy of human nature (to be constantly and vigilantly distinguished from intellectual philosophy), which contem- plates the laws of sensibility, of emotion, of desirs and aversion, of pleasure and pain, of happiness and misery : and on which arise the august and sacred landmarks that stand conspicuous along the frontier between Right and Wrong. But however multiplied the connections of the moral and physical sciences are, it is not difficult to draw a general distinction be- hveen them. The purpose of the physical sciences throughout all their provinces, is to answer the question What is? They consist only of facts arranged according to their like- ness, and expressed by general names given to every class of similar facts. The purpose of the moral sciences is to answer the ques- tion ]Vhat ought to be ? They aim at ascer- taining the rules which ougJU to govern vo- luntary action, and to which those habitual dispositions of mind which are the source of voluntary actions ought to be adapted. It is obvious that '-'will," "action," "habit," •'disposition," are terms denoting facts in human nature, and that an explanation of them must be sought in mental philosophy, which, if knowledge be divided into physi- cal and moral, must be placed among physi- cal sciences, though it essentially differs from them all in having for its chief object those laws of thought which alone render any other sort of knowledge possible. But it is equally certain that the word "ought" introduces the mind into a new region, to which nothing physical corresponds. How- ever philosophers may deal with this most important of words, it is instantly understood by all who do not attempt to define it. No civilized speech, perhaps no human lan- g:uage, is without correspondent terms. It would be as reasonable to deny that "space" and "greenness" are significant words, as to affirm that "ought," "right," "'duty, " "vir- tue," are sounds without meaning. It would be fatal to an ethical theory that W did not explain them, and that it did not comprehend all the conceptions and emotions which they Ball up. There never yet was a theory which did not attempt such an explanation. SECTION I. PRELIMINARY OBSERVATIONS. There is no man who, in a case whero he was a calm bystander, would rot look with more satisfaction on acts of kindnes? than on acts of cruelty. No man, after the first excitement of his mind has subsided, ever whispered to himself with self-appro- bation and secret joy that "he had been guilty of cruelty or baseness. Every criminal ia strongly impelled to hide these qualities of his actions from himself, as he would do from others, by clothing his conduct in some disguise of duty, or of necessity. There if no tribe so rude as to be without a faini perception of a difference between Right and Wrong. There is no subject on which men of all ages and nations coincide in so many points as in the general rules of con- duct, and in the qualities of the human character which deserve esteem. Even the grossest deviations from the general consent will appear, on close examination, to be not so much corruptions of moral feeling, as ignorance of facts ; or errors \Vith respect to the consequences of action ; or cases in which the dissentient party is inconsistent with other parts of his own principles, which de.stroys the value of his dissent; or where each dissident is condemned by all the other dissidents, which immeasurably augments the majority against him. In the first three cases lie may be convinced by argument that his moral judgment should be changed on principles which he recognises as just ; and he can seldom, if ever, be condemned at the same time by the body of mankind who agree in their moral systems, and by those who on some other points dissent from that general code, without being also convicted of error by inconsistency with himself. The tribes who expose new-born infants, condemn those who abandon their decrepit parents to destruction: those who betray and murder strangers, are condemned by the rules of faith and humanity which they acknowledge in their intercourse with their countrymen. JNIr. Hume, in a dialogue in which he inge- niously magnifies the moral heresies of two nations so polished as the Athenians and the French, has very satisfactorily resolved his own difficulties: — "In how many circum- stances would an Athenian and a French- man of merit certainly resemble each other! — Humanity, fidelity, truth, justice, courage, temperance, constancy, dignity of mind." " The principles upon Avhieh men reason in Morals are always the same, though the conclusions which they draw are often very different."* He might have added, that almost every deviation which he imputes to each nation is at variance with some of the virtues justly esteemed by both, and that * Fhilosophical Works, vEdiiib. 1826,) vol. iv pp. 420, 422. DISSERTATION ON THE PROGRESS OF ETHICAL PHILOSOPHY. 97 the reciprocal condemnation of each other's errors which appears in his statement en- titles us, on these points, to strike out the suffrages of both when collecting the general judgment of mankind. If we bear in mind that the question relates to the coincidence of all men in considering the same qualities as virtues, and not to the preference of one class of virtues by some, and of a different class by others, the exceptions from the agreement of mankind, in their system of practical morality, will be reduced to abso- lute insignificance ; and we shall learn to view them as no more affecting the harmony of our moral faculties, than the resemblance of our limbs and features is affected by mon- strous conformations, or by the unfortunate effects of accident and disease in a very few individuals.* It is very remarkable, however, that though all men agree that there are acts which ought to be done, and acts which ought not to be done ; though the far greater part of mankind agree in their list of virtues and duties, of vices and crimes; and though the whole race, as it advances in other im- provements, is as evidently tending towards the moral system of the most civilized na- tions, as children in their growth tend to the opinions, as much as to the e.xperience and strength, of adults; yet there are no questions in the circle of inquiry to which answers more various have been given than — How men have thus come to agree in the ' Rule of Life V Whence arises their general reve- rence for if? and. What is meant by affirm- ing that it ought to be inviolably observed 1 It is singular, that where we are most nearly agreed respecting rules, we should perhaps most widely differ as to the causes of our agreement, and as to the reasons which justify us for adhering to it. The discussion of these subjects composes what is usually called the " Theory of Morals" in a sense not in all respects coincident with what is usually considered as theory in other sciences. When we investigate the causes of our moral agreement, the term "tiieory"' retains its * " On convient le plus souvent de ces insiincts Je la conscience. La plus grande et la plus saine partie du genre hiunain leur rend temoignage. Les Oiientaux, et les Grecs, et les Romains con- viennent en cela ; et il faudrolt eire aussi abruti que les sauvages Americains pour approuver leurs coutumes, pleines d'une cruaute qui passe meme celle des betes. Cependa7it ces memes sauvages senlent hien ce que c' est que la justice en d'autres occasions ; et quoique il n'y ait point de mauvaise pratique peut-etre qui ne soit autorisee quelque jtart, il y en a peu pourtant qui ne soient coii- damnees le plus souvent, et par la plus grande partie des hommes." — Leibnitz, QKuvres Pliilo- pophiques, (Amst. et Leipz. 1765, 4io.) p. 49. There are some admirable observations on this subject in Hartley, especially in the development of the 49th Proposition : — " The rule of life drawn from the practice and opinions of mankind corrects and improves itself perpetually, till at last it de- termines entirely for virtue, and excludes all kinds md degrees of vice." — Observations on Man, »ol. ii. p. 214. ordinary scientific sense ; but when we en- deavour to ascertain the reasons of it, we rather employ the term as importing the theory of the rules of an art. In the first case, ' theory' denotes, as usual, the most general laws to which certain facts can be reduced ; whereas in the second, it points out the efficacy of the observance, in practice, of certain rules, for producing the effects intended to be produced in the art. These reasons also may be reduced under the ge- neral sense by stating the question relating to them thus : — What are the causes why the observance of certain rules enables us to execute certain purposes'? An account of the various answers attempted to be made to these inquiries, properly forms the history of Ethics. The attentive reader may already per- ceive, that these momentous inquiries relate to at least two perfectly distinct subjects: — 1. The nature of the distinction between Right and Wrong in human conduct, and 2. The nature of those feelings with which Right and Wrong are contemplated by hu- man beings. The latter constitutes what has been called the ' Theory of Moral Sen- timents ;^ the former consists in an investiga- tion into the criterion of Morality in action. Other most important questions arise in this province : but the two problems which have been just stated, and the essential distinction between them, must be clearly apprehended by all who are desirous of understanding the controversies which have prevailed on ethical subjects. The discrimination has seldonr been made by moral philosophers; the difference between the two problems has never been uniformly observed by any of them : and it will appear, in the sequel, that they have been not rarely altogether confounded by very eminent men, to the destruction of all just conception and of all correct reasoning in this most important, and, perhaps, most difficult, of sciences. It may therefore be allowable to deviate so far from historical order, as to illustrate the nature, and to prove the importance, of the distinction, by an example of the ef- fects of neglecting it. taken from the recent works of justly celebrated writers ; in Avhich they discuss questions much agitated in the present age, and therefore probably now familiar to most readers of this Disserta- tion. Dr. Paley represents the principle of a Moral Sense as being opposed to that of utili- ty.* Now, it is evident that this represen- tation is founded on a confusion of the two questions which have been started above. That we are endued with a Moral Sense, or, in other words, a faculty which immediately approves what is right, and condemns what is wrong; is only a statement of the feelings with which we contemplate actions. Bu: * Principles of Moral and Political Philoso- phy. Compare book i. chap. v. with book i. chap. vi. 98 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. to affirm that right actions are those which conduce to the well-being of mankind, is a proposition concerning the outward effects by which right actions themselves may be recognised. As these ailirmations relate to different subjects, they cannot be opposed to each other, any more than the solidity of earth is inconsistent with the fluidity of water; and a very little reflection will show it to be easily conceivable that they may be both true. Man may be so constituted as instantaneously to approve certain actions without any reference to their consequences ; and yet Reason may nevertheless discover, that a tendency to produce general happiness is the essential characteristic of such actions. Mr. Bentham also contrasts the principle of Utility with that of Sympathy, of which he considers the Moral Sense as being one of the forms.* It is needless to repeat, that propositions which affirm, or deny, anything of different subjects, cannot contradict each other. As these celebrated persons have thus niferred or implied the non-existence of a Moral Sense, from, their opinion that the morality of actions depends upon their use- fulness, so other philosophers of equal name have concluded, that the utility of actions cannot be the criterion of their morality, be- cause a perception of that utility appears to them to form a faint and inconsiderable part of our Moral Sentiments, — if indeed it be at all discoverable in them.t These errors are the more remarkable, because the like con- fusion of perceptions with their objects, of emotions with their causes, or even the omis- sion to mark the distinctions, would in every other subject be felt to be a most serious fault in philosophizing. If, for instance, an element were discovered to be common to all bodies which our taste perceives to be sweet, and to be found in no other bodies, it is apparent that this discovery, perhaps im- portant in other respects, would neither affect our perception of sweetness, nor the pleasure which attends it. Both would con- tinue to be what they have been since the existence of mankind. Every proposition concerning that element would relate to sweet bodies, and belong to the science of Chemistry ; while every proposition respect- ing the perception or pleasure of sweetness would relate either to the body or mind of man, and accordingly belong either to the science of Physiology, or to that of Mental Philosophy. During the many ages which passed before the analysis of the sun's beams had proved them to be compounded of differ- ent colours, white objects were seen, and their whiteness was sometimes felt to be beautiful, in the very same manner as since * Introduction to the Principles of Morality and Legislation, chap. ii. t Smith, Theory of Moral Sentiments, part iv. Even Hume, in the third book of his Treatise of Human Nature, the most precise, perhaps, of his philosophical writings, uses the foiiowincr as the title of one of the sections : " Moral Distinclionn, derived from a Moral Sensed that discovery. The qualities of light are the object of Optics; the nature of beauty can be ascertained only by each man's ob- servation of his own mind; the changes in the living frame which succeed the lefrac* tion of light in the eye, and precede mental operation, will, if they are ever to be known by man, constitute a part of Physiology. But no proposition relating to one of these orders of phenomena can contradict or sup- port a proposition concerning another order. The analogy of this latter case will justi- fy another preliminary observation. In the case of the pleasure derived from beauty, the question whether that pleasure be ori- ginal, or derived, is of secondary importance. It has been often observed that the same properties which are admired as beautiful in the horse, contribute also to his safety and speed ; and they who infer that the admira- tion of beauty was originally founded on the convenience of fleetness and firmness, if they at the same time hold that the idea of useful- ness is gradually effaced, and that the admi- ration of a certain shape at length rises in- stantaneously, without reference to any pur- pose, may, with perfect consistency, regard a sense of beauty as an independent and universal principle of human nature. The laws of such a feeling of beauty are dis- coverable only by self-observation : those of the qualities which call it forth are ascer- tained by examination of the outward things which are called beautiful. But it is of the utmost importance to bear in mind, that he who contemplates the beautiful proportions of a horse, as the signs and proofs of security or quickness, and has in view these conveni- ent qualities, is properly said to prefer the horse for his usefulness, not for his beauty; though he may choose him from the same outward appearance which pleases the ad- mirer of the beautiful animal. He alone who derives immediate pleasure from the appearance itself, without reflection on any advantages which it may promise, is truly said to feel the beauty. The distinction, however, manifestly depends, not on the origin of the emotion, but on its object and nature when completely formed. Many of our most important perceptions through the eye are universally acknowledged to be ac- quired : but they are as general as the ori- ginal perceptions of that organ ; they arise as independently of our will, and human nature would be quite as imperfect without them. The case of an adult w^ho did not immediate- ly see the different distances of objects from his eye, would be thought by every one to be as great a deviation from the ordinary state of man, as if he were incapable of dis- tinguishing the brightest sunshine from the darkest midnight. Acquired perceptions and sentiments may therefore be termed natural, as much as those which are more common- ly so called, if they be as rarely found want- ing. Ethical theories can never be satisfac- torily discussed by those who do not con- stantly bear in mind, that the question DISSERTATION ON THE PROGRESS OF ETHi'CAL PHILOSOPHY 99 concerning the existence of a moral faculty in man, which immediately approves or dis- approves, without reference to any farther object, is perfectly distinct, on the one hand, from that which inquires into the qualities of actions, thus approved or disapjproved ; and on the other, from an inquiry whether that faculty be derived from other parts of our mental frame, or be itself one of the ultimate constituent principles of human nature. SECTION II. RETROSPECT OF ANCIENT ETHICS. Inquiries concerning the nature of Mind, the first principles of Knowledge, the origin and government of the world, appear to have been among the earliest objects which em- ployed the understanding of civilized men. Fragments of such speculation are handed down from the legendary age of Greek phi- losophy. In the remaining monuments of that more ancient form of civilization which sprung up in Asia, we see clearly that the Braminical philosophers, in times perhaps before the dawn of Western history, had run round that dark and little circle of systems which an unquenchable thirst of knowledge has since urged both the speculators of an- cient Greece and those of Christendom to retrace. The wall of adamant which bounds human inquiry in that direction has scarcely ever been discovered by any adventurer, until he has been roused by the shock which drove him back. It is otherwise with the theory of Morals. No controversy seems to have arisen regarding it in Greece till the rise and conflict of the .Stoical and Epicurean schools; and the ethical disputes of the modern world originated with the writings of Hobbes about the middle of the seven- teenth century. Perhaps the longer absti- nence from debate on this subject may have sprung from reverence for Morality. Per- haps also, where the world were unanimous in their practical opinions, little need was felt of exact theory. The teachers of Morals were content with partial or secondary prin- ciples, — with the combination of principles not always reconcilable, — even with vague but specious phrases which in any degree explained or seemed to explain the Rules of the Art of Life, appearing, as these last did, at once too evident to need investiga- tion, and too venerable to be approached by contro'versy. Perhaps the subtile genius of Greece was in part withheld from indulging itself in ethical controversy by the influence of So- crates, who was much more a teacher of virtue than even a searcher after Truth — Whom, well inspired, the oracle pronounced Wisest of men. tt was doubtless beci::se he chose that better part that he was thus spoken of by the man whose commendation is glory, and who, from the loftiest eminence of moral genius ever reached by a mortal, was per- haps alone worthy to place a new crown ou the brow of the martyr of Virtue. Aristippus indeed, a wit and a workUing, borrowed nothing from the conversations of Socrates but a few maxims for husbanding the enjoyments of sense. Antisthenes also, a hearer but not a follower, founded a school of parade and exaggeration, which caused his master to disown him by the ingenious rebuke, — "I see your vanity through your threadbare cloak."* The modest doubts of the most sober of moralists, and his indispo- sition to fruitless abstractions, were in pro- cess of time employed as the foundation of a systematic scepticism; — the most pre- sumptuous, inapplicable, and inconsistent of all the results of human meditation. But though his lessons Avere thus distorted by the perverse ingenuity of some who heard him, the authority of his practical sense may be traced in the moral writings of those most celebrated philosophers who were directly or indirectly his disciples. Plato, the most famous of his scholars, the most eloquent of Grecian writers, and the earliest moral philosopher Avhose writings have come down to us, employed his genius in the composition of dialogues, in which his master performed the principal part. These beautiful conversations would have lost their charm of verisimilitude, of dra- matic vivacity, and of picturesque represen- tation of character, if they had been sub- jected to the constraint of method. They necessarily presuppose much oral instruction. They frequently quote, and doubtless oftener allude to, the opinions of predecessors and contemporaries whose works have perished, and of whose doctrines only some fragments are preserved. In these circumstances, if. must be difficult for the most learned and philosophical of his commentators to give a just representation of his doctrines, even if he really framed or adopted a system. The moral part of his works is more accessible. t The vein of thought which runs through them is always visible. The object is to in- spire the love of Truth, of Wisdom, of Beauty, especially of Goodness — the highest Beauty, and of that Supreme and Eternal Mind, which contains all Truth and Wisdom, all Beauty and Goodness. By the love or de- lightful contemplation and pursuit of these transcendent aims for their own sake only, he represented the mind of man as raised from low and perishable object.?, and pre- pared for those high destinies which are ap- pointed for all those who are capable of en- joying them. The application to moral quali- ties of terms which denote outward beauty, though by him perhaps carried to excess, is * Diog. Laert. lib. vi. jElian, hb. i.x. cap. 3.5. t Heyse, Init. Phil. Plat. 1827 ;— a hiiherto in complete work of great perspicuity and elegance, in which we must excuse the partiality which be- longs to a labour of love. ur u. lOO MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. an illustrative metaphor, as well warranted by the poverty of language as any other em- ployed to signify the acts or attributes of Mind.* The "beautiful" 'a his language denoted all that of which the mere contem- plation is in itself delightful, without any admixture of organic pleasure, and without being regarded as the means of attaining any farther end. The feeling which belongs to it he called "love;" a word which, as com- prehending complacency, benevolence, and affection, and reaching from the neighbour- hood of the senses to the most sublime of human thoughts, is foreign to the colder and more exact language of our philosophy; but which, perhaps, then happily served to lure both the lovers of Poetry, and the votaries of Superstition, to the school of Truth and Goodness in the groves of the Academy. He enforced these lessons by an inexhaustible variety of just and beautiful illustrations, — sometimes striking from their familiarity, sometimes subduing by their grandeur ; and his works are the storehouse from which moralists have from age to age borrowed the means of rendering moral instruction easier and more delightful. Virtue he represented as the harmony of the whole soul ; — as a peace between all its principles and desires, assigning to each as much space as they can occupy, without encroaching on each other; — as a state of perfect health, in which every function was performed with ease, pleasure, and vigour; — as a well-ordered common- wealth, where the obedient passions exe- cuted with energy the laws and commands of Reason. The vicious mind presented the odious character, sometimes of discord, of war; — sometimes of disease; — always of passions warring with each other in eternal anarchy. Consistent with himself, and at peace with his fellows, the good man felt in the quiet of his conscience a foretaste of the approbation of God. "Oh, what ardent love would virtue inspire if she could be seen." " If the heart of a tyrant could be laid bare, we should see how it was cut and torn by its own evil passions and by an avenging conscience."! * The most probable etymology of " xat^oc " seems to be from Kaiw to burn. VVhat burns com- monly shines. " Schon," in German, which means beautiful, is derived from "scheinen," to shine. The word xotxoc was used for right, so early as the Homeric Poems. Ix. xvii. 19. In the philosophical age it became a technical term, with little other remains of the metaphorical sense than what the genius and art of a fine writer might sometimes rekindle. " Honestum" the term by which Cicero translates the " Kixov," being de- rived from outward honours, is a less happy me- taphor. In our language, the terms, being from foreign roois, contribute nothing to illustrate the progress of thought. t Let it not be forgotten, that for this terrible descripiion, Socrates, to whom it is ascribed by Plato (riox. I.) is called " Prsestaniissimus sapien- tisE," by a writer of the most masculine under- standing, the least subject to be transported by snihusiasm. — Tac. Ann. lib. vi. cap. 6. " Qua3 rulnera!" says Cicero, in alluding to the same aassage — De Off. lib. iii. cap. 2L Perhaps in every one of these illustrations, an eye trained in the history of Ethics may discover the germ of the whole or of a part of some subsequent theory. But to examine it thus would not be to look at it with the eye of Plato. His aim was as practical as that of Socrates. He employed every topic, without regard to its place in a system, or even always to its argumentative force, which could attract the small portion of the com- munity then accessible to cultivation ; who, it should not be forgotten, had no moral in- structor but the Philosopher, unaided, if not thwarted, by the reigning superstition : for Religion had not then, besides her own dis- coveries, brought down the most awful and the most beautiful forms of Moral Truth to the humblest station in human society.* Ethics retained her sober spirit in the hands of his great scholar and rival Aristo- tle, who, though he certainly surpassed all men in acute distinction, in subtile argument, in severe method, in the power of analyzing M'hat is most compounded, and of reducing to simple principles the most various and unlike appearances, yet appears to be still more raised above his fellows by the prodi- gious faculty of laying aside these extraor- dinary endowments whenever his present purpose required it; — as in his Histor}^ of Animals, in his treatises on philosophical cri- ticism, and in his practical writings, political as well as moral. Contrasted as his genius was to that of Plato, not only by its logical and metaphysical attributes, but by the re- gard to experience and observation of Nature which, in him perhaps alone, accompanied them; (though the two maybe considered as the original representatives of the two antagonist tendencies of philosophy — that which would ennoble man, and that which seeks rather to explain nature ;) yet opposite as they are in other respects, the master and the scholar combine to guard the Rule of Life against the licentious irruptions of the Sophists. In Ethics alone their systems differed more in words than in things. t That hap- * There can hardly be a finer example of Plato's practical morals than his observations on the treat- ment of slaves. "Genuine humanity and real probity," says he, "are brought to the test, by the behaviour of a man to slaves, whom he may wrong with impunity." AtdSuXoc yap o p6aii *»< fAii TrKi-o-TZi: (TiCooy tw Sikw. juitZv Si ivrm to aSmci h 'TcvTct; tZv avbfljTraiv Iv ok o-urZ P^itcv vSncuv, — "Ho/u. lib. vi. cap. 19. That Plato was considered as the fountain of ancient morals, would be sufii- cienily evident from Cicero alone: "Exhocigitui Platonis, quasi quodam sancto augustoque fonte nostra omnis manabit oratio." — Tusc. Quaest lib. V. cap. 12. Perhaps the sober Quintilian meant to mingle some censure with the highest praise: "Plato, qui eloquendi facultate divina quadam et Homerica, mulium supra prosam ora- tionem surgit." Dc Inst. Orat. lib. x. cap. 1. t " Unaet consentiensduobus vocabulisphiloso- pbiae forma inslituta est, Academicorum et Peri- pafeticorum; qui rebus congruentes nominibua differebant." — Cic. Acad, ^ucest. lib i. cap. ^4. DISSERTATION ON THE PROGRESS OF ETHIC A.L PHILOSOPHY. lOi pmess consisted ia virtuous pleasure, chiefly dependent on the state of mind, but not un- affected by outward agents, was the doctrine of both. Both would with Socrates have called happiness "unrepented pleasure." Neither distinguished the two elements which they represented as constituting the Supreme Good from each other; partly^ per- haps, from fear of appearing to separate them. Plato more habitually considered happiness as the natural fruit of Virtue ; Aristotle oftener viewed Virtue as the means of attaining happiness. The celebrated doc- trine of the Peripatetics, which placed all virtues in a medium between opposite vices, was probably suggested by the Platonic re- presentation of its necessity to keep up har- mony between the different parts of our na- ture. The perfection of a compound machine is attained where all its parts have the fullest scope for action. Where one is so far exert- ed as to repress others, there is a vice of ex- cess: where anyone has less activity than it might exert without disturbing others, there is a vice of defect. The point which all reach without collision with each other, is the mediocrity in which the Peripatetics placed Virtue. It was not till near a century after the death of Plato that Ethics became the scene of philosophical contest between the adverse schools of Epicurus and Zeno ; whose errors afford an instructive example, that in the formation of a theory, partial truth is equi- valent to absolute falsehood. As the astro- nomer who left either the centripetal or the centrifugal force of the planets out of his view, would err as completely as he who excluded both, so the Epicureans and Stoics, who each confined themselves to real but not exclusive principles in Morals, departed as widely from the truth as if they had adopted no part of it. Every partial theory is indeed directly false, inasmuch as it as- cribes to one or few causes what is produced by more. As the extreme opinions of one, if not of both, of these schools have been often revived with variations and refine- ments in modern times, and are still not without influence on ethical systems, it may be allowable to make some observations on this earliest of moral controversies. "All other virtues," said Epicurus, "grow from prudence, which teaches that we can- not live pleasurably without living justly and virtuously, nor live justly and virtuously with- out living pleasurably."* The illustration of this sentence formed the whole moral dis- cipline of Epicurus. To him we owe the general concurrence of reflecting men in succeeding times, in the important truth that men cannot be happy without a virtuous frame of mind and course of life ; a truth of inestimable value, not peculiar to the Epi- fcJ^oV nil fxh TTpctKrixiv , tcv iTa d'ia>3>irt>iiv. nai tov ^oZ, Tov ti fua-iK^v, x-i.) Xoytniv. — Diog. Laert. lib T. ^ 28. * Dio2. Laert. lib. .x. ^ 132. cureans, but placed by their exaggerationa in a stronger light; — a truth, it must be ad- ded, cf /ess importance as a motive to right conduct than as completing Moral Theory^ which, however, it is very far from solely constituting. With that truth the Epicure- ans blended another position, which indeed is contained in the first words of the above statement ; namely, that because Virtue pro- motes happiness, every act of virtue must be done in order-to promote the happiness of the agent. They and their modern follow- ers tacitly assume, that the latter position is the consequence of the former; as if it were an inference from the necessity of food to life, that the fear of death should be substi- tuted for the appetite of hunger as a motive for eating. "Friendship," says Epicurus, " is to be pursued by the wise man only for its usefulness, but he will begin ; as he sows the field in order to reap."* It is obvious, that if these words be confined to outward benefits, they may be sometimes true, but never can be pertinent; for outward acts sometimes show kindness, but never com- pose it. If they be applied to kind feeling, they would indeed be pertinent, but they would be evidently and totally false: for it is most certain that no man acquires an affec- tion merely from his behef that it would bo agreeable or advantageous to feel it. Kind- ness cannot indeed be pursued on account of the pleasure which belongs to it ; for man can no more know the pleasure till he has felt the affection, than he can form an idea of colour without the sense of sight. The moral character of Epicurus was excellent; no man more enjoyed the pleasure, or better performed the duties of friendship. The let- ter of his system was no more indulgent tc vice than that of any other moralist. t Al- though, therefore, he has the merit of having more strongly inculcated the connection of Virtue with happiness, perhaps by the faulty excess of treating it as an exclusive princi- ple ; yet his doctrine was justly charged witii mdisposing the mind to those exalted and generous sentiments, without which no pure, elevated, bold, generous, or tender virtues can exist. i As Epicurus represented the tcndoicy of Virtue, which is a most important truth in ethical theory, as the sole inducement to virtuous practice; so Zeno^ in his disposition * T;))" piKiat.v J'la T«c Xf^'"-^- — D'og- Laert. lib. x. M20. "Hie est locus," Gassendi confesses, " ob quem Epicurus non parum vcxatur, quando nemo non repreliendit, parari aniicitiam non sui, seel utilitatis gratia" t It is due to him to observe, tiiat he treated humanity towards slaves, as one of the cliaracier- isiics of a wise man. "Outs x4\aa-2/v ow^Tac, 5As;j. fiiv fjiiv Toi, *5ti truyyvlif^nv Ttvi i^nv tZv arrwJ'euani. — Diog. Laert. hb. x. ^ 118.. It is not unworthy of remark, that neither Plato nor Epicurus thought it necessary to abstain from these topics in a city full of slaves, many of whom were men not desti- tute of knowledge. t " Nil generosum, nil magnificum sapit.' — De Fin. hb. i. cap. 7. 102 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. towards the opposite extreme, was inclined to consider the moral sentiments, which are the motives of right conduct, as being the sole principles of moral science. The con- fusion was equally great in a philosophical view, but that of Epicurus was more fatal to interests of higher importance than those of Philosophy. Had the Stoics been content with affirming that Virtue is the source of aJl that part of our happiness which depends en ourselves, they would have taken a posi- tion from which it would have been impos- sible to drive them; they would have laid down a principle of as great comprehension in practice as their wider pretensions ; a simple and incontrovertible truth, beyond which every thing is an object of mere cu- riosity to man. Our information, however, about the opinions of the more celebrated Stoics is very scanty. None of their own writings are preserved. We know little of them but from Cicero, the translator of Gre- cian philosophy, and from the Greek com- pilers of a later age ; authorities which would be imperfect in the history of facts, but which are of far less value in the history of opinions, where a right conception often depends upon the minutest distinctions between words. We know that Zeno was more simple, and that Chrysippus, who was accounted the prop of the Stoic Porch, abounded more in subtile distinction and systematic spirit.* His power was attested as much by the an- tagonists whom he called forth, as by the scholars whom he formed. ''Had there been no Chrysippus, there would have been no Carneades/' was the saying of the latter philosopher himself; as it might have been said in the eighteenth century, " Had there been no Hume, there would have been no Kant and no Reid." Cleanlhes, when one of his followers would pay court to him by laying vices to the charge of his most for- midable opponent, Arcesilaus the academic, answered with a justice and candour un- happily too rare, " Silence, — do not malign him; — though he attacks Virtue by his argu- ments, he confirms its authority by his life." Arcesilaus, whether modestly or churlishly, replied, "I do not choose to be flattered." Cleanthes, with a superiority of repartee, as well as charity, replied, '•' Is it flattery to say that you speak one thing and do another 1" It would be vain to expect that the frag- ments of the professors who lectured in the Stoic School for five hundred years, should be capable of being moulded into one con- sistent system; and we see that in Epictetus at least, the exaggeration of the sect was lowered lo the level of Reason, by confining the sufficiency of Virtue to those cases only where happiness is attainable by our volun- * " Chrysippus, qui fulcire putatur portinum Stoicorum." — Acad. Quaest. lib. ii. cap. 24. Else- where (De Orat. lib. i. cap. 12. — De Fin. lib. iv. cap. 3.), " Acutissimus, sed in scribendo exilis et jojunus, scripsit rhetoricam seu potiiis obmute- Bccndi artem;" — nearly as we should speak of a Schoolman. tary acts. It ought to be added, in extenua- tion of a noble error, that the power of habit and character to struggle against outward evils has been proved by experience to be in some instances so prodigious, that no man can presume to fix the utmost limit of its ptesible increase. The attempt, however, of the Stoics to stretch the bounds of their system bej'ond the limits of Nature, doomed them to "fluc- tuate between a wild fanaticism on the one hand, and, on the other, concessions which left their differences from other philosophers purely verbal. Many of their doctrines ap- pear to be modifications of their original opinions, introduced as opposition became more formidable. In this manner they were driven to the necessity of admitting that the objects of our desires and appetites are wor- thy of preference, though they are denied to be constituents of happiness. It was thus that they were obliged to invent a double morality; one for mankind at large, from whom was expected no more than the xaOrj- xov, — which seems principally to have deno- ted acts of duty done from inferior or mixed motives; and the other (which they appear to have hoped from their ideal wise man) xa.TopOioi.ia, or perfect observance of rectitude, — which consisted only in moral acts done from mere reverence for Morality, unaided by any feelings; all which (without the ex- ception of pity) they classed among the ene- mies of Reason and the disturbers of the human soul. Thus did they shrink from their proudest paradoxes into verbal eva- sions. It is remarkable that men so acute did not perceive and acknowledge, that if pain .were not an evil, cruelly would not be a vice ; and that, if patience were of power to render torture indifferent. Virtue must ex pire in the moment of victory. There can be no more triumph, when there is no ene- my left to conquer.