Title: The English Utilitarians, Volume II (of 3) - James Mill
Author: Stephen, Leslie, Sir, 1832-1904
Language: English
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II (OF 3)***


THE ENGLISH UTILITARIANS

by

LESLIE STEPHEN

In Three Volumes

VOL. II

JAMES MILL



London
Duckworth And Co.
3 Henrietta Street, W.C.
1900



CONTENTS


CHAPTER I

JAMES MILL

                                      PAGE

  I. Early Life,                         1

 II. Bentham's Lieutenant,               7

III. Leader of the Utilitarians,        25


CHAPTER II

REFORM MOVEMENTS

  I. Political Change,                  41

 II. Law Reform,                        47

III. Economic Reform,                   51

 IV. Church Reform,                     57

  V. Sinister Interests,                62


CHAPTER III

POLITICAL THEORY

  I. Mill on Government,                74

 II. Whiggism,                          98

III. Conservatism,                     109

 IV. Socialism,                        119


CHAPTER IV

MALTHUS

  I. Malthus's Starting-point,         137

 II. The Ratios,                       147

III. Moral Restraint,                  156

 IV. Social Remedies,                  165

  V. Political Application,            174

 VI. Rent,                             181


CHAPTER V

RICARDO

  I. Ricardo's Starting-point,         186

 II. The Distribution Problem,         195

III. Value and Labour,                 204

 IV. The Classical Political Economy,  216

  V. The Ricardians,                   226


CHAPTER VI

ECONOMIC HERETICS

  I. The Malthusian Controversy,       238

 II. Socialism,                        259


CHAPTER VII

PSYCHOLOGY

  I. Thomas Brown,                     267

 II. James Mill's _Analysis_,          287

III. James Mill's Ethics,              312


CHAPTER VIII

RELIGION

  I. Philip Beauchamp,                 338

 II. Contemporary Thought,             361



CHAPTER I

JAMES MILL


I. EARLY LIFE

Bentham's mantle fell upon James Mill.[1] Mill expounded in the
tersest form the doctrines which in Bentham's hands spread into
endless ramifications and lost themselves in minute details. Mill
became the leader of Bentham's bodyguard; or, rather, the mediator
between the prophet in his 'hermitage' and the missionaries who were
actively engaged on the hustings and in committee-rooms. The special
characteristics of English Utilitarianism in the period of its
greatest activity were thus more affected by Mill than by any other
leader of opinion.

James Mill was one of the countless Scots who, having been trained at
home in strict frugality and stern Puritanic principles, have fought
their way to success in England. He was born 6th April 1773 in the
parish of Logie Pert, Forfarshire. His father, also named James Mill,
was a village shoemaker, employing two or three journeymen when at
the height of his prosperity. His mother, Isabel Fenton, daughter of a
farmer, had been a servant in Edinburgh. Her family had some claims to
superior gentility; she was fastidious, delicate in frame, and accused
of pride by her neighbours. She resolved to bring up James, her eldest
son, to be a gentleman, which practically meant to be a minister. He
probably showed early promise of intellectual superiority. He received
the usual training at the parish school, and was then sent to the
Montrose Academy, where he was the school-fellow and friend of a
younger lad, Joseph Hume (1777-1855), afterwards his political ally.
He boarded with a Montrose shopkeeper for 2s. 6d. a week, and remained
at the Academy till he was seventeen. He was never put to work in his
father's shop, and devoted himself entirely to study. The usual age
for beginning to attend a Scottish university was thirteen or
fourteen; and it would have been the normal course for a lad in Mill's
position to be sent at that age to Aberdeen. Mill's education was
prolonged by a connection which was of great service to him. Sir John
Stuart (previously Belches), of Fettercairn House, in Mill's
neighbourhood, had married Lady Jane Leslie, and was by her father of
an only child, Wilhelmina. Lady Jane was given to charity, and had set
up a fund to educate promising lads for the ministry. Mill was
probably recommended to her by the parish minister, as likely to do
credit to her patronage. He also acted as tutor to Wilhelmina, who
afterwards became the object of Scott's early passion. Mill spent much
time at Fettercairn House, and appears to have won the warm regards
both of the Stuarts and of their daughter, who spoke of him
affectionately 'with almost her last breath.'[2] The Stuarts passed
their winters at Edinburgh, whither Mill accompanied them. He entered
the university in 1790, and seems to have applied himself chiefly to
Greek and to philosophy. He became so good a Greek scholar that long
afterwards (1818) he had some thoughts of standing for the Greek chair
at Glasgow.[3] He was always a keen student of Plato. He read the
ordinary Scottish authorities, and attended the lectures of Dugald
Stewart. Besides reading Rousseau, he studied Massillon, probably with
a view to his future performances in the pulpit. Massillon might be
suggested to him by quotations in Adam Smith's _Moral Sentiments_.
There are few records of acquaintanceship with any of his
distinguished contemporaries, except the chemist Thomas Thomson, who
became a lifelong friend. He probably made acquaintance with Brougham,
and may have known Jeffrey; but he was not a member of the Speculative
Society, joined by most young men of promise.

In 1794 he began his course of divinity, and on 4th October 1798 was
licensed to preach. He lived in his father's house, where part of the
family room was screened off to form a study for him. He delivered
some sermons, apparently with little success. He failed to obtain a
call from any parish; and there are vague reports of his acting as
tutor in some families, and of a rebuff received at the table of the
marquis of Tweeddale, father of one of his pupils, which made him
resolve to seek for independence by a different career.

In 1802 Mill went to London in company with Sir John Stuart, who was
about to take his seat in parliament. Stuart procured admission for
him to the gallery of the House of Commons, where he attended many
debates, and acquired an interest in politics. His ambition, however,
depended upon his pen; and at first, it would seem, he was not more
particular than other journalists as to the politics of the papers to
which he contributed. He had obtained a testimonial from Thomson, on
the strength of which he introduced himself to John Gifford, editor of
the _Anti-Jacobin Review_.[4] This was a monthly magazine, which had
adopted the name and politics of the deceased _Anti-Jacobin_, edited
by William Gifford. Mill obtained employment, and wrote articles
implying an interest in the philosophy, and especially in the
political economy, of the time. It is noteworthy, considering his
later principles, that he should at this time have taken part in a
strong Tory organ. He wrote a pamphlet in 1804 (the first publication
under his name) to prove the impolicy of a bounty upon the exportation
of grain; and in 1807 replied in _Commerce Defended_ to William
Spence's _Britain independent of Commerce_. Meanwhile he had found
employment of a more regular kind. He had formed a connection with a
bookseller named Baldwin, for whom he undertook to help in rewriting a
book called _Nature Delineated_. This scheme was changed for a
periodical called the _Literary Journal_, which started at the
beginning of 1803, and lived through four years with Mill as editor.
At the same time apparently he edited the _St. James's Chronicle_,
also belonging to Baldwin, which had no very definite political
colour. The _Journal_ professed to give a systematic survey of
literary, scientific, and philosophical publications. For the
scientific part Mill was helped by Thomson. His own contributions show
that, although clearly a rationalist, he was still opposed to open
infidelity. A translation of Villers' _History of the Reformation_
implies similar tendencies. Other literary hack-work during this and
the next few years is vaguely indicated. Mill was making about £500 a
year or something more during his editorships, and thought himself
justified in marrying. On 5th June 1805 he became the husband of
Harriett Burrow, daughter of a widow who kept a private lunatic asylum
originally started by her husband. The Mills settled in a house in
Pentonville belonging to Mrs. Burrow, for which they paid £50 a year.

The money question soon became pressing. The editorships vanished, and
to make an income by periodical writing was no easy task. His son
observes that nothing could be more opposed to his father's later
principles than marrying and producing a large family under these
circumstances. Nine children were ultimately born, all of whom
survived their father. The family in his old home were an additional
burthen. His mother died before his departure from Scotland. His
father was paralysed, and having incautiously given security for a
friend, became bankrupt. His only brother, William, died soon
afterwards, and his only sister, Mary, married one of her father's
journeymen named Greig, and tried to carry on the business. The
father died about 1808, and the Greigs had a hard struggle, though two
of the sons ultimately set up a business in Montrose. James Mill
appears to have helped to support his father, whose debts he undertook
to pay, and to have afterwards helped the Greigs. They thought, it
seems, that he ought to have done more, but were not unlikely to
exaggerate the resources of a man who was making his way in England.
Mill was resolute in doing his duty, but hardly likely to do it
graciously. At any rate, in the early years, it must have been a
severe strain to do anything.

In spite of all difficulties Mill, by strict frugality and unremitting
energy, managed to keep out of debt. In the end of 1806 he undertook
the history of British India. This was to be the great work which
should give him a name, and enable him to rise above the herd of
contemporary journalists. He calculated the time necessary for its
completion at three years, but the years were to be more than trebled
before the book was actually finished. At that period there were fewer
facilities than there could now be for making the necessary
researches: and we do not know what were the reasons which prompted
the selection of a subject of which he could have no first-hand
knowledge. The book necessarily impeded other labours; and to the toil
of writing Mill added the toil of superintending the education of his
children. His struggle for some years was such as to require an
extraordinary strain upon all his faculties. Mill, however, possessed
great physical and mental vigour. He was muscular, well-made, and
handsome; he had marked powers of conversation, and made a strong
impression upon all with whom he came in contact. He gradually formed
connections which effectually determined his future career.


II. BENTHAM'S LIEUTENANT

The most important influence in Mill's life was the friendship with
Bentham. This appears to have begun in 1808. Mill speedily became a
valued disciple. He used to walk from Pentonville to dine with Bentham
in Queen's Square Place. Soon the elder man desired to have his new
friend nearer at hand. In 1810 Mill moved to the house in Bentham's
garden, which had once belonged to Milton; when this proved
unsuitable, he was obliged to move to a more distant abode at Stoke
Newington; but finally, in 1814, he settled in another house belonging
to Bentham, 1 Queen's Square, close under the old gentleman's wing.
Here for some years they lived in the closest intimacy. The Mills also
stayed with Bentham in his country-houses at Barrow Green, and
afterwards at Ford Abbey. The association was not without its
troubles. Bentham was fanciful, and Mill stern and rigid. No one,
however, could be a more devoted disciple. The most curious
illustration of their relations is a letter written to Bentham by
Mill, 19th September 1814, while they were both at Ford Abbey. Mill in
this declares himself to be a 'most faithful and fervent disciple' of
the truths which Bentham had the 'immortal honour' of propounding. He
had fancied himself to be his master's favourite disciple. No one is
so completely of Bentham's way of thinking, or so qualified by
position for carrying on the propaganda. Now, however, Bentham showed
that he had taken umbrage at some part of Mill's behaviour. An open
quarrel would bring discredit upon both sides, and upon their common
beliefs. The great dangers to friendship are pecuniary obligation and
too close intimacy. Mill has made it a great purpose of his life to
avoid pecuniary obligation, though he took pride in receiving
obligations from Bentham. He has confined himself to accepting
Bentham's house at a low rent, and allowing his family to live for
part of the year at Bentham's expense. He now proposes so to arrange
his future life that they shall avoid an excessively close intimacy,
from which, he thinks, had arisen the 'umbrage.' The letter, which is
manly and straightforward, led to a reconciliation, and for some years
the intercourse was as close as ever.[5]

Mill's unreserved adoption of Bentham's principles, and his resolution
to devote his life to their propagation, implies a development of
opinion. He had entirely dropped his theology. In the early years of
his London life, Mill had been only a rationalist. He had by this time
become what would now be called an agnostic. He thought 'dogmatic
atheism' absurd, says J. S. Mill;[6] 'but he held that we can know
nothing whatever as to the origin of the world.' The occasion of the
change, according to his family, was his intercourse with General
Miranda, who was sitting at Bentham's feet about this time. J. S. Mill
states that the turning-point in his father's mind was the study of
Butler's _Analogy_. That book, he thought, as others have thought, was
conclusive against the optimistic deism which it assails; but he
thought also that the argument really destroyed Butler's own
standing-ground. The evils of the world are incompatible with the
theory of Almighty benevolence. The purely logical objection was
combined with an intense moral sentiment. Theological doctrines, he
thought, were not only false, but brutal. His son had heard him say 'a
hundred times' that men have attributed to their gods every trait of
wickedness till the conception culminated in the Christian doctrine of
hell. Mill still attended church services for some time after his
marriage, and the children were christened. But the eldest son did not
remember the period of even partial conformity, and considered himself
to have been brought up from the first without any religious belief.
James Mill had already taken up the uncompromising position congenial
to his character, although the reticence which the whole party
observed prevented any open expression of his sentiments.

Mill's propaganda of Benthamism was for some time obscure. He helped
to put together some of Bentham's writings, especially the book upon
evidence. He was consulted in regard to all proposed publications,
such as the pamphlet upon jury-packing, which Mill desired to publish
in spite of Romilly's warning. Mill endeavoured also to disseminate
the true faith through various periodicals. He obtained admission to
the _Edinburgh Review_, probably through its chief contributor,
Brougham. Neither Brougham nor Jeffrey was likely to commit the great
Whig review to the support of a creed still militant and regarded with
distrust by the respectable. Mill contributed various articles from
1808 to 1813, but chiefly upon topics outside of the political sphere.
The _Edinburgh Review_, as I have said, had taken a condescending
notice of Bentham in 1804. Mill tried to introduce a better tone into
an article upon Bexon's _Code de la Législation pénale_, which he was
permitted to publish in the number for October 1809. Knowing Jeffrey's
'dislike of praise,' he tried to be on his guard, and to insinuate his
master's doctrine without openly expressing his enthusiasm. Jeffrey,
however, sadly mangled the review, struck out every mention but one of
Bentham, and there substituted words of his own for Mill's. Even as it
was, Brougham pronounced the praise of Bentham to be excessive.[7]
Mill continued to write for a time, partly, no doubt, with a view to
Jeffrey's cheques. Almost his last article (in January 1813) was
devoted to the Lancasterian controversy, in which Mill, as we shall
directly see, was in alliance with the Whigs. But the Edinburgh
Reviewers were too distinctly of the Whig persuasion to be congenial
company for a determined Radical. They would give him no more than a
secondary position, and would then take good care to avoid the
insertion of any suspicious doctrine. Mill wrote no more after the
summer of 1813.

Meanwhile he was finding more sympathetic allies. First among them was
William Allen (1770-1843), chemist, of Plough Court. Allen was a
Quaker; a man of considerable scientific tastes; successful in
business, and ardently devoted throughout his life to many
philanthropic schemes. He took, in particular, an active part in the
agitation against slavery. He was, as we have seen, one of the
partners who bought Owen's establishment at New Lanark; and his
religious scruples were afterwards the cause of Owen's retirement.
These, however, were only a part of his multifarious schemes. He was
perhaps something of a busybody; his head may have been a little
turned by the attentions which he received on all hands; he managed
the affairs of the duke of Kent; was visited by the Emperor Alexander
in 1814; and interviewed royal personages on the Continent, in order
to obtain their support in attacking the slave-trade, and introducing
good schools and prisons. But, though he may have shared some of the
weaknesses of popular philanthropists, he is mentioned with respect
even by observers such as Owen and Place, who had many prejudices
against his principles. He undoubtedly deserves a place among the
active and useful social reformers of his time.

I have already noticed the importance of the Quaker share in the
various philanthropic movements of the time. The Quaker shared many of
the views upon practical questions which were favoured by the
freethinker. Both were hostile to slavery, in favour of spreading
education, opposed to all religious tests and restrictions, and
advocates of reform in prisons, and in the harsh criminal law. The
fundamental differences of theological belief were not so productive
of discord in dealing with the Quakers as with other sects; for it was
the very essence of the old Quaker spirit to look rather to the spirit
than to the letter. Allen, therefore, was only acting in the spirit of
his society when he could be on equally good terms with the Emperor
Alexander or the duke of Kent, and, on the other hand, with James
Mill, the denouncer of kings and autocrats. He could join hands with
Mill in assailing slavery, insisting upon prison reform, preaching
toleration and advancing civilisation, although he heartily
disapproved of the doctrines with which Mill's practical principles
were associated. Mill, too, practised--even to a questionable
degree--the method of reticence, and took good care not to offend his
coadjutor.

Their co-operation was manifested in a quarterly journal called the
_Philanthropist_, which appeared during the seven years, 1811-1817,
and was published at Allen's expense. Mill found in it the opportunity
of advocating many of his cherished opinions. He defended toleration
in the name of Penn, whose life had been published by Clarkson. He
attacked the slave-owners, and so came into alliance with Wilberforce,
Zachary Macaulay, and others of the evangelical persuasion. He found,
at the same time, opportunities for propagating the creed of Bentham
in connection with questions of prison reform and the penal code. His
most important article, published in 1812, was another contribution to
the Lancasterian controversy. In this Mill had allies of a very
different school; and his activity brings him into close connection
with one of the most remarkable men of the time.[8]

This was Francis Place, the famous Radical tailor. Place, born 3rd
November 1771, had raised himself from the position of a working-man
to be occupant of a shop at Charing Cross, which became the centre of
important political movements. Between Place and Mill there was much
affinity of character. Place, like Mill, was a man of rigid and
vigorous intellect. Dogmatic, self-confident, and decidedly
censorious, not attractive by any sweetness or grace of character, but
thoroughly sincere and independent, he extorts rather than commands
our respect by his hearty devotion to what he at least believed to be
the cause of truth and progress. Place was what is now called a
thorough 'individualist.' He believed in self-reliance and energy, and
held that the class to which he belonged was to be raised, as he had
raised himself, by the exercise of those qualities, not by invoking
the direct interference of the central power, which, indeed, as he
knew it, was only likely to interfere on the wrong side. He had the
misfortune to be born in London instead of Scotland, and had therefore
not Mill's educational advantages. He tried energetically, and not
unsuccessfully, to improve his mind, but he never quite surmounted the
weakness of the self-educated man, and had no special literary talent.
His writing, in fact, is dull and long-winded, though he has the merit
of judging for himself, and of saying what he thinks.

Place had been a member of the Corresponding Society, and was at one
time chairman of the weekly committee. He had, however, disapproved of
their proceedings, and retired in time to escape the imprisonment
which finally crushed the committee. He was now occupied in building
up his own fortunes at Charing Cross. When, during the second war, the
native English Radicalism began again to raise its head, Place took a
highly important share in the political agitation. Westminster, the
constituency in which he had a vote, had long been one of the most
important boroughs. It was one of the few large popular
constituencies, and was affected by the influences naturally strongest
in the metropolis. After being long under the influence of the court
and the dean and chapter, it had been carried by Fox during the
discontents of 1780, when the reform movement took a start and the
county associations were symptoms of a growing agitation. The great
Whig leader, though not sound upon the question of reform, represented
the constituency till his death, and reform dropped out of notice for
the time. Upon Fox's death (13th September 1806) Lord Percy was
elected without opposition as his successor by an arrangement among
the ruling families. Place was disgusted at the distribution of 'bread
and cheese and beer,' and resolved to find a truly popular candidate.
In the general election which soon followed at the end of 1806 he
supported Paull, an impecunious adventurer, who made a good fight, but
was beaten by Sir J. Hood and Sheridan. Place now proposed a more
thorough organisation of the constituency, and formed a committee
intended to carry an independent candidate. Sir Francis Burdett, a
typical country gentleman of no great brains and of much aristocratic
pride, but a man of honour, and of as much liberal feeling as was
compatible with wealth and station, had sat at the feet of the old
Radical, Home Tooke. He had sympathised with the French revolution;
but was mainly, like his mentor, Tooke, a reformer of the English
type, and a believer in Magna Charta and the Bill of Rights. He had
sat in parliament, and in 1802 had been elected for Middlesex. After a
prolonged litigation, costing enormous sums, the election had been
finally annulled in 1806. He had subscribed £1000 towards Paull's
expenses; but was so disgusted with his own election experiences that
he refused to come forward as a candidate. Place's committee resolved
therefore to elect him and Paull free of expense. Disputes between
Paull and Burdett led to a duel, in which both were wounded. The
committee threw over Paull, and at the election on the dissolution of
parliament in the spring of 1807, Burdett and Cochrane--afterwards
Lord Dundonald--were triumphantly elected, defeating the Whig
candidates, Sheridan and Elliot. The election was the first triumph of
the reformers, and was due to Place more than any one. Burdett
retained his seat for Westminster until 1837, and, in spite of many
quarrels with his party, was a leading representative of the movement,
which henceforward slowly gathered strength. Place, indeed, had
apparently but scanty respect for the candidate whose success he had
secured. Burdett and his like aimed at popularity, while he was
content to be ignored so long as he could by any means carry the
measures which he approved. Place, therefore, acted as a most
efficient wire-puller, but had no ambition to leave his shop to make
speeches on the hustings.

The scandals about the duke of York and the Walcheren expedition gave
a chance to the Radicals and to their leader in the House of Commons.
Events in 1810 led to a popular explosion, of which Burdett was the
hero. John Gale Jones, an old member of the Corresponding Societies,
had put out a placard denouncing the House of Commons for closing its
doors during a debate upon the Walcheren expedition. The House
proceeded against Jones, who was more or less advised by Place in his
proceedings. Burdett took the part of Jones, by a paper published in
Cobbett's _Register_, and was ultimately committed to the Tower in
consequence. The whole of London was for a time in a state of
excitement, and upon the verge of an outbreak. Burdett refused to
submit to the arrest. Mobs collected; soldiers filled the streets and
were pelted. Burdett, when at last he was forced to admit the
officers, appeared in his drawing-room in the act of expounding Magna
Charta to his son. That, it was to be supposed, was his usual
occupation of an afternoon. Meetings were held, and resolutions
passed, in support of the martyr to liberty; and when his imprisonment
terminated on the prorogation of parliament, vast crowds collected,
and a procession was arranged to convoy him to his home. Place had
been active in arranging all the details of what was to be a great
popular manifestation. To his infinite disgust, Burdett shrank from
the performance, and went home by water. The crowd was left to expend
its remaining enthusiasm upon the hackney carriage which contained his
fellow-sufferer Jones. Jones, in the following December, was sentenced
to twelve months' imprisonment for a libel. Cobbett, Burdett's special
supporter at this time, was also imprisoned in June 1810. For a time
the popular agitation collapsed. Place seems to have thought that the
failure was due to Burdett's want of courage, and dropped all
communication with him till a later contest at Westminster.

Place was thus at the centre of the political agitation which, for the
time, represented the most energetic reforming movement. It was in
1811 or 1812 that he became acquainted with Mill.[9] In Mill he
recognised a congenial spirit, and a man able to defend and develop
principles. He perhaps, as Professor Bain thinks, made advances to
Mill upon the strength of the history of India; and in 1814 he was
certainly endeavouring to raise money to put Mill above the need of
precarious hack-work.[10] The anticipated difficulty of persuading
Mill so far to sacrifice his independence was apparently fatal to the
scheme. Place was in occasional communication with Bentham, and
visited him at Ford Abbey in 1817. He became intimate with the great
man; helped him in business affairs; and was one of the disciples
employed to prepare his books for publication.[11] Bentham was the
source of philosophy, and Mill only his prophet. But Mill, who was
capable of activity in practical affairs, was more useful to a man of
the world. The first business which brought them into close connection
was the Lancasterian controversy. The strong interest roused by this
agitation was significant of many difficulties to come. The average
mind had been gradually coming to the conclusion that the poor should
be taught to read and write. Sunday schools and Hannah More's schools
in Somersetshire had drawn the attention of the religious world to the
subject. During the early years of the century the education question
had steadily become more prominent, and the growing interest was shown
by a singularly bitter and complicated controversy. The opposite
parties fought under the banners of Bell and Lancaster. Andrew Bell,
born at St. Andrews, 27th March 1753, was both a canny Scot and an
Anglican clergyman. He combined philanthropy with business faculties.
He sailed to India in 1787 with £128, 10s. in his pocket to be an army
chaplain; he returned in 1796 with £25,000 and a new system of
education which he had devised as superintendent of an orphan asylum.
He settled in England, published an account of his plan, and did
something to bring it into operation. Meanwhile Joseph Lancaster
(1770-1838), a young Quaker, had set up a school in London; he devised
a plan similar to that of Bell, and in 1803 published an account of
his improvements in education with acknowledgments to Bell. For a time
the two were on friendly terms. Lancaster set about propagating his
new system with more enthusiasm than discretion. His fame rapidly
spread till it reached the throne. In 1805 George III. sent for him;
the royal family subscribed to his schools; and the king declared his
wish that every child in his dominions should be taught to read the
Bible. The king's gracious wish unconsciously indicated a difficulty.
Was it safe to teach the Bible without the safeguard of authorised
interpretation? Orthodox opponents feared the alliance with a man
whose first principle was toleration, and first among them was the
excellent Mrs. Trimmer, who had been already engaged in the
Sunday-school movement. She pointed out in a pamphlet that the
schismatic Lancaster was weakening the Established Church. The
_Edinburgh Review_ came to his support in 1806 and 1807; for the Whig,
especially if he was also a Scot, was prejudiced against the Church of
England. Lancaster went on his way, but soon got into difficulties,
for he was impetuous, careless of money, and autocratic. William
Allen, with another Quaker, came to his support in 1808, and founded
the Royal Lancasterian Society to maintain his school in the Borough
Road, and propagate its like elsewhere. Lancaster travelled through
the country, and the agitation prospered, and spread even to America.
The church, however, was now fairly aroused. Bishop Marsh preached a
sermon in St. Paul's, and followed it up by pamphlets; the cause was
taken up by the _Quarterly Review_ in 1811, and in the same year the
National Society was founded to 'educate the poor in the principles of
the Established Church.' Bell had suggested a national system, but the
times were not ripe. Meanwhile the controversy became furious. The
_Edinburgh_ and the _Quarterly_ thundered on opposite sides. Immense
importance was attached by both parties to the scheme devised by Bell,
and partly adopted by Lancaster. The war involved a personal element
and the charges of plagiarism which give spice to a popular
controversy. All parties, and certainly the Utilitarians, strangely
exaggerated the value of the new method. They regarded the proposal
that children should be partly taught by other children instead of
being wholly taught by adults as a kind of scientific discovery which
would enormously simplify and cheapen education. Believers in the
'Panopticon' saw in it another patent method of raising the general
level of intelligence. But the real question was between church and
dissent. Was the church catechism to be imposed or not? This, as we
have seen, was the occasion of Bentham's assault upon church and
catechism. On the other side, Bell's claims were supported with
enthusiasm by all the Tories, and by such men as Southey and
Coleridge. Southey, who had defended Bell in the _Quarterly_,[12]
undertook to be Bell's biographer[13] and literary executor. Coleridge
was so vehement in the cause that when lecturing upon 'Romeo and
Juliet' in 1811, he plunged by way of exordium into an assault upon
Lancaster's modes of punishment.[14] De Quincey testifies that he
became a positive bore upon Bell's virtues. In 1812 Lancaster had got
deeply into debt to the trustees of the Society, who included besides
Allen, Joseph Fox--a 'shallow, gloomy bigot' according to Place--and
some other Quakers. Lancaster resented their control, and in 1812 made
over his Borough Road school to them, and set up one of his own at
Tooting. They continued, however, to employ him, and in 1813 formed
themselves into the 'British and Foreign' School Society. Place had
known Lancaster from 1804, and Mill had supported him in the press.
They both became members of the committee, though Place took the most
active part. He makes many grave charges against Lancaster, whom he
regarded as hopelessly flighty and impracticable, if not worse.
Ultimately in 1814 Lancaster resigned his position, and naturally
retorted that Place was an infidel. Place, meanwhile, was ill at ease
with the 'gloomy bigot,' as he calls Fox. After many quarrels, Fox
succeeded in getting the upper hand, and Place finally withdrew from
the committee in 1815.

Two other schemes arose out of this, in which Mill was specially
interested, but which both proved abortive. Mill and Place resolved in
1813 to start a 'West London Lancasterian Institution,' which was to
educate the whole population west of Temple Bar. They were joined by
Edward Wakefield, father of the Edward Gibbon Wakefield who in later
years was known as an economist, and himself author of a work of
considerable reputation, _An Account of Ireland, Statistical and
Political_ (1812). The three joined Joseph Fox, and ultimately a
meeting was held in August 1813. Sir James Mackintosh was in the
chair. Mill wrote the address, and motions were proposed by his friend
Joseph Hume and by William Allen. Papers were circulated, headed
'Schools for all,'[15] and the institution was launched with a
sufficiency of applause. But the 'gloomy bigot' was secretary. He
declared that he would rather see the institution destroyed than
permit it to be used for infidel purposes. The Bible was, of course,
to be read in the schools, but Fox wished that the Bible alone should
be read. As the committee, according to Place, included four infidels,
three Unitarians, six Methodists, two Baptists, two Roman Catholics,
and several members of the Established Church, it was hardly a happy
family. To add to the confusion, Sir Francis Burdett, who had
contributed a thousand pounds, had taken it into his head that Place
was a government spy.[16] The Association, as is hardly surprising,
ceased to exist in 1816, after keeping up a school of less than three
hundred children, and ended in hopeless failure. The Utilitarians had
higher hopes from a scheme of their own. This was the Chrestomathic
school which occasioned Bentham's writing. An association was formed
in February 1814. Mackintosh, Brougham, Mill, Allen, Fox, and
Wakefield were to be trustees. The school was to apply Lancasterian
principles to the education of the middle classes, and Bentham was to
supply them with a philosophy and with a site in his garden. There the
old gentleman was to see a small version of the Panopticon building,
and, for a time, he took great delight in the prospect. Gradually,
however, it seems to have dawned upon him that there might be
inconveniences in being overlooked by a set of even model schoolboys.
There were difficulties as to funds. Ricardo offered £200 and
collected subscriptions for £900, but Place thought that he might have
been more liberal. About 1817 they counted upon subscriptions for
£2310. Allen was treasurer, Place secretary, and the dukes of Kent and
York were on the committee. Romilly was persuaded to join, and they
had hopes of the £1000 given by Burdett to the West London
Institution. But the thing could never be got into working order, in
spite of Place's efforts and Mill's counsels; and, after painful
haulings and tuggings, it finally collapsed in 1820.[17]

The efforts of the Utilitarians to effect anything directly in the way
of education thus fell completely flat. One moral is sufficiently
obvious. They were, after all, but a small clique, regarded with
suspicion by all outsiders; and such a system as could seriously
affect education could only be carried out either by government,
which was thinking of very different things, or by societies already
connected with the great religious bodies. The only function which
could be adequately discharged by the little band of Utilitarians was
to act upon public opinion; and this, no doubt, they could do to some
purpose. I have gone so far into these matters in order to illustrate
their position; but, as will be seen, Mill, though consulted at every
stage by Place, and doing what he could to advocate the cause, was,
after all, in the background. He was still wrestling with the Indian
History, which was, as he hoped, to win for him an independent
position. The effort was enormous. In 1814 he told Place that he was
working at the History from 5 A.M. till 11 P.M. When at Ford Abbey his
regular day's work began at 6 A.M. and lasted till 11 P.M., during
which time three hours were given to teaching his children, and a
couple of short walks supplied him with recreation. How, with all his
energy, he managed to pay his way is a mystery, which his biographer
is unable fully to solve.[18]

The History at last appeared in 3 vols. 4to, at the end of 1817. Dry
and stern as its author, and embodying some of his political
prejudices, it was at least a solid piece of work, which succeeded at
once, and soon became the standard book upon the subject. Mill argues
in the preface with characteristic courage that his want of personal
knowledge of India was rather an advantage. It made him impartial. A
later editor[19] has shown that it led to some serious misconceptions.
It is characteristic of the Utilitarian attitude to assume that a
sufficient knowledge of fact can always be obtained from blue-books
and statistics. Some facts require imagination and sympathy to be
appreciated, and there Mill was deficient. He could not give an
adequate picture of Hindoo beliefs and customs, though he fully
appreciated the importance of such questions. Whatever its
shortcomings, the book produced a remarkable change in Mill's
position. He applied for a vacant office in the India House. His
friends, Joseph Hume and Ricardo, made interest for him in the city.
Place co-operated energetically.[20] Canning, then president of the
Board of Control, is said to have supported him; and the general
impression of his ability appears to have caused his election, in
spite of some Tory opposition. He became Assistant to the Examiner of
India Correspondence, with a salary of £800 on 12th May 1819. On 10th
April 1821 he became Second Assistant, with £1000 a year; on 9th April
1823 he was made Assistant Examiner, with £1200 a year; and on 1st
December 1830 Examiner, with £1900, which on 17th February 1836 was
raised to £2000. The official work came in later years to absorb the
greatest part of Mill's energy, and his position excluded him from any
active participation in politics, had he ever been inclined for it.
Mill, however, set free from bondage, was able to exert himself very
effectually with his pen; and his writings became in a great degree
the text-books of his sect.

During 1818 he had again co-operated with Place in a political matter.
The dissolution of parliament in 1818 produced another contest at
Westminster. Place and Mill were leaders in the Radical committee,
which called a public meeting, where Burdett and Kinnaird were chosen
as candidates. They were opposed to Romilly, the old friend of Bentham
and of Mill himself. Both Mill and Bentham regarded him as not
sufficiently orthodox. Romilly, however, was throughout at the head of
the poll, and the Radical committee were obliged to withdraw their
second candidate, Kinnaird, in order to secure the election of Burdett
against the government candidate Maxwell. Romilly soon afterwards
dined at Bentham's house, and met Mill, with Dumont, Brougham, and
Rush, on friendly terms. On Romilly's sad death on 2nd November
following, Mill went to Worthing to offer his sympathy to the family,
and declared that the 'gloom' had 'affected his health.' He took no
part in the consequent election, in which Hobhouse stood
unsuccessfully as the Radical candidate.


III. LEADER OF THE UTILITARIANS

Politics were beginning to enter upon a new phase. The period was
marked by the 'Six Acts' and the 'Peterloo massacre.' The Radical
leaders who upheld the cause in those dark days were not altogether to
the taste of the Utilitarians. After Burdett, John Cartwright
(1740-1824) and Henry (or 'Orator') Hunt (1773-1835), hero of the
'Peterloo massacre,' were the most conspicuous. They were supported by
Cobbett, the greatest journalist of the time, and various more obscure
writers. The Utilitarians held them in considerable contempt. Burdett
was flashy, melodramatic, and vain; Hunt an 'unprincipled demagogue';
and Cartwright, the Nestor of reform, who had begun his labours in
1780, was, according to Place, wearisome, impracticable, and a mere
nuisance in matters of business. The Utilitarians tried to use such
men, but shared the Tory opinion of their value. They had some
relations with other obscure writers who were martyrs to the liberty
of the press. Place helped William Hone in the _Reformer's Register_,
which was brought out in 1817. The famous trial in which Hone
triumphed over Ellenborough occurred at the end of that year. Richard
Carlile (1790-1843), who reprinted Hone's pamphlets, and in 1818
published Paine's works, was sentenced in 1819 to three years'
imprisonment; and while in confinement began the _Republican_, which
appeared from 1819 to 1826. Ultimately he passed nine years in jail,
and showed unflinching courage in maintaining the liberty of speech.
The Utilitarians, as Professor Bain believes, helped him during his
imprisonments, and John Mill's first publication was a protest against
his prosecution.[21] A 'republican, an atheist, and Malthusian,' he
was specially hated by the respectable, and had in all these
capacities claims upon the sympathy of the Utilitarians. One of
Carlile's first employments was to circulate the _Black Dwarf_, edited
by Thomas Jonathan Wooler from 1817 to 1824.[22] This paper
represented Cartwright, but it also published Bentham's reform
_Catechism_, besides direct contributions and various selections from
his works.