* Tke influence of men's opinions on the conduct of their lives is checked and modi- fied by so many causes; it so much depends on the strength of conviction, on its habitual combination with feelings, on the concur- rence or resistance of interest, passion, ex- ample, and sympath}^, — that a wise man is not the most forward in attempting to deter- mine the power of its single operation over human actions. In the case of an individual it becomes altogether uncertain. But when the experiment is made on a large scale, vv'hen it is long continued and varied in its circumstances, and especially when great bodies of men are for ages the subject of it, we cannot reasonably reject the considera- tion of the inferences to which it appears to lead. The Roman Patriciate, trained in the conquest and government of the civilized world, hi spite of the tyrannical vices which sprung from that training, were raised by * " Patience, sovereign o'er transmuted ill." But an soon as the ill was really " transmuted" into good, it is evident ihat there was no longei any scope left for the exercise of patienre. DISSERTATION ON THE PROGRESS OF ETHICAL PHILOSOPHY. 103 the greatness of their objects to an elevation of genius and character unmatched by any other aristocracy, ere the period when, after preserving their power by a long course of wise compromise with the people, they were betrayed by the army and the populace into the hands of a single tyrant of their own or- der — the most accomplished of usurpers, and, if Humanity and Justice could for a mo- ment be silenced, one of the most illustrious of men. There is no scene in history so memorable as that in which Caesar mastered a nobility of which Lucullus and Hortensius, Sulpicius and Catulus, Pompey and Cicero, Brutus and Cato were members. This re- nowned body had from the time of Scipio sought the Greek philosophy as an amuse- ment or an ornament. Some few, " in thought more elevate," caught the love of Truth, and were ambitious of discovering a solid founda- tion for the Rule of Life. The influence of the Grecian systems was tried, during the five centuries between Carneades and Con- stantine, by their effect on a body of men of the iitmost originality, energy, and variety of character, in their successive positions of rulers of the world, and of slaves under the best and under the worst of uncontrolled masters. If we had found this influence perfectly uniform, we should have justly suspected our own love of system of having in part bestowed that appearance on it. Had there been no trace of such an influence dis- coverable in so great an experiment, we must have acquiesced in the paradox, that opinion does not at all affect conduct. The result is the more satisfactorj^, because it appears to illustrate general tendency without excluding very remarkable exceptions. Though Cassius was an Epicurean, the true representative of that school was the accomplished, prudent, friendly, good-natured time-server Atticus, the pliant slave of every tyrant, who could kiss the hand of Antony, imbrued as it was in the blood of Cicero. The pure school of Plato sent forth Marcus Brutus, the signal humanity of whose life was both necessary and sufiicient to prove that his daring breach of venerable rules flowed only from that dire necessity which left no other means of up- holding the most sacred principles. The Ro- man orator, though in speculative questions he embraced that mitigated doubt which al- lowed most ease and freedom to his genius, yet in those moral writings where his heart was most deeply interested, followed the se- verest sect of Philosophy, and became almost a Stoic. If any conclusion may be hazard- ed from this trial of systems, — the greatest whicn History has recorded, we must not re- fuse our decided, though not undistinguish- ing, preference to that noble school which preserved great souls untainted at the court of dissolute and ferocious tyrants; which ex- alted the slave of one of Nero's courtiers to be a moral teacher of aftertimes ;. — which for the first, and hitherto for the only time, breathed philosophy and justice into those 'ules of .'aw which govern the ordinary con- cerns of every man ; and which, above ull, has contributed, by the examples of Marcua Portius Catc and of Marcus Aurelius Anto- ninus, to raise the dignity of our species, to keep alive a more ardent love of Virtue, and a more awful sense of duty throughout all generations.* The result of this short review of the prac- tical philosophy of Greece seems to be. that though it was rich in rules for the conduct of life, and in exhibitions of the beauty of Virtue, and though it contains glimpses of just theory and fragments of perhaps every moral truth, yet it did not leave behind any precise and coherent system ) unless we ex- cept that of Epicurus, who purchased con- sistency, method, and perspicuity too dearly by sacrificing Truth, and by narrowing and lowering his views of human nature, so as to enfeeble, if not extinguish, all the vigor- ous motives to arduous virtue. It is remark- able, that while of the eight professors who taught in the Porch, from Zeno to Posido nius, every one either softened or exaggera- ted the doctrines of his predecessor; and while the beautiful and reverend philosophy of Plato had, ill his own Academy, degene- rated into a scepticism v.-hich did not sparo Morality itself, the system of Epicurus re- mained without change ; and his disciples continued for ages to show personal honours to his memory, in a manner which may seem unaccountable among those who were taught to measure propriety by a calculation of pal- pable and outward usefulness. This steady adherence is in part doubtless attributable to the portion of truth which the doctrine contains; in some degree perhaps lo the amiable and unboastful character of Epicu- rus ; not a little, it may be, to the dishonot*'- of deserting an unpopular cause ; but pro- bably most of all to that mental indolence which disposes the mind to rest in a simple system, comprehended at a glance, and easily falling in, both with ordinary maxims of dis- cretion, and with the vulgar commonplaces of satire on human nature. t When all in- struction was conveyed by lectures, and when one master taught the whole circle of the sciences in one school, it was natural that the attachment of pupils to a professor should be more devoted than when, as in * Of all testimonies to the character of the Stoics, perhaps the most decisive is the speech of the vile sycophant Capito, in the mock impeachment of I'hrasea Paetus, before a senate of slaves: " Ut quondam C. Caesarem et M. Catonem, ita nunc te, Nero, et Thraseam, avida discordiarum civitaa loquitur Ista secta Tuberones et Favonios, veteri quoque reipubiicae injjrata nomina, genuit." — Tacit. Ann. lib. xvi. cap. 22. See Appendix, Note A. t The progress of commonplace satire on sexes or professions, and (he might have added) on na- tions, has been exquisitely touched by Gray in his Remarks on Lydgate ; a fragment containing pas- sages as finely thought and written as any in Eng- lish prose. General satire on mankind is still more absurd ; for no invective can be so unreasona ble as that which is founded on falling short of au ideal standard. 104 MACKINTOSH'S MSCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. aur times, he can teach only a small portion of a Knowledge spreading towards infinity, and even in his own little province finds a rival in every good writer who has treated the same subject. The superior attachment of the Epicureans to their master is not with- out some parallel among the followers of similar principles in our own age, who have also revived some part of that indifl'erence to eloquence and poetry which may be im- puted to the habit of contemplating all things in relation to happiness, and to (what seems its uniform elfecl) the egregious miscalcu- lation which leaves a multitude of mental pleasures out of the account. It may be said, indeed, that the Epicurean doctrine has continued with little change to the present day; at least it is certain that no other ancient doctrine has proved so capable of being re- stored in the same form among the moderns: and it may be added, that Hobbes and Gas- sendi, as well as some of our own contem- poraries, are as confident in their opinions, and as intolerant of scepticism, as the old Epicureans. The resemblance of modern to ancient opinions, concerning some of those questions upon which ethical controversy must always hinge, may be a sufficient ex- cuse for a retrospect of the Greek morals, which, it is hoped, will simplify and shorten subsequent observation on those more recent disputes which form the proper subject of this discourse. The genius of Greece fell Avith Liberty. The Grecian philosophy received its mortal wound in the contests between scepticism and dogmatism which occupied the Schools in the age of Cicero. The Sceptics could only perplex, and confute, and destroy. Their oc- cupation was gone as soon as they succeeded. They had nothing to substitute for what they overthrew; and they rendered their own art of no further use. They were no more than venomous animals, who stung their victims to death, but also breathed their last into the wound. A third age of Grecian literature indeed arose at Alexandria, under the Macedonian kings of Egypt ; laudably distinguished by exposition, criticism, and imitation (some- times abused for the purposes of literary forgery), and still more honoured by some learned and highly-cultivated poets, as well as by diligent cultivators of History and Science ; among whom a few began, about the first preaching of Christianit}', to turn their minds once more to that high Philoso- phy which seeks for the fundamental prin- ciples of human knowledge. Philo, a learned and philosophical Hebrew, one of the flour- ishing colony of his nation established in that city, endeavoured to reconcile the Pla- tonic philosophy with the Mosaic Law and the Sacred Books of the Old Testament. About the end of the second century, when the Christians, Hebrews, Pagans, and various other sects of semi- or p.?eudo-Christian Gnos- tics appear to have studied in the same wihools, the almost inevitable tendency of doctrines, however discordant, in such cir cumstances to amalgamate, produced its full effect under Ammonius Saccas, a celebrated professor, who, by selection from the Greek systems, the Hebrew books, and the Oriental religions, and by some concession to the ris- ing spirit of Christianity, of which the Gnos- tics had set the example, composed a very mixed system, commonly designated as the Eclectic philosophy. The controversies be- tween his contemporaries and followers, es- pecially those of Clement and Origen, the victorious champions of Christianity, with Plotinus and Porphyry, who endeavoured to preserve Paganism by clothing it in a dis- guise of philosophical Theism, are, from the eflects towards which they contributed, the most memorable in the history of human opinion.* But their connection v.'ilh modern Ethics is too faint to warrant any observation in this place, on the imperfect and partial memorials of them which have reached us. The death of Boelhius in the West, and the closing of the Athenian Schools by Justinian, may be considered as the last events in the history of ancient philosophy.! SECTION III. RETKOSPECT OF SCHOLASTIC ETHICS. An interval of a thousand years elapsed between the close of ancient and the rise of modern philosophy ; the most unexplored, yet not the least instructive portion of the history of European opinion. In that period the sources of the institutions, the manners, and the chara.cteristic distinctions of modern nations, have been traced by a series of philosophical inquirers from Montesquieu to Hallam ; and there also, it may be added, more than among the Ancients, are the well- springs of our speculative doctrines and con- troversies. Far from being inactive, the hu- man mind, during that period of exaggerated darkness, produced discoveries in Science, inventions in Art, and contrivances in Go- * The change attempted by Julian, Porphyry, and their friends, liy which Theism would have become the popular Religion, may be estimated by the memorable passage of Tacitus on the The- ism of the Jews. In the midst of all the obloquy and opprobrium with which he loads that people, his tone suddenly rises, when he comes lo con- template them ns the only nation who paid re- ligious honours to the Supreme and Eternal Mind alone, and bis style swells at the sight of so sub- lime and wonderful a scene. " Summum ilhid ef a3"ternum, neque mutabile, neque interiturum." Hist. lib. v. cap. 5. t The punishment of death was inflicted on Pagans by a law of Constantius. " Volumus cunctos sacrificiis abstinere : si aliquid hujusmodi perpetraverint, gladio ultore sternantur." Cod. Just. lib. i. lit. xi. ' de Paganis.' From the au- thorities cited by Gibbon, (note, chap, xi.) as weh as from some research, it should seem that the edict for the suppression of the Atlienian schoola was not admitted into the vast collection of laws enacted or systematized by Justinian. DISSERTATION ON THE PROGRESS OF ETHICAL PHILOSOPHY. 105 Ternment, some of M-hich, perhaps, were rather favoured than hindered by the dis- orders of society, and by the twilight in which men and things were seen. Had Boethius, the last of the ancients, foreseen, that within four centuries of his death, in the province of Britain, then a prey to all the horrors of barbaric invasion, a chief of one of the fiercest tribes of barbarians* should translate into the jargon of his freebooters the work on The Consolations of Philosophy, of which the composition had soothed the cruel imprisonment of the philosophic Roman himself, he must, even amidst his sufferings, have derived some gratification from such an assurance of the recovery of mankind from ferocity and ignorance. But had he been allowed to revisit the earth in the mid- dle of the sixteenth century, with what won- der and delight might he have contemplated the new and fairer order which was begin- ning to disclose its beauty, and to promise more than it revealed. He would have seen personal slavery nearly extinguished, and women, first released from Oriental impri- sonment by the Greeks, and raised to a higher dignity among the Romans.t at length fast approaching to due equality; — two revolu- tions the most signal and beneficial since the dawn of civilization. He would have seen the discovery of gunpowder, which for ever guarded civilized society against barbarians, while it transferred military strength from the few to the many; of paper and printing, which rendered a second destruction of the repositories of knowledge impossible, as well as opened a way by which it was to be finally accessible to all mankind; of the compass, by means of which navigation had ascertained the form of the planet, and laid open a new continent, more extensive than his world. If he had turned to civil institu- tions, he might have learned that some nations had preserved an ancient, simple, and seemingly rude mode of legal proceed- ing, which threw into the hands of the ma- jority of men a far larger share of judicial power, than was enjoyed by them in any ancient democracy. He would have seen everywhere the remains of that principle of representation, the glory of the Teutonic race, by which popular government, an- ciently imprisoned in cities, became capa- ble of being strengthened by its extension over vast countries, to which experience cannot even now assign any limits; and which, in times still distant, was to exhibit, in the newly discovered Continent, a repub- * King Alfred. t The steps of this important progress, as far as relates to Athens and Rome, are well remarked up^n by one of the finest of the Roman writers. " Q.uem enim Romanorum pudet u.xorem ducere ill convivium ? ant cujus materfamiiias non primuin locum tenet aedium, atquein celebritate versatur ? qnod mu'.io fit aliter in Grscia : nam neqiie in con- vivium adhibetiir, nisi propinqiiorum ; neque sedet nisi in interiore parte ajdiiim, qiia3 GyncBconitis ap- pellatiir, quo nemo aecedit, nisi propinqiia cogna- tione conjunctus." Corn. Nep. in Praifat. 7 lican confederacy, likely to surpass the j\Iace- donian and Roman empires in extent, great ness, and duration, but gloriously founded or? the equal rights, not like them on the uni- versal subjection, of mankind. In cue re- spect, indeed, he might have lamented that the race of man had made a reallj' retrograde movement; that they had lost the liberty of philosophizing; that the open exercise of their highest faculties was interdicted. But he might also have perceived that this giant evil had received a mortal wound from Lu- ther, who in his warfare against Rome had struck a blow against all human authority, and unconsciously disclosed to mankind that they were entitled, or rather bound, to form and utter their own opinions, and that most certainly on whatever subjects are the most deeply interesting : for although tliis most fruitful of moral truths was not yet so re- leased from its combination with the wars and passions of the age as to assume a dis- tinct and visible form, its action was already discoverable in the divisions among the Re- formers, and ill the fears and struggles of civil and ecclesiastical oppressors. The Council of Trent; and the Courts of Paris, Madrid, and Rome, had before that time fore- boded the emancipation of Reason. Though the middle age be chiefly memo- rable as that in which the foundations of a new Older of societ}^ were laid, uniting the stability of the Oriental system, without its inflexibility, to the activity of the Hellenic civilization, without its disorder and incon- stancy ; yet it is not unworthy of notice by us here, on account of the subterranean cur- rent which flows through it, from the specu- lations of ancient to those of modern times. That dark stream must be uncovered before the history of the European Understanding can be thoroughly comprehended. It was lawful for the emancipators of Reason in their first struggles to carry on mortal war against the Schoolmen. The necessity has long ceased; they are no longer dangerous, and it is now felt by philosophers that it is time to explore and estimate that vast portion of the history of Philosophy from \^'hich we have scornfully turned our eyes.* A few sentences only can be allotted to the subject in this place. In the very depths of the Mid- * Tennemann, Geschichte der Phiiosophie. Cousin, Conrs de Phiiosophie, Paris, 1828. My esteem for this last admirable writer encourages me to say, that the beauty of his diction has some- times the same effect on his thoughts that a sunny haze produces on outward objects ; and to submit to his serious consideration, whether the allure- ments of SchelHng's system have not betrayed him into a too frequent forgetfulness that princi- ples, equally adapted to all piienomena, furnish in speculation no possible test of their truth, and lead, in practice, to total indifference and inaciivity re specting human Affairs. I quote with pleasure an excellent observation from this won?: "La moyen age n'estpas autre chose que !a formation penible, lente ct sanglanle, de tons les elemens de la civilisation moderne ; je dis la formation, et non leur developpement." (Qnd Lecture, p. 27.i 106 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. faintly broken by i few thinly scattered lights. Even then, Moses Ben Maimon taught philo- sophy among the persecuted Hebrews, whose ancient scliools had never perhaps been wholly interrupted ; and a series of distin- guished Mahometans, among whom two are known to us by the names of Avicenna and Averroes, translated the Peripatetic writings into their own language, expounded their doctrines in no servile spirit to their follow- ers, and enabled the European Christians to make those versions of them from Arabic into Latin, which in the eleventh and twelfth centuries gave birth to the scholastic philo- sophy. The Schoolmen were properly theologians, who employed philosophy only to define and support that system of Christian belief which they and their contemporaries had embraced. The founder of that theological system was Aurelius Augustinus* (called by us Augus- tin), bishop of Hippo, in the province of Af- rica; a man of great genius and ardent character, who adopted, at different periods of his life, the most various, but at all times the most decisive and systematic, as well as daring and extreme opinions. This extra- ordinary man became, after some struggles, the chief Doctor, and for ages almost the sole oracle, of t|^e Latin church. It hap- pened by a singular accident, that the School- men of the twelfth century, who adopted his theology, instead of borrowing their defen- sive weapons from Plato, the favourite of their master, had recourse for the exposition and maintenance of their doctrines to the writings of Aristotle, the least pious of phi- losophical theists. The Augustinian doc- trines of original sin, predestination, and grace, little known to the earlier Christian writers, who appear indeed to have adopted opposite and milder opinions, were espoused by Augustin himself in his old age ; when, by a violent swing from his youthful Mani- cheism. which divided the sovereignity of the world between two adverse beings, he did not shrink, in his pious solicitude for tracing the power of God in all events, from presenting the most mysterious parts of the moral government of the Universe, in their darkest colours and their sternest shape, as articles of faith, the objects of the habitual meditation and practical assent of mankind. The principles of his rigorous system, though not with all their legitimate consequences, were taught in the schools; respectfully pro- mulgated rather than much inculcated by the Western Church (for in the East these opinions seem to have been unknown); scarcely perhaps distinctly assented to by the majority of the clergy; and seldom heard of by laymen till the systematic ge- nius and fervid eloquence of Calvin ren- dered them a popular creed in the most devout and moral portion of the Christian world. Anselm.t the Piedmontese Arch- bishop of Canterbury, was the earliest re- • See Note B. t Born, 1033; died, 1109. viver of the Augustinian opinions, Aquinas* was their most redoubted champion. To them, however, the latter joined others of a different spirit. Faith, according to him, was a virtue, not in the sense in which it denotes the things believed, but in that in which it signifies the state of mind which leads to right Belief. Goodness he regarded as the moving principle of the Divine Gov- ernment; Justice, as a modification of Good- ness ; and, with all his zeal to magnify the Sovereignity of God, he yet taught, that though God always wills what is just, no- thing is just solely because He wills it. Scotus,! the most subtile of doctors, recoila from the Augustinian rigour, though he ra- ther intimates than avows his doubts. He was assailed for his tendency towards the Pelagian or Anti-Augustinian doctrines by many opponents, of whom the most famous in his own time was Thomas Bradwardine,! Archbishop of Canterbury, formerly confes- sor of Edward III., whose defence of Pre- destination was among the most noted works of that age. He revived the principles of the ancient philosophers, who, from Plato to Marcus Aurelius, taught that error of judgment, being involuntary, is not the proper subject of moral disapprobation ; which indeed is implied in Aquinas' ac- count of Faith. § But he appears to have been the first whose language inclined to- wards that most pernicious of moral here- sies, which represents Morality to be found- ed on Will.ll William of Ockham, the most justly cele- brated of English Schoolmen, went so far beyond this inclination of his master, as to affirm, that "if God had commanded his creatures to hate Himself, the hatred of God would ever be the duty of man;"' — a mon- strous hyperbole, into which he was perhaps betrayed by his denial of the doctrine of general ideas, the pre-existence of which in the Eternal Intellect was commonly regarded as the foundation of the immutable nature of Morality. This doctrine of Ockham, which by necessary implication refuses moral attri- butes to the Deity, and contradicts the ex- istence of a moral government, is practically * Born, 1224; died, 1274. See Note C. t Born about 1265 ; died at Cologne (where his grave is still shown) in 1308. Whether he was a native of Dimston in Northumberland, or of Dunse in Berwickshire, or oi Down in Ireland, was a question long and warmly contested, but which seems to be settled by his biographer, Luko Wadding, who quotes a passage of Scotus' Com- mentary on Aristotle's Metaphysics, where he illustrates his aiuhor thus: "As in the defini- tion of St. Francis, or St. Patrick, man is ne- cessarily presupposed." Scott. Op. i. 3. ii s Sco- tus was a Franciscan, the mention of St. Patrick seems to show that he was an Irishman. See Note D. X Born about 1290 ; died 1349 ; the contempo- rary of Chaucer, and probably a fellow-studp>:'. of Wicliffe and Roger Bacon. His principal work was entitled, ' De Causa Dei confa Pela- gium, et de Virtute Causarum, Libri tres.' § See Note E. II See Note F. DISSERTATION ON THE PROGRESS OF ETHICAL PHILOSOPHY. 107 equivalent to atheism.* As all devotional feelings have moral qualities for their sole object ; as no being can inspire love or rever- ence otherwise than by those qualities which are naturally amiable or venerable, this doc- trine would, if men were consistent, e.xlin- guish piety, or, in other words, annihilate Religion. Yet so astonishing are the contra- dictions of human nature, that this most im- pious of all opinions probably originated in a pious solicitude to magnify the Sovereignty of God, and to exalt Hib authority even above His own goodness. Henf^e we may under- stand its adoption by John Gerson, the oracle of the Council of Constance, and the great opponent of the spiritual monarchy of the Pope, — a pious mystic, who placed religion in devout feeling. t In further explanation, it may be added, that Gerson was of the sect of the Nominalists, of which Ockham was the founder, and that he was the more ready to follow his master, because they both courageously maintained the indepen- dence of the State on the Church, and the authority of the Church over the Pope. The general opinion of the schools was, however, that of Aquinas, who, from the native sound- ness of his own understanding, as well as from the excellent example of Aristotle, was averse from all rash and extreme dogmas on questions which had any relation, however distant, to the duties of life. It is very remarkable, though hitherto un- observed, tnat Aquinas anticipated those controversies respecting perfect disinterest- edness in the religious affections which oc- cupied the most illustrious members of his communioni' four hundred years after his death; and that he discussed the like ques- tion respecting the other affections of human nature with a fulness and clearness, an ex- actness of distinction, and a justness of determination, scarcely surpassed by the most acute of modern philosophers. § It ought to be added, that, according to the most natural and reasonable construction of his words, he allowed to the Church a con- trol only over spiritual concerns, and recog- nised the supremacy of the civil powers in all temporal affairs. II It has already been stated that the scho- lastic system was a collection of dialectical Bubtilties, contrived for the support of the * A passage to this effect, from Ockham, wiih nearly the same remark, has, since the text was written, been discovered on a reperusal of Cud- worth's Immutable Morahty, p. 10. t " Remitto ad quod Occam de hac materia in Lib. Sentent. dicit, in qua explicaiione si rudis iudi^cetur, nescioquidappellabitursubtilitas." — De Vita vSpirit. Op. iii. 14. t Bossuet and Fenelon. _ ^ See Aquinas. — " Utrum Deus sit super omnia niligeridus e.x: caritate." — "Utrum in dileciione Dei poi'sit haberi respectus ad aliquam merce- dem." — Opera, ix. 322, 325. Some illustrations of this memorable anticipation, which has escaped .he research even of the industrious Tenneman, wid b6 found in the Note G. ii See Note H. corrupted Christianity of that age, by a suc- cession of divines, whose extraordmary pow- ers of distinction and reasoning were mor- bidly enlarged in the long meditation of the Cloister, by the exclusion of every other pursuit, and the consequent palsy of every other f^aculty ; — who were cut ofT from all the materials on which the mind can operate, and doomed for ever to toil in defence of what they must never dare to examine ; — to whom their age and their condition denied the means of acquiring literature, of observ- ing Nature, or of studying mankind. The fev,' in whom any portion of imagination and sensibility survived this discipline, retired from the noise of debate, to the contem- plation of pure and beautiful visions. They were called Mystics. The greater part, dri- ven back on themselves, had no better em- ployment than to weave cobwebs out of the terms of art which they had vainlj-, though ingeniously, multiplied. The institution of clerical celibac)-, originating in an enthusi- astic pursuit of Purity, promoted by a mis- take in moral prudence, which aimed a» raising religious teachers in the esteem ol their fellows, and at concentrating their whole minds on professional duties, at last encour- aged by the ambitious policy of the See of Rome, which was desirous of detaching them from all ties but her own, had the effect of shutting up all the avenues which Providence has opened for the entrance of social affection and virtuous feeling into the human heart. Though this institution per- haps prevented Knowledge from becoming once more the exclusive inheritance of a sacerdotal caste ; though the rise of innumer- able laymen, of the lowest condition, to the highest dignities of the Church, was the grand democratical principle of the Middle Age, and one of the most powerful agents in impelling mankind towards a better order; yet celibacy must be considered as one of "the peculiar infelicities of these secluded philosophers; not only as it abridged their happiness, nor even solely, though chiefly, as it excluded them from the school in which the heart is humanized, but also (an inferior consideration, but more pertinent to our pre- sent purpose) because the extinction of these moral feelings was as much a subtraction from the moralist's store of facts and meana of knowledge, as the loss of sight or of touch could prove to those of the naturalist. Neither let it be thought that to have been destitute of Letters was to them no more than a want of an ornament and a curtail- ment of gratification. Every poem, every history, every oration, every picture, every statue, is an experiment on human feeling, — the grand object of investigation by the moralist. Every work of genius in every department of ingenious Art and polite Lite- rature, in proportion to the extent and dura- tion of its sway over the Spirits of men, ia a repository of ethical facts, of which the moral philosopher cannot be deprived by hi.s own insensibility, or by the miquity of thf 108 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. times, without being robbed of the most pre- cious instruments and invaluable materials of his science. Moreover, Letters, which are closer to human feeling than Science can ever be, have another influence on the sen- timents with which the sciences are viewed, on the activity with which they are pursued, on the safety with which they are preserved, and even on the inode and spirit in which they are cultivated : they are the channels by which ethical science has a constant in- tercourse with general feeling. As the arts called useful maintain the popular honour of physical knowledge, so polite Letters allure the world into the neighbourhood of the sciences of Mind and of Morals. Whenever the agreeable vehicles of Literature do not convey their doctrines to the public, they are liable to be interrupted by the dispersion of a handful of recluse doctors, and the over- throw of their barren and unlamented se- minaries. Nor is this all : these sciences themselves suffer as much when they are thus released from the curb of common sense and natural feeling, as the public loses by the want of those aids to right practice which moral knowledge in its sound state is qualifiod to afford. The necessity of being intelligible, at least to all persons who join superior understanding to habits of rellec- tion, and who are themselves in constant communication with the far wider circle of intelligent and judicious men, which slowly but surely forms general opinion, is the only effectual check on the natural proneness of metaphysical speculations to degenerate into gaudy dreams, or a mere war of words. The disputants who are set free from the whole- some check of sense and feehng, generally car- ry their dogmatism so far as to rouse the scep- tic, who from time to time is provoked to look into the fiimsiness of their cobwebs, and rush- es in with his besom to sweep them, and their systems, into oblivion. It is true, that Lite- rature, which thus draws forth Moral Science from the schools into the world, and recalls her from thorny distinctions to her natural alliance with the intellect and sentiments of mankind, may, in ages and nations other- wise situated, produce the contrary evil of rendering Ethics shallow, declamatory, and inconsistent. Europe at this moment affords, in different countries, specimens of these opposite and alike-mischievous extremes. But we are now concerned only with the temptations and errors of the scholastic age. VVe ought not so much to wonder at the mistakes of men so situated, as that they, without the restraints of the general under- standing, and with the clogs of system and establishment, should in so many instances have opened questions untouched by the more unfettered Ancients, and veins of spe- culation since mistakenly supposed to have been first explored in more modern times. Scarcely any metaphysical controversy agi- tated among recent philosophers was un- known to the Schoolmen, unless we except that which relates to Liberty and Necessity, and this would be an exception of iloubtfiu propriety ; for the disposition to it is clearly discoverable in the disputes of the Thomists and Scotists respecting the Augustinian and Pelagian doctrines,* although they were re- strained from the avowal of legitimate con- sequences on either side by the theological authority which both parties acknowledged. The Scotists steadily affirmed the blameless- iiess of erroneous opinion ; a principle which is the only effectual security for conscien- tious inquiry, for mutual kindness, and for public quiet. The controversy between the Nominahsts and Kealists, treated by some modern writers as an example of barbarous wrangling, was in truth an anticipation of that modern dispute which still divides meta- physicians, — Whether the human mind can form general ideas, or Whether the words which are supposed to convey such ideas be not terms, representing only a number of particular perceptions'? — questions so far Jrom frivolous, that they deeply concern both the nature of reasoning and the struc- ture of language ; on which Hobbes, Berkeley, Hume, Stewart, and Tooke, have followed the Nominalist; and Descartes, Locke, Reid, and Kant have, with various modifications and some inconsistencies, adopted the doc- trine of the Realists. t With the Schoolmen appears to have originated the form, though not the substance, of the celebrated maxim, which, whether true or false, is pregnant with systems, — "There is nothing in the Understanding which was not before in the Senses." Ockhamt the Nominalist first de- nied the Peripatetic doctrine of the exist- ence of certain species (since the time of Descartes called "ideas") as the direct ob- jects of perception and thought, interposed between the mind and outward objects ; the modern opposition to which by Dr. Reid haa been supposed to justify the allotment of so high a station to that respectable philosopher. He taught also that we know nothing of Mind but its acts, of which we are conscious. More inclination towards an independent philosophy is to be traced among the School- men than might be expected from their cir- cumstances. Those who follow two guides will sometimes choose for themselves, and may prefer the subordinate one on some oc- casions. Aristotle rivalled the Church; and the Church herself safely allowed consider- * See Note I. + Locke speaks on ibis subject inconsistently ; Reid calls himself a conceptiialist ; Kant uses terms so diflerent, that lie ought perhaps to be considered as of neither parly. Leibniiz, varying in some measure from the general spirit of his speculations, warmly panegyrizes the Nominalists: " Secia Nominalium, omnium inter scholasticos profundissima, et liodiernse reformatae philosoph- andi ration! congruentissima." — Op. iv. 59. t " Ma.ximi vir ingenii, et eruditionis pro illo cevo summse, Wilhelnnis Occam, Anglus." lb. 60. The writings of Ockham, which are very rare, I have never seen. I owe my knowledge of them to Tennemann, who iiowever quotes tbe word* of Ockham, and of his disciple Biel. DISSERTATION ON THE PROGRESS OF ETHICAL PHILOSOPHY. 109 able latitude to the philosophical reasonings of those who weie only heard or read in colleges or cloisters, on condition that they neither impugned her authority, nor dis- sented from her worship, nor departed from the language of her creeds. The Nominalists were a freethinking sect, who, notwithstand- ing their defence of kings against the Court of Rome, were persecuted by the civil power. It should not be forgotten that Luther was a Nominalist.* If not more remarkable, it is more perti- nent to our purpose, that the ethical system Ci the Schoolmen, or, to speak more proper- ly, of Aquinas, as the Moral Master of Chris- tendom for three centuries, was in its practi- cal part so excellent as to leave little need* of extensive change, with the inevitable ex- ception of the connection of his religious opinions with his precepts and counsels. His Rule of Life is neither lax nor impracti- cable. His grounds of duty are solely laid in the nature of man, and in the well-being of society. Such an intruder as Subtilty sel- dom strays into his moral instructions. With a most imperfect knowledge of the Peripa- tetic writings, he came near the Great Mas- ter, by abstaining, in practical philosophy, from the unsuitable exercise of that faculty of distinction, in which he would probably have shown that he was little inferior to Aristotle, if he had been equally unrestrained. His very frequent coincidence with modern moralists is doubtless to be ascribed chiefly to the nature of the subject ; but in part also to that unbroken succession of teachers and writers, which preserved the observations contained in what had been long the text- book of the European Schools, after the books themselves had been for ages banished and forgotten. The praises bestowed on Aquinas by every one of the few great men who ap- pear to have examined his writings since the downfal of his power, amung whom may be mentioned Erasmus, Grotius, and Leib- nitz, are chiefly, though not solel}^, referable to his ethical works. t Though the Schoolmen had thus anticipa- ted many modern controversies of a properly metaphysical sort, they left untouched most of those questions of ethical theory which were unknown to, or neglected by, the An- cients. They do not appear to have discri- minated between the nature of moral senti- ments, and the criterion of moral acts: to have considered to what faculty of our mind moral approbation is referable ; or to have inquired whether our Moral Faculty, what- ever it may be, is implanted or acquired. Those who measure only by palpable results, have very consistently regarded the meta- physical and theological controversies of the Schools as a mere waste of intellectual * '■ In Manini Liiiheri scripiis prioribiis amor Nominalium salis ehicct, donee procedente tem- »ore erga iinines monachos cequaliier affectus esse ccepii." — Leibi'itz, 0pp. iv. GO. t Sep eppeciallv the excellent Preface of Leib- niti to Nizoliua, ^ 37.