The Utilitarians were opposed on principle to Cobbett, a reformer of a
type very different from their own; and still more vitally opposed to
Owen, who was beginning to develop his Socialist schemes. If they had
sympathy for Radicalism of the Wooler or Carlile variety, they
belonged too distinctly to the ranks of respectability, and were too
deeply impressed with the necessity of reticence, to allow their
sympathies to appear openly. As, on the other hand, they were too
Radical in their genuine creed to be accepted by Edinburgh Reviewers
and frequenters of Holland House, there was a wide gap between them
and the genuine Whig. Their task therefore was to give a political
theory which should be Radical in principle, and yet in such a form as
should appeal to the reason of the more cultivated readers without too
openly shocking their prejudices.

James Mill achieved this task by the publication of a series of
articles in the Supplement to the _Encyclopædia Britannica_, which
appeared from 1816 to 1823, of which I shall presently speak at
length. It passed for the orthodox profession of faith among the
little circle of friends who had now gathered round him. First among
them was David Ricardo. He had become known to Mill in 1811. 'I,' said
Bentham, 'was the spiritual father of Mill, and Mill the spiritual
father of Ricardo.'[23] Mill was really the disciple of Ricardo in
economics; but it was Mill who induced him to publish his chief work,
and Mill's own treatise upon the subject published in 1820 is
substantially an exposition of Ricardo's doctrine. Mill, too,
encouraged Ricardo to take a seat in parliament in 1818, and there for
the short remainder of his life, Ricardo defended the characteristic
Utilitarian principles with the authority derived from his reputation
as an economist.[24] The two were now especially intimate. During
Mill's first years in the India House, his only recreation was an
annual visit to Ricardo at Gatcombe. Meetings at Ricardo's house in
London led to the foundation of the 'Political Economy Club' in 1821.
Mill drafted the rules of the club, emphasising the duty of members to
propagate sound economic opinions through the press. The club took
root and helped to make Mill known to politicians and men of
commercial influence. One of the members was Malthus, who is said, and
the assertion is credible enough, to have been generally worsted by
Mill in the discussions at the club. Mill was an awkward antagonist,
and Malthus certainly not conspicuous for closeness of logic. The
circle of Mill's friends naturally extended as his position in the
India House enabled him to live more at his ease and brought him into
contact with men of political position. His old school-fellow Joseph
Hume had made a fortune in India, and returned to take a seat in
parliament and become the persistent and tiresome advocate of many of
the Utilitarian doctrines. A younger generation was growing up,
enthusiastic in the cause of reform, and glad to sit at the feet of
men who claimed at least to be philosophical leaders. John Black
(1783-1855), another sturdy Scot, who came from Duns in Berwickshire,
had, in 1817, succeeded Perry as editor of the _Morning Chronicle_.
The _Chronicle_ was an opposition paper, and day by day Black walked
with Mill from the India House, discussing the topics of the time and
discharging himself through the _Chronicle_. The _Chronicle_ declined
after 1821, owing to a change in the proprietorship.[25] Albany
Fonblanque (1793-1872) took to journalism at an early age, succeeded
Leigh Hunt as leader-writer for the _Examiner_ in 1826, became
another exponent of Utilitarian principles, and for some time in
alliance with John Stuart Mill was among the most effective
representatives of the new school in the press. John Ramsay M'Culloch
(1789-1864) upheld the economic battle in the _Scotsman_ at Edinburgh
from 1817-1827, and edited it from 1818-1820. He afterwards devoted
himself to lecturing in London, and was for many years the most ardent
apostle of the 'dismal science.' He was a genial, whisky-loving Scot;
the favourite object of everybody's mimicry; and was especially
intimate with James Mill. Many other brilliant young men contributed
their help in various ways. Henry Bickersteth (1783-1851), afterwards
Lord Langdale and Master of the Rolls, had brought Bentham and Burdett
into political alliance; and his rising reputation at the bar led to
his being placed in 1824 upon a commission for reforming the procedure
of the Court of Chancery, one of the most cherished objects of the
Utilitarian creed. Besides these there were the group of young men,
who were soon to be known as the 'philosophical Radicals.' John Stuart
Mill, upon whom the mantle of his father was to descend, was
conspicuous by his extraordinary precocity, and having been carefully
educated in the orthodox faith, was employed in 1825 upon editing
Bentham's great work upon evidence. George Grote (1794-1871), the
future historian, had been introduced to Mill by Ricardo; and was in
1821 defending Mill's theory of government against Mackintosh, and in
1822 published the _Analysis of Revealed Religion_, founded upon
Bentham's manuscripts and expressing most unequivocally the
Utilitarian theory of religion. With them were associated the two
Austins, John (1790-1859) who, in 1821, lived close to Bentham and
Mill in Queen's Square, and who was regarded as the coming teacher of
the Utilitarian system of jurisprudence; and Charles (1799-1874), who
upheld the true faith among the young gentlemen at Cambridge with a
vigour and ability which at least rivalled the powers of his
contemporary, Macaulay. Meanwhile, Mill himself was disqualified by
his office from taking any direct part in political agitations. Place
continued an active connection with the various Radical committees and
associations; but the younger disciples had comparatively little
concern in such matters. They were more interested in discussing the
applications of Utilitarianism in various directions, or, so far as
they had parliamentary aspirations, were aspiring to found a separate
body of 'philosophical Radicals,' which looked down upon Place and his
allies from the heights of superior enlightenment.

Mill could now look forward to a successful propaganda of the creed
which had passed so slowly through its period of incubation. The death
of Ricardo in 1823 affected him to a degree which astonished his
friends, accustomed only to his stern exterior. A plentiful crop of
young proselytes, however, was arising to carry on the work; and the
party now became possessed of the indispensable organ. The
_Westminster Review_ was launched at the beginning of 1824. Bentham
provided the funds; Mill's official position prevented him from
undertaking the editorship, which was accordingly given to Bentham's
young disciple, Bowring, helped for a time by Henry Southern. The
_Westminster_ was to represent the Radicals as the two older reviews
represented the Whigs and the Tories; and to show that the new party
had its philosophers and its men of literary cultivation as well as
its popular agitators and journalists. It therefore naturally put
forth its claims by opening fire in the first numbers against the
_Edinburgh_ and the _Quarterly Reviews_. The assault upon the
_Edinburgh Review_, of which I shall speak presently, made an
impression, and, as J. S. Mill tells us, brought success to the first
number of the new venture. The gauntlet was thrown down with plenty of
vigour, and reformers were expected to rally round so thoroughgoing a
champion. In later numbers Mill afterwards (Jan. 9, 1826) fell upon
Southey's _Book of the Church_, and (April 1826) assailed church
establishments in general. He defended toleration during the same year
in a review of Samuel Bailey's _Formation of Opinions_, and gave a
general account of his political creed in an article (October) on the
'State of the Nation.' This was his last contribution to the
_Westminster_; but in 1827 he contributed to the _Parliamentary
History and Review_, started by James Marshall of Leeds, an article
upon recent debates on reform, which ended for a time his political
writings.

The Utilitarians had no great talent for cohesion. Their very
principles were indeed in favour of individual independence, and they
were perhaps more ready to diverge than to tolerate divergence. The
_Westminster Review_ had made a good start, and drew attention to the
rising 'group'--J. S. Mill declares that it never formed a
'school.'[26] From the very first the Mills distrusted Bowring and
disapproved of some articles; the elder Mill failed to carry his
disciples with him, partly because they were already in favour of
giving votes to women; and as the _Review_ soon showed itself unable
to pay its way, some new arrangement became necessary. It was finally
bought by Perronet Thompson, and ceased for a time to be the official
organ of Benthamism.

Another undertaking occupied much of Mill's attention in the following
years. The educational schemes of the Utilitarians had so far proved
abortive. In 1824, however, it had occurred to the poet, Thomas
Campbell, then editing the _New Monthly Magazine_, that London ought
to possess a university comparable to that of Berlin, and more on a
level with modern thought than the old universities of Oxford and
Cambridge, which were still in the closest connection with the church.
Campbell addressed a letter to Brougham, and the scheme was taken up
energetically on several sides. Place[27] wrote an article, which he
offered to Campbell for the _New Monthly_, who declined out of modesty
to publish it in his own organ. It was then offered to Bowring for the
_Westminster_, and ultimately suppressed by him, which may have been
one of the causes of his differences with the Mills. Brougham took a
leading part in the agitation; Joseph Hume promised to raise £100,000.
George Birkbeck, founder of the Mechanics' Institution, and Zachary
Macaulay, who saw in it a place of education for dissenting ministers,
joined the movement, and among the most active members of the new body
were James Mill and Grote. A council was formed at the end of 1825,
and after various difficulties a sum of £160,000 was raised, and the
university started in Gower Street in 1828. Among the first body of
professors were John Austin and M'Culloch, both of them sound
Utilitarians. The old difficulty, however, made itself felt. In order
to secure the unsectarian character of the university, religious
teaching was omitted. The college was accused of infidelity. King's
College was started in opposition; and violent antipathies were
aroused. A special controversy raged within the council itself. Two
philosophical chairs were to be founded; and philosophy cannot be kept
clear of religion. After long discussions, one chair was filled by the
appointment of the Reverend John Hoppus, an independent minister.
Grote, declaring that no man, pledged by his position to the support
of any tenets, should be appointed, resigned his place on the
council.[28] The university in 1836 became a college combined with its
rival King's College under the newly formed examining body called the
University of London. It has, I suppose, been of service to education,
and may be regarded as the one practical achievement of the
Utilitarians in that direction, so far as its foundation was due to
them. It must, however, be admitted that the actual body still falls
very far short of the ideal present to the minds of its founders.

From 1822 James Mill spent his vacations at Dorking, and afterwards at
Mickleham. He had devoted them to a task which was necessary to fill a
gap in the Utilitarian scheme. Hitherto the school had assumed, rather
than attempted to establish, a philosophical basis of its teaching.
Bentham's fragmentary writings about the Chrestomathic school supplied
all that could by courtesy be called a philosophy. Mill, however, had
been from the first interested in philosophical questions. His reading
was not wide; he knew something of the doctrines taught by Stewart and
Stewart's successor, Brown. He had been especially impressed by
Hobbes, to some degree by Locke and Hume, but above all by Hartley. He
knew something, too, of Condillac and the French Ideologists. Of
recent German speculation he was probably quite ignorant. I find
indeed that Place had called his attention to the account of Kant,
published by Wirgman in the _Encyclopædia Londinensis_ 1817. Mill
about the same time tells Place that he has begun to read _The Critic
of Pure Reason_. 'I see clearly enough,' he says, 'what poor Kant
would be about, but it would require some time to give an account of
him.' He wishes (December 6, 1817) that he had time to write a book
which would 'make the human mind as plain as the road from Charing
Cross to St. Paul's.'[29] This was apparently the task to which he
applied himself in his vacations. The _Analysis_ appeared in 1829,
and, whatever its defects of incompleteness and one-sidedness from a
philosophical point of view, shows in the highest degree Mill's powers
of close, vigorous statement; and lays down with singular clearness
the psychological doctrine, which from his point of view supplied the
fundamental theorems of knowledge in general. It does not appear,
however, to have made an impression proportionate to the intellectual
power displayed, and had to wait a long time before reaching the
second edition due to the filial zeal of J. S. Mill.

James Mill, after his articles in the _Westminster_, could take
little part in political agitation. He was still consulted by Place in
regard to the Reform movement. Place himself took an important part at
the final crisis, especially by his circulation in the week of agony
of the famous placard, 'Go for Gold.' But the Utilitarians were now
lost in the crowd. The demand for reform had spread through all
classes. The attack upon the ruling class carried on by the Radicals
of all shades in the dark days of Sidmouth and the six Acts was now
supported by the nation at large. The old Toryism could no longer
support itself by appealing to the necessities of a struggle for
national existence. The prestige due to the victorious end of the war
had faded away. The Reform Bill of 1832 was passed, and the
Utilitarians hoped that the millennium would at least begin to dawn.

Mill in 1830 removed from Queen's Square to Vicarage Place,
Kensington. He kept his house at Mickleham, and there took long Sunday
walks with a few of his disciples. His strength was more and more
absorbed in his official duties. He was especially called upon to give
evidence before the committees which from 1830 to 1833 considered the
policy to be adopted in renewing the charter of the East India
Company. Mill appeared as the advocate of the company, defended their
policy, and argued against the demands of the commercial body which
demanded the final suppression of the old trading monopoly of the
Company. The abolition, indeed, was a foregone conclusion; but Mill's
view was not in accordance with the doctrines of the thoroughgoing
freetraders. His official experience, it seems, upon this and other
matters deterred him from the _a priori_ dogmatism too characteristic
of his political speculations. Mill also suggested the formation of a
legislative council, which was to contain one man 'versed in the
philosophy of men and government.' This was represented by the
appointment of the legal member of council in the Act of 1833. Mill
approved of Macaulay as the first holder of the post. It was 'very
handsome' of him, as Macaulay remarks, inasmuch as the famous articles
written by Macaulay himself, in which the _Edinburgh_ had at last
retorted upon the Utilitarians, must still have been fresh in his
memory. The 'Penal Code' drawn by Macaulay as holder of the office was
the first actual attempt to carry out Bentham's favourite schemes
under British rule, and the influence of the chief of Bentham's
disciples at the India House may have had something to do with its
initiation. Macaulay's chief subordinate, it may be remarked, Charles
Hay Cameron, was one of the Benthamites, and had been proposed by
Grote for the chair at the London University ultimately filled by
Hoppus.

After 1830 Mill wrote the severe fragment on Mackintosh, which, after
a delay caused by Mackintosh's death, appeared in 1835. He contributed
some articles to the _London Review_, founded by Sir W. Molesworth, as
an organ of the 'philosophical Radicals,' and superintended, though
not directly edited, by J. S. Mill. These, his last performances,
repeat the old doctrines. It does not appear, indeed, that Mill ever
altered one of his opinions. He accepted Bentham's doctrine to the
end, as unreservedly as a mathematician might accept Newton's
_Principia_.

Mill's lungs had begun to be affected. It was supposed that they were
injured by the dust imbibed on coach journeys to Mickleham. He had a
bad attack of hæmorrhage in August 1835, and died peacefully on 23rd
June 1836.

What remains to be said of Mill personally may be suggested by a
noticeable parallel. S. T. Coleridge, born about six months before
Mill, died two years before him. The two lives thus coincided for more
than sixty years, and each man was the leader of a school. In all else
the contrast could hardly be greater. If we were to apply the rules of
ordinary morality, it would be entirely in Mill's favour. Mill
discharged all his duties as strenuously as a man could, while
Coleridge's life was a prolonged illustration of the remark that when
an action presented itself to him as a duty he became physically
incapable of doing it. Whatever Mill undertook he accomplished, often
in the face of enormous difficulties. Coleridge never finished
anything, and his works are a heap of fragments of the prolegomena to
ambitious schemes. Mill worked his hardest from youth to age, never
sparing labour or shirking difficulties or turning aside from his
path. Coleridge dawdled through life, solacing himself with opium, and
could only be coaxed into occasional activity by skilful diplomacy.
Mill preserved his independence by rigid self-denial, temperance, and
punctuality. Coleridge was always dependent upon the generosity of his
friends. Mill brought up a large family, and in the midst of severe
labours found time to educate them even to excess. Coleridge left his
wife and children to be cared for by others. And Coleridge died in the
odour of sanctity, revered by his disciples, and idolised by his
children; while Mill went to the grave amidst the shrugs of
respectable shoulders, and respected rather than beloved by the son
who succeeded to his intellectual leadership.

The answer to the riddle is indeed plain enough; or rather there are
many superabundantly obvious answers. Had Mill defended orthodox views
and Coleridge been avowedly heterodox, we should no doubt have heard
more of Coleridge's opium and of Mill's blameless and energetic life.
But this explains little. That Coleridge was a man of genius and,
moreover, of exquisitely poetical genius, and that Mill was at most a
man of remarkable talent and the driest and sternest of logicians is
also obvious. It is even more to the purpose that Coleridge was
overflowing with kindliness, though little able to turn goodwill to
much effect; whereas Mill's morality took the form chiefly of
attacking the wicked. This is indicated by the saying attributed by
Bowring to Bentham that Mill's sympathy for the many sprang out of his
hatred of the oppressing few.[30] J. S. Mill very properly protested
against this statement when it was quoted in the _Edinburgh Review_.
It would obviously imply a gross misunderstanding, whether Bentham,
not a good observer of men, said so or not. But it indicates the side
of Mill's character which made him unattractive to contemporaries and
also to posterity. He partook, says his son,[31] of the Stoic, the
Epicurean, and the Cynic character. He was a Stoic in his personal
qualities; an Epicurean so far as his theory of morals was concerned;
and a Cynic in that he cared little for pleasure. He thought life a
'poor thing' after the freshness of youth had passed; and said that
he had never known an old man happy unless he could live over again in
the pleasures of the young. Temperance and self-restraint were
therefore his favourite virtues. He despised all 'passionate
emotions'; he held with Bentham that feelings by themselves deserved
neither praise nor blame; he condemned a man who did harm whether the
harm came from malevolence or from intellectual error. Therefore all
sentiment was objectionable, for sentiment means neglect of rules and
calculations. He shrank from showing feeling with more than the usual
English reserve; and showed his devotion to his children by drilling
them into knowledge with uncompromising strictness. He had no feeling
for the poetical or literary side of things; and regarded life, it
would seem, as a series of arguments, in which people were to be
constrained by logic, not persuaded by sympathy. He seems to have
despised poor Mrs. Mill, and to have been unsuccessful in concealing
his contempt, though in his letters he refers to her respectfully.
Mill therefore was a man little likely to win the hearts of his
followers, though his remarkable vigour of mind dominated their
understandings.