— lb. 59. power. But the contemplation of the athletic vigour and versatile skill manifested by the European understanding, at the moment when it emerged from this tedious and rug- ged discipline, leads, if not to approbation, yet to more qualified censure. What might have been the result of a different combina- nation of circumstances, is an inquiry which, on a large scale, is beyond human power. We may, however, venture to say that no abstract science, unconnected with Religion, is likely to be respected in a barbarous age ; and we may be allowed to doubt whether any knowledge dependent directly on expe- rience and applicable to immediate practice, would have so trained the European mind as to qualify it for that series of inventions, and discoveries, and institutions, which be- gins with the sixteenth century, and of which no end can now be foreseen but the extinction of the race of man. The fifteenth century was occupied by the disputes of the Realists with the Nominalists, in which the scholastic doctrine expired. After its close no Schoolman of note appear- ed. The sixteenth may be considered as the age of transition from the scholastic to the modern philosoph}'. The former, indeed, retained possession of the Universities, and was long after distinguished by all the en- signs of authority. But the mines were al- ready prepared : the revolution in Opinion had commenced. The moral writings of the preceding times had generally been com- mentaries on that part of the Summa Theo- logias of Aquinas which relates to Ethics. Though these still continued to be published, yet the most remarkable moralists of the six- teenth century indicated the approach of other modes of thinking, by the adoption of the more independent titles of "Treatises on Justice" and "Law." These titles were suggested, and the spirit, contents, and style of the writings themselves were materially afTected by the improved cultivation of the Roman law, by the renewed study of ancient literature, and by the revival of various sys- tems of Greek philosophj', now studied in the original, which at once mitigated and rival- led the scholastic doctors, and while they rendered philosophy more free, re-opened its communications with society and affairs. The speculative theology which had arisen under the French governments of Paris and London in the twelfth century, which flour- ished in the thirteenth in Italy in the hands of Aquinas, which was advanced in the British Islands by Scotus and Ockham in the fourteenth, was, in the sixteenth, with una- bated acuteness, but with a clearness and elegance unknown before the restoration of Letters, cultivated by Spain, in that age the most powerful and magnificent of the Euro- pean nations. Many of these writers treated the law of war and the practice of hostilities in a juridi- cal form.* Francis Victoria, who began t« * Many of the separate dissertations, on points of this nature, are contained in the immense collec- 110 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. teach at Valladolld in 1525, is said to have first expounded the doctrines of the Schools in the language of the age of Leo the Tenth. Dominic Soto,* a Dominican, the confessor of Charles V., and the oracle of the Council of Trent, to whom that assembly were in- debted for much of the precision and even elegance for which their doctrinal decrees are not unjustly commended, dedicated his Treatise on Justice and Law to Don Carlos, in terms of praise which, used by a writer who is said to have declined the high dig- nities of the Church, led us to hope that he was unacquainted with the brutish vices of that wretched prince. It is a concise and not inelegant compound of the Scholastic Ethics, which continued to be of considerable au- thority for more than a century. t Both he and his master Victoria deserve to be had in everlasting remembrance, for the part which they took on behalf of the natives of America and of Africa, against the rapacity and cruelty of the Spaniards. Victoria pronounced war against the Americans for their vices, or for their paganism, to be unjust. t Soto was the authority chiefiy consulted by Charles V., on occasion of the conference held before him at Valladolid. in 1542, between Sepulveda, an advocate of the Spanish colonists, and Las Casas. the champion of the unhappy Ameri- cans, of which the result was a very imper- fect edict of reformation in 1543. This, though it contained little more than a recog- nition of the principle of justice, almost ex- cited a rebellion in Mexico. Sepulveda. a scholar and a reasoner, advanced many max- ims which were specious and in themselves reasonable, but which practically tended to defeat even the scanty and almost illusive reform which ensued. Las Casas was a passionate missionary, whose zeal, kindled by the long and near contemplation of cruelty, prompted him to exaggerations of fact and argimient •§ yet, with all its errors, it afforded the only hope of preserving the tion entitled " Tractatus Tractatuum," publislied at Venice in 1.584, under the patronage of the Ro- man See. There are three De Bello ; one by Lu- pus qf Segovia, when Francis 1. was prisoner in Spain ; another, more celebrated, by Francis Arias, who, on the lltli June, 1532, discussed be- fore the College of Cardinals the legitimacy of a war by the Emperor against the Pope. There are two De Pace ; and others De Fotestate Re- gia, De Poena Mortis, &c. The most ancient and scholastic is that of J. de Lignano of Milan, De Bello. The above writers are mentioned in the prolegomena to Groiins, De Jure Belli. Pieiro Belloni, Counsellor of the Duke of Savoy (De Re Militari), treats his subject with the minuteness of n Judge-Advocate, and has more modern exam- ples, chiefly Italian, than Grotius. * Born, 1494 ; died, 1560.— Antonii Bib. Hisp. Nov. The opinion of the extent of Soto's know- ledge entertained by his contemporaries is e.xpress- •3d in a jingle. Qui scit Solum sck latum. t See Note K. * " Indis non debere auferri imperium, ideo quia Funt peccatorcs, vel ideo quia non sunt Christiani," were the words of Victoria. 4 See Note L. natives of America from extirpation Tha opinion of Soto could not fail to be conform- able to his excellent principle, that "there can be no difference between Christians and pagans, for the law of nations is equal to all * nations."* To Soto belongs the signal hon- our of being the first writer who condemned the African slave-trade. '-'It is affirmed," says he, "that the unhappy Ethiopians are by fiaud or force carried away and sold as slaves. If this is true, neither those who have taken them, nor those who purchased them, nor those who hold them in bondage, can ever have a quiet conscience till they emancipate them, even if no compensation should be obtained."! As the work Avhich contains this memorable condemnation of man-stealing and slavery was the substance of lectures for many years delivered at Sala- manca, Philosophy and Religion appear, by the hand of their faithful minister, to have thus smitten the monsters in their earliest in- fancy. It is hard for any man of the present age to conceive the praise which is due to the excellent monks who courageously asserted the rights of those whom they never saw, against the prejudices of their order, the supposed interest of their religion, the am- bition of their government, the avarice and pride of their countrymen, and the prevalent opinions of their time. Francis Suarez,J a Jesuit, whose volumi- nous works amount to twenty-four volumes in folio, closes the list of writers of his class. His work on Laws and on God the Lawgiver, may be added to the above treatise of Soto, as exhibiting the most accessible and per- spicuous abridgment of the theological phi- losofjhy in its latest form. Grotius, who, though he was the most upright and candid of men. could not have praised a Spanish Jesuit beyond his deserts, calls Suarez the most acute of philosophers and divines. § On a practical matter, ^A'hich may be natu- rally mentioned here, though in strict method it belongs to another subject, the merit of Suarez is conspicuous. He first saw that in- ternational law was composed not only of the simple principles of justice applied to the intercourse between states, but of those usages, long observed in that intercourse by the European race, which have since been more exactly distinguished as the con- suetudinary law acknowledged by the Chris- tian nations of Europe and America.il On * " Neque discrepantia (ut reor) est inter Chris- tianos et infideles, quoniam jus gentium cunciia genlibus aequale est." t De Just, et Jure, lib. iv. qusest. ii. art. 2 t Born, 1538; died, 1617. ^ " Tantse subtilitatis philosophum et theologum, ut vix quemquam habeat parem." — Grotii Epist. apnd Anton. Bib. Hisp. Nov. 11 " Nunquam enim civiiates sunt sibi tarn suffi- cientes quin indigeant mutuo juvamine et socie- tate, interdum ad majorem utilitatem, intcrdum ob neccssitatem moralem. Hac igitur ratione in- digent aliquo jure quo dirigantur el recte ordincn- tur in hoc genere societatis. Et quamvis magna ex parte hoc fiat per rationem naturalem, nos DISSERTATION ON THE PROGRESS OF ETHICAL PHILOSOrHY 111 ihi'i important point his views are more dear than those of his contemporary Alberico Gentili.* It must even be owned, that the succeeding intimation of the same general doctrine by Groiius is somewhat more dark, — perhaps from his excessive pursuit of con- cise diction. t SECTION IV. MODERN ETHICS, GROTIUS — HOBBES. The introduction to the great work of Grotius,i composed in the first years of his exile, and published at Paris in 1625, con- tains the most clear and authentic statement of the general principles of Morals prevalent in Christendom after the close of the Schools, and before the writings of Hobbes had given rise to those ethical controversies which more peculiarly belong to modern tmies. That he may lay down the fundamental principles of Ethics, he introduces Carneades on the stage as denying altogether the reality of moral distinctions; teaching that law and morality are contrived by powerful men fo- their own interest ; that they vary in dific - ent countries, and change in successive ages; that there can be no natural law, since Na- ture leads men as well as other animals to prefer their own interest to every other ob- ject ; that, therefore, there is either no jus- tice, or if there be, it is another name for the height of folly, inasmuch as it is a fond at- tempt to persuade a human being to injure himself for the unnatural purpose of bene- fitting his fellow-men. § To this Grotius an- swered, that even inferior animals, under the powerful, though transient, impulse of pa- rental love, prefer their young to their own safety or life ; that gleams of compassion, and, he might have added, of gratitude and indignation, appear in the human infant long before the age of moral discipline ; that man at the period of maturity is a social animal, who delights in the society of his fellow- creatures for its own sake, independently of the help and accommodation which it yields ; that he is a reasonable beinc, capable of framing and pursuing general rules of con- duct, of which he discerns that the observ- ance contributes to a regular, quiet, and happy intercourse between all the members tamen sufficienter et imniediaie quoad omnia, ideoque spcciaUa jura poierant iisii earitJidein ge7i- tlum introduci." — De Les-, lib. ii. cap. ii. * Born in ihe March of Ancoiia, 1550; died at London, IGOS. t De Jur. Bell., lib. i. cap. i. ^ 14. X Prolegomena. His letter to Vossius, of 1st August, 1625, determines the exact period of the publication of this famous work. — Epist. 74. ! rr-Jxu o-fx?'^ '^X'''^^V tuJii aj-.cycv i Ti ^u.uokoY. Thucyd. lib. vi. cap. 85. of the community; and that from these con- siderations all the precepts of Morality, and all the commands and prohibitions of jus/ Law, may be derived by impartial Reason "And these principles," says the pious phi losopher, " would have their weight, even if it were to be granted (which could not be conceded without the highest impiety) that there is no God, or that He exercises no moral government over human affairs."* — •'Natural law is the dictate of right Reason, pronouncing that there is in some actions a moral obligation, and in other actions a moral deformity, arising from their respect- ive suitableness or repugnance to the rea- sonable and social nature ; and that conse- quently such acts are either forbidden or enjoined by God, the Author of Nature. — Actions which are the subject of this exer- tion of Reason, are in themselves lawful or unlawful, and are therefore, as such, neces- sarily commanded or prohibited by God." Such was the state of opinion respecting the first principles of the moral sciences, when, after an imprisonment of a thousand years in the Cloister, they began once more to hold intercourse with the general under- standing of mankind. It will be seen in the laxity and confusion, as well as in the pru- dence and purity of this exposition, that .some part of the method and precision of the Schools was lost with their endless sub- tilties and their barbarous language. It is manifest that the latter paragraph is a pro- position, — not, what it affects to be, a defini tion ; that as a proposition it contains too many terms very necessary to be defined; that, the purpose of the excellent writer is not so much to lay down a first principle of Morals, as to exert his unmatched power of saying much in few words, in order to assemble within the smallest compjiss the most weighty inducements, and the most ef- fectual persuasions to well-doing. This was the condition in which ethical theory was found by Hobbes, with whom the present Dissertation should have commenced, if it had been possible to state modern con- troversies in a satisfactory manner, without a retrospect of the revolutions in Opinion from which they in some measure flowed. HOBBES.t Thomas Hobbes of Malmesbury may be numbered among those eminent persons born * " Et ha;c quidem locum rliquem iiaberent, eiiamsi dareiur (quod sine summo scelere dari ne- quit) non esse Deum, aut non curari ab eo negotia humana." — Proleg. 11. And in another place, " Jus naturale est diciaium rectae raiionis, indicana actui alicui, ex ejus convenientia aut disconvenien- tia cum ipsa natura raiionali et sociali, inesse mora- lem lurpiiudinem aut necessitatem, moralem, ac consequenier ab auciore naturffi Deo taiem actuDi autveiari aut pra?oipi." "Actus de quibus laia exstat dictatum, debiti sunt aut illiciti per se. ar- que ideo a Deo necessario prsecepti aut veiiri m telljiTuntur." — De Jur. Bell. lib. i. cap. i. 'J lO- t Born, 15SS; died lf>79. 112 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. in tlie latter half of the sixteenth century, who gave a now character to European phi- losophy, in the succeeding age.* He was one of the late writers and late learners. It was not till he was nearly thirty that he sup- plied the defects of his early education, by classical studies so successfully prosecuted, that he wrote well in the Latin then used by his scientific contemporaries ; and made such proficiency in Greek as, in his earliest work, the Translation of Thucydides, published when he was fort)', to afford a specimen of aversion still valued for its remarkable fide- lit}', though written with a stiffness and con- straint very opposite to the masterly facility of his original compositions. It was after forty that he learned the first rudiments of Geometry (so miserably defective was his education); but yielding to the paradoxical disposition apt to infect those who begin to learn after the natural age of commence- ment, he exposed himself, by absurd contro- versies with the masters of a Science which looks down with scorn on the sophist. A considerable portion of his mature age was passed on the Continent, where he travelled as tutor to two successive Earls of Devon- shire; — a family with whom he seems to have passed near half a century of his long life. In France his reputation, founded at that time solely on personal intercourse, be- came so great, that his observations on the meditations of Descartes were published in the works of that philosopher, together with tjiose of Gassendi and Arnauld.t It was about his sixtieth year that he began to pub- lish those philosophical writings which con- tain his peculiar opinions; — which set the understanding of Europe into general mo- tion, and stirred up controversies among me- taphysicians and moralists, not even yet de- termined. At the age of eighty-seven he had the boldness to publish metrical ver- sions of the Iliad and Odyssey, which the greatness of his name, and the singularity of the undertaking, still render objects of cu- riosity, if not of criticism. He owed his influence to various causes; at the head of which may be placed that ge- nius for system, which, though it cramps the <^rowth of Knowledge,1: perhaps finally atones * Bacon, Descartes, Hohbes, and Grotiiis. The writings of the first are still as deliijhlfiil and won- derful as they ever were, and his authority will have no end. Descartes forms an era in the his- tory of Metaphysics, of Physics, of Mathematics. The controversies excited by Groiius have long ceased, hut liie powerful influence of his works will be doubted by those only who are unac- quainted with the disputes of the sevenleentli cen- tury. t The prevalence of freetliinking under Louis Kin., to a far greater oegree than it was avowed, appears not only from the comp'aints of Mersenne and of Grotius, but from the disclosures of (5uy Palin ; who, in his Letters, descriiies his own con- versations wiih Gassendi and Naude, so as to leave no doubt of their opinions. * "Another error,'' says the Master of Wisdom, '•is the over- early and peremptory reduction of knowledge into arts and methods, from which for that mischief, by the zeal and activity which it rouses among followers and oppo- nents, who discover truth by accident, when in pursuit of weapons for their warfare. A system which attempts a task so hard aa that of subjecting vast provinces of human knowledge to one or two principles, if it pre- sents some striking instances of conformity to superficial appearances, is sure to delighJ the fiamer, and, for a time, to subdue and captivate the student too entirely for sober reflection and rigorous examination. The evil does not, indeed, very frequently recur. Perhaps Aristotle, Hobbes, and Kant, are the only persons who united in the highest de- gree the great faculties of comprehension and discrimination which compose the Genius of Systcjn. Of the three, Aristotle alone could throw it off where it was gla.ringly un- suitable ; and it is deserving of observation, that the reign of system seems, from these examples, progressively to shorten in pro- portion as Reason is cultivated and Know- leda'e advances. But, in the first instance, consistency passes for Truth. When prin- ciples in some instances have proved suffi- cient to give an unexpected explanation of facts, the delighted reader is content to ac- cept as true all other deductions from the principles. Specious premises being assum- ed to be true, nothing more can be required than logical inference. Mathematical forms pass current as the equivalent of mathema> tical certainty. The unwary admirer is satisfied with the completeness and symme- try of the plan of his house, — unmindful of the need of examining the firmness of the foundation, and the soundness of the mate- rials. The system-maker, like the conque- ror, long dazzles and overawes the world ; but when their sway is past, the vulgar herd, unable to measure their astonishing faculties, take revenge by trampling on fallen great- ness. The dogmatism of Hobbes was, however unjustly, one of the sources of his fame. The founders of S3'stems deliver their novelties with the undoubting spirit of discoverers; and their followers are apt to be dogmatical, because they can see nothing beyond their own ground. It might seem incredible, if it were not established by the experience of all ages, that those who difier most from the opinions of their fellow-men are most confi- dent of the truth of their own. But it com- monly requires an overweening conceit of the superiority of a man's own judgment, to make him espouse very singular notions; and when he has once embraced them, they are endeared to him by the hostility of those whom he contemns as the prejudiced vulgar. The temper of Hobbes must nave been ori ginally haughty. The advanced age at which he published his obnoxious opinions, time commonly receives small augmentation."^ Advancement of Learning, book i. " Method," says he, "carrying a show of total and pcriea knowledge, has a tendency to generate acquies cence." What pregnant wnr is! DISSERTATION ON IHE PROGRESS OF ETHICAL PHILOSOPHY. 113 rendered him more impatient of the acrimo- nious opposition which they necessarily oro- voked : until at length a strong sense Oi .ne injustice of the punishment impending over his head, for the publication of what he be- lieved to be truth, co-operated with the pee- vishness and timidity of his years, to render him the most imperious and morose of dog- matists. His dogmatism has indeed one quality more offensive than that of most others. Propositions the most adverse to the opinions of mankind, and the most abhorrent from their feelings, are introduced into the coarse of his argument with mathematical coldness. He presents them as demonstrated conclusions, without deigning to e.xplain to his fellow-creatures how ihey all happened to believe the opposite absurdities, and with- out even the compliment of once observing how widely his discoveries were at variance with the most ancient and universal judg- ments of the human understanding. The same quality in Spinoza indicates a recluse's ignorance of the world. In Hobbes it is the arrogance of a man who knows mankind and despises them. A permanent foundation of his fame re- mains in his admirable style, which seems to be the very perfection of didactic lan- guage. Short, clear, precise, pithy, his lan- guage never has more than one meaning, which it never requires a second thought to find. By the help of his exact method, it takes so firm a hold on the mind, that it will not allow attention to slacken. His little tract on Human Nature has scarcely an am- biguous or a needless word. He has so great a power of always choosing the most signifi- cant term, that he never is reduced to the poor expedient of using many in its stead. He had so thoroughly studied the genius of the language, and knew so well how to steer between pedantry and vulgarity, that two centuries have not superannuated probably more than a dozen of his words. His ex- pressions are so luminous, that he is clear whhout the help of illustration. Perhaps no writer of any age or nation, on subjects so abstruse, has manifested an equal power of engraving his thoughts on the mind of his readers. He seems never to have taken a word for ornament or pleasure ; and he deals with eloquence and poetry as the natural philosopher who explains the mechanism of children's toys, or deigns to contrive them. Yet his style so stimulates attention, that it never tires; and, to those who are acquainted with the subject, appears to have as much spirit as can be safely blended with Reason. He compresses his thoughts so unaffectedly, and yet so tersely, as to produce occasionally maxuns which excite the same agreeable surprise with wit, and have become a sort of philosophical proverbs: — the success of which he partly owed to the suitableness of such forms of expression to his dictatorial nature. His words have such an appearance of springing from his thoughts, as to im^-ess on the reader a strong opinion of his origi- nal it}-, and indeed to prove that he was not conscious of borrowing: though conversation with Gassendi must have influenced his mind ; and it is hard to believe that his coin- cidence with Ockham should have been purely accidental, on points so important as the denial of general ideas, the reference of moral distinctions to superior power, and the absolute thraldom of Religion under the civil power, which he seems to have thought ne- cessary, to maintain that independence of the State on the Church with which Ockham had been contented. His philosophical writings might be read without reminding any one that the author was more than an intellectual machine. They never betray a feeling except that insupport- able arrogance which looks down on his fel- low-men as a lower species of beings ; whose almost unanimous hostility is so far from shaking the firmness of his conviction, or even rufHing the calmness of his contempt, that it appears too petty a circumstance to require explanation, or even to merit notice. Let it not be forgotten, that part of his re- nown depends on the application of his ad- mirable powers to expound Truth when he meets it. This great merit is conspicuous in that part of his treatise of Human Nature which relates to the percipient and reasoning faculties. It is also very remarkable in many of his secondary principles on the sub- ject of Government and Law, which, while the first principles are false and dangerous, are as admirable for truth as for his accus- tomed and unrivalled propriety of expres- sion.* In many of these observations he even shows a disposition to soften his para- doxes, and to conform to the common sense of mankind. t It was with perfect truth observed by my excellent friend Mr. Stewart, that "the ethi- cal principles of Hobbes are completelj' in- terwoven with his political system."! He might have said, that the whole of Hobbes' system, moral, religious, and in part philo- sophical, depended on his political scheme; not indeed logically, as conclusions depend upon premises, but (if the word may be ex- cused) psychologically, as the formation of one opinion may be influenced by a disposi- tion to adapt it to others previously cherished. The Translation of Thucydides, as he him- * See De Corpore Politico, Part i. chap. ii. iii. iv. and Leviathan, Fart i. chap. xiv. xv. for re- marks of I his sort, full of sagaciiy. t " Tiie laws of Nature are immutable a)id eler nal ; for injustice, insraiitude, arrogance, pride, iniquity, acception of persons, and the rest, can never be made lawful. For it can never be that war shall preserve life, and peace destroy it." — Levialhmi, Part i. chap. xv.--See also Part ii. chap, xxvi. xxviii. on Laws, and on Punishments. t See Encyc. Ikit. i. 42. The political state of England is indeed said by himself to have occa sioned his first philosophical publication. Nasciiur inierea scelus execrabile belli. florreo spectans, Meqtie ad dilectam confero Luietiam, Postque duosannosedo De Civo Ubelliim Ill MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. self boasts, was published to show the evils of popular governmetit.* Men he repre- sented as being ongnially eqval, and having an equal right to all things, but as being taught by Reason to sacriiice this right for the advantages of peace, and to submit to a common authority, which can preserve quiet, only by being the sole depositary of force, and must therefore be absolute and unlimi- ted. The supreme authority cannot be suf- ficient for its purpose, unless it be wielded by a single hand ; nor even then, unless his absolute power extends over Religion, which may prompt men to discord by the fear of an evil greater than death. The perfect state of a community, according to him, is where Law prescribes the religion and morality of the people, and where the will of an abso- lute sovereign is the sole fountain of law. Hooker had inculcated the simple truth, that "to live by one man's will is the cause of many men's misery :" — Hobbes embraced the daring paradox, that to live by one man's will is the only means of all men's happi- ness. Having thus rendered Religion the slave of every human tyrant, it was an una- voidable consequence, that he should be dispcsod to lower her character, and lessen her power over men ; that he should regard atheism as the most effectual instrument of preventing rebellion, — at least that species of rebellion which prevailed in his time, and had excited his alarms. The formidable ♦ alliance of Religion with Liberty haunted his mind, and urged him to the bold attempt of rooting out both these mighty principles; which; when combined with interests and passions, when, debased by impure support, and provoked by unjust resistance, have in- deed the power of fearfully agitating society; but which are, nevertheless, in their own nature, and as far as they are unmixed and undisturbed, the parents of Justice, of Order, of Peace, as well as the sources of those hopes, and of those glorious aspirations after higher excellence, which encourage and ex- alt the Soul in its passage through misery and depravity. A Hobbist is the only con- sistent persecutor; for he alone considers himself as bound, by whatever conscience he has remaining, to conform to the religion of the sovereign. He claims from others no more than he is himself ready to yield to any master;! while the religionist who perse- cutes a member of another communion, ex- acts the sacrifice of conscience and sinceiity, though professing that rather than make it himself, he is prepared to die. REMARKS. The fundamental errors on which the ethi- cal system of Hobbes is built are not peculiar to him ; though he has stated them with a bolder precision, and placed them in a more conspicuous station in the van of his main force, than any other of those who have either frankly avowed, or tacitly assumed, them, from the beginning of speculation to the present moment. They may be shortly stated as follows : 1. The first and most inveterate of these errors is, that he does not distinguish thought from feeling, or rather that he in express words confounds them. The mere perception of an object, according to him, differs from the pleasure or pain which that perception may occasion, no otherwise than as they affect different organs of the bodily frame. The action of the mind in perceiving or con- ceiving an object is precisely the same with that of feeling the agreeable ordisagreeable.* The necessary result of this original confu- sion is, to extend the laws of the intellectual part of our nature over that other part of it, (hitherto without any adequate name,) which feels, and desires, and loves, and hopes, and wills. In consequence of this long confu- sion, or want of distinction, it has happened that, while the simplest act of the merely intellectual part has many names (such aa "sensation," "perception," "impression," &c.), the correspondent act of the other not less important portion of man is not denoted by a technical term in philosophical systems ; nor by a convenient word in common lan- "uaoe. " Sensation" has another more com- * The conference between the ministers from Athens and the Mclean chiefs, in the 5th book, and the speech of Euphemus in the 6ih book of that historian, exhibit an undisguised Hohbism, which was very dramatically put into the mouth of Athenian statesmen at a time when, as we learn from Pinto and Aristophanes, it was preach- ed by the Sophists. t Spinoza adopted precisely the same first prin- ciple with Hobbes, that all men have a natural rJKht to all things. — Tract. Theol. Pol. cap. ii. '5 3. He even avows the absurd and detestable maxim, that stales are not bound to observe their treaties longer than the interest or danger which first formed the treaties continues. But on the inter- nal constitution of states he embraces opposite opinions. Servitutis enim, non pacis, i7ilerest omnem polegtale?n ad iinum transj'erre. — (Ibid. cap. vi. % 4.) Limited monarchy he considers as the only tolerabli' example of that species of govern- ment. An aristocracy nearly approaching to the Dutch system during the suspension of the Stadt- holdership, he seems to prefer. Pie speaks favour- ably of democracy, but the chapter on that sub- ject is left unfinished. " Nulla plane templa urbi- uni sumptibus aedificanda, nee jura de opinionibus statuenda." He uas the first republican atheist of modern times, and probably the earliest irreligious opponent of an ecclesiastical establishment. ' This doctrine is explained in his tract on Hu- man Nature, c. vii. ^''Conce-plion is a motion in some internal substance of tlie head, which pro- ceeding to the heart, where it helpeth the motion there, is called pleasure ; when it weakeneth or hindereth the motion, it is called pai7i." The same matter is handled more cursorily, agreeably to the practicnl purpose of the work, in Leviathan, part i. chap. vi. These passages are here relerred to as prools of the statement in the text." With the materialism of it we have here no concern. If the multiplied suppositions were granted, we should not advance one step towards understand- ing what they profess to explain. The first four words are as unmeaning as if one were to say that greenness is very loud. It is obvious tha! many motions which promote the motion of the heart are extremely painful. DISSERTATION ON THE PROGRESS OF ETHICAL PHILOSOPHY. 115 man sense; "Emotion" is too warm for a generic term ; " Feeling" has some degree of the same fault, besides its liability to con- fusion with the sense of touch; "Pleasure" and "Pain" repre.sent only two properties of this act, which render its repetition the object of desire or aversion ; — which last states of mind presuppose the act. Of these words, " Emotion" seems to be the least objectionable, since it has no absolute double meaning, and does not require so much vigi- lance in the choice of the accompanying words as would be necessary if we were to prefer " Feeling ;" which, however, being a more familiar word, may, with due caution, be also sometimes employed. Every man who attends to the state of his own mind will acknowledge, that these words, '•' Emo- tion" and "Feeling." thus used, are per- fectly simple, and as incapable of further explanation by words as sight and hearing; which may, indeed, be rendered into syno- nymous words, but never can be defined by any more simple or more clear. Reflection will in like manner teach that perception, reasoning, and judgment ma}' be conceived to e.\ist without being followed by emotion. Some men hear music without gratification : one may distinguish a taste without being pleased or displeased by it ; or at least the relish or disrelish is often so slight, without lessening the distinctness of the sapid quali- ties, that the distinction of it from the per- ception cannot be doubted. The multiplicity of errors which have flow- ed into moral science from this original con- fusion is very great. They have spread over many schools of philosophy ; and many of them are prevalent to this day. Hence the laws of the Understanding have been ap- plied to the Affections ; virtuous feelings have been considered as just reasonings; evil passions have been represented as mis- taken judgments; and it has been laid down as a principle, that the Will always follows the last decision of the Practical Intellect.* 2. By this great error, Hobbes was led to represent all the variety of the desires of men, as being only so many instances of objects deliberately and solely pursued; be- cause they were the means, and at the time perceived to be so, of directly or indirectly procuring organic gratification to the indi- vidual. t The human passions are described as if they reasoned accurately, deliberated coolly, and calculated exactly. It is assumed that, in performing these operations, there is and can be no act of life in which a man does not bring distinctly before his eyes the plea- sure which is to accrue to himself from the act. From this single and simple principle, all human conduct may, according to him, be explained and even foretold. The true laws of this part of our nature (so totally dilFerent from those of the percipient part) * " Voluntas semper sequitur uliiinum judicium intellecids practici.'' — [See Spiiiozae Cog. Met, pars. ii. cap. 12. Ed.] ■•■ See the passages before quoted. were, by this grand mistake, entirely with- drawn from notice. Simple as the observa tion is, it seems to have escaped not only Hobbes, but many, perhaps most, philoso- phers, that our desires seek a great diversity of objects; that the attainment of these ob- jects is indeed followed by, or rather called "Pleasure;" but that it could not be so, if the objects had not been previously desired. Many besides him have really represented self as the ultimate object of every action : but none ever so hardily thrust forward the .selfish system in its harshest and coarsest shape. The mastery which he shows over other metaphysical subjects, forsakes him on this. He does not scruple, for the sake of this system, to distort iacts of which all men are conscious, and to do violence to the language in which the result of their uniform expe- rience is conveyed. "'Acknowledgment of power is called Honour."* His explana- tions are frequently sufficient confutations of the doctrine which required them. "Pity is the imagination of future calamity to our- selves, proceeding from the sense (observa* tion) of another man's calamity." " Laugh- ter is occasioned by sudden glory in our eminence, or in comparison with the infirmity of others." Every man who ever wept or laughed, may determine whether this be a true account of the state of his mind on eitl er occasion. "Love is a conception of his need of the one person desired ;" — a defini- tion of Love, v/hich, as it excludes kindness^ might perfectly well comprehend the hun- ger of a cannibal, provided that it were not too ravenous to exclude choice. "Good- will, or charity, which containeth the natu- ral affection of parents to their children, con- sists in a man's conception that he is able not only to accomplish his own desires, but to assist other men in theirs:" from vihich it follows, as the pride of power is felt in destroying as well as in saving men, that cruelty and kindness are the same passion. t Such were the expedients to which a man of the highest class of understanding was driven, in order to evade the admission of the simple and evident truth, that there are in our nature perfectly disinterested pas- sions, which seek the well-being of others as their object and end, without looking be- yond it to self, or pleasure, or happiness. A proposition, from which such a man could attempt to escape only by such means, may be strongly presumed to be true. 3. Hobbes having thus struck the affec- tions out of his map of human nature, and having totally misunderstood (as will appear * Human Nature, chap. viii. The ridiculous explanation of liie admiration of personal beauty, " as a sign of power generative," shows the diffi- culties to which this extraordinary man was re- duced by a false system. t Ibid. chap. i.^. I forbear to quote the passagfl on Platonic love, which immediately follows : but, considering Hobbes' blameless and honotirabl* character, that passage is perhaps the most re- markable in«tance of the shifts 'o which his nelt ish system reduced him. 1]6 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. in a succeeding part of this Dissertation) the nature even of the appetites, it is no wonder that we should find in it not a trace of the moral sentiments. Moral Good* he consi- ders merely as consisting in the signs of a power to produce pleasure ; and repentance is no more than regret at having missed the way: so that, according to this system, a disinterested approbation of, and reverence for Virtue, are no more possible than disin- terested affections towards our fellow-crea- tures. There is no sense of duty, no com- punction for our own offences, no indignation against the crimes of others, — unless they affect our own safety; — no secret cheerful- ness shed over the heart by the practice of well-doing. From his philosophical writings it would be impossible to conclude that there are in man a set of emotions, desires, and aversions, of which the sole and final objects are the voluntary actions and habitual dispo- sitions of himself and of all other voluntary agents; which are properly called "moral sentiments;" and which, though they vary more in degree, and depend more on culti- vation, than some other parts of human na- ture, are as seldom as most of them found to be entirely wanting. 4. A theory of Man which comprehends m its explanations neither the social affec- tions, nor the moral sentiments, must be owned to be sufficiently defective. It is a consequence, or rather a modification of it, that Hobbes should constantly represent the deliberate regard to personal advantage, as the only possible motive of human action ; and that he should altogether disdain to avail himself of those refinements of the selfish scheme which allow the pleasures of bene- volence and of morality, themselves, to be a m.ost important part of that interest which reasonable beings pursue. 5. Lastly, though Hobbes does in effect acknowledge the necessity of Morals to so- ciet}', and the general coincidence of indivi- dual with public interest — truths so palpable that they have never been excluded from any ethical system, he betra3-s his utter want of moral sensibility by the coarse and odious form in which he has presented the first of these great principles ; and his view of both leads him most strongly to support that com- mon and pernicious error of moral reasoners, that a perception of the tendency of good actions to preserve the being and promote the well-being of the community, and a sense of the dependence of our own happiness upon the general security, either are essen- tial constituents of our moral feelings, or are ordinarily mingled with the most effectual motives to right conduct. The court of Charles It. were equally pleased with Hobbes' poignant brevity, and his low estimate of human motives. His nthical epigrams became the current coin of * Which he rails ihe "piilchrum," for want, as he says, of an English word to express it. — Levia- than, part, i c. vi. profligate wits. Sheffield, Duke of Buck- inghamshire, who represented the class stili more perfectly in his morals than in his fa- culties, has expressed their opinion in verses^ of which one fine is good enough to be quoted : " Fame bears no fruit lill ihe vain planter dies." Dryden speaks of the "philosopher and poe. (for such is the condescending term employ- ed) of Malmesbury," as resembling Lucre- tius in haughtiness. But Lucretius, though he held many of the opinions of Hobbes, had the sensibility as well as genius of a poet. His dogmatism is full of enthusiasm ; and his philosophical theory of societ}!- dis- covers occasionally as much tenderness as can be shown without reference to indivi- duals. He was a Hobbist in only half his nature. The moral and political system of Hobbes was a palace of ice, transparent, exactly proportioned, majestic, admired by the un- wary as a delightful dwelling; but gradually undermined by the central warmth of human feeling, before it was thawed into muddy water by the sunshine of true Philosophy. When Leibnitz, in the beginning of the eighteenth century, reviewed the moral vi-ri- ters of modern times, his penetrating eye saw only two who were capable of reducing Morals and Jurisprudence to a science. "So great an enterprise," says he, " might have been executed by the deep-searching genius of Hobbes, if he had not set out from evil principles; or by the judgment and learning of the incomparable Grotius, if his powers had not been scattered over many subjects, and his mind distracted by the cares of an agitated life."* Perhaps in this estimate, admiration of the various and excellent quali- ties of Grotius may have overrated his purely philosophical powers, great as they unques- tionably were. Certainly the failure of Hobbes was owing to no inferiority in strength of intellect. Probably his fundamental er- rors maybe imputed, in part, to the faintness of his moral sensibilities, insufficient to make him familiar with those sentiments and affec- tions which can be known only by being felt; — a faintness perfectly compatible w'ith his irreproachable life, but which obstructed, and at last obliterated, the only channel through which the mo.st important materials of ethical science enter into the mind. Against Hobbes, says Warburton, the whole Church militant took up arms. The answers to the Leviathan would form a library. But the far greater part would have followed the fate of all controvers al pamph- lets. Sir Robert Filmer was jealous of any rival theory of servitude : Harrington defend- ed Liberty, and Clarendon the Church, against * " Et tale aliqnid potuisset, vel ah incompara' bilis Groiii jiuiirio et doctrinn, vel a profundc Hobbii iiif^onio praesiari; nisi illinn m\ilta disirax issent ; hie vero prava roiistituisset principia," Leib. Op. iv. pars. iii. 27G. DISSERTATION OxN THE PROGRESS OF ETHICAL PHILOSOPHY. 117 a common enemy. His philosophical antago- nists were, Cumberland, Cudworth, Shaftes- bury, Clarke, Butler, and Hutcheson. Though the last four writers cannot be considered as properly polemics, their labours were excited, and their doctrines modified, by the stroke from a vigorous arm which seemed to shake Ethics to its foundation. They lead us far into the eighteenth century ; and their works, occasioned by the doctrines of Hobbes, sowed the seed of the ethical writings of Hume, Smith, Price. Kant, and Stewart; in a less degree, also, of those of Tucker and Paley : — not to mention Mandeville, the buf- foon and sophister of the alehouse, or Hel- vetius, an ingenious but flimsy writer, the low and loose Moralist of the vain, the sel- fish, and the sensual. SECTION V. CONTROVERSIES CONCERNING THE MORAL FA- CULTIES AND THE SOCIAL AFFECTIONS. CUMBERLAND — CUDWORTH — CLARKE — SHAFTES- BURY BOSSUET — FENELON LEIBNITZ JIALE- BRA.\CHE — EDWARDS — BUFFIER. Dr. Richard Cumberland,* raised to the See of Peterborough atler the Revolution of 1688, was the only professetl answerer of Hobbes. His work On the Laws of Nature still retains a place on the shelf, though not often on the desk. The philosophical epi- grams of Hobbes form a contrast to the ver- bose, prolix, and languid diction of his an- swerer. The forms of scholastic argument serve more to encumber his style, than to insure his exactness. But he has substantial merits. He justly observes, that all men can only be said to have had originally a right to all things, in a sense in which •' right " has the same meaning with " power." He shows that Hobbes is at variance with himself, inas- much as the dictates of Right Reason, which, by his own statement, teach men for their own safety to forego the exercise of that right, and which he calls "laws of Nature," are coeval with it ; and that mankind per- ceive the moral limits of their power as clear- ly and as soon as they are conscious of its existence. He enlarges the intimations of Grotius on the social feelings, which prompt men to the pleasures of pacific intercourse, as certainly as the apprehension of danger and of destruction urges them to avoid hostility. The fundamental principle of his system of Ethics is, that '• the greatest benevolence of every rational agent to all others is the hap- piest state of each individual, as well as of the whole. "t The happiness accruing to each man from the observance and cultiva- tion of benevolence, he considers as appended to it by the Supreme Ruler; through which * Born. 1632; died, 1718. t De Leg. Nat. chap. i. '^ 12, first published in London, )672, and then so popular as to be re- piinted at Lubeck in 1683. He sanctions it as His law, and revea.s it to the mind of every reasonable creature. From this principle he deduces the rules of JMorality, which he calls the " laws of Na- ture." The surest, or rather the only mark that they are the commandments of God, is, that their observance promotes the happineea of man : for that reason alone could they be imposed by that Being whose essence is Love. As our moral faculties must to us be the measure of all moral excellence, he in- fers that the moral attributes of the Divinity must in their nature be only a transcendent degree of those qualities which we most ap- prove, love, and revere, in those moral agents with whom we are familiar.* He had a mo- mentary glimpse of the possibility that some human actions might be performed with a view to the happiness of others, without any consideration of the pleasure reflected back on ourselves.! Eut it is too faint and tran- sient to be worthy of observation, otherwise than as a new proof how often great truths must flit before the Understanding, before they can be firmly and finally held in its grasp. His only attempt to explain the nature of the Moral Facult}-, is the substitution of Practi- cal Reason (a phrase of the Schoolmen, since become celebrated from its renewal by Kant) for Right Reason;! and his definition of the first, as that which points out the ends and means of action. Throughout his whole reasoning, he adheres to the accustomed confusion of the equality which renders ac- tions virtuous, with the sentiments excited in us by the contemplation of them. His language on the identity of general and indi- vidual interest is extremely vague ; though it be, as he says, the foundation-stone of the Temple of Concord among men. It is little Avonderful that Cumberland should not have disembroiled this ancient and established confusion, since Leibnitz himself, in a passage where he reviews the theories of Morals which had gone before him, has done his utmost to perpetuate it. ■•It is a question." says the latter, "whether the preservation of human society be the first principle of the law of Nature. This our author denies, in opposition to Grotius, who laid down sociability to be so ; — to Hobbes, who ascribed that character to mutual fear ; and to Cumberland, who held that it was mutual benevolence ; which are all three only different names for the safety and wel- * Ibid. cap. V. $ 19. t Ibid. cap. ii. 'J 20. t " Whoever determines his Judgment and his Will by Right Reason, must agree with all others who judge according to Right Reason in the same matter." — Ibid. cap. ii. ^ 8. This is in one sense only a particular instance of the identical propo- sition, that two things which agree with a third thing must agree with each other in that, in which they agree with the third. But the difficulty en- tirely consists in the particular third thing liere in troduced, namely, "Right Reason,'' the nature of which not one step is made to e.xplain. The position is curious, as coinciding with " the uni- versal categorical imperative," adopted as a f :9' piinciple by Kant. lis MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. fare of society."* Here the great philoso- pher considered benevolence or fear, two feelings of the human mind, to be the first principles of the law of Nature, in the same sense in which the tendency of certain ac- tions to the well-being of the community may be so regarded. The confusion, how- eve i-, was then common to him with many, as it even now is with most. The compre- hensive view was his own. He perceived the close resemblance of these various, and even conflicting opinions, in that important point of view in which they relate to the effects of moral and immoral actions on the general interest. The tendency of Virtue to preserve amicable intercourse was enforced by Grotius; its tendency to prevent injury was dwelt on by Hobbes ; its tendency to promote an interchange of benefits was in- culcated by Cumberland. CUDWORTH.t Cudworth, one of the eminent men educa- ted or promoted in the English Universities daring the Puritan rule, was one of the most distinguished of the Latitudinarian, or Ar- minian, party who came forth at the Resto- ration, with a love of Liberty imbibed from their Calvinistic masters, as well as from the writings of antiquit}', yet tempered by the experience of their own agitated age ; and with a spirit of religious toleration more im- partial and mature, though less systematic and professedly comprehensive, than that of the Independents, the first sect who preached that doctrine. Taught by the errors of their time, they considered Religion as consisting, not in vain efforts to explain unsearchable mysteries, but in purity of heart exalted by pious feelings, manifested by virtuous con- duct.t The government of the Church was placed in their hands by the Revolution, and their influence was long felt among its rulers and luminaries. The first generation of their scholars turned their attention too much from the cultivation of the heart to the mere go- vernment of outward action : and in succeed- ing times the tolerant spirit, not natural to an * Leib. Op. pars. iii. 271. The unnamed work which occasioned these remarks (perhaps one of Thomasius) appeared in 1699. How long after inis Leibniiz's Dissertation was written, does not appear. t Born 1617; died, 1688. t See the the beautiful account of them by Bur- net, (Hist, of His own Time, i. 321. Oxford, 1823) who was himself one of the most distinguished of this excellent body ; with whom may be classed, notwithstanding some shades of doctrinal difier- ence, his early master, Leighton, Bishop of Dun- blane, a beautiful writer, and one of the best of men. The earliest account of them is in a curious contemporary pamphlet, entitled, " An Account of the new Sect of Lat,tude-men at Cambridge," republished in the collection of tracts, entitled " Phoenix Britannicus." Jeremy Taylor deserves tlie highest, and perhaps the earliest place among them : but Cudworth's excellent sermon before the House of Commons (31st March 1647) in the year of the pubhcation of Taylor's Liberty of Pro- phesying, may be compared even to Taylor in rharity, piety, and the most liberal toleration. establishment, was with difficulty kepi uj by a government whose existence depended on discouraging intolerant pretensions. No sooner had the first sketch of the Hobbian philosophy* been privately circulated at Paris, than Cudworth seized the earliest opportunity of sounding the alarm against the most justly odious of the modes of think- ing which it cultivates, or forms of expression which it would introduce ;t — the prelude to a war which occupied the remaining forty years of his life. The Intellectual System", his great production, is directed against the atheistical opinions of Hobbes : it touches ethical questions but occasionally and inci- dentally. It is a work of stupendous erudi- tion, of much more acuteness than at first appears, of frequent mastery over diction and illustration on subjects where it is most rare ; and it is distinguished, perhaps beyond any other volume of controversy, by that best proof of the deepest conviction of the truth of a man's principles, a fearless state- ment of the most formidable objections to them ; — a fairness rarely practised but by him who is conscious of his power to answer them. In all his writings, it must be own- ed, that his learning obscures his reasonings, and seems even to repress his powerful in- tellect. It is an unfortunate elTect of the redundant fulness of his mind, that it over- flows in endless digressions, which break the chain of argument, and turn aside the thoughts of the reader from the main object. He was educated before usage had limited the naturalization of new words from the learned languages; before the failure of those great men, from Bacon to Milton, who labour- ed to follow a Latin order in their sentences, and the success of those men of inferior powers, from Cowley to Addison, who were content with the order, as well as the words, of pure and elegant conversation, had, as it were, by a double series of experiments, ascertained that the involutions and inver- sions of the ancient languages are seldom reconcilable with the genius of ours; and that they are, unless skilfully, as well as sparingly introduced, at variance with the natural beauties of our prose composition. His mind was more that of an ancient than of a modern philosopher. He often indulged in that sort of amalgamation of fancy with speculation, the delight of the Alexandrian doctors, with whom he was most familiarly conversant; and the Intellectual System, both in thought and expression, has an old and foreign air, not unlike a translation from the work of a later Platonist. Large ethical works of this eminent writer are extant in manuscript in the British Museum.i One * De Give, 1642. t " Dantur boni et mali rationes ffiternte et in- dispensabiles." Thesis for the degree of B. D. at Cambridge in 1664. — Birch's Life of Cudworth, prefixed to his edition of the Intellectual System. (Lond. 1743.) i. 7. t A curiousacconnt of the history of these MSS. by Dr. Kippis, is to be found in the Biographii Britannica, iv. 549. DISSERTATION ON THE PROGRESS OF ETHICAL PHILOSOPHY. lis posthumous volume on ISIorals was published oy Dr. Chandler, Bishop of Durham, entitled "A Treatise concerning Eternal and Immut- able Morality.''* But there is the more rea- son to regret (as far as relates to the history of Opinion) that the larger treatises are still unpublished, because the above volume is not so much an ethical treatise as an intro- duction to one. Protagoras of old, and Hob- bes then alive, having concluded that Right and Wrong were unreal, because they were not perceived by the senses, and because all human knowledge consists only in such per- ception, Cudworth endeavours to refute them, by disproving that part of their premises which forms the last-stated proposition. The mind has many conceptions {vorj/xata) which are not cognizable by the senses ; and though ihey are occasioned by sensible objects, yet they cannot be formed but by a faculty su- perior to sense. The conceptions of Justice and Duty he places among them. The dis- tinction of Right from Wrong is discerned by Reason ; and as soon as these words are de- fined, it becomes evident that it would be a contradiction in terms to affirm that any power, human or Divine, could change their nature ; or, in other words, make the same act to be just and unjust at the same time. rhey have existed eternally in the only mode in which truths can be said to be eternal, in '.he Eternal Mind ; and they are indestructi- ble and unchangeable like that Supreme In- telligence.t Whatever judgment may be formed of this reasoninir, it is manifest that it relates merely to the philosophy of the Understanding, and does not attempt any explanation of What constitutes the very essence of Morality, — its relation to the Will. That we perceive a distinction between Right and Wrong, as much as between a tri- angle and a square, is indeed true ; and may possibly lead to an explanation of the reason why men should adhere to the one and avoid the other. But it is not that reason. A command or a precept is not a proposition : it cannot be said that either is true or false. Cudworth, as well as many who succeeded him, confounded the mere apprehension by the Understanding that Right is different from Wrong, with the practical authority of these important conceptions, exercised over voluntary actions, in a totally distinct pro- vince of the human soul. * 8vo. Loud. 173L t " There are many objects of our mind which we can neither see, hear, feel, smell, nor taste, and which did never enter into it by any sense ; and therefore we can have no sensible pictures or ideas of them, drawn liy the pencil of that inward limner, or painter, which borrows ail his colours from sense, which we call 'Fancy:' and if we reflect on our own cogitaiions of these things, we shall sensibly perceive that they are nox. plianlasli- tal, but noematicnl: as, for example, justice, equi- ty, duty and obligation, cogitation, opinion, intel- Vection, volition, memory, verity, falsity, cause, eifect, genus, species, nullity, contingency, pos- sibihty- iinpossibility, and innumerable others." — Ibid 110. We have here an anticipation of Kant. Though his life was de^oted to the asser- tion of Divine Providence, and though his philosophy was imbued with the religioua spirit of Platonism,* yet he had placed Chris- tianity too purely in the love of God and Man to be considered as having much regard for those controversies about rights and opi- nions with which zealots disturb the world. They represented him as having fallen into the same heresy with Milton and with darkest and some of them even charged him with atheism, for no other reason than that he was not afraid to state the atheistic difficulties in their fullest force. As blind anger heaps inconsistent accusations on each other, they called him at least " an Arian, a Socinian, or a Deist. "I The courtiers of Charles II., who were delighted with every part of Hobbes but his integrity, did their utmost to decry his antagonist. They turned the railing of the bigots into a sarcasm against Religion ; as we learn from him who represented them with unfortunate fidelity. "He has raised," says Dryden, '■' such strong objections against the being of God, that many think he has not answered them ;" — " the common fate," as Lord Shaftesbury tells us, " of those who dare to appear fair au- thors. "§ He had, indeed, earned the hatred of some theologians, better than they could know from the waitings published during his life ; for in his posthumous work he classes with the ancient atheists those of his con- temporaries, (whom he forbears to name,) who held " that God may command M'hat is contrary to moral rules ; that He has no in- clination to the good of His creatures ; that He may justly doom an innocent being to eternal torments ; and that whatever God does will, for that reason is just, because He wills it."il It is an interesting incident in the life of a philosopher, that Cudworth's daughter, Lady Mashara, had the honour to nurse the in- firmities and to watch the last breath of Mr. Locke, who was opposed to her father in speculative philosophy, but who heartily ^ii. — (Motto affixed to the sermon above mention- ed.) t The following doctrine is ascribed to Cud- worth by Nelson, a man of good understanding and great worth : " Dr. Cudworth maintained thai the Father, absolutely speaking, is the only Su- preme God ; the Son and Spirit being God only by his concurrence with them, and their snbordi nation and subjection to him." — Life of Bull, 339. t Turner's discourse on the IVlessiah, 335. i Moralists, part ii. § 3. II Etern. and Immut. Mor. 11. He quotes Ock- ham as having formerly maintained the same mon- strous positions. To many, if not to most of these opinions or expressions, ancient and modern, re- servations are adjoined, which render them literally reconcilable with practical Morals. But the dan gerous abuse to which the incautious language of ethical theories is liable, is well illustrated by the anecdote related in Plutarch's Life of Alexander of the sycophant Anaxarchas consoling that mon- arch for the murder of Clitus, by assuring him thai every act of a ruler must be just, riai- "o ^fi.;^' 6iy vro Tov xfatTovvTo? finxiov. — Op. i. G39- 120 JklACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. agreed with him in the love of Truth, Li- Dertv. aiul Virtue. CL.\RKE.* Connected with Cudworth by principle, *.hough separated by some interval of time, was Dr. Samuel Clarke, a man eminent at once as a divine, a mathematician, a meta- physical philosopher, and a philologer; who, as the interpreter of Homer and Ca3sar, the scholar of Newton, and the antagonist of Leibnitz, approved himself not unworthy of correspondence with the highest order of human Spirits. Eoused by the prevalence of the doctrines of Spinoza and Hobbes, he endeavoured to demonstrate the Being and Attributes of God, from a few axioms and definitions, in the manner of Geometry. In this attempt, with all his powers of argu- ment, it must be owned tiiat he is compelled sometimes tacitly to assume what the laws of reasoning required him to prove ; and that, on the whole, his failure maybe regarded as a proof that such a mode of argument is be- yond the faculties of man. t Justly consider- ing the Moral Attributes of the Deity as what alone render him the object of Reli- gion, and to us constitutes the difference be- tween Theism and atheism, he laboured with the utmost zeal to place the distinc- tions of Right and Wrong on a more solid foundation, and to explain the conformity of Morality to Reason, in a manner calculated to give a precise and scientific signilication to that phraseology which all philosophers had; for so many ages, been content to em- ploy, without thinking themselves obliged to define. It is one of the most rarely successful ef- forts of the human mind, to place the under- standing at the point from which a philoso- pher takes the views that compose his sys- tem, to recollect constantly his purposes, to adopt for a moment his previous opinions and prepossessions, to think in his words and to see with his eyes; — especially when the wri- ter widely dissents from the system which ne attempts to describe, and after a general change in the modes of thinking and in the ■jse of terms. Every part of the present Dis- sertation requires such an excuse ; but per- haps it may be more necessary in a case like that of Clarke, where the alterations in both respects have been so insensible, and in «ome respects appear so limited, that ihey may escape attention, than after those total * Born, 1675; died, 1729. t 'I'his adinirable person had so much candour as in effect to own his failure, and to recur to tho.se other arguments in support of this great truth, which have in all ages satisfied the most elevated minds. In Proposition viii. (Being and Attributes of God, 47.) which affirms that the first cause miixt be " inteUigent" (wherein, as he truly Btatea, " Ues the main question between us and the atheists"), lie owns, that the proposition can- not be demonstrated strictly and properly a priori. -See N^te M. revolutions in doctrine, where the necessity of not measuring other times by our own standard must be apparent to the most uu- distinguishing. The sum of his moral doctrine may be started as follows. Man can conceive nothing without at the same time conceiving its re- ' lations to other things. He must ascribe the same law of perception to every being to whom he ascribes thought. He cannot there- fore doubt that all the relations of all things to all must have always been present to the Eternal JNIind. The relations in this sense are eternal, however recent the things may be between whom they subsist. The whole of these relations constitute Truth : the knowledae of them is Omniscience. These eternal different relations of things involve a consequent eternal fitness or unfitness in the application of things, one to another ; with a regard to which, the will of God always chooses, and which ought likewise to deter- mine the wills of all subordinate rational beings. These eternal differences make it fit and reasonable for the creatures so to act ; they cause it to be their duty, or lay an obli- gation on them so to do, separate from the will of God,* and antecedent to any pros- pect of advantage or reward .t Nay, wilful wickedness is the same absurdity and inso- lence in Morals, as it would be in natural things to pretend to alter the relations of numbers, or to take away the properties of mathematical figures. J "Morality," says one of his most ingenious scholars, " is the practice of reason. "§ Clarke, like Cudworth, considered such a scheme as the only security against Hobb- ism, and probably also against the Calvinislic theology, from which they were almost as averse. Not content, with Cumberland, to attack Hobbes on groimd which was in part his own, they thought it necessary to build on entirely new foundations. Clarke more espe- cially, instead of substituting social and ge- nerous feeling for the selfish appetites, en- deavoured to bestow on Morality the highest dignity, by thus deriving it from Reason. He made it more than disinterested ; for he placed its seat in a region where interest never enters, and passion never disturbs. By ranking her principles with the first truths of Science, he seemed to render them pure and impartial, infallible and unchange- able. It might be excusable to regret the failure of so noble an attempt, if the indul- gence of such regrets did not betray an un- worthy apprehension that the same excellent ends could only be attained by such frail * "Those who found all moral obligation on the will of God must recur to the same thing, only they do not explain liow the nature and will of God is good and just." — Being and Attributes of God, Proposition xii. t Evidence of Natural and Revealed Religion, p. 4. Lond. 1724. t Ibid. p. 42. ^ Lowman on the Unity and Perfection? ol God, p. 29. Lond. ]'''^7 DISSERTATION ON THE PROGRESS OF ETHICAL PHILOSOPHY. 12i means ; and that the dictates of the most severe reason would not finally prove recon- cilable with the majesty of Virtue. REMARKS. The adoption of mathematical forms and terms was, in England, a prevalent fashion among writers on moral subjects during a large part of the eighteenth century. The ambition of mathematical certainty, on mat- ters concerning which it is not given to man to reach it, is a frailty from which the dis- ciple of Newton ought in reason to have been withheld, but to which he was natu- rally tempted by the example of his master. Nothing but the extreme difficulty of de- taching assent from forms of expression to which it has been long wedded, can ex- plain the fact, that the incautious expressions above cited, into which Clarice was hurried by his moral sensibilit)^, did not awaken him to a sense of the error into which he had fallen. As soon as he had said that '"'a wicked act was as absurd as an attempt to take away the properties of a figure," he ought to have seen that principles which led logically to such a conclusion were untrue. As it is an impossibility to make three, and three cease to be six, it ought, on his princi- ples, to be impossible to do a wicked act. To act without regard to the relations of things, — as if a man were to choose fire for cooling, or ice for heating, — would be the part either of a lunatic or an idiot. The murderer who poisons by arsenic, acts agreeably to his knowledge of the power of that substance to kill, which is a relation between two things; as much as the ph3'sician who employs an emetic after the poison, acts upon his belief of the tendency of that remedy to preserve life, which is another relation between two things. All men who seek a good or bad end by good or bad means, must alike con- form their conduct to some relation between their actions as means and their object as an end. All the relations of inanimate things to each other are imdoubtedly observed as much by the criminal as by the man of virtue. It is therefore singular that Dr. Clarke suf- fered himself to be misled into the repre- sentation, that Virtue is a conformity with the relations of things universally, Vice a universal disregard of them, by the certain, but here insufficient truth, that the former necessarily implied a regard to certain par- ticular rehJions, which were always disre- garded by those who chose the latter. The distinction between Right and Wrong can, therefore, no longer depend on relations as such, bat on a particular class of relations. And it seems evident that no relations are to be considered, except those in which a liv- ing, intelligent, and voluntary agent is one of the beings related. His acts may relate to a law, as either observing or infringing it; they may relate to his own moral sentiments and those of his fellows, as they are the ob- jects of approbation or disapprobation ; they 8 may relate to his own welfare, by increasing or abating it; they may relate to the well being of other sentient beings, b)' contribu- ting to promote or obstruct it : but in all these, and in all supposable cases, the in- quiry of the moral philosopher must be. not whether there be a relation, but what' the relation is; whether it be that of obedience to law,, or agreeableness to moral feeling, or suitableness to prudence, or coincidence with benevolence. The term "relation" itself, on which Dr. Clarke's system rests, being com- mon to Right and Wrong, must be struck oul of the reasoning. He himself incidentally drops intimations which are at variance with his system. "The Deity," he tells us, "acts according to the eternal relations of thinss, in order to the welfare of the whole Uni- verse;" and subordinate moral agents ought to be governed by the same rules, •'•for the good of the public."* No one can fail to ob- serve that anew element is here introduced. — the well-being of communities of jnen. and the general happiness of the world, — u'hich supersedes the consideration of abstract re- lations and fitnesses. There are other views of this system, however, of a more general nature, and of much more importance, because they e.A"- tend in a considerable degree to all systems which found moral distinctions or sentiments, solely or ultimately, upon Reason. A little reflection Avill discover an extraordinary vacuity in this system. Supposing it were al- lowed that it satisfactorily accounts for raO' ral judgments, there is still an important pail of our moral sentiments which it passes by without an attempt to explain them. Whence, on this scheme, the pleasure or pain with which we review our own actions or survey those of others 1 What is the nature of re- morse ? Why do we feel shame 1 Whence is indignation against -injustice ? These are surely no exercise of Reason. Nor is the assent of Reason to any other class of propo- sitions followed or accompanied by emotions of this nature, by any approaching them, or indeed necessarily by any emotion at all. It is a fatal objection to a moral theory that it contains no means of explaining the must conspicuous, if not the most essential, parts of moral approbation and disapprobation. But to rise to a more general considera- tion : Perception and Emotion are states of mind perfectly distinct, and an emotion of pleasure or pain differs much more from a mere perception, than the perceptions of one sense do from those of another. The per- ceptions of all the senses have some quali- ties in common. But an emotion has not necessarily anything in common with a per- ception, but that they are both states of mind. We perceive exactly the same quali- ties in the taste of coffee when we may dis- like it, as afterwards when we come to like it. In other words, the perception remains the same when the sensation of pain i« * Evid. of Nat. and Rev. Rel. p. 4. j22 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. changed into the opposite sensation of plea- sure. The like change may occur in every case where pleasure or pain (in such in- stances callecl "sensations"), enter the mind with perceptions through the eye or the ear. The prospect or the sound which was dis- agreeable may become agreeable, without any alteration in our idea of the objects. We can easily imagine a percipient and thinking being without a capacity of receiv^- ing pleasure or pain. Such a being might perceive what we do; if we could conceive him to reason, he might reason justly ; and if he w-ere to judge at all, there seems no reason why he should not judge truly. But what could induce such a being to u'ill or to act'^ It seems evident that his existence could only be a ffate of passive contempla- tion. Reason, as Reason, can never be a motive to action. It is only when we super- add to such a being sensibility, or the ca- pacity of emotion or sentiment, or (what in corporeal cases is called sensation) of desire and aversion, that we introduce him into the world of action. We then clearly discern that, when the conclusion of a process of reasoning presents to his mind an object of desire, or the means of obtaining it, a motive of action begins to operate, and Reason may then, but not till then, have a powerful though indirect influence on conduct. Let any argument to dissuade a man from im- morality be employed, and the issue of it will always appear to be an appeal to a feel- ing. You prove that drunkenness will pro- bably ruin health: no position founded on experience is more certain; most persons with whom you reason must be as much convinced of it as you are. But your hope of success depends on the drunkard's fear of ill health; and he may always silence your argument by telling you that he loves wine more than he dreads sickness. You speak in vain of the infamy of an act to one who disregards the opinion of others, or of its imprudence to a man of little feeling for his own future condition. You may truly, but vainly tell of the pleasures of friendship to one who has little affection. If you display the delights of liberality to a miser, he may always shut your mouth by answering, -'The spendthrift may prefer such pleasures; I love money more." If you even appeal to a man's conscience, he may answer you that you have clearly proved the immorality of the act, and that he himself knew it before; but that now when you had renewed and freshened his cr^iviction, he was obliged to own that his love of Virtue, even aided by the fear of dishonour, remorse, and punish- ment, was not so powerful as the desire which hurried him into vice. Nor is it otherwise, however confusion of ideas may cause it to be so deemed, with that calm regard to the welfare of the agent, to which philosopherR have so grossly mis- applied the hardly intelligible appellation of '• self-love." The general tendency of right conduct to permanent well-being is indeed one of the most evident of all truths. But the success of persuasives or dissuasives ad dressed to it, must always be directly pro- portioned, not to the clearness with which the truth is discerned, but to the strength ol the principle addressed, in the mind of the individual, and to the degree in which he is accustomed to keep an eye on its dictates. A strange prejudice prevails, which ascribes to what is called " self-love" an invariable superiority over all the other motives of hu- man action. If it were to be called by a more fit name, such as "foresight," "pru- dence," or, what seems most exactly to de- scribe its nature, "a sympathy with the future feelings of the agent," it would ap- pear to every observer to be one very often too languid and inactive, always of late ap- pearance, and sometimes so faint as to be scarcely perceptible. Almost every human passion in its turn prevails over self-love. It is thus apparent that the influence of Reason on the Will is indirect, and arises ordy from its being one of the channels by which the objects of desire or aversion are brought near to these springs of voluntary action. It is only one of these channels. There are many other modes of presenting to the mind the proper objects of the emo- tions which it is intended to excite, whether of a calmer or of a more active nature ; so that they may influence conduct more powerfully than when they reach the Will through the channel of conviction. The distinction be- tween conviction and persuasion would in- deed be otherwise without a meaning; to teach the mind would be the same thing as to move it ; and eloquence would be nothing but logic, although the greater part of the power of the former is displayed in the di- rect excitement of feeling; — on condition, indeed (for reasons foreign to our present purpose), that the orator shall never appear to give counsel inconsistent with the duty or the lasting welfare of those whom he would persuade. In like manner it is to be ob- served, that though reasoning be one of the instruments of education, yet education is not a process of reasoning, but a wise dis- posal of all the circumstances which influ- ence character, and of the means of produ- cing those habitual dispositions which insure well-doing, of which reasoning is but one. Very similar observations are applicable to the great arts of legislation and government; which are here only alluded to as forming a strong illustration of the present argument. The abused extension of the term " Reason" to the moral faculties, one of the predomi- nant errors of ancient and modern times, Las arisen from causes which it is not dJfTicuh to discover. Reason does in truth perform a great part in every case of moral sentiment. To Reason often belong the preliminaries of the act ; to Reason altogether belongs the choice of the means of execution. The ope- rations of Reason, in both cases, are compara- tively slow and lasting; they are capable of being distinctly recalled by memory. The DISSERTATION ON THE PROGRESS OF ETHICAL PHILOSOPHY. 