The amiable and kindly, whose sympathies are quickly moved, gain an
unfair share of our regard both in life and afterwards. We are more
pleased by an ineffectual attempt to be kindly, than by real kindness
bestowed ungraciously. Mill's great qualities should not be overlooked
because they were hidden by a manner which seems almost deliberately
repellent. He devoted himself through life to promote the truth as he
saw it; to increase the scanty amounts of pleasures enjoyed by
mankind; and to discharge all the duties which he owed to his
neighbours. He succeeded beyond all dispute in forcibly presenting one
set of views which profoundly influenced his countrymen; and the very
narrowness of his intellect enabled him to plant his blows more
effectively.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The chief authority for James Mill is _James Mill: a Biography_,
by Alexander Bain, Emeritus Professor of Logic in the University of
Aberdeen, London, 1882. The book contains very full materials; and, if
rather dry, deals with a dry subject.

[2] Wallas's _Francis Place_, p. 70 _n._

[3] Bain's _James Mill_, p. 166.

[4] Gifford's real name was John Richards Green. The identity of his
assumed name with that of the more famous William Gifford has led to a
common confusion between the two periodicals. 'Peter Pindar' assaulted
William Gifford under the erroneous impression that he was editor of
the second.

[5] Letter in Bain's _James Mill_, pp. 136-40.

[6] _Autobiography_, p. 39.

[7] Bain's _James Mill_, pp. 97-106. Mill appears to have said
something 'extravagant' about Bentham in an article upon Miranda in
the _Edinburgh Review_ for January 1809. He also got some praises of
Bentham into the _Annual Review_ of 1809 (Bain, 92-96).

[8] See the very interesting Life of Francis Place, by Mr. Graham
Wallas, 1898.

[9] Bain's _James Mill_, p. 78, and Wallas's _Francis Place_, p. 66.

[10] Wallas's _Francis Place_, p. 68.

[11] He 'put together' the _Not Paul but Jesus_ at Ford Abbey in 1817,
and helped to preface the Reform _Catechism_. Wallas's _Francis
Place_, p. 84.

[12] The article of 1811 was also published separately.

[13] He wrote only the first volume. Two others were added by Cuthbert
Southey.

[14] _Lectures_ (Ashe, 1885), pp. 32, 61.

[15] James Mill, according to Place, wrote a 'memorable and admirable
essay, "Schools for all, not schools for Churchmen only."'--Wallas's
_Francis Place_, 99 _n._

[16] This absurd suspicion was aroused by the quarrel about Burdett's
arrest. See Wallas's _Place_, p. 56.

[17] Mr. Wallas gives an account of these schemes in chap. iv. of his
Life of Place. I have also consulted Place's collections in Additional
MSS., 27,823.

[18] Bain's _James Mill_, p. 162.

[19] H. H. Wilson in his preface to the edition of 1840.

[20] Wallas's _Francis Place_, p. 78.

[21] Bain's _James Mill_, p. 435.

[22] _Ibid._ p. 433.

[23] Bentham's _Works_, p. 498.

[24] See Carman in _Economic Review_, 1894.

[25] See under Black in _Dictionary of National Biography_.

[26] _Autobiography_, p. 101.

[27] See Place's account in Additional MSS. 27,823.

[28] G. C. Robertson, _Philosophical Remains_, p. 166; and under
George Grote in _Dictionary of National Biography_.

[29] Letters communicated by Mr. Graham Wallas. See Mr. Wallas's
_Francis Place_, p. 91.

[30] So Place observed that Mill 'could help the mass, but could not
help the individual, not even himself or his own.'--Wallas's _Francis
Place_, p. 79.

[31] _Autobiography_, p. 48.



CHAPTER II

REFORM MOVEMENTS


I. POLITICAL CHANGE

The last years of Mill's life correspond to the period in which
Utilitarianism reached, in certain respects, its highest pitch of
influence. The little band who acknowledged him as their chief leader,
and as the authorised lieutenant of Bentham, considered themselves to
be in the van of progress. Though differing on many points from each
other, and regarded with aversion or distrust by the recognised party
leaders, they were in their most militant and confident state of mind.
They were systematically reticent as to their religious views: they
left to popular orators the public advocacy of their favourite
political measures; and the credit of finally passing such of those
measures as were adopted fell chiefly to the hands of the great
political leaders. The Utilitarians are ignored in the orthodox Whig
legend. In the preface to his collected works, Sydney Smith runs over
the usual list of changes which had followed, and, as he seems to
think, had in great part resulted from, the establishment of the
_Edinburgh Review_. Smith himself, and Jeffrey and Horner and, above
all, 'the gigantic Brougham,' had blown the blast which brought down
the towers of Jericho. Sir G. O. Trevelyan, in his _Life of Macaulay_,
describes the advent of the Whigs to office in a similar sense.
'Agitators and incendiaries,' he says, 'retired into the background,
as will always be the case when the country is in earnest: and
statesmen who had much to lose, and were not afraid to risk it,
stepped quietly and firmly to the front. The men and the sons of the
men who had so long endured exclusion from office, embittered by
unpopularity, at length reaped their reward.'[32] The Radical version
of the history is different. The great men, it said, who had left the
cause to be supported by agitators so long as the defence was
dangerous and profitless, stepped forward now that it was clearly
winning, and received both the reward and the credit. Mill and Place
could not find words to express their contempt for the trimming,
shuffling Whigs. They were probably unjust enough in detail; but they
had a strong case in some respects. The Utilitarians represented that
part of the reforming party which had a definite and a reasoned creed.
They tried to give logic where the popular agitators were content with
declamation, and represented absolute convictions when the Whig
reformers were content with tentative and hesitating compromises. They
had some grounds for considering themselves to be the 'steel of the
lance'; the men who formulated and deliberately defended the
principles which were beginning to conquer the world.

The Utilitarians, I have said, became a political force in the
concluding years of the great war struggle. The catastrophe of the
revolution had unchained a whole whirlwind of antagonisms. The
original issues had passed out of sight; and great social,
industrial, and political changes were in progress which made the
nation that emerged from the war a very different body from the nation
that had entered it nearly a generation before. It is not surprising
that at first very erroneous estimates were made of the new position
when peace at last returned.

The Radicals, who had watched on one side the growth of debt and
pauperism, and, on the other hand, the profits made by stockjobbers,
landlords, and manufacturers, ascribed all the terrible sufferings to
the selfish designs of the upper classes. When the war ended they
hoped that the evils would diminish, while the pretext for
misgovernment would be removed. A bitter disappointment followed. The
war was followed by widespread misery. Plenty meant ruin to
agriculturists, and commercial 'gluts' resulting in manufacturers'
warehouses crammed with unsaleable goods. The discontent caused by
misery had been encountered during the war by patriotic fervour. It
was not a time for redressing evils, when the existence of the nation
was at stake. Now that the misery continued, and the excuse for
delaying redress had been removed, a demand arose for parliamentary
reform. Unfortunately discontent led also to sporadic riotings, to
breaking of machinery and burning of ricks. The Tory government saw in
these disturbances a renewal of the old Jacobin spirit, and had
visions--apparently quite groundless--of widespread conspiracies and
secret societies ready to produce a ruin of all social order. It had
recourse to the old repressive measures, the suspension of the Habeas
Corpus Act, the passage of the 'Six Acts,' and the prosecution of
popular agitators. Many observers fancied that the choice lay between
a servile insurrection and the establishment of arbitrary power.

By degrees, however, peace brought back prosperity. Things settled
down; commerce revived; and the acute distress passed away. The whole
nation went mad over the wrongs of Queen Caroline; and the demand for
political reform became for the time less intense. But it soon
appeared that, although this crisis had been surmounted, the temper of
the nation had profoundly changed. The supreme power still belonged
constitutionally to the landed interest. But it had a profoundly
modified social order behind it. The war had at least made it
necessary to take into account the opinions of larger classes. An
appeal to patriotism means that some regard must be paid to the
prejudices and passions of people at large. When enormous sums were to
be raised, the moneyed classes would have their say as to modes of
taxation. Commerce and manufactures went through crises of terrible
difficulty due to the various changes of the war; but, on the whole,
the industrial classes were steadily and rapidly developing in wealth,
and becoming relatively more important. The war itself was, in one
aspect at least, a war for the maintenance of the British supremacy in
trade. The struggle marked by the policy of the 'Orders in Council' on
one side, and Napoleon's decrees on the other, involved a constant
reference to Manchester and Liverpool and the rapidly growing
manufacturing and commercial interests. The growth, again, of the
press, at a time when every one who could read was keenly interested
in news of most exciting and important events, implied the rapid
development of a great organ of public opinion.

The effects of these changes soon became palpable. The political
atmosphere was altogether different; and an entirely new set of
influences was governing the policy of statesmen. The change affected
the Tory as much as the Whig. However strongly he might believe that
he was carrying on the old methods, he was affected by the new ideas
which had been almost unconsciously incorporated in his creed. How
great was the change, and how much it took the shape of accepting
Utilitarian theories, may be briefly shown by considering a few
characteristic facts.

The ablest men who held office at the time were Canning, Huskisson,
and Peel. They represented the conservatism which sought to
distinguish itself from mere obstructiveness. Their influence was felt
in many directions. The Holy Alliance had the sympathy of men who
could believe that the war had brought back the pre-revolutionary
order, and that its main result had been to put the Jacobin spirit in
chains. Canning's accession to office in 1822 meant that the foreign
policy of England was to be definitely opposed to the policy of the
'Holy Alliance.' A pithy statement of his view is given in a
remarkable letter, dated 1st February 1823, to the prince who was soon
to become Charles X.[33] The French government had declared that a
people could only receive a free constitution as a gift from their
legitimate kings. Should the English ministry, says Canning, after
this declaration, support the French in their attack upon the
constitutional government of Spain, it would be driven from office
amid 'the execration of Tories and Whigs alike.' He thought that the
doctrine of the sovereignty of the people was less alien to the
spirit of the British Constitution than the opposite doctrine of the
legitimists. In the early days, when Canning sat at the feet of Pitt,
the war, if not in their eyes an Anti-Jacobin crusade, had to be
supported by stimulating the Anti-Jacobin sentiment. In later days,
the war had come to be a struggle against the oppression of nations by
foreign despots. Canning could now accept the version of Pitt's policy
which corresponded to the later phase. Englishmen in general had no
more sympathy for despots who claimed a divine right than for despots
who acted in the name of democracy--especially when the despots
threatened to interfere with British trade. When Canning called 'the
new world into existence to redress the balance of the old,'[34] he
declared that English policy should resist threats from the Holy
Alliance directed against some of our best customers. The general
approval had special force among the Utilitarians. In the South
American States Bentham had found eager proselytes, and had hoped to
become a Solon. He had been consulted by the constitutionalists in
Spain and Portugal; and he and his disciples, Joseph Hume in
particular, had joined the Greek Committee, and tried to regenerate
Athens by sound Utilitarian tracts. All English Liberals sympathised
with the various movements which were more or less favoured by
Canning's policy; but the Utilitarians could also see in them the
opening of new fields already white for the harvest.

The foreign policy was significant. It proved that the war, whatever
else it had done, had not brought back the old order; and the old
British traditions in favour of liberty of speech and action would
revive now that they were no longer trammelled by the fears of a
destructive revolution. The days of July in 1830 gave fresh importance
to the reaction of foreign upon English politics.


II. LAW REFORM

Meanwhile, however, the Utilitarians had a far stronger interest in
domestic problems. In the first place, in Bentham's especial province
a complete change of feeling had taken place. Romilly was Bentham's
earliest disciple (so Bentham said), and looked up to him with 'filial
reverence.' Every 'reformatiuncle' introduced by Romilly in parliament
had been first brought to Bentham, to be conned over by the two.[35]
With great difficulty Romilly had got two or three measures through
the House of Commons, generally to be thrown out by Eldon's influence
in the Lords.[36] After Romilly's death in 1818, the cause was taken
up by the Whig philosopher, Sir James Mackintosh, and made a distinct
step in advance. Though there were still obstacles in the upper
regions, a committee was obtained to consider the frequency of capital
punishment, and measures were passed to abolish it in particular
cases. Finally, in 1823, the reform was adopted by Peel. Peel was
destined to represent in the most striking way the process by which
new ideas were gradually infiltrating the upper sphere. Though still a
strong Tory and a representative of the university of Oxford, he was
closely connected with the manufacturing classes, and had become
aware, as he wrote to Croker (23rd March 1820), that public opinion
had grown to be too large for its accustomed channels. As Home
Secretary, he took up the whole subject of the criminal law, and
passed in the next years a series of acts consolidating and mitigating
the law, and repealing many old statutes. A measure of equal
importance was his establishment in 1829 of the metropolitan police
force, which at last put an end to the old chaotic muddle described by
Colquhoun of parish officers and constables. Other significant legal
changes marked the opening of a new era. Eldon was the very
incarnation of the spirit of obstruction; and the Court of Chancery,
over which he presided for a quarter of a century, was thought to be
the typical stronghold of the evil principles denounced by Bentham. An
attack in 1823 upon Eldon was made in the House of Commons by John
Williams (1777-1846), afterwards a judge. Eldon, though profoundly
irritated by the personal imputations involved, consented to the
appointment of a commission, which reported in 1825, and recommended
measures of reform. In 1828, Brougham made a great display upon which
he had consulted Bentham.[37] In a speech of six hours' length he gave
a summary of existing abuses, which may still be read with
interest.[38] Commissions were appointed to investigate the procedure
of the Common Law Court and the law of real property. Another
commission, intended to codify the criminal law, was appointed in
1833. Brougham says that of 'sixty capital defects' described in his
speech, fifty-five had been removed, or were in course of removal,
when his speeches were collected (_i.e._ 1838). Another speech of
Brougham's in 1828 dealt with the carrying into execution of a
favourite plan of Bentham's--the formation of local courts, which
ultimately became the modern county courts.[39] The facts are
significant of a startling change--no less than an abrupt transition
from the reign of entire apathy to a reign of continuous reform
extending over the whole range of law. The Reform Bill accelerated the
movement, but it had been started before Bentham's death. The great
stone, so long immovable, was fairly set rolling.

Bentham's influence, again, in bringing about the change is
undeniable. He was greatly dissatisfied with Brougham's speech, and,
indeed, would have been dissatisfied with anything short of a complete
logical application of his whole system. He held Brougham to be
'insincere,'[40] a trimmer and popularity-hunter, but a useful
instrument. Brougham's astonishing vanity and self-seeking prompted
and perverted his amazing activity. He represents the process, perhaps
necessary, by which a philosopher's ideas have to be modified before
they can be applied to practical application. Brougham, however, could
speak generously of men no longer in a position to excite his
jealousy. He says in the preface to his first speech that 'the age of
law reform and the age of Jeremy Bentham' were the same thing, and
declares Bentham to be the 'first legal philosopher' who had appeared
in the world. As the Chief advocates of Bentham he reckons Romilly,
his parliamentary representative; Dumont, his literary interpreter;
and James Mill, who, in his article upon 'jurisprudence,' had
popularised the essential principles of the doctrine.

The Utilitarians had at last broken up the barriers of obstruction and
set the stream flowing. Whigs and Tories were taking up their
theories. They naturally exaggerated in some respects the completeness
of the triumph. The English law has not yet been codified, and it was
characteristic of the Benthamite school to exaggerate the facility of
that process. In their hatred of 'judge-made law' they assumed too
easily that all things would be arranged into convenient pigeon-holes
as soon as 'Judge and Co.' were abolished. It was a characteristic
error to exaggerate the simplicity of their problem, and to fail to
see that 'judge-made' law corresponds to a necessary inductive process
by which the complex and subtle differences have to be gradually
ascertained and fitted into a systematic statement. One other remark
suggests itself. The Utilitarians saw in the dogged obstructiveness of
Eldon and his like the one great obstacle to reform. It did not occur
to them that the clumsiness of parliamentary legislation might be
another difficulty. They failed to notice distinctly one tendency of
their reforms. To make a code you require a sovereign strong enough to
dominate the lawyers, not a system in which lawyers are an essential
part of a small governing class. Codification, in short, means
centralisation in one department. Blindness to similar results
elsewhere was a characteristic of the Utilitarian thinkers.