123 emotion which intervenes between the pre- vious and the succeeding exertions of Reason is often faiut,generally transient, and scarcely ever capable of being reproduced by an effort of the mind. Hence the name of Reason is applied to this mixed state of mind ; more especially when the feeling, being of a cold and general nature, and scarcely ruffling the surface of the soul, — such as that of prudence and of ordinary kindness and propnet}', — al- most passes unnoticed; and is irretrievably forgotten. Hence the mind is, in such con- ditions, said by moralists to act from reason, in contradistinction to its more excited and disturbed state, when it is said to act from passion. The calmness of Reason gives to the whole compound the appearance of un- mixed reason. The illusion is further pro- moted by a mode of expression used in most languages. A man is said to act reasonably, when his conduct is such as may be reason- ably expected. Amidst the disorders of a vicious mind, it is difRcult to form a reason- able conjecture concerning future conduct; but the quiet and well-ordered state of Virtue renders the probable acts of her fortunate vo- taries the object of very rational expectation. As far as it is not presumptuous to attempt a distinction between modes of thinking for- eign to the mind which makes the attempt, and modes of expression scarcely translat- able into the only technical language in which that mind is wont to think, it seems that the systems of Cudworth and Clarke, though they appear very similar, are in reality different in some important points of view. The former, a Platonist, sets out from those '•' Ideas" (a word, in this acceptation of it, which has no corresponding term in English), the eternal models of created things, which, as the Athenian master taught, pre- existed in the Everlasting Intellect, and. of right, rule the will of every inferior mind. The illustrious scholar of Newton, with a manner of thinking more natural to his age and school, considered primarily the very relations of things themselves ; — conceived indeed by the Eternal Mind, but which, if such inadequate language may be pardoned, are the law of Its will, as well as the model of Its works.* EARL OF SHAFTESBURY.t Lord Shaftesbury, the author of the Cha- ■^cteristics, was the grandson of Sir Antony * Mr. Wollaston's system, that morality con- sisted in acting accordinsr to truth, seems to coin- cide with that of Dr. Clarke. The murder of Cicero by Popilius Lenas, was, according to him, a practical falsehood ; for Cicero had been his benefactor, and Popilius acted as if that were un- true. If the truth spoken of be that gratitude is due for benefits, the reasoning is evidently a circle. If atty truth be meant, indifferently, it is plain that the assassin acted in perfect conformity to several certain truths ; — such as the malignity of Antony, the ingratitude and venality of Popilius, and the probable impunity of his crime, when law was •uspended, and jrood men without power. tBorn. 1671: died, 1713. Ashley Cooper, created Earl of Shaftesbury, one of the master spirits of the English na- tion, whose vices, the biiter fruits of the in- security of a troublous time succeeded by the corrupting habits of an inconstant, venal, and profligate court, have led an ungrateful posterity to overlook his wisdom and disin- terested perseverance, in obtaining for his country the unspeakable benefits of the Habeas Corpus act. The fortune of the Characteristics has been singular. For a time the work was admired more undis- tinguishingly than its literary character war- rants. In the succeeding period it was justly criticised, but too severely condemned. Of late, more unjustly than in either of the for- mer cases, it has been generally neglected. It seemed to have the power of changing the temper of its critics. It provoked the am.i- able Berkeley to a harshness equally un- wonted and unwarranted :* while it softened the rugged VVarburton so far as to dispose the fierce, yet not altogether ungenerous, polemic to praise an enemy in the very heat of conflict. t Leibnitz, the most celebrated of Continental philosophers, warmly applauded the Charac- teristics, and, (what was a more certain proof, of admiration) though at an advanced age, criticised that work minutely. t Le Clerc, who had assisted the studies of the author, contri- buted to spread its reputation by his Journal, then the most popular in Europe. Locke k said to have aided in his education, probably rather by counsel than by tuition. The au- thor had indeed been driven from the regu- lar studies of his countiy by the insults with which he was loaded at Winchester school, when he was only twelve years old, imme- diately after the death of his grandfather :§ — * See Minute Philosopher, Dialogue iii. ; but especially his Theory of Vision Vindicated, Lond. 1733 (not republished in the quarto edition of his works), where this most excellent man sinks for a moment to the level of a railing polemic. t It is remarkable that the most impure passage.? of Warburton's composition are those in which he lets loose his controversial zeal, and that he is a fine writer principally where he writes from ge- nerous feeling. " Of all the virtues which were so much in this noble writer's heart, and in his writings, there was not one he more revered than the love of public liberty .... The noble author of the Characteristics had many excellent qualities, both as a man and a writer : he was temperate, chaste, honest, and a lover of his country. In his writings he has shown how much he has im- bibed the deep sense, and how naturally he could copy the gracious manner of Plato. — (Dedication to the Freethinkers, prefi.xed to the Divine Lega- tion.) He, however, soon relapses, but not with- out excuse ; for he thought himself vindicating the memory of Locke. X Op. iii. 39—56. i [With regard to this story, authorised as it is, the Editor cannot help, on behalf of his own " nursing mother," throwing out some suspicion that the Chancellor's politics must have bcei: made use of somewhat as a scapegoat; else the nature of boys was at that lime more excitable touching their schoolmates' grandfathers than it is now. There is a rule traditionally observed iis College, " that no boy has a ri^ht to think till he 124 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS, a choice of time which seemed not so much io indicate anger against the faults of a great man, as triumph over the princijiles of liberty, which seemed at that time to have fallen for ever. He gave a genuine proof of respect for freedom of thought, by prevent- ing the expulsion, from Holland, of Bayle, (from whom he diflers in every moral, poli- tical, and, it may be truly addeti, religion? opinion) when, it must be owned, the right of asylum was, in strict justice, forfeited by the secret services which the philosopher had rendered to tlie enemy of Holland and of Europe. In the small part of his short life which premature infirmities allowed him to apply to public aflairs, he co-operated zealously with the friends of freedom ; but, as became a moral philosopher, he supported, even against them, a law to allow those who were accused of treason to make their de- fence by counsel, although the parties first to beneiit from this act of imperfect justice were persons conspired together to assassi- nate King William, and to re-enslave their country. On that occasion it is well known with what admirable quickness he took ad- vantage of the embarrassment which seized him, when he rose to address the House of Commons. " If I," said he," who rise only to give my opinion on this bill, am so confounded that I cannot say what I intended, what must the condition of that man be, who, without assistance is pleading for his own life!" Lord Shaftesbury was the friend of Lord Somers; and the tribute paid to his personal character by Warburton, who knew many of his contemporaries and some of his friends, may be considered as evidence of its excel- lence. His fine genius and generous spirit shine through his writings; but their lustre is often dimmed by peculiarities, and, it must be said, by affectations, which, originating in local, temporary, or even personal circumstances, are particularly fatal to the permanence of fame. There is often a charm in the ego- tism of an artless writer, or of an actor in great scenes: but btherlaws are imposed on the literary artist. Lord Shaftsbury, instead of hiding himself behind his work, stands forward with too frequent marks of self- complacency, as a nobleman of polished manners, with a mind adorned by the fine arts, and instructed by ancient philosophy; shrinking with a somewhat effeminate fasti- diousness from the clamour and prejudices 01 the multitude, whom he neither deigns to conciliate, nor puts forth his strength to sub- due. The enmity of the majority of church- men to the government established at the Hevolution, was calculated to fill his mind with angry feelings; which overflowed too ofteii, if not upon Christianity itself, yet upon representations of it, closely intertwined with those religious feelings to which, in other forms, his own philosophy ascribes surpass- lias forty juniors ;'' upon which rock the cock- fioat of the embryo metaphysician might have ibundered.] ing worth. His small, and occasional wrL tings, of which the main fault is the want oi an object or a plan, have many passages re- markable for the utmost beauty and harmo- ny of language. Had he imbibed the sim^ plicity, as well as copied the expression and cadence, of the greater ancients, he would have done more justice to his genius; and his works, like theirs, would have been pre- served by that first-mentioned quality, with- out which but a very few writings, of what- ever mental power, have long survived their writers. Grace belongs only to natural movements; and Lord Shaftesbury, notuith- standing the frequent beauty of his thoughts and language, has rarely attained it. He is unfortunately prone to pleasantry, which is obstinately averse from constraint, and which he had no interest in raising to be the lest of truth. His affectation of liveliness as a man of the world, tempts him sometimes to overstep the indistinct boundaries which separate familiarity from vulgarity. Of his two more considerable writings. The Moral- ists, on which he evidently most valued him- self, and which is spoken of by Leibnitz with enthusiasm, is by no means the happiest. — Yet perhaps there is scarcely any composi- tion in our language more lofty in its moral and religious sentiments, and more exqui- sitely elegant and musical in its diction, than the Platonic representation of the scale of beauty and love, in the speech to Palt- mon, near the close of the fiist part.* Matiy passages might be quoted, which in some measure justify the enthusiasm of the sep- tuagenarian geometer. Yet it is not to be concealed that, as a whole, it is heavy and languid. It is a modern antique. The dia- logues of Plato are often very lively repre- sentations of conversations which might take place daily at a great university, full, like Athens, of rival professors and eager disci- ples, between men of various character, and great fame as well as ability. Socrates runs through them all. His great abiliiies, his still more venerable virtues, his cruel fate, especially when joined to his very character- istic peculiarities, — to his grave humour, to his homely sense, to his assumed humility, to the honest s!)ness with which he ensnar- ed the Sophists, and to the intrepidity with which he dragged them to justice, gave unity and dramatic interest to these dialogues as a whole. But Lord Shaftesbury's dialogue is between fictitious personages, and in much rejected as overlooked. It is an in- stance! of the importance of style. No thinker BO great was ever so bad a writer. Indeed, the ingenious apologies which have been lately attempted for this defect, amount to no more than that his power of thought waa too TTMch for his skill in language. How general must the reception have been of truths so certain and momentous as those contained in Butler's discourses, — with how much more clearness must they have ap- peared to his own great understanding, if he had possessed the strength and distinctness with which Hobbes enforces odious false- hood, or the unspeakable charm of that trans- parent diction which clothed the unfruitful parado.\es of Berkeley ! HUTCHESON.* This ingenious writer began to try his own strength by private letters, written in his early youth to Dr. Clarke, the metaphysical patriarch of his time ; on whom young phi- losophers seem to have considered them- selves as possessing a claim, which he had too much goodness to reject. His corres- pondence with Hutcheson is lost; but we may judge of its spirit* by his answers tc Butler, and by one to Mr. Henry Home,' afterwards Lord Kames, then a young ad venturer in the prevalent speculations. Near ly at the same period with Butler's first pub- lication, t the writings of Hutcheson began to show coincidences with him, indicative of the tendency of moral theory to assume a new form, by virtue of an impulse received from Shaftesbury, and quickened to greater activity by the adverse system of Clarke, Lord Molesworth, the friend of Shaftesbury, patronised Hutcheson, and even criticised his manuscript; and though a Presbyterian, he was befriended by King, Archbishop of Dub- lin, himself a metaphysician ; and aided by Mr. Synge, afterwards also a bishop, to whom speculations somewhat similar to his own had occurred. Butler and Hutcheson coincided in the two important positions, that disinterested affec- tions, and a distinct moral faculty, are essen- tial parts of human nature. Hutcheson is a chaste and simple writer, who imbibed the opinions, without the literary faults of his master, Shaftesbury. He has a clearness of expression, and fulness of illustration, which are wanting in Butler. But he is inferior to both these writers in the appearance at least of originalit}', and to Butler especially in that * Born in Ireland, 1694 ; died at Glasgow, 1747. t Woodlioiiselee's Life of Lord Kames, vol. i. Append. No. 3. t The first edition of Butler's Sermons was published in 1726. in which year also appeared the second edition of Hutclieson's Inquiry into Beauty and Virtue. The Sermons had been preached some years before, though there is no likelihood that the contents could have reached a young teacher at Dublin. The place of Hutcheson's birth is not mentioned in any account known to me. Ireland may be truly said to be " iticurios>a auorum." 136 MACKINTOSH'S JNIISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. philosophical courage which, when it disco- vers the fountains of truth and falsehood, leaves others to follow the streams. He states as strongly as Butler, that " the same cause which determines us to pursue hap- piness for ourselves, determines us both lo esteem and benevolence on their proper oc- casions — even the very frame of our na- ture."* It is in vain, as he justly observes, for the patrons of a retined selfishness to pre- tend that we pursue the happiness of others for ihe sake of the pleasure which we derive from it; since it is apparent that there could be no such pleasure if there had been no previous affection. '"'Had we no affection distinct from self-love, nothing could raise a desire of the happiness of others, but when viewed as a mean of our own."! He seems to have been the first who entertained just notions of the formation of the secondary desires, which had been overlooked by But- ler. ''There must arise, in consequence of our original desires, secondary desires of every thing useful to gratify the primary de- sire. Thus, as soon as we apprehend the use of wealth, or power, to gratify our origi- nal desires, we also desire them. From their universality as means arises the general pre- valence of these desires of wealth and power."]: Proceeding farther in his zeal against the selfish system than Lord Shaftes- bury, who seems ultimately to rest the rea- sonableness of benevolence on its subser- viency to the happiness of the individual, he represents the moral faculty to be, as well as self-love and benevolence, a calm general impulse, which may and does impel a good man to sacrifice not only happiness, but even life itself, to Virtue. As Mr. Locke had spoken of " an internal sensation ;" Lord Shaftesbury once or twice of '-a reflex sense," and once of "a moral sense j" Hutcheson, who had a steadier, if not a clearer view of the nature of Con- science than Butler, calls it " a moral sense ;" a name which quickly became popular, and continues to be a part of philosophical lan- guage. By "sense" he understood a capa- city of receiving ideas, together with plea- sures and pains, from a class of objects: the term " moral" was used to describe the par- ticular class in question. It implied only that Conscience was a separate element in our nature, and that it was not a state or act of the Understanding. According to him, it also implied that it was an original and im- planted principle ; but every other part of his theory might be embraced by those who hold it to be derivative. The object of moral approbation, accord- ing to him, is general benevolence; and he carries this generous error so far as to deny that prudence, as long as it regards ourselves, can be morally approved ; — an assertion con- tradicted by every man's feelings, and to which we owe the Dissertation on the Na- * Inquiry, p. 152. t Essay on llie Passions, p. 17. tibid. p. 8. ture of Virtue, which But.er annexed to hia Analogy. By proving that all virtuous ac- tions produce generaf good, he fancied that he had proved the necessity of regarding the general good in every act of virtue ; — an in- stance of that confusion of the theory of moral sentiments with the criterion of moral actions, against which the reader was warnea at the opening of this Dissertation, as fatal to ethical philosophy. He is chargeable, like Butler, with a vicious circle, in describing virtuous acts as those which are approved by the moral sense, while he at the same time describes the moral sense as the faculty which peiceives and feels the morality of actions. Hutcheson was the father of the modern school of speculative philosophy in Scotland ; for though in the beginning of the sixteenth century the Scotch are said to have been known throughout Europe by their unmea- sured passion for dialectical subtilties,* and though this metaphysical taste was nourish- ed by the controversies which followed the Reformation, yet it languished, with every other intellectual taste and talent, from the Restoration, — first silenced by civil disorders, and afterwards repressed by an exemplary, but unlettered clergy, — till the philosophy of Shaftesbury was brought by Hutcheson from Ireland. We are told by the writer of his Life (a fine piece of philosophical biogra- phy) that •' he had a remarkable degree of rational enthusiasm for learning, liberty. Re- ligion, Virtue, and human happiness ;"t that he taught in public with persuasive elo- quence; that his instructive conversation was at once lively and modest; and that he united pure manners with a kind disposition. What wonder that such a man should have spread the love of Knowledge and Virtue around him, and should have rekindled in his adopted country a relish for the sciences which he cultivated ! To him may also be ascribed that proneness to multiply ultimate and original principles in human nature, which characterized the Scottish school till the second extinction of a passion for meta- * The cliaracter given of the Scotch by the fa- mous and unfortunate Servetus (edition of Ptole- my. 1533.) is in many respects curious: " Gallis amicissimi, Anglorumque regi maxime infesti.*** Subita ingenia, et in ultionem prona, fcrociaque.*** In bello fortes; inediae, vigilias, algoris paiientissi- mi ; decenti forma sed culiu negligentiori ; invidi natura, et caeterorum mortalium contemptores; ostentant flus nimio iwhilital em suam, el in summa eliam egestate sinan genus ad regiam stirpem re- ferjuit ; nee nmi dialect ids arguliis sibi hlandi' untur.'" " Subiia ingenia" is an expression equi- valent to the " Praefervidum Scotorum injienium" of Buchanan. Churchill almost agrees in worda with Servetus : " Whose lineage springs From great and glorious, though forgotten kings." The strong antipathy of the late King George IIL to what he called " Scotch Metaphysics," proves the permanency of the last part of the national character. t Life by Dr. Leechman, prefixed to tlie Sys. tern of Moral Philosophy. DISSERTATION Ox\ THE PROGRESS OF ETHICAL PHILOSOPHY 137 physical speculation in Scotland. A careful perusal of the writings of this now little stu- died philosopher will satisfy the well-quali- fied reader, that Dr. Adam Smith's ethical ppeculations are not so unsuggested as they are beautiful. BERKELEY.* This great metaphysician was so little a moralist, that it requires the attraction of his name to excuse its introduction here. His Theory of Vision contains a great discovery in mental philosophy. His immaterialism is chiefly valuable as a touchstone of meta- physical sagacity; showing those to be alto- gether without it, who, like Johnson and Beattie, believed that his speculations were sceptical, that they implied any distrust in the senses, or that they had the smallest tendency to disturb reasoning or alter con- duct. Ancient learning, exact science, po- lished society, modern literature, and the fine arts, contributed to adorn and enrich the mind of this accomplished man. All his contemporaries agreed with the satirist in ascribing " To Berkeley every virtue under heaven. "t Adverse factions and hostile wits concurred only in loving, admiring, and contributing to advance him. The severe sense of Swift endured his visions; the modest Addison en- deavoured to reconcile Clarke to his ambi- tious speculations. His character converted the satire of Pope into fervid praise; even the discerning, fastidious, and turbulent At- terbury said, after an interview with him, "So much understanding, so much know- ledge, so much innocence, and such humili- ty, I did not think had been the portion of any but angels, till I .saw this gentleman. "j Lord Bathurst told me, that the members of the Scriblerus Club being met at his house at dinner, they agreed to rally Berkeley, who was also his guest, on his scheme at Bermudas. Berkeley, having listened to the many lively things they had to say, beg- ged to be heard in his turn, and displayed his plan with such an astonishing and ani- mating force of eloquence and enthusiasm, that they were struck dumb, and after some pause, rose all up together, with earnestness exclaiming, 'Let us set out with him imme- diately.' "§ It was when thus beloved and celebrated that he conceived, at the age of forty-five, the design of devoting his life to reclaim and convert the natives of North America ; and he employed as much influ- ence and solicitation as common men do for their most prized objects, in obtaining leave to resign his dignities and revenues, to quit his accomplished and aflectionate friends, and to bury himself in what must have seemed an intellectual desert. After four * Born near Thomastovvn, in Ireland, 1684 ; died at 0.x ford, !753. + Epilogue to Pope's Satires, dialogue 2. t Dnncombe's Letters, pp. 106, 107. 9 Wharton on Pope, i. 199. 9 year,s' residence at Newport, m Rhtde Is Ian"!; he was compelled, by the refusal ot go- vern 'aent to furnish him with funds for his College, to forego his work of heroic, or rather godlike benevolence ; though not without some consoling forethought of the fortune of the country where he had sojourned. Westward the course of empire takes its way, The first four nets already past, A fifth shall close the drama with the day, 1'ime's noblest offsprij^g is its last. Thus disappointed in his ambition of keep- ing a school for savage children, at a salary of a hundred pounds by the year, he M"as re- ceived, on his return, with open arms by the philosophical queen, at whose metaphysical parties he made one with Sherlock, who, as well as Smal ridge, was his supporter, and withHoadley, who, following Clarke, was his antagonist. By her influence, he was made bishop of Cloyne. It is one of his highest boasts, that though of English extraction, he was a true Irishman, and the first eminent Protestant, after the unhappy contest at the Revolution, who avowed his love for all his countrymen. He asked, '-'Whether their habitations and furniture were not more sor- did than those of the savage Americans.'^"* "Whether a scheme for the welfare of this nation should not take in the whole inhabit- ants?" and "Whether it was a vain attempt, to project the flourishing of our Protestant gentry, exclusive of the bulk of the natives'?"! He proceeds to promote the reformation sug- gested in this pregnant question by a series of Queries, intimating with the utmost skill and address, every reason that proves the necessity, and the safety, and the wisest mode of adoptinir his suggestion. He con- tributed, by a truly Christian address to the Roman Catholics of his diocese, to their perfect quiet during the rebellion of 1745; and soon after published a letter to the clergy of that persuasion, beseeching them to inculcate industry among their flocks, for which he received their tlianks. He tells them that it was a saying among the negro slaves. " if negro were not negro, Irishman would be negro." It is difficult to read these proofs of benevolence and foresight without emotion, at the moment when, after a lapse of near a century, his suggestions have been at length, at the close of a struggle of twenty-five year.s, adopted, by the admission of the whole Irish nation to the privileges of the British constitution, j The patriotism of Berkeley was not, like that of Swift, tainted by disappointed ambi tion, nor was it, like Swift's, confined to a colony of English Protestants. Perhaps the Querist contains more hints, then original, and still unapplied in legislation and political economy, than are to be found in any other equal space. Jf rotn the writings of his ad vanced years, when he chose a medical tracts to be the vehicle of his philosophical * See his Querist, 3b8 ; published in 1735. t Ibid., 2.55. t April. 1829. 9 Siris, or Reflections on Tar Water. i38 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. reflections, though it cannot be said that he relinquishocl his early opinions, it is at least apparent tliat his mind had received a new bent, and was habitually turned from reason- ing towards contemplation. His immaterial- isin indeed modestly appears, but only to purify and elevate our thoughts, and to fix them on Mind, the paramount and primeval principle of all things. •'' Perlxaps," says he, '•the truth about innate ideas may be. that there are projjcrly no ideas, or passive objects^ in the mind but what are derived from sense, but that there are also, besides these, her own acts and operations. — such are notions;" a statement which seems once more to admit general conceptions^ and which might have served, as well as the parallel passage of Leibnitz, as the basis of the modern philoso- j)hy of Germany. From these compositions of his old age. he appears then to have recur- red with fondness to Plato and the later Plato- nists; writers from whose mere reasonings an intellect so acute could hardly hope for an argumentative satisfaction of all its diffi- culties, and whom he probably rather studied as a means of inuring his mind to objects Deyond the "visible dmrnal sphere," and of attaching it, through frequent meditation, to that perfect and transcendent goodness to which his moral feelings always pointed, and which they incessantly strove to grasp. His mind, enlarging as it rose, at length re- ceives ewevy theist, however imperfect his belief, to a comm union in its philosophic piety. "Truth," he beautifully concludes. " is the cry of all, but the game of a few. Certaiidy, where it is the chief passion, it does not give way to vulgar cares, nor is it < ontented with a little ardour in the early time of life; active perhaps to pursue, but not so fit to weigh and revise. He that would make a real progress in knowledge, must dedicate his age as well as 5'outh, the later growth as well as first fruits, at the altar of Truth." So did Berkeley, and such were almost his titest words. His general principles of Ethics may be shortly stated in his own words: — "'As God is a being of infinite goodness. His end is the good of His creatures. The general well- being of all men of all nations, of all ages of the\vorld, is that which He designs should be procured by the concurring actions of yach individual." Having stated that this end can be pursued only in one of two ways, — either by computing the consequences of each action, or by obeying rules which gene- rally tend to happiness, — and having shown the first to be impossible, he rightly infers, " that the end to which God requires the con- unrrence of human actions, must be carried on by the observation of certain determinate and universal rules, or moral precepts, which in their own nature have a necessary ten- dency to promote the well-being of man- kind, faking in all nations and ages, from the beginning to the end of the world."* A * .'>oi-moii in Trinity College chapel, on Passive Obedienrf, 171 '2. romance, of which a journey to an Utopia, in the centre of Africa, forms the chief pait, called "The Adventures of Signer Gaudentio di Lucca." has been commonly ascribed to him ; probably on no other ground than its union of pleasing invention with benevolence and elegance.* Of the exquisite grace and beauty of his diction, no man accustomed to English composition can need to be informed. His works are, beyond dispute, the finest models of philosophical style since Cicero. Perhaps they surpass those of the orator, in the wonderful art by which the fullest light is thrown on the most minute and evanes- cent parts of the most subtile of human conceptions. Perhaps, also, he surpassed Cicero in the charm of simplicity, a quality eminently found in Irish writers before the end of the eighteenth century ; — conspicuous in the masculine severity of Swift, in the Platonic fancy of Berkeley, in the native tenderness and elegance of Goldsmith, and not withholding its attractions from Hutche- son and Leland, writers of classical taste, though of inferior power. The two Irish philosophers of the eighteenth century maj he said to have co-operated in calling forth the metaphysical genius of Scotland; for, though Hutcheson spread the taste for, and furnished the principles of such specula- tions, yet Berkeley undoubtedly produced the scepticism of Hume, which stimulated the instinctive school to activity, and was thought incapable of confutation, otherwise than by their doctrines. DAVID HUME.t The life of Mr. Hume, written by himself, is remarkable above most, if not all writings of that sort, for hitting the degree of inte- rest between coldness and egotism which becomes a modest man in speaking of his private history. Few writers, whose opin- ions were so obnoxious, have more perfectl)' escaped every personal imputation. Very few men of so calm a character have been so warmly beloved. That he approached to the character of a perfectly good and wise man, is an aflectionate exaggeration, for which his friend Dr. Smith, in the first mo- ments of his sorrow, may well be excused.! But such a praise can never be earned with- out passing through either of the extremes of fortune, — without standing the test of temptations, dangers, and sacrifices. It may be said with truth, that the private character of Mr. Hume exhibited all the virtues which a man of reputable station, under a mild government, in the quiet times of a ci\ilized country, has often the opportunity to practise. He showed no want of the qualities which fit men for more severe trials. Though others had warmer affections, no man was a * See Gentleman's Magazine for January, 1777. t Born at Edinburgh, 1711 ; died there, 1776. \ Dr. Smith's Letter to Mr. Strahan, annexed to the Life of Hume. DISSERTATION ON THE PROGRESS OF ETHICAL PHILOSOPHY. 139 gilder relation, a more unwearied friend, or more free from meanness and malice. His character was so simple, that he did not even affect modesty; but neither his friend- ships nor his deportment were changed by a fame which filled all Europe. His good na- ture, his plain manners, and his active kind- ness, procured him in Paris the enviable name of " the good David,'" from a society not so alive to goodness, as without reason to place it at the head of the qualities of a celebrated man.* His whole character is faithfully and touchingly represented in the story of La Roche, t where Mr. Mackenzie, without concealing Mr. Hume's opinions, brings him into contact with scenes of tender piet)', and yet preserves the interest inspired by genuine and unalloyed, though moderated, feelings and affections. The amiable and venerable patriarch of Scottish literature, — opposed; as he was to the opinions of the philosopher on whom he has composed his best panegyric. — tells us that he read his manuscript to Dr. Smith, " who declared that he did not find a syllable to object to, but ad- ded, with his characteristic absence of mind, that he was surprised he had never heard of the anecdote before. ",t So lively was the delineation, thus sanctioned by the most natural of all testimonies. Mr. Macken- zie indulges his own religious feelings by modestly intimating, that Dr. Smith's answer seemed to justify the last words of the tale, '' that there were moments when the philo- sopher recalled to his mind the venerable figure of the good La Roche, and wished that he had never doubted." To those who are strangers to the seductions of paradox, to the intoxication of fame, and to the be- witchment of prohibited opinions, it must be unaccountable, that he who revered bene- volence should, without apparent regret, cease to see it on the throne of the Universe. It is a matter of wonder that his habitual esteem for every fragment and shadow of moral excellence should not lead him to envy those who contemplated its perfection in that living and paternal character which gives it a power over the human heart. On the other hand, if we had no experi- ence of the power of opposite opinions in pro- ducing irreconcilable animosities, we might have hoped that those who retained such high privileges, would have looked wath more compassion than dislike on a virtuous man who had lost them. In such cases it is too little remembered, that repugnance to hypocrisy and impatience of long conceal- ment, are the qualities of the best formed minds, and that, if the publication of some doctrines proves often painful and mischiev- ous, the habitual suppression of opinion is injurious to Reason, and very dangerous to sincerity. Practical questions thus arise, so difficult and perplexing that their determi- nation generally depends on the boldness or * See Note P. t Mirror, Nos. 42, 43, 44. t Maclienzic's Lifo of John Home, p. 21. timidity of the individual, — on his tender- ness for the feelings of the good, or his greater reverence for the free exercise of reason. The time is not yet come when the noble maxim of Plato, " that every soul is nmvillingly deprived of truth." will be prac- tically and heartily applied by men to the honest opponents who differ from them most widely. It was in his twenty-seventh year that Mr. Hume published at London the Treatise of Human Nature, the first systematic attack on all the principles of knowledge and be- lief, and the most formidable, if universal scepticism could ever be more than a mere exercise of ingenuity.* This memorable work was reviewed in a Journal of that time,t in a criticism not distinguished by ability, which aff"ects to represent the style of a very clear writer as unintelligible, — sometimes from a purpose to insult, but oftener from sheer dulness, — which is unac- countably silent respecting the consequences of a sceptical system^ but which concludes with the following prophecy so much at va- riance with the general tone of the article^ that it would seem to be added by a diff"er- ent hand. "It bears incontestable marks of a great capacity, of a soaring genius, but young, and not yet thoroughly practised Time and use may ripen these qualities in the author, and we shall probably have reason to consider thi.s, compared with his later productions, in the same light as we view the Juvenile works of Milton or the first manner of Raphael." The great speculator did not in this work amuse himself, like Bayle, with dialectical exercises, which only inspire a disposition towards doubt, by showing in detail the un- certainty of most opinions. He aimed at proving, not that nothing was known, but that nothing could be known, — from the structure of the Understanding to demon- strate that we are doomed for ever to dwell in absolute and universal ignorance. It is true that such a system of universal scepti- cism never can be more than an intellectual amusement, an exercise of subtilty, of which the only use is to check dogmatism, but which perhaps oftener provokes and pro- duces that much more common evil. As those dictates of experience which regulate * Sextiis, a physician of the empirical, i. e. anti- theoreiical school, who lived at Alexandria in the reign of Antoninus Pius, has preserved the rea- sonings of the ancient Sceptics as they were to be foimd in their most improved state, in the writings of ^nesidemus, a Cretan, who was a professor in the same city, soon atier the reduction of Egypt into a Roman province. The greater pan ot the grounds of doubt are very shallow and popular: there arc, among them, intimations of the argu- ment against a necessary connection of causes with effects, afterwards better presented by Glan- ville in his Scepsis Scientifici. — See Note Q. t The Works of the Learned for Nov. and Dee. 1739, pp. 353—404. This review is attribu- ted by some (Chalmer's Biogr. Diet., voce Humr to Warburlon, but certainly without ibundfitiop 140 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. conluct must be the objects of belief, all objections \vhich attack them in common with tie principles of reasoning, must be utterly ineffectual. Whatever attacks every principle of belief can destroy none. As long as the foundations of Knowledge are allowed to remain on the same level (be it called of certainty or uncertainty), with the maxims of life, the whole system of hu- man conviction must continue undisturbed. When the sceptic boasts of having involved the results of experience and the elements of Geometry in the same ruin with the doc- trines of Religion and the principles of Phi- losophy, he may be answered, that no dog- matist ever claimed more than the same degree of certainty for these various convic- tions and opinions, and that his scepticism, therefore, leaves them in the relative condi- tion in which it found them. No man knew better or owned more frankly than Mr. Hume, that to this answer there is no seri- ous reply. Universal scepticism involves a contradiction in terms: it is a belief that there can be no belief. It is an attempt of the mind to act without its structure, and by other laws than those to which its nature has sub- jected its operations. To reason without assenting to the principles on which reason- ing is founded, is not unlike an effort to feel without nerves, or to move whhout muscles. No man can be allowed to be an opponent in reasoning, who does not set out with ad- mitting all the principles, without the admis- sion of which it is impossible to reason.* It is indeed a puerile, nay, in the eye of Wisdom, a childish play, to attempt either to establish or to confute principles by argu- ment, which every step of that argument must presuppose. The only difference be- tween the two cases is, that he who trios to prove them can do so only by first taking them for granted, and that he who attempts to impugn them falls at the very first step into a contradiction from which he never can rise. It must, however, be allowed, that uni- versal scepticism has practical consequences of a very mischievous nature. This is be- cause its universality is not steadily kept in view, and constantly borne in mind. If it were, the above short and plain remark would bean effectual antidote to the poison But in practice, it is an armoury from which weapons are taken to be employed against • This maxim, which contains a sufficient nn- iwer to all universal scrpticism, or, in other words, to all scepticism properly so called, is sisr- nificanily conveyed in the quaint tide of an old nnd rare book, entitled, " Scivi ; sive Sceptices et Scepticorum a Jure Dipputaiionis Exclusio," by Thomas White, the metaphysician of the Enfjlish Catholics in modern times. " Fortunately," says the illustrious scepiic himself, "since Reason is incapable of dispelling these clouds. Nature her- self sufRces for that purpose, and cures me of this philosophical delirium." — Treat, of Hum. Nat., i. 467 ; almost m the sublime and immortal words of Pascal: ''La Raison confond les dogmaiistes, f. la Nature les sceptiques " some opinions, while it is hidden from notice that the saine weapon would equally cut down every other conviction. It is thus that Mr. Hume's theory of causation is used as an answer to arguments for the existence of the Deity, without warning the reader that it would equally lead him not to expect that the sun will rise to-morrow. It must also be added, that those who are early accus- tomed to dispute first principles are never likely to acquire, in a sufficient degree, that earnestness and that sincerity, that strong love of Truth, and that conscientious solici- tude for the formation of just opinions, which are not the least virtues of men, but of which the cultivation is the more especial duty of all who call themselves philosophers.* It is not an uninteresting fact that Mr. Hume, having been introduced by Lord Kaines (then Mr. Henry Home) to Dr. Butler, sent a copy of his Treatise to that philoso- pher at the moment of his preferment to the bishopric of Durham ; and that the perusal of it did not deter the philosophic prelate from " everywhere recommending Mr. Hume's Moral and Political Essays,"! published two years afterwards; — essays which it would indeed have been unworthy of such a man not to have liberally commended; for they, and those which followed them, whatever may be thought of the contents of some of them, must be ever regarded as the best models in any language, of the short but full, of the clear and agreeable, though dee]} dis- cussion of difficult questions. Mr. Hume considered his Inquiry concern ing the Principles of Morals as the best of his writings. It is very creditable to hia character, that he should have looked back with most complacency on a tract the least distinguished by originality, and the least tainted by paradox', among his philosophical works; but deserving of all commendation for the elegant perspicuity of the style, and the novelty of illustration and inference with which he unfolded to general readers a doc- trine too simple, too certain, and too im- portant, to remain till his time undiscovered among philosophers. His diction has, indeed, neither the grace of Berkeley, nor the strength of Hobbes; but it is without the verbosity of the former, or the rugged sternness of the latter. His manner is more lively, more easy, more ingratiating, and, if the word may be so applied, more amusing, than that of any othei metaphysical writer.} He knew himself too * It would be an act of injustice to those readers who are not acquainted with that valuable volume entiiled, " Essays on the Formation of Opinions," not to refer them to it as enfurcing; that neglected part of morality. To it may be added, a masterly article in the Westminster Review, vi. 1, occa sioned by the Essays. t Woodhouselee's Life of Karnes, i. 86. 104. X These commendations are so far from being at variance with the remarks of the late most inge- nious Dr. Thomas Brown, on Mr. Hume's " moda of writing," (Inquiry into the Relation of Causa and Effect, 3d ed. p. 327,) that they may rathei be regarded as descriptive of those excellencies o* DISSERTATION ON THE PROGRESS OF ETHICAL PHILOSOPHY, 141 well to be, as Dr. Johnson asserted, an imi- tator of Voltaire ; who, as it were, embodied in his own person all the wit and quickness and \ersatile ingenuity of a people which surpasses other nations in these brilliant qualities. If he must be supposed to have had an eye on any French writer, it would be a more plausible guess, that he some- times copied, with a temperate hand, the unexpected thoughts and familiar expres- sions of Fontenelle. Though he carefully weeded his writings in their successive edi- tions, yet they still contain Scotticisms and Gallicisms enough to employ the successors of such critics as those who exulted over the Patavinity of the Roman historian. His own great and modest mind would have been satisfied with the praise which cannot be withheld from him, that there is no writer in our language who, through long works, is more agreeable; and it is no derogation from him, that, as a Scotsman, he did not reach those native and secret beauties, character- istical of a language, which are never at- tained, in elaborate composition, but by a very small number of those who familiarly converse in it from infancy. The Inquiry af- fords perhaps the best specimen of his style. In substance, its chief merit is the proof, from an abundant enumeration of particulars, that all the qualities and actions of the mind which are generally approved by mankind agree in the circumstance of being useful to society. In the proof (scarcely necessary), that benevolent affections and actions have that tendency, he asserts the real existence of these affections with unusual warmth; and he well abridges some of the most forci- ble arguments of Butler,* whom it is re- markable that he does not mention. To show the importance of his principle, he very un- necessarily distinguishes the comprehensive duty of justice from other parts of Morality, as an artificial virtue, for which our respect is solely derived from notions of utilitj'. If all things were in such plenty that there could never be a want, or if men were so benevolent as to provide for the wants of others as much as for their own, there would, saj's he, in neither case be any justice, be- cause there would be no need for it. But it is evident that the same reasoning is applica- ble to every good affection and right action. None of them could exist if there were no scope for their exercise. If there were no suf- fering, there could be no pity and no relief; if there were no oiFences, there could be no placability: if there were no crimes, there could be no mercy. Temperance, prudence, patience, magnanimity, are qualtiesof which the value depends on the evils by which they are respectively exercised. t which the exceris produced the fauhs of Mr. Hume, as a mere searclior and teacher, jiisily, ihnugli per- hap.s severely, animadverted on by Dr. Brown. * Inquiry, $ ii. part, i., especially the concluding paragraphs ; those which precede being more his own. t " Si nobis, cum ex hac vita migraverimus, in With reg-ard to purity of manners, it must be owned that Mr. Hume, though he con- troverts no rule, yet treats vice with too much indulgence. It was his general disposition to distrust those virtues which are liable to exaggeration, and may be easily counter- feited. The ascetic pursuit of purity, and hypocritical pretences to patriotism, had too much withdrawn the respect of his equally calm and sincere nature from these excellent virtues; more especially as severity in both these respects was often at apparent variance with affection, which can neither be long assumed, nor ever overvalued. Yet it was singular that he who, in his essay on Poly- gamy and Divorce,* had so well shown the connection of domestic ties with the outward order of society, should not have perceived their deeper and closer relation to all the social feelings of human nature. It cannot be enough regretted, that, in an inquiry writ- ten with a very moral purpose, his habit of making truth attractive, by throwing over her the dress of paradox, should have given him for a moment the appearance of weigh- ing the mere amusements of societj- and conversation against domestic fidelity, which is the preserver of domestic affection, the source of parental fondness and filial regard, and; indirectly, of all the kindness \^hicl e.vists between human beings. That fami- lies are schools where the infant heart learns to love, and that pure manners are the cement which alone holds these schools together, are truths so certain, that it is wonderful he should not have betrayed a stronger sense of their importance. No one could so well have proved that all the virtues of that class, in their various orders and degrees, minister to the benevolent affections ; and that every act which separates the senses from the affections tends, in some degree, to deprive kindness of its natural auxiliary, and to les- sen its prevalence in the world. It did not require his sagacity to discover that the gentlest and tenderest feelings flourish only under the stern guardianship of these se- vere virtues. Perhaps his philosophy was beatorum insulis, ut fabulae ferunt, immorlaie aevum deo:ere liceret, quid opus esset eloqueniia, cum judicia nulla fiereni ? autipsisetiam virtu tibus? Nee enim fortitudine indigeremus, nullo proposito aut labore aut periculo ; iiecjustitia, cum esset nUtil quod appeteretur alieni ; nee lemperantia, quse re- geret eas quee nullas essent libidines : ne prudentia quidem egeremus, nullo proposito delectu bono- rnm et malorum. Una igitur essemus beati cog- nitione rerum et scientia." — Frag. Cic. Hortens. apud Augustine de I'rinitate. Cicero is more ex- tensive, and therefore more consistent than Hume ; but his enumeration errs both by excess and de- fect. He supposes Knowledge to render beings happy in this imaginary state, without stooping to inquire how. He omits a virtue which might well exist in it, tii.ough we cannot conceive its forma lion in such a state — the delight in each other's well-being ; and he omits a conceivable though unknown vice, that of unmixed ill-tvill, ••'hich woiild render such a state a hell to the wretch wha harboiired the malevolence. * Essays and Treatises, vol. • T42 MACKINTOSH'S JMISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. loosened, though his life was unconupled, by that universal and iindistinguishiiig pio- (ligacy which prevailed on the Continent, Irom the regency of the Duke of Orleans to the French Revolution; the most dissolute period of European history, at least since the Roman emperors.* At Rome, indeed, the connection of licentiousness with cruelty, which, though scarcely traceable in indi- viduals, is generally very observable in large masses, bore a feailul testimony to the value of austere purity. The alliance of these re- mote vices seemed to be broken in the time of Mr. Hume. Pleasure, in a more improved state of society, seemed to return to her more natural union with kindness and tenderness, as well as with refinement and politeness. Had he lived Courteen years longer, however, he would have seen, that the virtues which guard the natural seminaries of the afl'ections are their only true and lasting friends. He would also then have seen (the demand of well-informed men for the improvement of civil institutions, — and that of all classes growing in intelligence, to be delivered from a degrading inferiority, and to be admitted to a share of political power proportioned to their new importance, having been feebly, yet violently resisted by those ruling castes who neither knew how to yield, nor how to withstand.) how speedily the sudden demoli- tion of the barriers (imperfect as they were) of law and government, led to popular ex- cesses, desolating wars, and a military dic- tatorship, which for a long time threatened to defeat the reformation, and to disappoint the hopes of mankind. This tremendous conflagration threw a fearful light on the ferocity which lies hid under the arts and pleasures of corrupted nations; as earth- quakes and volcanoes disclose the rocks which compose the deeper parts of our planet, beneath a fertile and flowery surface. A part of this dreadful result may be as- cribed, not improbably, to that rela.xation of domestic ties, which is unhappily natural to the populace of all vast capitals, and was at that time countenanced and aggravated by the example of their superiors. Another part doubtless arose from the barbarising power of absolute government, or, in other words, of injustice in high places. A nar- ration of those events attests, as strongly as Roman history, though in a somewhat dif- ferent manner, the humanising efficacy of the family virtues, by the consequences of the want of them in the higher classes, whose profuse and ostentatious sensuality inspired the labouringand suffering portion of mankind with contempt, disgust, envy, and hatred. The Inquiry is disfigured by another speck of more frivolous paradox. It consists in the attempt to give the name of Virtue to quali- ties of the Understanding ; and it would not aave deserved the single remark about to be made on it, had it been the paradox of an inferiorman. He has altogether omitted the * See Note R. circumstance on which depends the differ ence of our sentiments regarding moral and intellectual qualities. We admire ii;telJec« tual excellence, but we bestow no moral aj • probation on it. Such approbation has no tendency directly to increase it, because it is not voluntary. We cultivate our natural disposition to esteem and love benevolence and justice, because these moral sentiments and the expression of them, directly and ma- terially dispose others, as well as ourselves, to cultivate these two virtues. We cultivate a natural anger against oppression, which guards ourselves against the practice of ihat vice, and because the manifestation of it de- ters others from its exercise. The fiist rude resentment of a child is against every instru- ment of hurt: we confine it to intentional hurt, when we are taught by experience that it prevents only that species of hurt ; and at last it is still further limited to wrong done to ourselves or others, and in that case be- comes a purely moral sentiment. We morally approve industry, desire of knowledge, love of Truth, and all the habits by which the Un- derstanding is strengthened and rectified, be- cause their formation is subject to the Will;* but we do not feel moral anger against folly or ignorance, because they are involuntary. No one but the religious persecutor, — a mis- chievous and overgrown child, wreaks his vengeance on involuntary, inevitable, com- puLsory acts or states of the Understanding, which are no more affected by blame than the stone which the foolish child beats foi hurting him. Reasonable men apply to every thing which they wish to move, the agent which is capable of moving it: — force to outward substances, arguments to the Un- derstanding, and blame, together with all other motives, whether moral or personal, to the Will alone. It is as absurd to entertain an abhorrence of intellectual inferiority or error, however extensive or mischievous, as it would be to cherish a warm indignation against earthquakes or hurricanes. It is singular that a philosopher who needed the most liberal toleration should, by represent- ing states of the Understanding as moral or immoral, have offered the most philosophical apology for persecution. That general utility constitutes a uniform ground of moral distinctions, is a part of Mr. Hume's ethical theory which never can be impugned, until some example can be pro- duced of a virtue generally pernicious, or of a vice generally beneficial. The religious philosopher v>ho, with Butler, holds that be- nevolence must be the actuating principle of the Divine mind, will, with Berkeley, main- tain that pure benevolence can prescribe no rules of human conduct but such as are bene- ficial to men ; thus bestowing on the theory of moral distinctions the certainty of demon- stration in the ej-es of all who believe in God * "III hrio qiiffisiiono prinins tenet Voliintns, qua, lit ait AncjiiPtiniis, peccatur, et recte vivituT-'^ — Erasmus, Diatribe adversus Lutlieruni. DISSERTATION Ox\ THE PROGRESS OF ETHICAL PHILOSOPHY, 143 The other question of moral philosophy which relates to the theory of moral appro- bation, has been by no means so distinctly and satisfactorily handled by Mr. Hume. His general doctrine is. that an interest in the well-being of others, implanted by nature, which he calls "sympathy" in his Treatise of Human Nature, and much less happily '•benevolence" in his subsequent Inquiry,* prompts us to be pleased with all generally beneficial actions. In this respect his doc- trine nearly resembles that of Hutcheson. He does not trace his principle through the variety of forms which our moral sentiments assume : there are very important parts of them, of which it affords no solution. For example, though he truly represents our ap- probation, in others, of qualities useful to the individual, as a proof of benevolence, he makes no attempt to explain our moral ap- probation of such virtues as temperance and fortitude in ourselves. He entirely overlooks that consciousness of the rightful supremacy of the Moral Faculty over every other princi- ple of human action, without an explanation of which, ethical theory is wanting in one of its vital organs. Notwithstanding these considerable de- fects, his proof from induction of the bene- ficial tendency of Vu'tue, his conclusive argu- ments for human disinterestedness, and his decisive observations on the respective pro- vinces of Reason and Sentiment in Morals, concur in ranking the Inquiry with the ethi- cal treatises of the highest merit in our lan- guage, — with Shaftesbury's Inquiry concern- ng Virtue, Butler's Sermons, and Smith's Theory of Moral Sentiments. ADAM SMITH. t The great name of Adam Smith rests upon the Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations ; perhaps the only book which producec] an immediate, general, and irrevocable change in some of the most im- portant parts of the legislation of all civilized states. The works of Grotius, of Locke, and of Montesquieu, which bear a resemblance to it in character, and had no inconsiderable analogy to it in the extent of their popular influence, were productive only of a general amendment, not so conspicuous in particular liiaiances, as discoverable, after a time, in the improved condition of human affairs. The work of Smith, as it touched those mat- ters which may be numbered, and measured, and vreighed, bore more visible and palpable fruit. In a few years it began to alter laws and treaties, and has made its way, through- out the convulsions of revolution and con- que.?t, to a due ascendant over the minds of men, with ;u.r less than the average of those obstructions of prejudice and clamour, which ordinarily choke the channels through which vruth flows into practice.! The most emi- * F.ssavs and Treatisps, vol. ii. t Born'. 1723; died, 1790. \ See Noie S, nent of those who have since cultivated and improved the science will be the foremost to address their immortal master, Tenebris tantis tam clarum extollere lumen Qui primus potuisti, inlusn-aiis commoda viiEe, Te sequor !* In a science more difficult, because both ascending to more simple general principles, and running down through more minute ap- plications, though the success of Smiih has been less complete, his genius is not less conspicuous. Perhaps there is no ethical work since Cicero's Offices, of which an abridgment enables the reader so inadequate- ly to estimate the merit, as the Theory of Moral Sentiments. This is not chiefly owing to the beauty of diction, as in the case of Cicero ; but lo the variety of explanations of life and manners which embellish the book often more than they illuminate the theory. Yet, on the other hand, it must be owned that, for purely philosophical purposes, few books more need abridgment ; for the most careful reader frequently loses sight of prin- ciples buried under illustrations. The natu- rally copious and flowing style of the author is generally redundant ; and the repetition of certain formularies of the system is, in the later editions, so frequent as to be weari- some, and sometimes ludicrous. Perhaps Smith and Hobbes may be considered as forming the two extremes of good style in our philosophy; the flrst of graceful fulness falling into flaccidity ; while the masterly concision of the second is oftener carried forward into dictatorial dryness. Hume and Berkeley, though they are nearer the ex- treme of abundance,t are probably the least distant from perfection. That mankind are so constituted as to sympathize with each other's feelings, and to feel pleasure in the accordance of these feelings, are the o.nly facts required by Dr. Smith; and they certainly must be granted to him. To adopt the feelings of another, is to approve them. When the sentimentfj of another are such as would be excited in us by the same objects, we approve them as moralltj inoper. To obtain this accordance, it becomes necessary for him who enjoys, or suffers, to lower the expression of his fee-ling to the point lo v/hich the by-stander can raise his fellow-feelings; on this attempt are founded all the high virtues of self-ile- nial and self-command: and it is equally necessary for the by-stander to raise his sympathy as near as he can to the level of the original feeling. In all unsocial pas- sions, such as anger, we have a divided sympathy between him who feels them, and those who are the objects of them. Hence the propriety of extremely moderating them. Pure malice is always to be concealed or * Liicrel. lib. iii. t This rrmark is chiefly applicable to Hume's Essays. His Treatise of Human Nature is ninrn Hobbian in its general tenor though it has Cic'v , ronian passages. 144 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. disguised, because all sympathy is arrayed against it. In the private passions, where •liere is only a simple sympathy, — that with the original passion, — the expression has more liberty. The benevolent afTections, where there is a double sympathy, — with those who feel them, and those who are their objects. — are the most agreeable, and may be indnlged with the least apprehension of finding- no echo in other breasts. Sympathy with the gratitiule of those who are benefited by good actions, prompts us to consider them as deserving of reward, and forms the sense of merit; as fellow-feeling with the resent- ment of those who are injured by crimes leads us to look on them as worthy of punish- ment, and constitutes the sense of demerit. These sentiments require not only beneficial actions, but benevolent motives; being com- pounded, in the case of merit, of a direct sympathy with the good disposition of the benefactor, and an indirect sympathy with the persons benefited ; in the opposite case, with precisely opposite sympathies. He who does an act of wrong to another to gratify his own passions, must not expect that the spectators, who have none of his undue par- tiality to his own interest, will enter into his feelings. In such a case, he knows that they will pity the person wronged, and be full of indignation against him. When he is cooled, he adopts the sentiments of others on his own Clime, feels shame at the impropriety of his former passion, pity for those who have suffered by him, and a dread of punish- ment from general and just resentment. Such are the constituent parts of remorse. Our moral sentiments respecting ourselves arise from those which others feel concern- ing US. We feel a self-approbation whenever we believe that the general feeling of man- kind coincides with that state of mind in which we ourselves were at a given time. '• We suppose ourselves the spectators of our own behaviour, and endeavour to imagine what effect it would in this light produce in us." We must view our own conduct with the eyes of others before we can judge it. The sense of duty arises from putting our- .selves in the place of others, and adopting their sentiments respecting our own conduct. In utter solitude there could have been no eelf-approbalion. The rules of Morality are a summary of those sentiments; and often beneficially stand in their stead when the self-delusions of passion would otherwise hide from us the non-conformity of our state of mind with that which, in the circum- stances, can be entered into and approved by impartial by-standers. It is hence that we learn to raise our mind above local or tem- porary clamour, and to fix our eyes on the surest indications of the general and lasting Hen'iments of human natuie. "When we approve of any character or action, our sen- tnnents are derived from four .sources: first, •we sympathize with the motives of the agent; secondly, we enter info the cratitude of those who liave been benefited by his actions; thirdly, we observe that his conduct has been agreeable to the general rules by which those two sympathies generally act ; and, last of all, when we consider such ac- tions as forming part of a system of beha- viour which tends to promote the happiness either of the individual or of society, they appear to derive a beauty from this utility, not unlike that which we ascribe to any well-contrived machine.'"* REIVIARKS. That Smith is the first who has drawn the attention of philosophers to one of the most curious and important parts of human na- ture. — who has looked closely and steadily into the workings of Sympathy, its sudden action and re-action, its instantaneous con- flicts and its emotions, its minute play and varied illusions, is sufficient to place him high among the cultivators of mental philo- sophy. He is very original in applications and explanations; though, for his principle, he is somewhat indebted to Butler, more to Hutcheson, and most of all to Hume. These writers, e.xcept Hume in his original work, had derived sympathy, or a great part of it, from benevolence :t Smith, with deeper in- sight, inverted the order. The great part performed by various sympathies in moral approbation was first unfolded by him ; and besides its intrinsic importance, it strength- ened the proofs against those theories which ascribe that great function to Reason. — Another great merit of the theory of '• sym- pathy" is, that it brings into the strongest light that mo.st important characteristic of the moral sentiments which consist in their being the only principles leading to action, and dependent on emotion or sensibility, with respect to the objects of which, it is not only possible but natural for all mankind to agree. t The main defects of this theory seem to be the following. * 1. Though it is not to be condemned for declining inquiry into the origin of our fel- low-feeling, which, being one of the most certain of all facts, might well be assumed as ultimate in speculations of this nature, it is evident that the circumstances to which some speculators ascribe the formation of sympathy at least contribute to strengthen or impair, to contract or expand it. It will appear, more conveniently, in the next ar- ticle, that the theory of " sympathy" has suffered from the omission of these circum- stances. For the present, it is enough to ob- serve how much our compassion for various * Theory of Moral Sentiments, Edinb. 1801, ii. 304. t There is some confusion regarding this point in Ruilcr's first sermon on Conipnssion. t 'I'lie feelings of beauty, grandeur, and what- ever else is comprehended under ilie name of 'I'asic, form no exception, for tliey do not lead lo action, tiut terminate in delightful contemplation • which cnnstitutcs the essential dislinrtinn between tliein and the moral sentiments, to which, in some points of view, they may doubtless be likened. DISSERTATION Oi\ THE PRUUKEfeS OF ETHICAL PHILOSOPHY Mi eorls of anin.al?, and our fellow-feeling with various races of men, are proportioned to the resemblance which they bear to ourselves, to the frequency of our intercourse with them, and to other causes which, in the opi- nion of some, afford evidence that sympathy itself is dependent on a more general law. 2. Had Smith extended his view beyond the mere play of sympathy itself, and taken into account all its preliminaries, and ac- companiments, and consequences, it seems improbable that he would have fallen into the great error of representing the sympa- thies in their primitive state, without under- going any transformation, as continuing ex- clusively to constitute the moral sentiments. He is not content with teaching that they are the roots out of which these sentiments grow, the stocks on which they are grafted, the elements of which ih'ey are compounded ; — doctrines to which nothing could be ob- jected but their unlimited extent. He tacitly assumes, that if a sympathy in the begin- ning caused or formed a moral approbation, so it must ever continue to do. He proceeds like a geologist who should tell us that the body of this planet had always been in the same state, shutting his eyes to transition states, and secondary formations; or like a chemist who should inform us that no com- pound substance can possess new qualities entirely different from those which belong- to its materials. His acquiescence in this old and still general error is the more re- markable, because Mr. Hume's beautiful Dissertation on the Passions* had just before opened a striking view of some of the com- positions and decompositions which render the mind of a formed man as different from its original state, as the organization of a complete animal is from the condition of the first dim speck of vitality. It is from this oversight (ill supplied by moral rules. — a loose stone in his building) that he has ex- posed himself to objections founded on ex- perience, to which it is impossible to attempt any answer. For it is certain that in many, nay in most cases of moral approbation, the adult man approves the action or disposition merely a.t right, and with a distinct con- sciousness that no process of sympathy in- tervenes between the approval and its ob- ject. It is certain that an unbiassed person would call it moral approbation^ only as far as it excluded the interposition of any reflec- tion between the conscience and the mental state approved. Upon the supposition of an unchangpd state of our active principles, it would follow that sympathy never had any share in the greater part of them. Had he Admitted the sympathies to be only elements entering into the formation of Conscience, their disappearance, or their appearance only as auxiliaries, after the mind is mature, would have been no miore an objection to his sy.stem, than the conversion of a sub- stance from a transitional to a permanent Essays and Treatises, vol. ii. state is a perplexity to the geologist. I( would perfectly resemble the destruction of qualities, which is the ordinary effect of chemical composition. 3. The same error has involved him in another difficulty perhaps still more fatal. The sympathies have nothing more of an imperative character than any other emo- tions. They attract or repel like other feel- ings, according to their intensity. If, then, the sympathies continue in mature minds to constitute the whole of Conscience, it be- comes utterly impossible to explain the cha- racter of command and supremacy, which is attested by the unanimous voice of mankind to belong to that faculty, and to form its es- sential distinction. Had he adopted the other representation, it would be possible to conceive, perhaps easy to explain, that Con- science should possess a quality which be- longed to none of its elements. 4. It is to this representation that Smith's theory owes that unhappy appearance of rendering the rule of our conduct dependent on the notions and passions of those who surround us, of which the utmost efforts of the most refined inii-enuity have not been able to divest it. This objection, or topic, ia often ignorantly urged; the answers are fre- quently solid ; but to most men they must always appear to be an ingenious and intri- cate contrivance of cycles and epicycles, which perplex the mind too much to satisfy it, and seem devised to evade difficulties which cannot be solved. All theories which treat Conscience as built up by circumstances inevilabl}' acting on all human minds, are, indeed, liable to somewhat of the same mis- conception ; unless they place in the strongest light (what Smith's theory excludes) the to- tal destruction of the scaffolding, which was necessary only to the erection of. the build- ing, after the mind is adult and mature, and warn the hastiest reader, that it then rests on its own foundation alone. 5. The constant reference of our own dis- positions and actions to the point of view from which they are estimated by others, seems to be rather an excellent expedient for preserving our impartialit)', than a funda- mental principle of Ethics. But impartiality, which is no more than a removal of some hinderance to right judgment, supplies no materials for its exercise, and no rule, or even principle, for its gu'dance. It nearly coincides with the Christian precept of '-'do- in2' unto others as we would they should do unto us;" — an admirable practical maxim, but, as Leibnitz has said truly, intended only as a correction of self-partiality. 6. Lastly, this ingenious system renders all morality relative, by referring it to the pleasure of an agreement of our feelings with those of others, — by confining itself entirely to the question of moral approba- tion, and by providing no place for the consi- deration of that quality which distinguishes all good from all bad actions; — a defect which will appear la the sequei to be more 146 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. iiTimediately Altai to a theorist of the serdi- menial, than to one ot" the intcllcctiinl school. Smith .shrinks from considering utility in that light, as soon as it presents itself, or very strangely ascribes its power over our moral feelings to admiration of the mere adaptation of means to entis, (which might surely be as well felt for the production of wide-spread misery, by a consistent system of wicked conduct,) — instead of ascribing it tc benevolence, with Hutcheson and Hume, or to an extension of that very sympathy which is his own first principle. RICHARD PRICE.* About the same time v.ith the celebrated work of Smith, but with a popular reception very diflerent. Dr. Richard Price, an excel- lent and eminent non-conformist minister, published A Review of the Principal Ques- tions in Morals ;t — an attempt to revive the intellectual theory of moral obligation, which seemed to have fallen under the attacks of Butler, Hutcheson, and Hume, and before that of Smith. It attracted little observation at first; but being afterwards countenanced by the Scottish school, it may seem to de- serve some notice, at a moment when the kindred speculations of the German meta- physicians have efiected an establishment in France, and are no longer unknown in England. The Understanding itself is, according to Price, an independent source of simple ideas. '• The various kinds of agreement and dis- agreement between our ideas, spoken of by Locke, are so many new simple ideas." "This is true of our ideas of proportion, of our ideas of identity and diver.sity. existence, connection^ cause and efl'ect, power, possi- bility, and of our ideas of right and wrong.'' " The first relates to quantity, the last to actions, the rest to all things." "Like all other simple ideas, they are undefinable." It is needless to pursue this theory farther, till an answer be given to ihe observation made before, that as no perception or judg- ment, or other unmixed act of Understand- ing, merely as such, and without the agency of some intermediate emotion, can affect the Will, the account given by Dr. Price of per- ceptions or judgments respecting moral sub- jects, does not advance one step towards tlie explanation of the authority of Conscience over the Will, which is the matter to be ex- plained. Indeed, this respectable writer felt the difficulty so much as to allow, '' that in contemplating the acts of moral agents, we have both a perception of the understanding and a feeling of the heart." He even ad- mits, that it would have been highly perni- cious to us if our reason had been left with- out such support. But he has not shown how, on such a supposition, we could have acted on a mere opinion ; nor has he given * Born, 1723; died, 1791. t The third edition was published at London in 1787. any proof that what he ctills '• support" is not, in truth, the whole of what directly pro- duces the conformity of voluntary acts to Mo- rality.