III. ECONOMIC REFORM

In another department the Utilitarians boasted, and also with good
reason, of the triumph of their tenets. Political economy was in the
ascendant. Professorships were being founded in Oxford, Cambridge,[41]
London, and Edinburgh. Mrs. Marcet's _Conversations_ (1818) were
spreading the doctrine among babes and sucklings. The Utilitarians
were the sacred band who defended the strictest orthodoxy against all
opponents. They spoke as recognised authorities upon some of the most
vital questions of the day, of which I need here only notice Free
Trade, the doctrine most closely associated with the teaching of their
revered Adam Smith. In 1816 Ricardo remarks with satisfaction that the
principle 'is daily obtaining converts' even among the most prejudiced
classes; and he refers especially to a petition in which the clothiers
of Gloucestershire[42] expressed their willingness to give up all
restrictions. There was, indeed, an important set-off against this
gain. The landowners were being pledged to protection. They had
decided that in spite of the peace, the price of wheat must be kept up
to 80s. a quarter. They would no longer be complimented as Adam Smith
had complimented them on their superior liberality, and were now
creating a barrier only to be stormed after a long struggle.
Meanwhile the principle was making rapid way among their rivals. One
symptom was the adoption by the London merchants in 1820 of a famous
petition on behalf of free trade.[43] It was drawn up by Thomas Tooke
(1774-1858), who had long been actively engaged in the Russian trade,
and whose _History of Prices_ is in some respects the most valuable
economic treatise of the time. Tooke gives a curious account of his
action on this occasion.[44] He collected a few friends engaged in
commerce, who were opposed to the corn laws. He found that several of
them had 'crude and confused' notions upon the subject, and that each
held that his own special interests should be exempted on some pretext
from the general rule. After various dexterous pieces of diplomacy,
however, he succeeded in obtaining the signature of Samuel Thornton, a
governor of the bank of England, and ultimately procured a sufficient
number of signatures by private solicitation. He was favourably
received by the Prime Minister Lord Liverpool, and Vansittart (then
Chancellor of the Exchequer), and finally got the petition presented
to the House of Commons by Alexander Baring (afterwards Lord
Ashburton). Tooke remarks that the Liverpool administration was in
advance, not only of the public generally, but of the 'mercantile
community,' Glasgow and Manchester, however, followed in the same
steps, and the petition became a kind of official manifesto of the
orthodox doctrine. The Political Economy Club formed next year at
Tooke's instigation (April 18, 1821) was intended to hasten the
process of dispersing crude and confused ideas. It was essentially an
organ of the Utilitarian propaganda.

The influence of the economists upon public policy was shown by the
important measures carried through chiefly by Huskisson. Huskisson
(1770-1830) was a type of the most intelligent official of his time.
Like his more brilliant friend Canning, he had been introduced into
office under Pitt, and retained a profound reverence for his early
leader. Huskisson was a thorough man of business, capable of wrestling
with blue-books, of understanding the sinking-fund, and having
theories about the currency; a master of figures and statistics and
the whole machinery of commerce. Though eminently useful, he might at
any moment be applying some awkward doctrine from Adam Smith.

Huskisson began the series of economic reforms which were brought to
their full development by Peel and Gladstone. The collection of his
speeches[45] incidentally brings out very clearly his relation to the
Utilitarians. The most remarkable is a great speech of April 24,
1826[46] (upon the state of the silk manufacture), of which Canning
declared that he had never heard one abler, or which made a deeper
impression upon the House. In this he reviews his policy, going over
the most important financial measures of the preceding period. They
made a new era, and he dates the beginning of the movement from the
London petition, and the 'luminous speech' made by Baring when
presenting it. We followed public opinion, he says, and did not create
it.[47] Adopting the essential principles of the petition, the
government had in the first place set free the great woollen trade.
The silk trade had been emancipated by abolishing the Spitalfield Acts
passed in the previous century, which enabled magistrates to fix the
rates of wages. The principle of prohibition had been abandoned,
though protective duties remained. The navigation laws had been
materially relaxed, and steps taken towards removing restrictions of
different kinds upon trade with France and with India. One symptom of
the change was the consolidation of the custom law effected by James
Deacon Hume (1774-1842), an official patronised by Huskisson, and an
original member of the Political Economy Club. By a law passed in
1825, five hundred statutes dating from the time of Edward I. were
repealed, and the essence of the law given in a volume of moderate
size. Finally, the removal of prohibitions was undermining the
smugglers.

The measures upon which Huskisson justly prided himself might have
been dictated by the Political Economy Club itself. So far as they
went they were an application of the doctrines of its thoroughgoing
members, of Mill, Ricardo, and the orthodox school. They indeed
supported him in the press. The _Morning Chronicle_, which expressed
their views, declared him to be the most virtuous minister, that is
(in true Utilitarian phrase), the most desirous of national welfare
who had ever lived. The praise of Radicals would be not altogether
welcome. Canning, in supporting his friend, maintained that sound
commercial policy belonged no more to the Whigs than to the Tories.
Huskisson and he were faithful disciples of Pitt, whose treaty with
France in 1786, assailed by Fox and the Whigs, had been the first
practical application of the Wealth of Nations. Neither party,
perhaps, could claim a special connection with good or bad political
economy; and certainly neither was prepared to incur political
martyrdom in zeal for scientific truth. A question was beginning to
come to the front which would make party lines dependent upon economic
theories, and Huskisson's view of this was characteristic.

The speech from which I have quoted begins with an indignant retort
upon a member who had applied to him Burke's phrase about a
perfect-bred metaphysician exceeding the devil in malignity and
contempt for mankind. Huskisson frequently protested even against the
milder epithet of theorist. He asserted most emphatically that he
appealed to 'experience' and not to 'theory,' a slippery distinction
which finds a good exposure in Bentham's _Book of Fallacies_.[48] The
doctrine, however, was a convenient one for Huskisson. He could appeal
to experience to show that commercial restrictions had injured the
woollen trade, and their absence benefited the cotton trade,[49] and
when he was not being taunted with theories, he would state with
perfect clearness the general free trade argument.[50] But he had to
keep an eye to the uncomfortable tricks which theories sometimes play.
He argued emphatically in 1825[51] that analogy between manufactures
and agriculture is 'illogical.' He does not wish to depress the price
of corn, but to keep it at such a level that our manufactures may not
be hampered by dear food. Here he was forced by stress of politics to
differ from his economical friends. The country gentleman did not wish
to pay duties on his silk or his brandy, but he had a direct and
obvious interest in keeping up the price of corn. Huskisson had
himself supported the Corn Bill of 1815, but it was becoming more and
more obvious that a revision would be necessary. In 1828 he declared
that he 'lamented from the bottom of his soul the mass of evil and
misery and destruction of capital which that law in the course of
twelve years had produced.'[52] Ricardo, meanwhile, and the economists
had from the first applied to agriculture the principles which
Huskisson applied to manufactures.[53] Huskisson's melancholy death
has left us unable to say whether upon this matter he would have been
as convertible as Peel. In any case the general principle of free
trade was as fully adopted by Huskisson and Canning as by the
Utilitarians themselves. The Utilitarians could again claim to be both
the inspirers of the first principles, and the most consistent in
carrying out the deductions. They, it is true, were not generally
biassed by having any interest in rents. They were to be the allies or
teachers of the manufacturing class which began to be decidedly
opposed to the squires and the old order.

In one very important economic question, the Utilitarians not only
approved a change of the law, but were the main agents in bringing it
about. Francis Place was the wire-puller, to whose energy was due the
abolition of the Conspiracy Laws in 1824. Joseph Hume in the House of
Commons, and M'Culloch, then editor of the _Scotsman_, had the most
conspicuous part in the agitation, but Place worked the machinery of
agitation. The bill passed in 1824 was modified by an act of 1825; but
the modification, owing to Place's efforts, was not serious, and the
act, as we are told on good authority, 'effected a real emancipation,'
and for the first time established the right of 'collective
bargaining.'[54] The remarkable thing is that this act, carried on the
principles of 'Radical individualism' and by the efforts of Radical
individualists, was thus a first step towards the application to
practice of socialist doctrine. Place thought that the result of the
act would be not the encouragement, but the decline, of trades-unions.
The unions had been due to the necessity of combining against
oppressive laws, and would cease when those laws were abolished.[55]
This marks a very significant stage in the development of economic
opinion.


IV. CHURCH REFORM

The movement which at this period was most conspicuous politically was
that which resulted in Roman Catholic emancipation, and here, too, the
Utilitarians might be anticipating a complete triumph of their
principles. The existing disqualifications, indeed, were upheld by
little but the purely obstructive sentiment. When the duke of York
swore that 'so help him God!' he would oppose the change to the last,
he summed up the whole 'argument' against it. Canning and Huskisson
here represented the policy not only of Pitt, but of Castlereagh. The
Whigs, indeed, might claim to be the natural representatives of
toleration. The church of England was thoroughly subjugated by the
state, and neither Whig nor Tory wished for a fundamental change. But
the most obvious differentia of Whiggism was a dislike to the
ecclesiastical spirit. The Whig noble was generally more or less of a
freethinker; and upon such topics Holland House differed little from
Queen's Square Place, or differed only in a rather stricter reticence.
Both Whig and Tory might accept Warburton's doctrine of an 'alliance'
between church and state. The Tory inferred that the church should be
supported. His prescription for meeting discontent was 'more yeomanry'
and a handsome sum for church-building. The Whig thought that the
church got a sufficient return in being allowed to keep its revenues.
On the Tory view, the relation might be compared to that of man and
wife in Christian countries where, though the two are one, the husband
is bound to fidelity. On the Whig view it was like a polygamous
system, where the wife is in complete subjection, and the husband may
take any number of concubines. The Whig noble regarded the church as
socially useful, but he was by no means inclined to support its
interests when they conflicted with other political considerations. He
had been steadily in favour of diminishing the privileges of the
establishment, and had taken part in removing the grievances of the
old penal laws. He was not prepared to uphold privileges which
involved a palpable danger to his order.

This position is illustrated by Sydney Smith, the ideal divine of
Holland House. The _Plymley Letters_[56] give his views most pithily.
Smith, a man as full of sound sense as of genuine humour, appeals to
the principles of toleration, and is keenly alive to the absurdity of
a persecution which only irritates without conversion. But he also
appeals to the danger of the situation. 'If Bonaparte lives,'[57] he
says, 'and something is not done to conciliate the Catholics, it seems
to me absolutely impossible but that we must perish.' We are like the
captain of a ship attacked by a pirate, who should begin by examining
his men in the church catechism, and forbid any one to sponge or ram
who had not taken the sacrament according to the forms of the church
of England. He confesses frankly that the strength of the Irish is
with him a strong motive for listening to their claims. To talk of
'not acting from fear is mere parliamentary cant.'[58] Although the
danger which frightened Smith was evaded, this was the argument which
really brought conviction even to Tories in 1829. In any case the
Whigs, whose great boast was their support of toleration, would not be
prompted by any Quixotic love of the church to encounter tremendous
perils in defence of its privileges.

Smith's zeal had its limits. He observes humorously in his preface
that he had found himself after the Reform Bill engaged in the defence
of the National Church against the archbishop of Canterbury and the
bishop of London. The letters to Archdeacon Singleton, written when
the Whigs were flirting with the Radicals, show how much good an old
Whig could find in the establishment. This marks the difference
between the true Whig and the Utilitarian. The Whig would not risk the
country for the sake of church; he would keep the clerical power
strictly subordinate to the power of the state, but then, when
considered from the political side, it was part of a government system
providing him with patronage, and to be guarded from the rude assaults
of the Radical reformer. The Utilitarian, though for the moment he was
in alliance with the Whig, regarded the common victory as a step to
something far more sweeping. He objected to intolerance as decidedly
as the Whig, for absolute freedom of opinion was his most cherished
doctrine. He objected still more emphatically to persecution on behalf
of the church, because he entirely repudiated its doctrines. The
objection to spreading true doctrine by force is a strong one, but
hardly so strong as the objection to a forcible spread of false
doctrine. But, besides this, the church represented to the Utilitarian
precisely the very worst specimen of the corruptions of the time. The
Court of Chancery was bad enough, but the whole ecclesiastical system
with its vast prizes,[59] its opportunities for corrupt patronage, its
pluralism and non-residence was an evil on a larger scale. The
Radical, therefore, unlike the Whig, was an internecine enemy of the
whole system. The 'church of England system,' as Bentham calmly
remarks, is 'ripe for dissolution.'[60] I have already noticed his
quaint proposal for giving effect to his views. Mill, in the
_Westminster Review_, denounced the church of England as the worst of
all churches.[61] To the Utilitarian, in short, the removal of the
disqualification of dissenters and Catholics was thus one step to the
consummation which their logic demanded--the absolute disestablishment
and disendowment of the church. Conservatives in general anticipated
the confiscation of church revenues as a necessary result of reform;
and so far as the spirit of reformers was represented by the
Utilitarians and their Radical allies, they had good grounds for the
fear. James Mill's theory is best indicated by a later article
published in the _London Review_ of July 1835. After pointing out that
the church of England retains all the machinery desired for supporting
priests and preventing the growth of intellect and morality, he
proceeds to ask what the clergy do for their money. They read prayers,
which is a palpable absurdity; they preach sermons to spread
superstitious notions of the Supreme Being, and perform
ceremonies--baptism, and so forth--which are obviously silly. The
church is a mere state machine worked in subservience to the sinister
interest of the governing classes. The way to reform it would be to
equalise the pay: let the clergy be appointed by a 'Minister of Public
Instruction' or the county authorities; abolish the articles, and
constitute a church 'without dogmas or ceremonies'; and employ the
clergy to give lectures on ethics, botany, political economy, and so
forth, besides holding Sunday meetings, dances (decent dances are to
be specially invented for the purpose), and social meals, which would
be a revival of the 'agapai' of the early Christians. For this
purpose, however, it might be necessary to substitute tea and coffee
for wine. In other words, the church is to be made into a popular
London University. The plan illustrates the incapacity of an isolated
clique to understand the real tone of public opinion. I need not
pronounce upon Mill's scheme, which seems to have some sense in it,
but one would like to know whether Newman read his article.


V. SINISTER INTERESTS

In questions of foreign policy, of law reform, of political economy,
and of religious tests, the Utilitarians thus saw the gradual
approximation to their most characteristic views on the part of the
Whigs, and a strong infiltration of the same views among the less
obstructive Tories. They held the logical creed, to which others were
slowly approximating, either from the force of argument or from the
great social changes which were bringing new classes into political
power. The movement for parliamentary reform which for a time
overshadowed all other questions might be regarded as a corollary from
the position already won. Briefly, it was clear that a new social
stratum was exercising a vast influence; the doctrines popular with it
had to be more or less accepted; and the only problem worth
consideration by practical men was whether or not such a change should
be made in the political machinery as would enable the influence to be
exercised by direct and constitutional means. To the purely
obstructive Tory parliamentary reform was a step to the general
cataclysm. The proprietor of a borough, like the proprietor of a
church patronage or commission in the army, had a right to his votes,
and to attack his right was simply confiscation of private property.
The next step might be to confiscate his estate. But even the more
intelligent Conservative drew the line at such a measure. Canning,
Huskisson, and even Peel might accept the views of the Utilitarians in
regard to foreign policy, to law reform, to free trade, or the removal
of religious tests, declaring only that they were obeying 'experience'
instead of logic, and might therefore go just as far as they pleased.
But they were all pledged to resist parliamentary reform to the
utmost. Men thoroughly steeped in official life, and versed in the
actual working of the machinery, were naturally alive to the magnitude
of the change to be introduced. They saw with perfect clearness that
it would amount to a revolution. The old system in which the ruling
classes carried on business by family alliances and bargains between
ministers and great men would be impracticable. The fact that so much
had been done in the way of concession to the ideas of the new classes
was for them an argument against the change. If the governing classes
were ready to reform abuses, why should they be made unable to govern?
A gradual enfranchisement of the great towns on the old system might
be desirable. Such a man as Huskisson, representing great commercial
interests, could not be blind to the necessity. But a thorough
reconstruction was more alarming. As Canning had urged in a great
speech at Liverpool, a House of Commons, thoroughly democratised,
would be incompatible with the existence of the monarchy and the
House of Lords. So tremendously powerful a body would reduce the other
parts of the constitution to mere excrescences, feeble drags upon the
new driving-wheel in which the whole real force would be concentrated.

That this expressed, in point of fact, a serious truth, was, I take
it, undeniable. The sufficient practical answer was, that change was
inevitable. To refuse to adapt the constitutional machinery to the
altered political forces was not to hinder their growth, but to make a
revolution necessary. When, accordingly, the excluded classes began
seriously to demand admission, the only question came to lie between
violent and peaceable methods. The alarm with which our fathers
watched the progress of the measure may seem to us exaggerated, but
they scarcely overestimated the magnitude of the change. The old
rulers were taking a new partner of such power, that whatever
authority was left to them might seem to be left on sufferance. As
soon as he became conscious of his strength, they would be reduced to
nonentities. The Utilitarians took some part in the struggle, and
welcomed the victory with anticipations destined to be, for the time
at least, cruelly disappointed. But they were still a small minority,
whose views rather scandalised the leaders of the party with which
they were in temporary alliance. The principles upon which they based
their demands, as formulated by James Mill, looked, as we shall see,
far beyond the concessions of the moment.