* DAVID HARTLEY.? The work of Dr. Hartley, entitled '-'Obser- vations on Man, "J is distinguished by an un- common union of originality with modesty, in unfolding a simple and fruitful principle of human nature. It is disfigured by the absurd afl'ectation of mathematical forms then prevalent ; and it is encumbered and deformed by a mass of physiological specu- lations, — groundless, or at best uncertain, and wholly foreign from its proper purpose, — which repel the inquirer into mental phi- losophy from its perusal, and lessen the re- spect of the physiologist for the author's judgment. It is an unfortunate example of the disposition predominent among undis- tinguishing theorists to class together all the appearances which are observed at the same time, and in the immediate neighbourhood of each other. At that period, chemical phenomena were referred to mechanical principles; vegetable and animal life were subjected to mechanical or chemical laws: and while some physiologists^ ascribed the vital functions of the Understanding, the greater part of metaphysicians were dispos- ed, with a grosser confusion, to derive the intellectual operations from bodily causes. The error in the latter case, though less im- mediately perceptible, is deeper and more fundamental than in the other; since it over- looks the primordial and perpetual distinc- tion between the being ichich thinks and the thing u-hich is thought of, — not to be lost sight of, by the mind's eye, even for a twink- ling, without involving all nature in darkness and confusion. Hartley and Condillac,|| who, much about the same time, but seemingly without any knowledge of each other's spe- culations, IF began in a very similar mode to * The following sentences will illuslraie the te.xt, and are in truth applicable to all moral iheo- ries on merely inielleciual principles: "Reason alone, did we possess it in a higher degree, would answer all the ends of tlie passions. Thus there would be no need of parental affection, were all parents sufficiently acquainted wiiii the reasons for taking upon ihem tlie guidance and support of those wlioni Nature has placed under their care, and V'cre they virtuous enough to be always deter- mined by those reasons." — Review, p. 121. A very slight consideraiion will show, that without the last words the preceding part would be utterly false, and with them it is utierly insignificant. t Born, 1705 ; died, 1757. t London, 1749. ^ Among them was G. E. Sfahl, horn, 1G60; died, 1734 ; — a German physician and chemist of deserved eminence. 11 Born, 1715; died, 17S0. IT Traiio sur I'Origine des Connoi«sances Hn- maines, 1746 ; Traite des Systemes, 1749 ; Traiie des Sensations, 1754. Foreign books were then little and slowly known in England. Hartley's reading, e.\cept on theology, seems coiifinid to tha physical and mathematical science.'* ; and his whoJa DISSERTATION ON THE PROGRESS OF ETHICAL PHILOSOrHY. 147 simplify, but also to mutilate the system of Locke, stopped short of what is called "ma- terialism," which consummates the con- fusion, but touched the threshold. Thither, it must be owned, their philosophy pointed, and thither their followers proceeded. Hart- ley and Bonnet.* still more than Condillac, suffered themselves, like most of their con- temporaries, to overlook the important truth, that all the changes in the organs which can be likened to other material phenomena, are nothing- more than anteccdenls and prerequi- sites of perception, bearing not the faintest likeness to it, — as much outward in relation to the thinking principle, as if they occurred in any other part of matter; and that the entire comprehension of those changes, if it were attained, would not bring us a step nearer to the nature of thought. They who would have been the lirst to exclaim against the mistake of a sound for a colour, fell into the more unspeakable error of confounding the perception of objects, as outward, with the consciousness of our own mental opera- tions. Locke's doctrine, that "reflection" was a separate source of ideas, left room for this greatest of all distinctions; though with much unhappiness of expression, and with no little variance from the course of his own speculations. Hartley, Condillac. and Bon- net, in hewing away this seeming deformity from the system of their master, unwittingly struck off the part of the building which, however unsightl}^, gave it the power of yielding some shelter and guard to truths, of which the exclusion rendered it utterly un- tenable. They became consistent Nominal- ists; in reference to whose controversy Locke expresses himself with confusion and contra- diction : but on this subject they added no- thing to what had been taught by Hobbes and Berkeley. Both Hartle)' and Condillac! have the merit of having been unseduced by the temptations either of scepticism, or of useless idealism; which,even if Berkeley and Hume could have been unknown to them, must have been within sight. Both agree in referring all the intellectual operations to the "association of ideas," and in representing that association as reducible to the single law, "that ideas which enter the mind at the same time, acquire a tendency to call up each other. which is in direct proportion to the frequen- manner of thinking nnd writing is so different from that of Condillac, ihat there is not the least reason to suppose the work of the one to have been known to the other. The work of [iartley, as we learn ironi the sketch of his life by his son, pre- fi.xed to the edition of 1791, was begun in 1730, and finished in 1746. * Born, 1720; died, 1793. t The fciUowing note of Condillac will sliow how much he differed from Hartley in his mode of considering the Newtonian hypothesis ot vibra- tions, and how lar he was in tliat respect superior to ."lini. " .Te suppose ici et ailleurs que les percep- "ions de faine ont pour cause physique I'etiranle- ment des fibres du cerveau ; ?i.cn que je rcparde telle hypolhise comme demnnlrte, mnis pdrrefju'elle est la plus commode pour expliquer ma pensee^ — (Euvres de Condillac, Paris, 1798, i. 60. cy of their having entered togethei." In this important part of iheir doctrine they seem, whether unconsciously or otherwise, to have only repeated, and very much ex- panded, the opinion of Hobbes.* In its sim- plicity it is more agreeable than the system of Mr. Hume, who admitted five independent laws of association ; and it is in comprehen- sion far superior to the views of the same subject by Mr. Locke, whose ill-chosen name still retains its place in our nomenclature, but who only appeals to the principle as ex- plaining some fancies and whimsies of the human mind. The capital fault of Hartley is that of a rash generalization, which may prove imperfect, and which is at least pre- mature. All attempts to explain instinct bj this principle have hitherto been unavailing : many of the most important processes of reasoning have not hitherto been accounted for by it.t It would appear by a close ex- amination, that even this theory, simple as it appears, presupposes many facts relating to the mind, of which its authors do not seem to have suspected the existence. How many ultimate facts of that nature, for example, are contained and involved in Aristotle's celebrated comparison of the mind in its first state to a sheet of unwritten paper ! t The texture of the paper, even its colour, the sort of instrument fit to act on it, its capacity to receive and to retain impressions, all its dif- ferences, from steel on the one hand to water on the other, certainly presuppose some facts, and may imply many, without a distinct statement of which, the nature of Avriting could not be explained to a person wholly ignorant of it. How many more, as well as greater laws, may be necessary to enable mind to perceive outward objects ! If the power of perception may be thus depend- ent, why may not what is called the "asso- ciation of ideas," the attraction between thoughts, the power of one to suggest ano- ther, be affected by mental laws hitherto unexplored, perhaps unobserved 1 But, to return from this digression into the intellectual part of man, it becomes proper to say, that the difference between Hartley and Condillac, and the immeasurable supe- riority of the former, are chiefly to be found in the application which Hartley first made of the law of association to that other un- named portion of our nature with which Morality more immediately deals; — that which feels pain and pleasure. — is influ- enced by appetites and loathings, by desires and aversions, by affections and repugnances. Condillac's Treatise on Sensation, published five years after the woik of Hartley, repro- * Human Nature, chnp. iv. v. vi. For more ancient statements, see Note T. T " Ce que les logiciens ont dit dcs raisonne- ments dans bien des volumes, me paroit enliere- inent supprflu, et de nul usage." — Condillac, i. 115; an assertion of which the gro.ss absurdity will be apparent to the readers of Dr. Whateley's Treatise on Logic, one of the most imconanl works of the present age. t See Note U. 148 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. duces the doctrine of Hobbes, with its root, namely, that love and hope are but trans- formed "sensations,"* (by which Yiq means perceptions of the senses,) and its wide- spread branches, consisting in desires a:rl passions, which are only modifications of Belf-love. '-The words 'goodness' and 'beau- ty,' " says he, almost in the very words of Hobbes, "express those qualities of things by which Ihey contribute to our pleasure. "t In the whole of his jihilosophical works, we find no trace of any desire produced by as- sociation, of any disinterested principle, or indeed of any distinction between the per- cipient and what, perhaps, we may venture to call the emotive or the pathematic part of human nature, for the present, until some more convenient and agreeable name shall be hit on by some luckier or more skilful adventurer. To the ingenuous, humble, and anxiously conscientious character of Hartley himself, we owe the knowledge that, about the year 1730, he was informed that the Rev. Mr. Gay of Sidney-Sussex College, Cambridge, then living in the west of England, asserted the possibility of deducing all our intellectual pleasures and pains from association ; that this led him (Hartley) to consider the power of association; and that about that lime Mr. Gay publishecl his sentiments on this matter in a dissertation prefixed to Bishop Law's Translation of King's Origin of Evil.t No writer deserves the praise of abundant fair- ness more than Hartley in this avowal. The dissertation of which he speaks is mentioned by no philosopher but himself. It suggested nothing apparently to any other reader. The general texture of it is that of homespun sel- fishness. The writer had the merit to see and to own that Hutcheson had established as a fact the reality of moral sentiments and disinterested affections. He blames, per- haps justly, that most ingenious man,§ for * Condiliac, iii. 21 ; more especially Traiie des Sensations, pari ii. chap. vi. "lis love for nut- ward olijecis is only an efiect of love for itself." t Traiie des Sensations, part iv. cliap. iii. t Hartley's preface to the Observations on Man. The word "intellectual" is too narrow. Even " mental" would be of very- doubtful propriety. The theory in its full extent requires a word such as "inorganic" (if no better can be discovered), extending to all gratification, not distinctly relerred to some specific or^an, or at least to some assign- able part of the bodily frame. S> It has not been mentioned in its proper place, that Hutcheson appears nowhere to greater ad- vantage than in some letters on the Fable of the Bees, published when he was very young, at Dub- lin, with the signature of " Hibernicus." " Pri- vate vices — public benefits," says he, " may sig- nify any one of these five distinct propositions: 1st. They are in themselves public benefits; or, 2d. They naturally produce public happiness ; or, 3d. Tliey may be made to produce it ; or, 4th. They may naturally flow from it ; or, 5th. At least they may probably flow from it in our infirm nature." See a small volume containiiig Thoushts on Laughter, and Remarks on the Fable of the Bees, Glasgow, 1758, in which these letters are republished. assuming that these sentiments and affec- tions are implanted, and partake of the na ture of instincts. The object of his disscrta tion is to reconcile the mental appeaiancea described by Hutcheson with the first princi- ple of the selfish system, that " the true priu ciple of all our actions is our own happiness." Moral feelings and social affections are, ac- cording to him, "resolvable into reason, pointing out our private happiness; and whenever this end is tiot perceived^ they are to be accounted for from the association of ideas." Even in the single passage in which he shows a glimpse of the truth, he begins with confusion, advances with hesitation, and after holding in his grasp for an instant the principle which sheds so strong a light around it, suddenly drops it from his hand. Instead of receiving the statements of Hutcheson (his silence relating to Butler is unaccounta- ble) as enlargements of the science of man, he deals with them merely as difficulties to be reconciled with the received system of universal selfishness. In the conclusion of his fourth section, he well exemplifies the power of association in forming the love of money, of fame, of power, &c. ; but he still treats these effects of association as aberra- tions and infirmities, the fruits of our forget- fulness and shortsightedness, and not at all as the great process employed to sow and rear the most important principles of a social and moral nature. This precious mine may therefore be truly said to have been opened by Hartley ; for he who did such superabundant justice to the hints of Ga}', would assuredly not have withheld the like tribute from Hutcheson, had he observed the happy expression of "secondary passions," which ought to have led that philosopher himself farther than he ventured to advance. The extraordinary value of this part of Hartley's system has been hidden by various causes, which have also enabled writers, who have borrowed from it, to decry it. The influence of hi.s medical habits renders many of his exam- ples displeasing, and sometimes disgusting. He has none of that knowledge of the world, of that familiarity with Literature, of that delicate perception of the beauties of Nature and Art, which not only supply the most agreeable illustrations of mental philosophy, but afford the most obvious and striking in- stances of its happy application to subjects generally interesting. His particular appli- cations of the general law are off en mistaken, and are seldom more than brief notes and hasty suggestions; — the germs of theories which, while some might adopt them with- out detection, others might discover without being aware that they were anticipated. — To which it may he added, that in spite ot the imposing forms of Geometry, the work is not really distinguished by good method, or even uniform adherence to that which had been chosen. His style is entitled to nn praise but that of clearness, and a simplicity of diction, through which is visible a sirgvv DISSERTATION ON THE PROGRESS OF ETHICAL PHILOSOPHY. 14U lar simplicity of mind. No book perhaps exists which, with so few of the common allurements; comes at last so much to please by the picture it presents of the writer's cha- racter, — a character which kept him pure from the pursuit, often from the conscious- ness of novelty, and rendered him a discove- rer in spite of his own modesty. In those singular passages in which, amidst the pro- found internal tranquillity of all the Euro- pean nations, he foretells approaching con- vulsions, to be followed by the overthrow of states and Churches, his quiet and gentle spirit, elsewhere almost ready to inculcate passive obedience for the sake of peace, is supported under its awful forebodings by the hope of that general progress in virtue and happiness which he saw through the prepa- ratory confusion. A meek piety, inclinnig towards mysticism, and sometimes indulg- ing in visions which borrow a lustre from his fervid benevolence, was beautifull)', and per- haps singularly, blended in him with zeal for the most unbounded freedom of inquiry, flowing both from his own conscientious be- lief and his unmingled love of Truth. Who- ever can so far subdue his repugnance to petty or secondary faults as to bestow a care- ful perusal on the work, must be unfortunate if he does not see, feel, and own, that the writer was a great philosopher and a good man. To those who thus study the work, it will be apparent that Hartley, like other philoso- phers, either overlooked or failed e.\plicitly to announce that distinction between per- ception and emotion, without which no sys- tem of mental philosophy is complete. — Hence arose the partial and incomplete view wf Truth conveyed by the use of the phrase '•association of ideas." If the word "asso- ciation," which rather indicates the connec- tion between separate things than the perfect combination and fusion which occur in many operations of the mind, must, notwithstand- ing its inadequacy, still be retained, the phrase ought at least to be "association" of thoughts u-ith emotions, as well as with each other. With that enlargement an objection to the Hartleian doctrine would have been avoided, and its originality, as well as supe- riority over that of Condillac, would have appeared indisputable. The examples of avarice and other factitious passions are very well chosen ; first, because few will be found to suppose that they are original principles of human nature;* secondly, because the process by which they are generated, being subsequent to the age of attention and recol- lection, maybe brought home to the under- etanding of all men; and, thirdly, because * A very ingenious man, Lord Karnes, whose works had a great effect in rousing the mind of /lis contemporaries and counlrymen, has indeed fancied that there is " a hoarding instinct" in man and other animals. But such conclusions are not so much objects of confutation, as ludicrous proofs cf the absurdity of the premises which lead to they afford the most striking instance of se condary passions, which not only become in- dependent of the primary principles from which they are derived, but hostile to them, and so superior in strength as to be capable of overpowering their parents. As soon as the mind becomes familiar with the frequent case of the man who iirst pursued money to purchase pleasure, but at last, when he be- comes a miser, loves his hoard better than all that it could purchase, and sacrifices all pleasures for its increase, we are prepared to admit that, by a like process, the afiec- tions, when they are fixed on the happiness of others as their ultimate object, without any reflection on self, may not only be per- fectly detached from self-regard or private desires, but may subdue the.se and every other antagonist passion which caia stand in their way. As the miser loves money for its own sake, so may the benevolent mart delight in the well-being of his fellows. His good-will becomes as disinterested as if it had been irnplanted and underived. The like process applied to what is called " self- love," or the desire of permanent well-being, clearly explains the mode in which that prin- ciple is gradually formed from the separate appetites, without whose previous existence no notion of M-ell-being could be obtained. — 111 like manner, sympathy, perhaps itself the result of a transfer of our own personal feel- ings by association to other sentient beings, and of a subsequent transfer of their feelings to our own minds, engenders the various so- cial affections, which at last generate in most minds some regard to the well-being of our country, of mankind, of all creatures capable of pleasure. Rational Self-love con- trols and guides those far keener self-regard- ing passions of which it is the child, in the same manner as general benevolence balan- ces and governs the variety of much warmer social affections from which it springs. It is an ancient and obstinate error of philosophers to represent these two calm principles as be- ing the source of the impelling passions and affections, instead of being among the last results of them. Each of them exercises a sort of authority in its sphere; but the do minion of neither is co-existent with the whole nature of man. Though they have the power to quicken and check, they are both too feeble to impel ; and if the primary principles were extinguished, they would both perish from want of nourishment. If indeed all appetites and desires were de- stroyed, no subject would exist on which either of these general principles could act. The affections, desires, and emotions, having for their ultimate object the disposi- tions and actions of voluntary agents, which alone, from the nature of their object, are co-extensive with the whole of our active nature, are, according to the same philoso- phy, necessarily formed in every human mind by the transfer of feeling which is ef fected by the principle of Association, (iia- titude, pity, resentment, and shame, seem *"• 150 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. be the simplest, the most active, and the most uniform elements in tlieir composition. It is easy to perceive how the complacency inspired by a benefit maybe transferreil to a benefactorj — thence to all beneficent beings and acts. The well-chosen instance of the nurse familiarly exemplifies the manner in which the child transfers his complacency from the gratification of his senses to the cause of it, and thus learns an aflection for her who is the source of his enjoyment. — With this simple process concur, in the case of a tender nurse, and far more of a mother, a thousand acts of relief and endearment, the complacency that results from which is fixed on the person from whom they flow, and in some degree extended by association to all who resemble that person. So much of the pleasure of early life depends on others, that the like process is almost constantly repeated. Hence the origin of benevolence may be un- derstood, and the disposition to approve all benevolent, and disapprove all malevolent nets. Hence also the same approbation and disapprobation are extended to all acts which we clearly perceive to promote or obstruct the happiness of men. When the compla- cency is expressed in action, benevolence may be said to be transformed into a part of Conscience. The rise of sympathy may pro- bably be explained by the process of associ- ation, which transfers the feelings of others to ourselves, and ascribes our own feelings to others, — at first, and in some degree always, in proportion as the resemblance of ourselves to others is complete. The likeness in the outward signs of emotion is one of the widest channels in this commerce of hearts. Pity thereby becomes one of the grand sources of benevolence, and perhaps contributes more largely than gratitude: it is indeed one of the first motives to the conferring of those benefits which inspire grateful affection. — Sympathy with the sufferer, therefore, is also transformed into a real sentiment, di- rectly approving benevolent actions and dis- positions, and more remotely, all actions that promote happiness. The anger of the suffer- er, first against all causes of pain, afterwards against all intentional agents who produce it, and finally against all those in whom the in- fliction of pain proceeds from a mischievous disposition, when it is communicated to others by sympathy, and is so far purified by gra- dual separation from selfish and individual mterest as to be equally felt against all wrong- doers, — whether the wrong be done against ourselves, our friends, or our enemies. — is the root out of which springs that which is commonly and well called a " sense of jus- ■tice" — the most indispensable, perhaps, of all the component parts of the moral facul- ties. This is the main guard against "W^rong. It relates to that portion of Morality where many of the outward acts are capable of being reduced under certain rules, of which the violations, wherever the rule is sufh- uiently precise, and the mischief sufficiently great, may be guarded against by the terroi of punishment. In the observation of the rules of justice consists duty; breaches oi them we denominate ^' crimes.^' An abhor rence of crimes, especially of those which indicate the absence of benevolence, as well as of regard for justice, is strongly felt; be- cause well-framed penal laws, being the lasting declaration of the moral indignation of many generations of mankind, as long as they remain in unison with the sentiments of the age and country for which they are destined, exceedingly strengthen the same feeling in every individual; and this they do wherever the laws do not so much deviate from the habitual feelings of the multitude as to produce a struggle between law and sentiment, in which it is hard to say on which side success is most deplorable. A man who performs his duties may be es- teemed, but is not admired ; because it requires no more than ordinary virtue to act well where it is shameful and dangerous to do otherwise. The righteousness of those who act solely from such inferior motives, is little better than that " of the Scribes and Phari- sees." Those only are just in the eye of the moralist who act justly from a constant dis- position to render to every man his own.* Acts of kindness, of generosity, of pity, ot placability, of humanity, when they are long continued, can hardly fail m.ainly to flow from the pure fountain of an excellent nature. They are not reducible to rules; and the attempt to enforce them by punish- ment would destroy them. They are virtues, of which the essence consists in a good dis- position of mind. As we gradually transfer our desire from praise to praiseworthiness, this principle also is adopted into consciousness. On the other hand, when we are led by association to feel a painful contempt for those feelings and actions of our past self which we despise in others, there is developed in our hearts an- other element of that moral sense. It is a remarkable instance of the power of the law of Association, that the contempt or ab- horrence which we feel for the bad actions of others may be transferred by it, in any degree of strength, to our own past actions of the like kind : and as the hatred of bad actions is transferred to the agent, the same transfer may occur in our own case in a manner perfectly similar to that of which we are conscious in our feelings towards our fellow-creatures. There are many causes which render it generally feebler; but it is perfectly evident that it requires no more than a sufficient strength of moral feeling to make it equal ; and that the most appa- rently hyperbolical language used by peni- * " Justitia est constans et perpetua voluntas suum cuique tnbuendi:" an excellent definition in the mouth ot the Stoical moralists, from whom it is horrowed, but altogether misplaced by the Roman jurists in a body of laws which deal only with outwaid acts in their relation to the ordei I and '.r/teresis of society. DISSERTATION ON THE PROGRESS OF ETHICAL PHILOSOPHY 151 .euts, in describinc: their remorse, may be justified by the principle of Association. At this step in our progress, it is proper to observe, that a most important consideration has escaped Hartle}-, as well as every other philosopher.* The language of all mankind anplies that the Moral Faculty, whatever it may be. and from what origin soever it may spring, is intelligibly and properly spoken of as One. It is as common in mind, as in matter, for a compou-nd to have properties not to be found in any of its constituent parts. The truth of this proposition is as certain in the human feelings as in any ma- terial combination. It is therefore easily to be understood, that originally separate feel- ings may be so perfectly blended by a pro- cess performed in each mind, that they can no longer be disjoined from each other, but must always co-operate, and thus reach the only union which we can conceive. The sentiment of moral approbation, formed by association out of antecedent affections, may become so perfectly independent of them, that we are no longer conscious of the means by which it was formed, and never can in practice repeat, though we may in theory perceive, the process by which it was gene- rated. It is in that mature and sound state of our 7iature that our emotions at the view of Right and Wrong are ascribed to Con- science. But why, it may be asked, do these feelings, rather than others, run into each other, and constitute Conscience'? The answer seems to be v^-hat has already been intimated in the observations on Butler. The affinity between these feelings consists in this, that while all other feelings relate to outward objects, they alone contemplate ex- clusively the dispositions and actions of volun- tary agents. When they are completely transferred from objects, and even persons, to dispositions and actions, they are fitted, by the perfect coincidence of their aiin. for combining to form that one faculty which is directed only to that aim. The words '-Duty-' and "Virtue," and the word "ought," which most perfectly denotes duty, but is also connected with Virtue, in every well-constituted mind, in this state be- come the fit language of the acquired, per- haps, but universally and necessarily ac- quired, faculty of Conscience. Some account of its peculiar nature has been attempted in the remarks on Butler; for a further one a fitter occasion will occur hereafter. Some light may however now be thrown on the subject by a short statement of the hitherto unobserved distinction between the moral oentiraents and another class of feelings with which they have some qualities in common. The "pleasures" (so called) of imagination appear, at least in most cases, to originate in association : but it is not till the original cause of the gratification is ob- literated from the mind, that they acquire iheir proper character. Order and propor- * See supra, section on Butler. tion may be at first chosen for their con ve- nience: it is not until they are admired for their own sake that they become objects of taste. Though all the proportions for which a horse is valued may be indications of speed, safety, strength, and health, it is not the less true that they only can be said to admire the animal for his beauty, who leave such considerations out of the account while they admire. The pleasure of contempla- tion in these particulars of Nature and Art becomes universal and immediate, being entirely detached from all regaril to indi- vidual beings. It contemplates neither use nor interest. In this important particular the pleasures of imagination agree with the moral sentiments: hence the application of the same language to both in ancient and modern times ; — hence also it arises that they may contemplate the very same qualities and objects. There is certainly much beauty in the softer virtues, — much grandeur in the soul of a hero or a martyr : but the essential distinction still remains; the purest moral taste contemplates these qualities only with (quiescent delight or reverence ; it has no turlher view ; it points towards no action. Conscience, on the contrary, containing in it a pleasure in the prospect of doing right, and an ardent desire to act well, having for its sole object the dispositions and acts of voluntary agents, is not, hke moral taste, sa- tisfied with passive contemplation, but con stantly tends to act on the will and conduct of the man. Moral taste may aid it, may be absorbed into it, and usually contributes its part to the formation of the moral faculty; but it is distinct from that faculty, and may be disproportioned to it. Conscience, being by its nature confined to mental dispositions and voluntary acts, is of necessity excluded from the ordinary consideration of all things antecedent to these dispositions. The cir- cumstances from which such states of mind may arise, are most important objects of consideration for the Understanding; but they are without the sphere of Conscience, which never ascends beyond the heart of the man. It is thus that in the eye of Con- science man becomes amenable to its autho- rity for all his inclinations as well as deeds; that some of them are approved, loved, and revered ; and that all the outward eflects of disesteem, contempt, or moral anger, are felt to be the just lot of others. But, to return to Hartley, from this per- haps intrusive statement of what does not properly belong to him: he represents all the social afl^'eclions of gratitude, veneration, and love, inspired by the virtues of our fel- low-men, as capable of being transferred by association to the transcendent and un- mingled goodness of the Ruler of the world, and thus to give rise to piety, to which he gives the name of "the theopathetic affec- t^ion." This principle, like all the former in the mental series, is gradually detached from the trunk on which it grew: it takes sepa» rate root, and may aitugether overshadow J52 MACKINTOSH'S ailSCELLArsTOUS ESSAYS. the parent stock. As such a Being cannot be conceived without the most peil'ect and constant reference to His goodness, so piety may not only become a part of Conscience, but its governing and animating principle, which, after long lending its own energy and authority to every other, is at last described by our philosopher as swallowing up all of them in order to perform the same functions more infallibly. In every stage of this progress we are taught by Dr. Hartle}' that a new product appears, which becomes perfectly distinct from the elements which formed it, which may be utterly dissimilar to them, and may attain any degree of vigour, however superior to theirs. Thus the objects of the private desires disappear when we are employed in the pursuit of our lasting welfare; that which was first sought only as a means, may come to be pursued as an end, and pre- ferred to the original end ; the good opinion of our fellows becomes more valued than the benefits for which it was at first courted ; a man is ready to sacrifice his life for him who has shown generosity, even to others ; and persons otherwise of common character are capable of cheerfully marching in a for- lorn hope, or of almost instinctively leaping into the sea to save the life of an entire stranger. These last act.s, often of almost unconscious virtue, so familiar to the soldier and the sailor, so unaccountable on certain systems of philosophy, often occur without a thought of applause and reward ; — too quickly for the thought of the latter, too ob- scurely for the hope of the former; and they are of such a nature that no man could be impelled to them by the mere expectation of either. The gratitude, sympathy, resentment, and shame, which are the principal constituent parts of the Moral Sense, thus lose their separate agency, and constitute an entirely new faculty, co-extensive with all the dis- positions and actions of voluntary agents; though some of them are more predoininant in particular cases of moral sentiment than others, and though the aid of all continues to be necessary in their original character, as subordinate but distinct motives of action. Nothing more evidently points out the dis- tinction of the Hartleian system from all sys- tems called "selfish," — not to say its superi- ority in respect to disinterestedness over all moral systems before Butler and Ilutcheson, — than that excellent part of it which relates to the "rule of life." The various principles of human action rise in value according to the order in which they spring up after each other. We can then only be in a state of as much enjoyment as we are evidently ca- pable of attaining, when we prefer interest to the original gratifications; honour to in- terest ; the pleasures of imagination to those of sense ; the dictates of Conscience to plea- sure, interest, and reputation ; the well-being of fellow-creatures to our own indulgences; in a word, when we puisue moral good and social happiness chiefly and for their own sake. "With self-interest," says Hartley, somewhat inaccurately in language, "man must begin. He may end in self-annihila- tion. Theopathy, or piet}-, although the last result of the purified and exalted sentiments, may at length swallow up every other prin- ciple, and absorb the whole man." Even if this last doctrine should be an exaggeration unsuited to our present condition, it will the more strongly illustrate the compatibility, or rather the necessary connection, of this theo- ry with the existence and power of perfectly- disinterested principles of human aclion. It is needless to remark on the secondary and auxiliary causes which contribute to the formation of moral sentiment; — education, imitation, general opinion, laws, and aovern- meiit. They all presuppose the Moral Facul- ty : in an improved state of society they con- tribute powerfully to strengthen it, and on some occasions they enfeeble, distort, and maim it ; but in all cases they must them- selves be tried by the test of an ethical stand- ard. The value of this doctrine will not be essentially affected by supposing a greater number of original principles than those as- sumed by Dr. Hartley. The principle of As- sociation applies as much to a greater as to a smaller number. It is a quality common to it with all theories, that the more simplicity it reaches consistently with truth, the more perfect it becomes. Causes are not to be multiplied without necessity. If by a con- siderable multiplication of primary desires the law of Association were lowered nearly to the level of an auxiliary agent, the philo- sophy of human nature would still be under indelible obligations to the philosopher who. by his fortunate error, rendered the import- ance of that great principle obvious and conspicuous. ABRAHAM TUCKER.* It has been the remarkable fortune of this writer to have been more prized and more disregarded by the cultivators of moral specu- lation, than perhaps any other philosopher.! He had many of the qualities which might be expected in an affluent country gentleman, living in a privacy undisturbed by political zeal, and with a leisure unbroken by the calls of a profession, at a time when Eng- land had not entirely renounced her old taste for metaphysical speculation. He was natu- rally endowed, not nideed with more than oi- * Born, 1705; died, 1774. t"I have found in this writer more oriirina! thinking and observaiiori upon the several subjects that he has taken in hand liian in any other, — not to say than in all others put together. His talent also for illustration is unrivalled." — Paley, Pre- face to Moral and Political Philosophy, .