One other political change is significant, though I am unable to give
an adequate account of it. Bentham's denunciation of 'sinister
interests'--one of his leading topics--corresponds to the question of
sinecures, which was among the most effective topics of Radical
declamation. The necessity of limiting the influence of the crown and
excluding 'placemen' from the House of Commons had been one of the
traditional Whig commonplaces, and a little had been done by Burke's
act of 1782 towards limiting pensions and abolishing obsolete offices.
When English Radicalism revived, the assault was renewed in parliament
and the press. During the war little was achieved, though a revival of
the old complaints about placemen in parliament was among the first
symptoms of the rising sentiment. In 1812 an attack was made upon the
'tellers of the Exchequer.' Romilly[62] says that the value of one of
these offices had risen to £26,000 or £27,000 a year. The income came
chiefly from fees, and the actual work, whatever it was, was done by
deputy. The scandal was enormous at a time when the stress upon the
nation was almost unbearable. One of the tellerships was held by a
member of the great Grenville family, who announced that they regarded
the demand for reform as a personal attack upon them. The opposition,
therefore, could not muster even its usual strength, and the motion
for inquiry was rejected. When the war was over, even the government
began to feel that something must be done. In 1817 some acts were
passed[63] abolishing a variety of sinecure offices and 'regulating
certain offices in the Court of Exchequer.' The Radicals considered
this as a mere delusion, because it was provided at the same time that
pensions might be given to persons who had held certain great offices.
The change, however, was apparently of importance as removing the
chief apology for sinecures, and the system with modifications still
remains. The marquis of Camden, one of the tellers of the Exchequer,
voluntarily resigned the fees and accepted only the regular salary of
£2500. His action is commended in the _Black Book_,[64] which
expresses a regret that the example had not been followed by other
great sinecurists. Public opinion was beginning to be felt. During the
subsequent period the cry against sinecures became more emphatic. The
_Black Book_, published originally in 1820 and 1823, and afterwards
reissued, gave a list, so far as it could be ascertained, of all
pensions, and supplied a mass of information for Radical orators. The
amount of pensions is stated at over £1,000,000, including sinecure
offices with over £350,000 annually;[65] and the list of offices
(probably very inaccurate in detail) gives a singular impression of
the strange ramifications of the system. Besides the direct pensions,
every new department of administration seems to have suggested the
foundation of offices which tended to become sinecures. The cry for
'retrenchment' was joined to the cry for reform.[66] Joseph Hume, who
first entered parliament in 1818, became a representative of the
Utilitarian Radicalism, and began a long career of minute criticism
which won for him the reputation of a stupendous bore, but helped to
keep a steady pressure upon ministers.[67] Sir James Graham
(1792-1861) was at this time of Radical tendencies, and first made
himself conspicuous by demanding returns of pensions.[68] The
settlements of the civil lists of George IV., William IV., and
Victoria, gave opportunities for imposing new restrictions upon the
pension system. Although no single sweeping measure was passed, the
whole position was changed. By the time of the Reform Bill, a sinecure
had become an anachronism. The presumption was that whenever an
opportunity offered, it would be suppressed. Some of the sinecure
offices in the Court of Chancery, the 'Keeper of the Hanaper,' the
'Chaffwax,' and so forth, were abolished by an act passed by the
parliament which had just carried the Reform Bill.[69] In 1833 a
reform of the system of naval administration by Sir James Graham got
rid of some cumbrous machinery; and Graham again was intrusted in 1834
with an act under which the Court of Exchequer was finally reformed,
and the 'Clerk of the Pells' and the 'Tellers of the Exchequer' ceased
to exist.[70] Other offices seem to have melted away by degrees,
whenever a chance offered.

Many other of the old abuses had ceased to require any special
denunciations from political theorists. The general principle was
established, and what remained was to apply it in detail. The prison
system was no longer in want of a Howard or a Bentham. Abuses remained
which occupied the admirable Mrs. Fry; and many serious difficulties
had to be solved by a long course of experiment. But it was no longer
a question whether anything should be doing, but of the most
efficient means of bringing about an admittedly desirable end. The
agitation for the suppression of the slave-trade again had been
succeeded by the attack upon slavery. The system was evidently doomed,
although not finally abolished till after the Reform Bill; and
ministers were only considering the question whether the abolition
should be summary or gradual, or what compensation might be made to
vested interests. The old agitation had been remarkable, as I have
said, not only for its end but for the new kind of machinery to which
it had applied. Popular agitation[71] had taken a new shape. The
county associations formed in the last days of the American war of
independence, and the societies due to the French revolution had set a
precedent. The revolutionary societies had been suppressed or had died
out, as opposed to the general spirit of the nation, although they had
done a good deal to arouse political speculation. In the period of
distress which followed the war the Radical reformers had again held
public meetings, and had again been met by repressive measures. The
acts of 1817 and 1819[72] imposed severe restrictions upon the right
of public meeting. The old 'county meeting,' which continued to be
common until the reform period, and was summoned by the
lord-lieutenant or the sheriff on a requisition from the freeholders,
had a kind of constitutional character, though I do not know its
history in detail.[73] The extravagantly repressive measures were an
anachronism, or could only be enforced during the pressure of an
intense excitement. In one way or other, public meetings were soon
being held as frequently as ever. The trial of Queen Caroline gave
opportunity for numerous gatherings, and statesmen began to find that
they must use instead of suppressing them. Canning[74] appears to have
been the first minister to make frequent use of speeches addressed to
public meetings; and meetings to which such appeals were addressed
soon began to use their authority to demand pledges from the
speakers.[75] Representation was to be understood more and more as
delegation. Meanwhile the effect of public meetings was enormously
increased when a general organisation was introduced. The great
precedent was the Catholic Association, founded in 1823 by O'Connell
and Sheil. The peculiar circumstances of the Irish people and their
priests gave a ready-made machinery for the agitation which triumphed
in 1829. The Political Union founded by Attwood at Birmingham in the
same year adopted the method, and led to the triumph of 1832.
Political combination henceforth took a different shape, and in the
ordinary phrase, 'public opinion' became definitely the ultimate and
supreme authority. This enormous change and the corresponding
development of the power of the press, which affected to mould and, at
any rate, expressed public opinion, entirely fell in with Utilitarian
principles. Their part in bringing about the change was of no special
importance except in so far as they more or less inspired the popular
orators. They were, however, ready to take advantage of it. They had
the _Westminster Review_ to take a place beside the _Edinburgh_ and
_Quarterly Reviews_, which had raised periodical writing to a far
higher position than it had ever occupied, and to which leading
politicians and leading authors on both sides had become regular
contributors. The old contempt for journalism was rapidly vanishing.
In 1825 Canning expresses his regret for having given some information
to a paper of which an ill use had been made. He had previously
abstained from all communication with 'these gentry,' and was now
resolved to have done with _hoc genus omne_ for good and all.[76] In
1839 we find his former colleague, Lord Lyndhurst, seeking an alliance
with Barnes, the editor of the _Times_, as eagerly as though Barnes
had been the head of a parliamentary party.[77]

The newspapers had probably done more than the schools to spread
habits of reading through the country. Yet the strong interest which
was growing up in educational matters was characteristic. Brougham's
phrase, 'the schoolmaster is abroad' (29th January 1821), became a
popular proverb, and rejoiced the worthy Bentham.[78] I have already
described the share taken by the Utilitarians in the great Bell and
Lancaster controversy. Parliament had as yet done little. A bill
brought in by Whitbread had been passed in 1807 by the House of
Commons, enabling parishes to form schools on the Scottish model, but
according to Romilly,[79] it was passed in the well-grounded
confidence that it would be thrown out by the peers. A committee upon
education was obtained by Brougham after the peace, which reported in
1818, and which led to a commission upon school endowments. Brougham
introduced an education bill in 1820, but nothing came of it. The
beginning of any participation by government in national education was
not to take place till after the Reform Bill. Meanwhile, however, the
foundation of the London University upon unsectarian principles was
encouraging the Utilitarians; and there were other symptoms of the
growth of enlightenment. George Birkbeck (1776-1841) had started some
popular lectures upon science at Glasgow about 1800, and having
settled as a physician in London, started the 'Mechanics' Institution'
in 1824. Brougham was one of the first trustees; and the institution,
though exposed to a good deal of ridicule, managed to take root and
become the parent of others. In 1827 was started the Society for the
Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, of which Brougham was president, and
the committee of which included James Mill. In the course of its
twenty years' existence it published or sanctioned the publication by
Charles Knight of a great mass of popular literature. The _Penny
Magazine_ (1832-1845) is said to have had two hundred thousand
subscribers at the end of its first year of existence. Crude and
superficial as were some of these enterprises, they clearly marked a
very important change. Cobbett and the Radical orators found enormous
audiences ready to listen to their doctrine. Churchmen and Dissenters,
Tories and Radicals were finding it necessary both to educate and to
disseminate their principles by writing; and as new social strata were
becoming accessible to such influences, their opinions began to
exercise in turn a more distinct reaction upon political and
ecclesiastical affairs.

No party felt more confidence at the tendency of this new
intellectual fermentation than the Utilitarians. They had a definite,
coherent, logical creed. Every step which increased the freedom of
discussion increased the influence of the truth. Their doctrines were
the truth, if not the whole truth. Once allow them to get a fulcrum
and they would move the world. Bit by bit their principles of
legislation, of economy, of politics were being accepted in the most
different quarters; and even the more intelligent of their opponents
were applying them, though the application might be piecemeal and
imperfect. It was in vain that an adversary protested that he was not
bound by logic, and appealed to experience instead of theory. Let him
justify his action upon what grounds he pleased, he was, in point of
fact, introducing the leaven of true doctrine, and it might be trusted
to work out the desirable results.

I must now deal more in detail with the Utilitarian theories. I will
only observe in general terms that their triumph was not likely to be
accepted without a struggle. Large classes regarded them with absolute
abhorrence. Their success, if they did succeed, would mean the
destruction of religious belief, of sound philosophy, of the great
important ecclesiastical and political institutions, and probably
general confiscation of property and the ruin of the foundations of
society. And, meanwhile, in spite of the progress upon which I have
dwelt, there were two problems, at least, of enormous importance, upon
which it could scarcely be said that any progress had been made. The
church, in the first place, was still where it had been. No change had
been made in its constitution; it was still the typical example of
corrupt patronage; and the object of the hatred of all thoroughgoing
Radicals. And, in the second place, pauperism had grown to appalling
dimensions during the war; and no effectual attempt had been made to
deal with it. Behind pauperism there were great social questions, the
discontent and misery of great masses of the labouring population.
Whatever reforms might be made in other parts of the natural order,
here were difficulties enough to task the wisdom of legislators and
speculators upon legislative principles.

FOOTNOTES:

[32] _Life of Macaulay_, p. 114. (Popular Edition).

[33] Canning's _Political Correspondence_, i. 71-76.

[34] 12th December 1826.

[35] Bentham's _Works_, v. p. 370.

[36] Romilly's attempts to improve the criminal law began in 1808. For
various notices of his efforts, see his _Life_ (3 vols. 1860),
especially vol. ii. 243-54, 309, 321, 331, 369, 371, 389-91. Romilly
was deeply interested in Dumont's _Théorie des Peines Légales_ (1811),
which he read in MS. and tried to get reviewed in the _Quarterly_ (ii.
258, 391; iii. 136). The remarks (ii. 2-3) on the 'stupid dread of
innovation' and the savage spirit infused into Englishmen by the
horrors of the French revolution are worth notice in this connection.

[37] Bentham's _Works_, x. p. 574.

[38] Brougham's _Speeches_ (1838), ii. 287-486.

[39] An interesting summary of the progress of law reforms and of
Bentham's share in them is given in Sir R. K. Wilson's _History of
Modern English Law_ (1875).

[40] Bentham's _Works_, x. 571.

[41] In Cambridge Pryme was the first professor in 1828, but had only
the title without endowment. The professorship was only salaried in
1863.

[42] Ricardo's _Works_ (1888), p. 407.

[43] Printed in Porter's _Progress of the Nation_ and elsewhere.

[44] See sixth volume of _History of Prices_ by Tooke and Newmarch,
and privately printed _Minutes of Political Economy Club_ (1882).

[45] _Speeches_, 3 vols. 8vo, 1831.

[46] _Ibid._ ii. 465-530.

[47] _Ibid._ ii. 477.

[48] Bentham's _Works_, ii. 459. We may remember how J. S. Mill in his
boyhood was abashed because he could not explain to his father the
force of the distinction.

[49] _Speeches_, ii. 246, 332.

[50] _Ibid._ i. 102-108 (Currency Pamphlet of 1810).

[51] _Ibid._ ii. 397.

[52] _Speeches_, iii. 257.

[53] Ricardo indeed made a reservation as to the necessity of
counterbalancing by a moderate duty the special burthens upon
agriculture.

[54] In the _History of Trades-Unionism_ by Sidney and Beatrice Webb
(1894), pp. 88-98. The history of Place's agitation is fully given in
Mr. Graham Wallas's _Life_, chap. viii.

[55] Wallas's Francis _Place_, p. 217.

[56] First published in 1807-8.

[57] _Letter_ iii.

[58] _Ibid._ vi.

[59] Sydney Smith put very ingeniously the advantages of what he
called the 'lottery' system: of giving, that is, a few great prizes,
instead of equalising the incomes of the clergy. Things look so
different from opposite points of views.

[60] _Church of Englandism_, ii. 199.

[61] See especially his review of Southey's _Book of the Church_.

[62] Romilly's _Memoirs_, iii. 33.

[63] 57 George III. caps. 60-67.

[64] Edition of 1828, p. 24.

[65] _Ibid._ p. 10.

[66] A Mr. Gray proposed at a county meeting in 1816 that the cry of
'retrenchment and reform' should be raised in every corner of the
island (Henry Jephson's _Platform_, p. 378). I do not know whether
this was the first appearance of the formula.

[67] Hume had been introduced to Place by James Mill, who thought him
worth 'nursing.' Place found him at first 'dull and selfish,' but
'nursed him' so well that by 1836 he had become the 'man of
men,'--Wallas's _Francis Place_, p. 181, 182.

[68] Torrens's _Life of Graham_, i. 250-72, where his great speech of
14th May 1830 is given.

[69] 2 and 3 William IV. cap. 111 (passed 15 August 1832).

[70] 4 and 5 William IV. cap. 15.

[71] _The Platform, its Origin and Progress_, by Henry Jephson (1892),
gives a very interesting historical account of the process.

[72] 57 George III. cap. 19, and 60 George III. cap. 6.

[73] See Jephson's _Platform_, pp. 167-70.

[74] See Jephson's _Platform_, i. 348, 455, 517.

[75] See _Ibid._ ii. 129-40 for some interesting passages as to this.

[76] _Official Correspondence_ (1887), 308.

[77] Greville's _George IV. and William IV._, iii. 155, 167-69, 171.

[78] Bentham's _Works_, x. 571.

[79] Romilly's _Memoirs_, ii. 67, 222.



CHAPTER III

POLITICAL THEORY


I. MILL ON GOVERNMENT

I now turn to the general political theory of which Mill was the
authoritative exponent. The _Encyclopædia_ article upon 'Government'
(1820) gives the pith of their doctrine. It was, as Professor Bain[80]
thinks, an 'impelling and a guiding force' in the movement which
culminated in the Reform Bill. The younger Utilitarians regarded it,
says J. S. Mill, as 'a masterpiece of political wisdom';[81] while
Macaulay[82] taunts them for holding it to be 'perfect and
unanswerable.' This famous article is a terse and energetic summary of
the doctrine implied in Bentham's _Works_, but there obscured under
elaboration of minute details. It is rather singular, indeed, that so
vigorous a manifesto of Utilitarian dogma should have been accepted by
Macvey Napier--a sound Whig--for a publication which professed
scientific impartiality. It has, however, in the highest degree, the
merits of clearness and condensation desirable in a popular
exposition. The reticence appropriate to the place excuses the
omission of certain implicit conclusions. Mill has to give a complete
theory of politics in thirty-two 8vo pages. He has scanty room for
qualifying statement or historical illustration. He speaks as from the
chair of a professor laying down the elementary principles of a
demonstrated science.[83]

Mill starts from the sacred principle. The end of government, as the
end of all conduct, must be the increase of human happiness. The
province of government is limited by another consideration. It has to
deal with one class of happiness, that is, with the pains and
pleasures 'which men derive from one another.' By a 'law of nature'
labour is requisite for procuring the means of happiness. Now, if
'nature' produced all that any man desired, there would be no need of
government, for there would be no conflict of interest. But, as the
material produced is finite, and can be appropriated by individuals,
it becomes necessary to insure to every man his proper share. What,
then, is a man's proper share? That which he himself produces; for, if
you give to one man more than the produce of his labour, you must take
away the produce of another man's labour. The greatest happiness,
therefore, is produced by 'assuring to every man the greatest possible
quantity of the produce of his own labour.' How can this be done?
Will not the strongest take the share of the weakest? He can be
prevented in one and apparently only in one way. Men must unite and
delegate to a few the power necessary for protecting all. 'This is
government.'[84]

The problem is now simple. Government is essentially an association
of men for the protection of property. It is a delegation of the
powers necessary for that purpose to the guardians, and 'all the
difficult questions of government relate to the means' of preventing
the guardians from themselves becoming plunderers.

How is this to be accomplished? The power of protection, says Mill,
following the old theory, may be intrusted to the whole community, to
a few, or to one; that is, we may have a democracy, an aristocracy, or
a monarchy. A democracy, or direct government of all by all, is for
the ordinary reasons pronounced impracticable. But the objections to
the other systems are conclusive. The need of government, he has
shown, depends upon 'the law of human nature'[85] that 'a man, if
able, will take from others anything which they have and he desires.'
The very principle which makes government necessary, therefore, will
prompt a government to defeat its own proper end. Mill's doctrine is
so far identical with the doctrine of Hobbes; men are naturally in a
state of war, and government implies a tacit contract by which men
confer upon a sovereign the power necessary for keeping the peace. But
here, though admitting the force of Hobbes's argument, he diverges
from its conclusion. If a democracy be impossible, and an aristocracy
or monarchy necessarily oppressive, it might seem, he admits, as it
actually seemed to Hobbes and to the French economists, that the fewer
the oppressors the better, and that therefore an absolute monarchy is
the best. Experience, he thinks, is 'on the surface' ambiguous.
Eastern despots and Roman emperors have been the worst scourges to
mankind; yet the Danes preferred a despot to an aristocracy, and are
as 'well governed as any people in Europe.' In Greece, democracy, in
spite of its defects, produced the most brilliant results.[86] Hence,
he argues, we must go 'beyond the surface,' and 'penetrate to the
springs within.' The result of the search is discouraging. The hope of
glutting the rulers is illusory. There is no 'point of saturation'[87]
with the objects of desire, either for king or aristocracy. It is a
'grand governing law of human nature' that we desire such power as
will make 'the persons and properties of human beings subservient to
our pleasures.'[88] This desire is indefinitely great. To the number
of men whom we would force into subservience, and the degree in which
we would make them subservient, we can assign no limits. Moreover, as
pain is a more powerful instrument for securing obedience than
pleasure, a man will desire to possess 'unlimited power of inflicting
pain upon others.' Will he also desire, it may be asked, to make use
of it? The 'chain of inference,' he replies, in this case is close and
strong 'to a most unusual degree.' A man desires the actions of others
to be in correspondence with his own wishes. 'Terror' will be the
'grand instrument.'[89] It thus follows that the very principle upon
which government is founded leads, in the absence of checks, 'not only
to that degree of plunder which leaves the members (of a community)
... the bare means of subsistence, but to that degree of cruelty which
is necessary to keep in existence the most intense terror.' An English
gentleman, he says, is a favourable specimen of civilisation, and yet
West Indian slavery shows of what cruelty he could be guilty when
unchecked. If equal cruelty has not been exhibited elsewhere, it is,
he seems to think, because men were not 'the same as sheep in respect
to their shepherd,'[90] and may therefore resist if driven too far.
The difficulty upon this showing is to understand how any government,
except the most brutal tyranny, ever has been, or ever can be,
possible. What is the combining principle which can weld together such
a mass of hostile and mutually repellent atoms? How they can even form
the necessary compact is difficult to understand, and the view seems
to clash with his own avowed purpose. It is Mill's aim, as it was
Bentham's, to secure the greatest happiness of the greatest number;
and yet he seems to set out by proving as a 'law of human nature' that
nobody can desire the happiness of any one except himself. He quotes
from Montesquieu the saying, which shows an 'acute sense of this
important truth,' 'that every one who has power is led to abuse
it.'[91] Rather it would seem, according to Mill, all power implies
abuse in its very essence. The problem seems to be how to make
universal cohesion out of universal repulsion.

Mill has his remedy for this deeply seated evil. He attacks, as
Bentham had already done, the old-fashioned theory, according to which
the British Constitution was an admirable mixture of the three 'simple
forms.' Two of the powers, he argues, will always agree to 'swallow up
the third.'[92] 'The monarchy and aristocracy have all possible
motives for endeavouring to obtain unlimited power over the persons
and property of the community,' though the democracy, as he also says,
has every possible motive for preventing them. And in England, as he
no doubt meant his readers to understand, the monarchy and aristocracy
had to a great extent succeeded. Where, then, are we to look? To the
'grand discovery of modern times,' namely, the representative system.
If this does not solve all difficulties we shall be forced to the
conclusion that good government is impossible. Fortunately, however,
the representative system may be made perfectly effective. This
follows easily. It would, as he has said,[93] be a 'contradiction in
terms' to suppose that the community at large can 'have an interest
opposite to its interest,' In the Bentham formula, it can have 'no
sinister interest.' It cannot desire its own misery. Though the
community cannot act as a whole, it can act through representatives.
It is necessary to intrust power to a governing body; but that body
can be prevented by adequate checks from misusing its powers. Indeed,
the common theory of the British Constitution was precisely that the
House of Commons was 'the checking body.'[94] The whole problem is to
secure a body which shall effectively discharge the function thus
attributed in theory to the House of Commons. That will be done when
the body is chosen in such a way that its interests are necessarily
coincident with those of the community at large. Hence there is of
course no difficulty in deducing the actual demands of reformers.
Without defining precise limits, he shows that representatives must be
elected for brief periods, and that the right to a vote must at least
be wide enough to prevent the electoral body from forming a class with
'sinister interests.' He makes some remarkable qualifications, with
the view apparently of not startling his readers too much by absolute
and impracticable claims. He thinks that the necessary identity of
interest would still be secured if classes were unrepresented whose
interests are 'indisputably included in those of others.' Children's
interests are involved in those of their parents, and the interests of
'almost all women' in those of their fathers or husbands.[95] Again,
all men under forty might be omitted without mischief, for 'the great
majority of old men have sons whose interests they regard as an
essential part of their own. This is a law of human nature.'[96] There
would, he observes, be no danger that men above forty would try to
reduce the 'rest of the community to the state of abject slaves.'
Mill, as his son tells us,[97] disowned any intention of positively
advocating these exclusions. He only meant to say that they were not
condemned by his general principle. The doctrine, however, about
women, even as thus understood, scandalised his younger followers.

Mill proceeds to argue at some length that a favourite scheme of some
moderate reformers, for the representation of classes, could only lead
to 'a motley aristocracy,' and then answers two objections. The first
is that his scheme would lead to the abolition of the monarchy and the
House of Lords. The reply is simple and significant. It would only
lead to that result if a monarchy or a House of Lords were favourable
to bad government. He does not inquire whether they are so in fact.
The second objection is that the people do not understand their own
interest, and to this his answer is more remarkable. If the doctrine
be true, he says, we are in 'deplorable' position: we have to choose
between evils which will be designedly produced by those who have both
the power to oppress and an interest in oppression; and the evils
which will be accidentally produced by men who would act well if they
recognised their own interests.[98] Now the first evil is in any case
the worst, for it supposes an 'invariable' evil; while in the other
case, men may at least act well by accident. A governing class, that
is with interests separate from those of the government, _must_ be
bad. If the interests be identical, the government _may_ be bad. It
will be bad if ignorant, but ignorance is curable. Here he appeals for
once to a historical case. The priesthood at the Reformation argued on
behalf of their own power from the danger that the people would make a
bad use of the Bible. The Bible should therefore be kept for the
sacred caste. They had, Mill thinks, a stronger case in appearance
than the Tories, and yet the effect of allowing the people to judge
for themselves in religious matters has been productive of good
effects 'to a degree which has totally altered the condition of human
nature.'[99] Why should not the people be trusted to judge for
themselves in politics? This implies a doctrine which had great
influence with the Utilitarians. In the remarkable essay upon
'Education,' which is contained in the volume of reprints, Mill
discusses the doctrine of Helvétius that all the differences between
men are due to education. Without pronouncing positively upon the
differences between individuals, Mill observes that, at any rate, the
enormous difference between classes of men is wholly due to
education.[100] He takes education, it must be observed, in the widest
possible sense, as meaning what would now be called the whole action
of the 'environment' upon the individual. This includes, as he shows
at length, domestic education, all the vast influence exercised upon a
child in his family, 'technical education,' by which he means the
ordinary school teaching, 'social education,' that is the influences
which we imbibe from the current opinions of our neighbours, and
finally, 'political education,' which he calls the 'keystone of the
arch.' The means, he argues, by which the 'grand objects of desire may
be attained, depend almost wholly upon the political machine.'[101] If
that 'machine' be so constituted as to make the grand objects of
desire the 'natural prizes of just and virtuous conduct, of high
services to mankind and of the generous and amiable sentiments from
which great endeavours in the service of mankind naturally proceed, it
is natural to see diffused among mankind a generous ardour in the
acquisition of those admirable qualities which prepare a man for
admirable action, great intelligence, perfect self-command, and
over-ruling benevolence.' The contrary will be the case where the
political machine prompts to the flattery of a small ruling body.

This characteristic passage betrays an enthusiasm which really burned
under Mill's stern outside. He confines himself habitually to the
forms of severe logic, and scorns anything like an appeal to
sentiment. The trammels of his scientific manner impede his utterance
a little, even when he is speaking with unwonted fervour. Yet the
prosaic Utilitarian who has been laying down as a universal law that
the strong will always plunder the weak, and that all rulers will
reduce their subjects to abject slavery, is absolutely convinced, it
seems, of the possibility of somehow transmuting selfishness into
public spirit, justice, generosity, and devotion to truth. Equally
characteristic is the faith in the 'political machine.' Mill speaks as
if somebody had 'discovered' the representative system as Watt (more
or less) discovered the steam-engine; that to 'discover' the system is
the same thing as to set it to work; and that, once at work, it will
be omnipotent. He is not less certain that a good constitution will
make men virtuous, than was Bentham that he could grind rogues honest
by the Panopticon. The indefinite modifiability of character was the
ground upon which the Utilitarians based their hopes of progress; and
it was connected in their minds with the doctrine of which his essay
upon education is a continuous application. The theory of 'association
of ideas' appeared to him to be of the utmost importance in education
and in politics, because it implied almost unlimited possibilities of
moulding human beings to fit them for a new order. In politics this
implied, as J. S. Mill says,[102] 'unbounded confidence' in the
influence of 'reason.' Teach the people and let them vote freely, and
everything would follow.

This gives Mill's answer to one obvious objection. The Conservative
who answered him by dwelling upon the ignorance of the lower classes
was in some respects preaching to a convert. Nobody was more
convinced than Mill of the depths of popular ignorance or, indeed, of
the stupidity of mankind in general. The labourers who cheered Orator
Hunt at Peterloo were dull enough; but so were the peers who cheered
Eldon in the House of Lords; and the labourers at least desired
general prosperity, while the peers were content if their own rents
were kept up. With general education, however, even the lower orders
of the people would be fit for power, especially when we take into
account one other remarkable conclusion. The 'wise and good,' he says,
'in any class of men do, for all general purposes, govern the
rest.'[103] Now, the class in which wisdom and virtue are commonest is
not the aristocracy, but the middle rank. Another truth follows 'from
the principles of human nature in general.' That is the rather
surprising truth that the lower orders take their opinions from the
middle class; apply to the middle class for help in sickness and old
age; hold up the same class as a model to be imitated by their
children, and 'account it an honour' to adopt its opinions.
Consequently, however far the franchise were extended, it is this
class which has produced the most distinguished ornaments of art,
science, and even of legislation, which will ultimately decide upon
political questions. 'The great majority of the people,' is his
concluding sentence, 'never cease to be guided by that rank; and we
may with some confidence challenge the adversaries of the people to
produce a single instance to the contrary in the history of the
world.'

This article upon 'Government' gives the very essence of Utilitarian
politics. I am afraid that it also suggests that the political theory
was chiefly remarkable for a simple-minded audacity. Good political
treatises are rare. They are apt to be pamphlets in disguise, using
'general principles' for showy perorations, or to be a string of
platitudes with no definite application to facts. They are fit only
for the platform, or only for the professor's lecture-room. Mill's
treatise, according to his most famous antagonist, was a mere bundle
of pretentious sophistry.

Macaulay came forth like a Whig David to slay the Utilitarian Goliath.
The _Encyclopædia_ articles, finished in 1824, were already in
1825,[104] as Mill says, text-books of the young men at the Cambridge
Union. Macaulay, who won his Trinity fellowship in 1824, had there
argued the questions with his friend Charles Austin, one of Bentham's
neophytes. In the next year Macaulay made his first appearance as an
Edinburgh Reviewer; and in 1829 he took the field against Mill. In the
January number he attacked the essay upon 'Government'; and in two
articles in the succeeding numbers of the _Review_ replied to a
defence made by some Utilitarian in the _Westminster_. Mill himself
made no direct reply; and Macaulay showed his gratitude for Mill's
generosity in regard to the Indian appointment by declining to
republish the articles.[105] He confessed to have treated his opponent
with a want of proper respect, though he retracted none of his
criticisms. The offence had its excuses. Macaulay was a man under
thirty, in the full flush of early success; nor was Mill's own
treatment of antagonists conciliatory. The dogmatic arrogance of the
Utilitarians was not unnaturally met by an equally arrogant
countercheck. Macaulay ridicules the Utilitarians for their claim to
be the defenders of the true political faith. He is afraid not of them
but of the 'discredit of their alliance'; he wishes to draw a broad
line between judicious reformers and a 'sect which having derived all
its influence from the countenance which they imprudently bestowed
upon it, hates them with the deadly hatred of ingratitude.' No party,
he says, was ever so unpopular. It had already disgusted people with
political economy; and would disgust them with parliamentary reform,
if it could associate itself in public opinion with the cause[106].
This was indeed to turn the tables. The half-hearted disciple was
insulting the thoroughbred teacher who had borne the heat and burthen
of the day, and from whom he had learned his own doctrine. Upon this
and other impertinences--the assertion, for example, that Utilitarians
were as incapable of understanding an argument as any 'true blue
baronet after the third bottle at a Pitt Club'--it is needless to
dwell. They illustrate, however, the strong resentment with which the
Utilitarians were regarded by the classes from whom the Whigs drew
their most cultivated supporters. Macaulay's line of argument will
show what was the real conflict of theory.

His view is, in fact, a long amplification of the charge that Mill was
adopting a purely _a priori_ method. Mill's style is as dry as Euclid,
and his arguments are presented with an affectation of logical
precision. Mill has inherited the 'spirit and style of the Schoolmen.
He is an Aristotelian of the fifteenth century.' He writes about
government as though he was unaware that any actual governments had
ever existed. He deduces his science from a single assumption of
certain 'propensities of human nature.'[107] After dealing with Mill's
arguments, Macaulay winds up with one of his characteristic purple
patches about the method of induction. He invokes the authority of
Bacon--a great name with which in those days writers conjured without
a very precise consideration of its true significance. By Bacon's
method we are to construct in time the 'noble science of politics,'
which is equally removed from the barren theories of Utilitarian
sophists and the petty craft of intriguing jobbers. The Utilitarians
are schoolmen, while the Whigs are the true followers of Bacon and
scientific induction. J. S. Mill admitted within certain limits the
relevancy of this criticism, and was led by the reflections which it
started to a theory of his own. Meanwhile, he observes that his father
ought to have justified himself by declaring that the book was not a
'scientific treatise on politics,' but an 'argument for parliamentary
reform.'[108] It is not quite easy to see how James Mill could have
made such a 'justification' and distinguished it from a recantation.

If Mill really meant what Macaulay took him to mean, it would be
superfluous to argue the question gravely. The reasoning is only fit,
like the reasoning of all Macaulay's antagonists, for the proverbial
schoolboy. Mill, according to Macaulay, proposes to discover what
governments are good; and, finding that experience gives no clear
answer, throws experience aside and appeals to absolute laws of human
nature. One such 'law' asserts that the strong will plunder the weak.
Therefore all governments except the representative must be
oppressive, and rule by sheer terror. Mill's very reason for relying
upon this argument is precisely that the facts contradict it. Some
despotisms work well, and some democracies ill; therefore we must
prove by logic that all despotisms are bad, and all democracies good.
Is this really Mill's case?

An answer given by Mill's champion, to which Macaulay replies in his
last article, suggests some explanation of Mill's position. Macaulay
had paid no attention to one highly important phrase. The terrible
consequences which Mill deduces from the selfishness of rulers will
follow, he says, 'if nothing checks.'[109] Supplying this
qualification, as implied throughout, we may give a better meaning to
Mill's argument. A simple observation of experience is insufficient.
The phenomena are too complex; governments of the most varying kinds
have shown the same faults; and governments of the same kind have
shown them in the most various degrees. Therefore the method which
Macaulay suggests is inapplicable. We should reason about government,
says Macaulay,[110] as Bacon told us to reason about heat. Find all
the circumstances in which hot bodies agree, and you will determine
the principle of heat. Find all the circumstances in which good
governments agree, and you will find the principles of good
government. Certainly; but the process, as Macaulay admits, would be a
long one. Rather, it would be endless. What 'circumstances' can be the
same in all good governments in all times and places? Mill held in
substance, that we could lay down certain broad principles about
human nature, the existence of which is of course known from
'experience', and by showing how they would work, if restrained by no
distinct checks, obtain certain useful conclusions. Mill indicates
this line of reply in his own attack upon Mackintosh.[111] There he
explains that what he really meant was to set forth a principle
recognised by Berkeley, Hume, Blackstone, and, especially, in Plato's
_Republic_. Plato's treatise is a development of the principle that
'identity of interests affords the only security for good government.'
Without such identity of interest, said Plato, the guardians of the
flock become wolves. Hume[112] had given a pithy expression of the
same view in the maxim 'established,' as he says, 'by political
writers,' that in framing the 'checks and controls of the
constitution, every man ought to be supposed a knave and to have no
other end in his actions than private interest.' Mill points this by
referring to the 'organs of aristocratical opinion' for the last fifty
years. The incessant appeal has been for 'confidence in public men,'
and confidence is another name for scope for misrule.[113] This, he
explains, was what he meant by the statement (which Mackintosh
considered to have been exploded by Macaulay) that every man pursued
his own interest.[114] It referred to the class legislation of the
great aristocratic ring: kings, nobles, church, law, and army.
Utilitarianism, in its political relations, was one continuous warfare
against these sinister 'interests,' The master-evil of the
contemporary political state undoubtedly implied a want of
responsibility. A political trust was habitually confounded with
private property. Moreover, whatever else may be essential to good
government, one essential is a strong sense of responsibility in the
governors. That is a very sound principle, though not an axiom from
which all political science can be deduced. If the essay on
'Government' was really meant as a kind of political Euclid--as a
deduction of the best system of government from this single principle
of responsibility--it was as grotesque as Macaulay asserted. Mill
might perhaps have met the criticism by lowering his claims as his son
suggests. He certainly managed to express his argument in such terms
that it has an uncomfortable appearance of being intended for a
scientific exposition.