^ee the e.xcellent preface to an abridgment, by Mr. Has- litt, of Tticker's work, published in London in 1807. May I venture to refer also to my own Discourse on the Law of Nature and Nations, London, 1799? Mr. Stewart treats Tucker and llardey with unwonted liarshness DISSERTATION ON THE PROGRESS OF ETHICAL PHILOSOPHY. 153 Jinary acuteness or sensibility, nor with a high degree of reach and range of mind, but witli a singular capacity for careful observa- tion and original reflection, and with a fancy perhaps unmatched in producing various anil happy illustration. The most observable of his moral qualities appear to have been prudence and cheerfulness, good-nature and easy temper. The influence of his situation and character is visible in his writings. In- dulging his own tastes and fancies, like most English squires of his time, he became, like many of them, a sort of humourist. Hence much of his originality and independence ) hence the boldness with which he openly employs illustrations from homely objects. He wrote to please himself more than the public. He had too little regard for readers, either to sacrifice his sincerity to them, or to curb his own prolixity, repetition, and ego- tism, from the fear of fatiguing them. Hence he became as loose, as rambling, and as much an egotist as Montaigne ; but not so agreeably so, notwithstanding a considerable resemblance of genius ; because he wrote on subjects where disorder and egotism are un- seasonable, and for readers whom they dis- turb instead of amusing. His prolixity at last so increased itself, when his work be- came long, that repetition in the latter parts partly arose from forgetfulness of the former ; and though his freedom from slavish defer- ence to general opinion is very commenda- ble, it must be owned, that his want of a wholesome fear of the public renders the perusal of a work which is extremely inter- esting, and even amusing in most of its parts, on the whole a laborious task. He was by early education a believer in Christianity, if not by natural character religious. His calm good sense and accommodaling temper led him rather to explain established doctrines in a manner agreeable to his philosophy, than to assail them. Hence he was represented as a time-server by freethinkers, and as a heretic by the orthodox.* Living in a coun- try where the secure tranquillity flowing from the Revolution was gradually drawing forth all mental activity towards practical pursuits and outward object.s, he hastened from the rudiments of mental and moral philosophy, to those branches of it which touch the business of men.t Had he recast without changing his thoughts, — had he de- tached those ethical observations for which he had so peculiar a vocation, from the dis- putes of his country and his day, he might * This disposition to compromise and accommo- dation, which is discoverable in Paley, was carried to its utmost length by Mr. Hey, a man of much acuteness. Professor of Divinity at Cambridge. t Perhaps no philosopher ever stated more just- ly, more naturally, or more modestly than Tucker, the ruling maxim of his life. " My thoughts," says he, "have taken a turn from my earliest youth towards searching into the foundations and measures of Right and Wrong; my love for re- tirement has furnished me with continual leisure ; and the e.xercise of my reason has been my daily employment." 10 have thrown many of his chapters into theii proper form of essays, and these might have been compared, though not likened, to those of Hume. But the country gentleman, philo- sophic as he was, had too much loudness for his own humours to engage in a course of drudgery and deference. It may, however, be confidently added, on the authority of all those who have fairly made the experiment, that whoever, unfettered by a previous sys- tem, undertakes the labour necessary to dis- cover and relish the high excellences of this metaphysical Montaigne, will find his toil lightened as he proceeds, by a groM ing in- dulgence, if not partiality, for the foibles of the humourist, and at last rewarded, in a greater degree perhaps than by any other writer on mixed and applied philosophy, by being led to commanding stations and new points of view, whence the mind of a moralist can hardly fail to catch some fresh prospects of Nature and duty. It is in mixed, not in pure philosophy, that his superiority consists. In the part of his work which relates to the Intellect, he has adopted much from Hartley, hiding but ag gravating the ofl'ence by a change of techni cal terms ; and he was ungrateful enough tc countenance the vulgar sneer which involves the mental analysis of that philosopher in the ridicule to which his physiological hypo- thesis is liable.* Thus, for theHartleian tern, '•'association" he substitutes that of "trans- lation," when adopting the saiiie theory of the principles which move the mind to ac- tion. In the practical and applicable part of that inquiry he indeed far surpasses Hart- ley ; and it is little to add, that he unspeak- ably exceeds that bare and naked thinker in the useful as well as admirable faculty of illustration. In the strictly theoretical part his exposition is considerably fuller ; but the defect of his genius becomes conspicuous when he handles a very general principle. The very term "translation" ought to have kept up in his mind a steady conviction that the secondary motives- b)' action become as independent, and seek their own objects as exclusively, as the primary principles. His own examples are rich in proofs of this im- portant truth. But there is a slippery de- scent in the theory of human nature, by which he, like most of his forerunners, slid unawares into Selfislmess. He was not pre- served from this fall by seeing that all the deliberate principles which have self for their object are themselves of secondary for mation ; and he was led into the general error by the notion that pleasure, or, as ho calls it, "satisfaction,"' was the original and * Light of Nature, vol. ii. chap, xviii., of wbicli the conclusion may be pointed out as a specimen of unmatched fruitfulness, vivacity, and felicity of illustration. The admirable senseof the conclu sion of chap. xxv. seems to have suggested Paley's good chapter on Happiness. The alteration of Plato's comparison of Reason to a charioteer, and the passions to the horses, in chap, xxvi., is of characteristic and transcendent excellencu 154 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. sole object of all appetites and desires; — confounding this with the trne, but very dif- ferent proposition, that the attainment of all the objects of appetite and desire is produc- tive of pleasure. He did not see that, with- out presupposing desires, the word "plea- sure'^ would have no signification ; and tliat the representations by which he was seduced would leave only one appetite or desire in human nature. He had no adequate and constant conception, that the translation of desire from being the end to be the means occasioned the formation of a new passion, which is perfectly distinct from, and alto- gether independent of, the original desire. Too frequently (for he was neither obstinate nor uiutbrm in error) he considered these translations as accidental defects in human nature, not as the appointed means of sup- plying it with its variety of active principles. He was too apt to speak as if the selfish elements were not destroyed in the new combination, but remained still capable of being recalled, when convenient, like the links in a chain of reasoning, which we pass over from forgetfulness, or for brevity. Take him all in all, however, the neglect of his writings is the strongest proof of^he disin- clination of the English nation, for the last half century, to metaphysical philosophy.* WILLIAM PALEY.t This excellent writer, who, after Clarke and Butler, ought to be ranked among the brightest ornaments of the English Church in the eighteenth century, is, in the history of philosophy, naturally placed after Tucker, to whom, with praiseworthy liberality, he owns his extensive obligations. It is a mis- take to suppose that he owed his system to Hume, — a thinker too refined, and a writer perhaps too elegant, to have naturally at- tracted him. A coincidence in the principle of Utility, common to both with so many other philosophers, affords no suHicient ground for the supposition. Had he been habitually influenced by Mr. Hume, who has translated so many of the dark and crab- bed passages of Butler into his own trans- parent and beautiful language, it is not pos- * Much of Tucker's chapter on Pleasure, and of Paley'soii Happiness (both of which are invalu- able), is contained in the passage of the Traveller, of which the following couplet expresses the main object : " Unknown to them vvhen sensual pleasures cloy, To fill the languid pause with finer joy." " An honest man," says Hume, (Inquiry con- cerning Morals, 'J i.x.) " has the frequent saii^- faciion of seeing knaves betrayed by iheir own maxims." " I used often to laugh at your honest simple neighbour Flamborough, and one way or another generally cheated iiim once a year: yet Btill the honest man went forward without sus- picion, and grew rich, while I still continued tricksy and cunning, and was poor, without the ('_onsolation of being honest." — Vicar of Wake- lielcl. chiip. xxvi. t Ijorn. 1743: died. 1805. sible to suppose that such a mind as thai of Paley would have fallen into those princi- ples of gross selfishness of which Mr. Hume IS a unilbrm and zealous antagonist. The natural frame of Paley's under- standing fitted it more for business and the world than for philosophy; and he accord'^ inglj- enjoyed with considerable relish the few oppoituiiities which the latterpart of his life afforded of taking a part in the affairs of his county as a magistrate. Penetration and shrewdness, firmness and coolness, a vein of pleasantry, fruitful though somewhat unrefined, with an original homeliness and significancy of expression, Avere perhaps more remarkable in his conversation than the re- straints of authorship and profession allowed them to be in his writings. Grateful re- membrance brings this assemblage of quali- ties with unfaded colours before the mind at the present moment, after the long interval of twenty-eight years. His taste for the common business and ordinary amusements of life fortunately gave a zest to the company which his neighbours chanced to yield, with- out rendeiing him insensible to the pleasures of intercourse with more enlightened societ}''. The practical bent of his nature is visible in the language of his writings, which, on prac- tical matters, is as precise as the nature of the subject requires, bat, in his rare and reluctant efforts to rise to first principles, become indeterminate and unsatisfactory- though no man's composition was more free from the impediments which hinder a man's meaning from being quickly and clearly seen. He seldom distinguishes more exactly than is required for palpable- and direct usefulness. He possessed that chastised acuteness of dis- crimination, exercised on the affairs of men, and habitually looking to a purjiose beyond the mere increase of knowledge, which forms the character of a lawyer's understanding, and which is apt to render a mere lawyer too subtile for the management of affairs, and yet too gross for the pursuit of general truth. His style is as near perfection in its kind as any in our language. Perhaps no words were ever more expressive and illus- trative than those in which he represents the art of life to be that of rightly "setting our habits." The most original and ingenious of his writings is the Horae Paulinae. The Evi- dences of Christianity are formed out of an admirable translation of Butler's Analogy, and a most skilful abridgment of Lardner's Credibility of the Gospel History. He may be said to have thus given value to two works, of which the first was scarcely in- telligible to the majority of those who were most desirous of profiting by it : while the second soon wearies out the larger part of readers, though the more patient few have almost always been gradually won over to feel pleasure in a display of knowledge, probity, charity, and meekness, unmatched by any other avowed advocate in a case deet)lv interesting- his warmest feelings. His DISSERTATION OxN THE PROGRESS OF ETHICAL PHILOSOPHY. 155 Natural Theology is the wonderful work of a man wlio^ after sixty, had studied Anatomy in order to write it; and it could only have been sur^iassed by one who, to great origin- ality of conception and clearness of exposi- tion, adds the advantage of a high place in the first class of physiologists.* It would be unreasonable here to say much of a work which is in the hands of so many as his Moral and Political Philosophy. A very few remarks on one or two parts of it may be sulBcient to estimate his value as a moralist, and to show his defects as a me- taphysician. His general account of Virtue may indeed be chosen for both purposes. The manner in which he deduces the ne- cessary tendency of all virtuous actions to promole general happiness, from the good- 'iess of the Divine Lawgiver, (though the principle be not, as has already more than •jnce appeared, peculiar to him, but I'ather common to most religious philosophers.) is characterised by a clearness and vigour which have never been surpassed. It is indeed nearly, if not entirely, an identical proposi- tion, that a Being of unmixed benevolence will prescribe those laws only to His crea- tures which contribute to their well-being. When we are convinced that a course of conduct is generally beneficial to all men, we cannot help considering it as acceptable to a benevolent Deity. The usefulness of actions is the mark set on them by the Supreme Legislator, by which reasonable beings discover it to be His will that such actions should be done. In this apparently unanswerable deduction it is partly admit- ted, and universally implied, that the prin- ciples of Right and Wrong may be treated apart from the manifestation of them in the Scriptures. If it were otherwise, how could men of perfectly different religions deal or reason with each other on moral subjects ] How could they regard rights and duties as subsisting between them"? To what common principles could they appeal in their differ- ences ? Even the Polytheists themselves, those worshippers of Gods partial, changeful, passionate, unjust. Whose attributes are rage, revenge, or lust,t by a happy inconsistency are compelled, how- ever irregularly and imperfectly, to ascribe some general enforcement of the moral code to their divinities. If there were no founda- tion for Morality antecedent to the Revealed Religion, we should want that important test of the conform„ity of a revelation to pure morality, by which its claim to a divine origin is to be tried. The internal evidence of Religion necessarily presupposes such a standard. The Christian contrasts the pre- cepts of tlie Koran with the pure and bene- volent morality of the Gospel. The Maho- metan claims, with justice, a superiority over * See Animal IVIechanics, by Mr. Charles Bell, published by the Society for the diffusion of Useful Kno-vvledge. 1 Essav on Man. Ep. iii. the Hindoo, inasmuch as the Musselmau re ligion inculcates the moral perfection of one Supreme Ruler of the woild. The ceremonial and exclusive character of Judaism has ever been regarded as an indication that it was intended to pave the way for an universal religion, a morality seated in the heart, and a worship of sublime simplicity. These discussions would be impossible, unless Morality were previously j^roved or granted to exist. Though the science of Eihics is thus far independent, it by no means follows that there is any equalif}-, or that there may not be the utmost inequality, in the moral tendency of religious systems. The most ample scope is still left for the zeal and ac- tivity of those who seek to spread important truth. But it is absolutely essential to ethi- cal science that it should contain principles, the authority of which must be recognised by men of every conceivable variety of reli- gious opinion. The peculiarities of Paley's mind are discoverable in the comparison, or rather contrast, between the practical chapter on Happiness, and the philosophical portion of the chapter on Virtue. '• Virtue is the doing good to mankind, in obedience to the will ot God, and for the sake of everlasting happi- ness."* It is not perhaps very important to observe, that these words, which he offers as a "definition," ought in propriety to have been called a "proposition-"'' but it is much more necessary to sa)^ that they contain a false account of Virtue. According to this doctrine, every action not done for the sake of the agent's happiness is vicious. Now. it is plain, that an act cannot be said to be done for the sake of any thing whfch is not present to the mind of the agent at the mo- ment of action : it is a contradiction in terms to affirm that a man acts for the sake of any object, of which, however it may be the ne- cessary consequence of his act, he is not at the time fully aware. The vrtfclt conse- quences of his act can no more influence his will than its unknown consequences. Nay, further, a man is only with any propriety said to act for the sake of his chief object ; nor can he with entire correctness be said to act for the sake of any thing but his sole object. So that it is a necessary consequence of Paley's proposition, that every act which flows from generosity or benevolence is a vice ] — so also is every act of obedience to the will of God, if it arises from any motive but a desire of the reward which He will bestow. Any act of obedience influenced by gratitude, and affection, and veneration towards Supreme Benevolence and Perfec- tion, is so far imperfect; and if ii arise."* solely from these motives it becomes a vice. It must be owned, that this excellent and most enlightened man has laid the founda tions of Religion and Virtue in a more intense and exclusive selfishness than was avowed by the Catholic enemies of Fenelon, when * Book i. chap. vii. 156 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. they peise;uted him for his doctrine of a pure and disinterested love of God. In another province, of a very subordinate kind, the disposition of Paley to limit his principles to his own time and country, and to look at them merely as far as they are calculated to amend prevalent vices and errors, betrayed him into narrow and false views. His chapter on what he calls the "Law of Honour" is unjust, even in its own small sphere, because Jt supposes Honour to allow what it does not forbid; though the truth be, that the vices enumerated by him are only not forbidden by Honour, because they are not within its jurisdiction. He con- siders it as '•' a system of rules constructed by people of fashion ;" — a confused and tran- sient mode of expression, which may be un- derstood with difhculty by our posterity, and which cannot now be exactly rendered per- tiaps in any other language. The subject, however, thus narrowed and lowered, is nei- ther unimportant in practice, nor unworthy of the consideration of the moral philoso- pher. Though all mankind honour Virtue and despise Vice, the degree of respect or contempt is often far from being proportioned to the place which virtues and vices occupy in a just system of Ethics. Wherever higher honour is bestowed on one moral quality than on others of equal or greater moral value, what is called a '-point of honour^' may be said to exist. It is singular that so shrewd an observer as Paley should not have ob- served a law of honour far more permanent than that which attracted his notice, in the feelings of Europe respecting the conduct of men and women. Cowardice is not so im- moral as cruelty, nor indeed so detestable; but it is more despicable and disgraceful : the female point of honour forbids indeed a great vice, but one not so great as many others by which it is not violated. It is easy enough to see, that where we are strongly prompted to a virtue by a natural impulse. we love the man who is constantly actuated by the amiable sentiment; but we do not consider that which is done without diffi- culty as requiring or deserving admiration and distinction. The kind affections are their own rich reward, and they are the ob- i'ect of affection to others. To encourage :indness by praise would be to insult it, and to encourage hypocrisy. It is for the con- quest of fear, it would be still more for the conquest of resentment, — if that were not, wherever it is real, the cessation of a state of mental agony, — that the applause of man- kind is reserved. Observations of a similar nature will easily occur to every reader re- specting the point of honour in the other sex. The conquest of natural frailties, espe- cially in a case of far more importance to mankind than is at first sight obvious, is well distinguished as an object of honour, and the «;ontrary vice is punished by shame. Honour 's not wasted on those who abstain from acts which are punished by the law. These acts may be avoided without a pure motive. Whenever a virtue is easily cultivable b} good men; wherever it is by nature attended by delight: wherever its outward observanca is so necessary to society as to be enforced by punishment, it is not the proper object of honour. Honour and shame, therefore, may be reasonably dispensed, without being strictly proportioned to the intrinsic morality of actions, if the inequality of their distribu- tion contributes to the general equipoise ot the whole moral system. A wide dispro- portion, however, or indeed any dispropor- tion not justifiable on moral grounds, would be a depravation of the moral principle. Duelling is among us a disputed case, though the improvement of manners has rendered it so much more infrequent, that it is likely in time to lose its support from opinion. Those who excuse individuals for yielding to a false point of honour, as in the suicides of the Greeks and Romans, may consistently blame the faulty principle, and rejoice in its de- struction. The shame fixed on a Hindoo widow of rank who voluntarily survives her husband, is regarded by all other nations with horror. There is room for great praise and some blame in other parts of Paley's work. His political opinions were those generally adopt- ed by moderate Whigs in his own age. Hif? language on the Revolution of 1688 may be very advantageously compared, both in pre- cision and in generous boldness.* to that of Blackstone, — a great master of classical and harmonious composition, but a feeble rea- soner and a confused thinker, whose wri- tings are not exempt from the charge of slavishness. It cannot be denied that Paley was some- times rather a lax moralist, especially on public duties. It is a sin which easily beseta men of strong good sense, little enthusiasm, and much experience. They are naturally led to lower their precepts to the level of their expectations. They see that higher preten- sions often produce less good, — to say no- thing of the hypocrisy, extravagance, and turbulence, which they may be said to fos- ter. As those who claim more from men often gain less, it is natural for more sober and milder casuists to present a more ac- cessible Virtue to their followers. It was thus that the Jesuits began, till, strongly tempted by their perilous station as the mo- ral guides of the powerful, some of them by degrees fell into that absolute licentiousne.ss for which all, not without injustice, have * " Government may he Ion secure. The greatest tyrants have been those whose tides were the most unquestioned. Whenever, therefore, the opinion of right becomes loo predominant and su- perstitious, it is abated hy hreahtng the custom. Thus the Revolution broke the custom of suc- cession, and thereby moderated, both in the prince and in the people, those lofty notions of hereditary right, which in the one were become a continual incentive to tyranny, & ,d disposed tlie otjier ta invite servitude, by u'.diie compliances and dan gerous concessions," — Book. vi. chap. 2. DISSERTATION ON THE PROGRESS OF ETHICAL PHILOSOPHY. 157 been cruelly immortalized by Pascal. In- dulgence, which is a great virtue in judg- ment concerning the actions of others, is too apt, when blended in the same system with the precepts of Morality, to be received as a licence for our own offences. Accommoda- tion, without which society would be pain- ful, and arduous affairs would become im- practicable, is more safely imbibed from temper and experience, than taught in early and systematic instruction. The middle re- gion between laxity and rigour is hard to be defined ; and it is still harder steadily to re- main within its boundaries. Whatever may be thought of Paley's observations on politi- cal influence and ecclesiastical subscription to tests, as temperaments and mitigations which may presei've us from harsh judg- ment, they are assuredly not well qualified to form a part of that discipline which ought to breathe into the opening souls of youth, at the critical period of the formation of character, those inestimable virtues of sin- cerity, of integrity, of independence, which will even guide them more safely through life than will mere prudence ; while they provide an inward fountain of pure delight, immeasurably more abundant than all the outward sources of precarious and perishable pleasure. JEREMY BENTHAM.* The general scheme of this Dissertation w^ould be a sufficient reason for omitting the name of a living writer. The devoted attach- ment and invincible repugnance which an impartial estimate of Mr. Bentham has to encounter on either side, are a strong induce- ment not to deviate from that scheme in his case. But the most brief sketch of ethical controversy in England would be imperfect without it ; and perhaps the utter hopeless- ness of finding any expedient for sati?f3ing his followers, or softening his opponents, may enable a writer to look steadily and solely at what he believes to be the dictates of Truth and Justice. He who has spoken of former philosophers with unreserved free- dom, ought perhaps to subject his courage and honesty to the severest test by an at- tempt to characterize such a contemporary. Should the very few who are at once enlight- ened and unbiassed be of opinion that his firmness and equity have stood this trial, they will be the more disposed to trust his fairness where the exercise of ihat quality may have been more easy. The disciples of Mr. Bentham are more like the hearers of an Athenian philosopher ihan the pupils of a modern professor, or the cool proselytes of a modern writer. They are in general men of competent age, of su- perior understanding, who voluntarily em- brace the laborious study of useful and noble sciences ; who derive theu' opinions, not so much from the cold perusal of his writings, * Born, 1748 ; died, 1832.— Ed. as from familiar converse with a master from whose lips these opinions are recommended by .simplicity, disinterestedness, originality, and vivacity, — aided rather than impeded by foibles not unamiable, — enforced of late by the growing authority of years and of fame, and at all times strengthened by that undoubting reliance on his own judgment which mightily increases the ascendant of such a man over those who approach him. As he and thej^ deserve the credit of braving vulgar prejudices, so they must be content to incur the imputation of falling into the neighbouring vices of seeking distinction by singularity, — of clinging to opinions, because they are obnoxious, — of wantonly wounding the most respectable feelings of mankind, — of regarding an immense display of method and nomenclature as a sure token of a corres- ponding increase of knowledge, — and of con- sidering themselves as a chosen few, whom an initiation into the most secret mysteries of Philosophy entitles to look down with pity, if not contempt, on the profane multitude. Viewed with aversion or dread by the pub- lic, ihey become more bound to each other and to their master ; while they are provoked into the use of language which more and more exasperates opposition to them. A hermit in the greatest of cities, seeing only his disciples, and indignant that systems of government and law which he believes to be perfect, are disregarded at once by the many and the powerful, Mr. Bentham has at length been betrayed into the most unphilosophical •hypothesis, that all the ruling bodies who guide the community have conspired to stifle and defeat his discoveries. He is too little acquainted with doubts to believe the honest doubts of others, and he is too angry to make allowance for their prejudices and habits. He has embraced the most extreme party in practical politics ; — manifesting more dislike and contempt towards those who are mo- derate supporters of popular principles than towards their most inflexible opponents. To the unpopularity of his philosophical and political doctrines, he has added the more general and lasting obloquy due to the un- seemly treatment of doctrines and principles Avhich, if there were no other motives for reverential deference, ought, from a regard to the feelings of the best men, to be ap- proached with decorum and respect. Fifty-three years have passed since the publication of Mr. Benlham's first work, A Fragment on Government, — a considerable octavo volume, employed in the examination of a short paragraph of Blackstone, unmatch- ed in acute hypercriticism, but conducted with a severity which leads to an unjust esti- mate of the writer criticised, till the like ex- periment be repeated on other writings. It was a waste of extraordinary power to em ploy it in pointing out flaws and patches in the robe occasionally stolen from the philoso- phical schools, which hung loosely, and not unbecomingly, on the elegant commentator. This volume, and especially the preface 158 MACKINTOSH'S MISCELLANEOL S ESSAYS. abounds in fine, original, and just observa- tion ; it contains the germs of most of his subsequent productions, and it is an early example of that disregard for the melhocl, proportions, and occasion of a writing which, with all common readers, deeply affects its power of interesting or instructing. Two years after, he published a most excellent tract on the Hard Labour Bill, which, con- curring with the spirit excited by Howard's inquiries, laid the foundation of just reason- ing on reformatory punishment. The Letters on Usury,* are perhaps the best specimen of the exhaustive discussion of a moral or political question, leaving no objection, how- ever feeble, unanswered, and no difTiculty, however small, unexplained ; — remarkable also, as they are. for the clearness and spirit of the style, for the full exposition which suits them to all intelligent readers, and for liie tender and skilful "hand with which pre- judice is touched. The urbanity of the apo- logy for projectors, addressed to Dr. Smiih, whose temper and manner the author seems for a time to have imbibed, is admirable. The Introduction to the Principles of Morals and Politics, printed before the Letters, but published after them, was the first sketch of his system, and is still the only account of it by himself. The great merit of this work, and of his other writings in relation to Jurisprudence properly so called, is not within our present scope. To the Roman jurists be- longs the praise of having alloted a separate portion of their Digest to the signification of the words of the most frequent use in law and legal discussion.]" Mr. Bentham not only first perceived and taught the great value of an introductory section, composed of the definitions of general terms, as subser- vient to brevity and precision in every part of * They were addressed to Mr. George Wilson, who retired iroin the English bar lo his own coun- try, and died at Edinburgh in 1816; — an early friend of Mr. Beniham, and afterwards an intimate one of Lord Ellenborough, of Sir Vicary Gibbs, and of all the most eminent of his professional contemporaries. The rectitude of judgment, purity of heart, elevation of honour, the siernness only in integrity, the scorn of baseness, and indulgence towards weakness, which were joined in him wiili a gravity e.xclusive neither of feeling nor of plea- santry, contributed still more than his abilities and attaitmients of various sorts, to a moral authority with his friends, and in his profession, which few men more ainply possessed, or more usefully exercised. The same character, somewhat soft- ened, and the same influence, distinguished his closest friend, the late Mr. Lens. Boih were in- flexible and incorruptible friends of civil and reli- gions liberty, and both knew how to reconcile the warmest zeal for that sacred cause, with a charity towards their opponents, which partisans, ofien sr.ore violent than steady, treated as lukewarm. The present writer hopes that the good-natured reader will excuse him for having thus, perhaps unseasonably, bestowed heartl'elt commendaiion on tiiose who were above the pursuit of praise, and ihn remembrance of whose good opinion and good- will help to support him under a deep sense of faults and vices. f Digesi. lib. i. tit. IP. De Verborum Signinca- Uoiie. a code ; but he also discovered the un.speak« able importance of natural arrangement in Ju« risprudetice, by tendering the mere place of a proposed law in such an arrangement a short and easy test of the fitness of the propo.sal.* But here he does not distinguish between the value of arrangement as scaffolding, and the inferior convenience of its being the very frame-work of the structure. He, indeed, is much more remarkable for laying down de- sirable rules for the determination of rights, and the punishment of wrongs, in general, than for weighing the various circumstances which require them to be modified in differ- ent countries and times, in order to render them either more useful, more easily intro- duced, more generally respected, or more certainly executed. The art of legislation consists in thus applying the principles of Jurisprudence to the situation, wants, inter- ests, feelings, opinions, and habit-s. of each distinct community at any given time. It bears the same relation to Jurisprudence which the mechanical arts bear to pure Mathematics. Many of these consideraliona serve to show, that the sudden estaolishment of new codes can seldom be practicable or effectual for their purpose ; and that reforma- tions, though founded on the principles of Jurisprudence, ought to be not only adapted to the peculiar interests of a people, but en- grafted on their previous usages, and brought into harmony with those national dispositions on which the execution of laws depends.! The Romans, under Justinian, adopted at least the true principle, if they did not apply it with sufficient freedom and boldness. They considered the multitude of occasional laws, and the still greater mass of usages, opinions, and determinations, as the materials of legis- lation, not precluding, but demanding a sys- tematic arrangement of the whole by the supreme authority. Had the arrangement * See a beautiful article on Codification, in the Edinburg Review, vol. xxix. p. 217. It need no longf^r be concealed that it was contributed by Sir Samuel Romilly. The steadiness with which he held the balance in weighing the merits of his friend against his unfortunate defects, is an exain- ple of his union of the most coinmanding mora? principle with a sensibiliiy so warm, that, if it had been released from that stern aiMhoriiy, it wo\ild not so long have endured the coaisencss and roughness of human concerns. Froin the tenderness of his feelings, and from an anger never roused but by cruelly and baseness, as much as from his genius and his pure taste, sprung that original and characteristic eloquence, which was the hope of the nffiicled as well as the terror of the oppressor. If his oratory had not flowed so largely from this moral source, which years do not dry up, he would not perhaps have been the only example of an orator who, after the age of sixty, daily increased in polish, in vigour, and in splendour. t An excellent medium between those whc absolutely require new codes, and those who ob- stinately adhere to ancient usages, has been point- ed out by ^1. Meyer, in his most justly celebrated work. Esprit, <&-c. des Insijiuiions Jisdiciares de« Priiicipaux Pays de I'Europe, l.a Have. iSii* tome i. Introduction, p. S. DISSERTATION ON THE PROGRESS OF ETHICAL PHILOSOPHY. 159 been more scientific, had there been a bolder examination and a more free reform of many E articular branches, a model would have een offered for liberal imitation by modern lawgivers. It cannot be denied, without in- justice and ingratitude, that Mr. Bentham has done more than any other writer to rouse the spirit of juridical reformation, which is now gradually examining every part of law, and Vv'hich, when further progress is facili- tated by digesting the present laws, will iloublless proceed to the improvement of all. Greater praise it is given to few to earn : it ought to satisfy him for the disappointment of hopes which were not reasonable, that Russia should receive a code from him, or that North America could be brought to re- nounce the variety of her laws and institu- tions, on the single authority of a foreign philosopher, whose opinions had not worked their way, either into legislation or into gene- ral reception, in his own country. It ought also to dispose his followers to do fuller jus- tice to the Romillys and Broughams, without whose prudence and energj^, as well as rea- son and eloquence, the best plans of refor- mation must have continued a dead letter; — for v/hose sake it might have been fit to reconsider the obloquy heaped on their pro- fession, and to show more general indul- gence to all those whose chief oifence seems to consist in their doubts whether sudden changes, almost always imposed by violence on a community, be the surest road to lasting improvement. It is unfortunate that ethical theory, with which we are now chiefly concerned, is not the province in which Mr. Bentham has reached the most desirable distinction. It may be remarked, both in ancient and in modern times, that whatever modifications prudent followers may introduce into the system of an innovator, the principles of the master continue to mould the habitual dis- positions, and to influence the practical ten- dency of the school. M r. Bentham preaches the principle of Utility with the zeal of a discoverer. Occupied more in reflection than in reading, he knew not, or forgot, how often it had been the basis, and how gene- rally an essential part, of all moral sys- tems.* That in which he really difiers from others, is in the Necessity which he teaches, and the example which he sets, of constant- ly bringing that principle before us. This peculiarity appears to us to be his radical error. In an attempt, of which the constitu- tion of human nature forbids the success, he beems to us to have been led into funda- mental errors in moral theory, and to have given to his practical doctrine a dangerous direction. The confusion of moral approbation with the moral qualities which are its objects, common to Mr. Bentham with many other philosophers, is much more uniform and prominent in him than in most others. This general error, already mentioned at the open ing of this Dissertation, has led him mor