This deserves notice because the position is characteristic of the
Utilitarians' method. Their appeals to experience always end by
absolute assertions. We shall find the same difficulty in their
economic inquiries. When accused, for example, of laying down absolute
principles in such cases, they reply that they are only speaking of
'tendencies,' and recognise the existence of 'checks.' They treat of
what would be, if certain forces acted without limit, as a necessary
step towards discovering what is when the limits exist. They appear to
their opponents to forget the limits in their practical conclusions.
This political argument is an instance of the same method. The genesis
of his theory is plain. Mill's 'government,' like Bentham's, is simply
the conception of legal 'sovereignty' transferred to the sphere of
politics. Mill's exposition is only distinguished from his master's by
the clearness with which he brings out the underlying assumptions. The
legal sovereign is omnipotent, for what he declares to be the law is
therefore the law. The law is his commands enforced by 'sanctions,'
and therefore by organised force. The motives for obedience are the
fear of the gallows on one side, and, on the other, the desire of
protection for life and property. Law, again, is the ultimate social
bond, and can be made at will by the sovereign. He thus becomes so
omnipotent that it is virtually assumed that he can even create
himself. Not only can the sovereign, once constituted, give commands
enforced by coercive sanctions upon any kind of conduct, but he can
determine his own constitution. He can at once, for example, create a
representative system in practice, when it has been discovered in
theory, and can by judicious regulations so distribute 'self-interest'
as to produce philanthropy and public spirit. Macaulay's answer really
makes a different assumption. He accepts the purely 'empirical' or
'rule of thumb' position. It is idle, he says, to ask what would
happen if there were no 'checks.' It is like leaving out the effect of
friction in a problem of mechanics. The logic may be correct, but the
conclusions are false in practice.[115] Now this 'friction' was
precisely the favourite expedient of the Utilitarians in political
economy. To reason about facts, they say, you must analyse, and
therefore provisionally disregard the 'checks,' which must be
afterwards introduced in practical applications. Macaulay is really
bidding us take 'experience' in the lump, and refrains from the only
treatment which can lead to a scientific result. His argument, in
fact, agrees with that of his famous essay on Bacon, where we learn
that philosophy applied to moral questions is all nonsense, and that
science is simply crude common-sense. He is really saying that all
political reasoning is impossible, and that we must trust to
unreasoned observation. Macaulay, indeed, has good grounds of
criticism. He shows very forcibly the absurdity of transferring the
legal to the political sovereignty. Parliament might, as he says, make
a law that every gentleman with £2000 a year might flog a pauper with
a cat-of-nine-tails whenever he pleased. But, as the first exercise of
such a power would be the 'last day of the English aristocracy,' their
power is strictly limited in fact.[116] That gives very clearly the
difference between legal and political sovereignty. What parliament
makes law is law, but is not therefore enforceable. We have to go
behind the commands and sanctions before we understand what is the
actual power of government. It is very far from omnipotent. Macaulay,
seeing this, proceeds to throw aside Mill's argument against the
possibility of a permanent division of power. The _de facto_
limitation of the sovereign's power justifies the old theory about
'mixed forms of government.' 'Mixed governments' are not impossible,
for they are real. All governments are, in fact, 'mixed.' Louis XIV.
could not cut off the head of any one whom he happened to dislike. An
oriental despot is strictly bound by the religious prejudices of his
subjects. If 'sovereignty' means such power it is a chimera in
practice, or only realised approximately when, as in the case of negro
slavery, a class is actually ruled by force in the hands of a really
external power. And yet the attack upon 'mixed governments,' which
Bentham had expounded in the _Fragment_, has a real force which
Macaulay seems to overlook. Mill's argument against a possible
'balance' of power was, as Macaulay asserted, equally applicable to
the case of independent sovereigns; yet France might be stronger at
Calais and England at Dover.[117] Mill might have replied that a state
is a state precisely because, and in so far as, there is an agreement
to recognise a common authority or sovereign. Government does not
imply a 'mixture,' but a fusion of power. There is a unity, though not
the abstract unity of the Utilitarian sovereign. The weakness of the
Utilitarians is to speak as though the sovereign, being external to
each individual, could therefore be regarded as external to the whole
society. He rules as a strong nation may rule a weak dependency. When
the sovereign becomes also the society, the power is regarded as
equally absolute, though now applied to the desirable end of
maximising happiness. The whole argument ignores the simple
consideration that the sovereign is himself in all cases the product
of the society over which he rules, and his whole action, even in the
most despotic governments, determined throughout by organic instincts,
explaining and not ultimately explicable by coercion. Macaulay's
doctrine partially recognises this by falling back upon the Whig
theory of checks and balances, and the mixture of three mysterious
entities, monarchy, aristocracy, and democracy. But, as Bentham had
sufficiently shown in the _Fragment_, the theory becomes hopelessly
unreal when we try to translate it into facts. There are not three
separate forces, conflicting like three independent forces, but a
complex set of social institutions bound together into a whole. It is
impossible really to regard government as a permanent balance of
antagonistic forces, confronting each other like the three duellists
in Sheridan's _Critic_. The practical result of that theory is to
substitute for the 'greatest happiness' principle the vague criterion
of the preservation of an equilibrium between indefinable forces; and
to make the ultimate end of government the maintenance as long as
possible of a balance resting on no ulterior principle, but
undoubtedly pleasant for the comfortable classes. Nothing is left but
the rough guesswork, which, if a fine name be wanted, may be called
Baconian induction. The 'matchless constitution,' as Bentham calls it,
represents a convenient compromise, and the tendency is to attach
exaggerated importance to its ostensible terms. When Macaulay
asserted against Mill[118] that it was impossible to say which
element--monarchy, aristocracy, or democracy--had gained strength in
England in the last century, he is obviously looking at the formulæ
and not at the social body behind.

This leads to considerations really more important than the
argumentation about _a priori_ and inductive methods. Mill in practice
knew very well the qualifications necessary before his principles
applied. He showed it in his Indian evidence; and Place could have
told him, had it required telling, that the actual political machinery
worked by very strange and tortuous methods. Yet he was content to
override such considerations when he is expounding his theory, and
laid himself open to Macaulay's broad common-sense retort. The nation
at large cannot, he says, have a 'sinister interest.' It must desire
legislation which is beneficial to the whole. This is to make the vast
assumption that every individual will desire what is good for all, and
will be a sufficient judge of what is good. But is it clear that a
majority will even desire what is good for the whole? May they not
wish to sacrifice both other classes and coming generations to their
own instantaneous advantages? Is it plain that even enlightenment of
mind would induce a poor man to see his own advantage in the policy
which would in the long run be best for the whole society? You are
bound, said Macaulay, to show that the poor man will not believe that
he personally would benefit by direct plunder of the rich; and indeed
that he would not be right in so believing. The nation, no doubt,
would suffer, but in the immediate period which alone is contemplated
by a selfish pauper, the mass of the poor might get more pleasure out
of confiscation. Will they not, on your own principles, proceed to
confiscation? Shall we not have such a catastrophe as the reign of
terror?

The Westminster Reviewer retorted by saying that Macaulay prophesied a
reign of terror as a necessary consequence of an extended franchise.
Macaulay, skilfully enough, protested against this interpretation. 'We
say again and again,' he declares, 'that we are on the defensive. We
do not think it necessary to prove that a quack medicine is poison.
Let the vendor prove it to be sanative. We do not pretend to show that
universal suffrage is an evil. Let its advocates show it to be a
good.'[119] Mill rests his whole case upon the selfishness of mankind.
Will not the selfishness lead the actual majority at a given moment to
plunder the rich and to disregard the interests of their own
successors?

Macaulay's declaration that he was only 'upon the defensive' might be
justifiable in an advocate. His real thought may be inferred from a
speech on the charter made in 1842. The chartists' petition of that
year had asked for universal suffrage. Universal suffrage, he replies,
would be incompatible with the 'institution of property.'[120] If the
chartists acted upon their avowed principles, they would enforce 'one
vast spoliation.' Macaulay could not say, of course, what would
actually result, but his 'guess' was that we should see 'something
more horrible than can be imagined--something like the siege of
Jerusalem on a far larger scale.' The very best event he could
anticipate--'and what must the state of things be, if an Englishman
and a Whig calls such an event the very best?'--would be a military
despotism, giving a 'sort of protection to a miserable wreck of all
that immense glory and prosperity.'[121] So in the criticism of Mill
he had suggested that if his opponent's principles were correct, and
his scheme adopted, 'literature, science, commerce, manufactures'
would be swept away, and that a 'few half-naked fishermen would divide
with the owls and foxes the ruins of the greatest of European
cities.'[122]

Carefully as Macaulay guards himself in his articles upon Mill, the
speech shows sufficiently what was his 'guess'; that is, his real
expectation. This gives the vital difference. What Macaulay professes
to deduce from Mill's principles he really holds himself, and he holds
it because he argues, as indeed everybody has to argue, pretty much on
Mill's method. He does not really remain in the purely sceptical
position which would correspond to his version of 'Baconian
induction.' He argues, just as Mill would have argued, from general
rules about human nature. Selfish and ignorant people will, he thinks,
be naturally inclined to plunder; therefore, if they have power, they
will plunder. So Mill had argued that a selfish class would rule for
its own sinister interests and therefore not for the happiness of the
greatest number. The argument is the same, and it is the only line of
argument which is possible till, if that should ever happen, a genuine
science of politics shall have been constituted. The only question is
whether it shall take the pomp of _a priori_ speculation or conceal
itself under a show of 'Baconian induction.'

On one point they agree. Both Mill and Macaulay profess unbounded
confidence in the virtue and wisdom of the middle, that is, of their
own class. Macaulay hopes for a reform bill which will make the votes
of the House of Commons 'the express image of the opinion of the
middle orders of Britain.'[123] Mill holds that the middle class will
retain this moral authority, however widely the franchise be extended;
while Macaulay fears that they will be swamped by its extension to the
masses. The reform bill which they joined in supporting was regarded
by the Radicals as a payment on account; while the Whig hoped that it
would be a full and final discharge. The Radical held that no barriers
against democracy were needed; he took for granted that a democracy
would find its natural leaders in the educated and intelligent. The
Whig, to whom such confidence appeared to be altogether misplaced, had
to find some justification for the 'checks' and 'balances' which he
thought essential.


II. WHIGGISM

I have spoken of Macaulay's articles because they represent the most
pointed conflict between the Utilitarian and the Whig. Macaulay
belongs properly to the next generation, but he appeared as the
mouthpiece of the earlier group of writers who in Mill's time
delivered through the _Edinburgh Review_ the true oracles of the Whig
faith. Upon that ground Mill had assailed them in his article. Their
creed, he said, was a 'see-saw.' The Whigs were aristocrats as much as
the Tories. They were simply the 'outs' who hoped to be the 'ins.'
They trimmed their sails to catch public opinion, but were careful not
to drift into the true popular currents. They had no desire to limit
the power which they hoped one day to possess. They would attack
abuses--the slave-trade or the penal laws--to gain credit for
liberality and enlightenment, when the abuses were such as could be
removed without injuring the power of the aristocracy. They could use
'vague generalities' about liberty and so forth, but only to evade
definite applications. When any measure was proposed which really
threatened the power of the privileged classes, they could bring out a
contradictory set of fine phrases about Jacobinism and democracy.
Their whole argument was a shuffle and they themselves mere selfish
trimmers.[124] To this Jeffrey replied (in December 1826) by accepting
the position.[125] He pleaded guilty to a love of 'trimming,' which
meant a love of the British Constitution. The constitution was a
compromise--a balance of opposing forces--and the only question could
be whether they were properly balanced. The answer was fair enough.
Mill was imputing motives too easily, and assuming that the Reviewers
saw the abuses in the same light as he did, and were truckling to
public robbers in hopes of sharing the plunder. He was breaking a
butterfly upon a wheel. The Edinburgh Reviewers were not missionaries
of a creed. They were a set of brilliant young men, to whom the
_Review_ was at first a mere pastime, occupying such leisure as was
allowed by their professional pursuits. They were indeed men of
liberal sympathies, intelligent and independent enough to hold by a
party which was out of power. They had read Hume and Voltaire and
Rousseau; they had sat at the feet of Dugald Stewart; and were in
sympathy with intellectual liberalism. But they were men who meant to
become judges, members of parliament, or even bishops. Nothing in
their social atmosphere had stimulated the deep resentment against
social injustice which makes the fanatic or the enthusiast. We may
take as their interpreter the Whig philosopher James Mackintosh
(1765-1832), a man of wide reading, both in history and philosophy, an
eloquent orator, and a very able writer. Mackintosh, said
Coleridge,[126] is the 'king of the men of talent'; by which was
intimated that, as a man of talent, he was not, like some people, a
man of genius. Mackintosh, that is, was a man to accept plausible
formulæ and to make them more plausible; not a man to pierce to the
heart of things, or reveal fruitful germs of thought. His intellect
was judicial; given to compromises, affecting a judicious _via media_,
and endeavouring to reconcile antagonistic tendencies. Thoroughgoing
or one-sided thinkers, and Mill in particular, regarded him with
excessive antipathy as a typical representative of the opposite
intellectual tendencies. Mackintosh's political attitude is
instructive. At the outbreak of the French revolution he was a
struggling young Scot, seeking his fortune in London, just turning
from medicine to the bar, and supporting himself partly by journalism.
He became secretary to the Society of the 'Friends of the People,' the
Whig rival of the revolutionary clubs, and in April 1791 sprang into
fame by his _Vindiciæ Gallicæ_. The Whigs had not yet lost the fervour
with which they had welcomed the downfall of the Bastille. Burke's
_Reflections_, the work of a great thinker in a state of irritation
bordering upon frenzy, had sounded the note of alarm. The revolution,
as Burke maintained, was in fact the avatar of a diabolic power. It
meant an attack upon the very organic principles of society. It
therefore implied a complete breach of historical continuity, and a
war against the reverence for 'prescription' and tradition which is
essential to all healthy development. To his extreme opponents the
same theory afforded the justification of the revolution. It meant
that every institution was to be thrown into the crucible, and a new
world to arise governed only by reason. The view very ably defended by
Mackintosh was opposed to both. He looks upon the French revolution as
a more complete application of the principles of Locke and the English
Whigs of 1688. The revolutionists are, as he urges,[127] applying the
principles which had been worked out by the 'philosophers of Europe'
during the preceding century. They were not, as Burke urged,
rejecting experience for theory. The relation between their doctrine
and politics is analogous to the relation between geometry and
mechanics.[128] We are now in the position of a people who should be
familiar with Newton, but in shipbuilding be still on a level with the
Esquimaux. The 'rights of man' appear to him to mean, not, as Burke
and Bentham once agreed, a set of 'anarchical fallacies,' but a set of
fundamental moral principles; and the declaration of them a most wise
and 'auspicious' commencement of the 'regenerating labours' of the new
legislators. The French revolution represented what Somers would now
approve if he had our advantages.[129] A thoroughgoing change had
become necessary in France. The church, army, and law were now
'incorrigible.'[130] Burke had seen, in the confiscation of church
property, an attempt to abolish Christianity. To Mackintosh it seemed
to be a reform justifiable in principle, which, though too roughly
carried out, would reduce 'a servile and imperious priesthood to
humble utility.'[131] A poor priesthood, indeed, might incline to
popular superstition. We could console ourselves by reflecting that
the power of the church, as a corporation, was broken, and that
toleration and philosophy would restrain fanaticism.[132] The
assignats were still 'almost at par.'[133] The sale of the national
property would nearly extinguish the debt. France had 'renounced for
ever the idea of conquest,'[134] and had no temptations to war,
except her colonies. Their commercial inutility and political
mischievousness had been so 'unanimously demonstrated,' that the
French empire must soon be delivered from 'this cumbrous and
destructive appendage.' An armed people, moreover, could never be used
like a mercenary army to suppress liberty. There was no danger of
military despotism, and France would hereafter seek for a pure glory
by cultivating the arts of peace and extending the happiness of
mankind.[135]

No wonder that Mackintosh, with these views, thought that the history
of the fall of the Bastille would 'kindle in unborn millions the holy
enthusiasm of freedom';[136] or that, in the early disorders, he saw
temporary aberrations of mobs, destined to be speedily suppressed by
the true leaders of the revolution. Mackintosh saw, I take it, about
as far as most philosophers, that is, about as far as people who are
not philosophers. He observes much that Burke ought to have
remembered, and keeps fairly to the philosophical principle which he
announces of attributing the revolution to general causes, and not to
the schemes of individuals.[137] When assignats became waste paper,
when the guillotine got to work, when the religion of reason was being
set up against Christianity, when the French were conquering Europe,
when a military despotism was arising, when, in short, it became quite
clear that the French revolution meant something very different from a
philosophical application of the principles of Locke and Adam Smith,
Mackintosh began to see that Burke had not so far missed the mark.
Burke, before dying, received his penitent opponent at Beaconsfield;
and in 1800 Mackintosh took the opportunity of publicly declaring that
he 'abhorred, abjured, and for ever renounced the French revolution,
with its sanguinary history, its abominable principles, and its ever
execrable leaders.' He hoped to 'wipe off the disgrace of having been
once betrayed into that abominable conspiracy against God and
man.'[138] In his famous defence of Peltier (1803), he denounced the
revolution in a passage which might have been adopted from Burke's
_Letters on a Regicide Peace_.[139]

In a remarkable letter to Windham[140] of 1806, Mackintosh gives his
estimate of Burke, and takes some credit to himself for having
discovered, even in the time of his youthful errors, the consistency
of Burke's principles, as founded upon an abhorrence of 'abstract
politics.'[141] Politics, he now thought, must be made scientific by
recognising with Burke the supreme importance of prescription and
historic continuity, and by admitting that the philosophers had not
yet constructed a science bearing to practical politics the same
relation as geometry to mechanics. He applied his theory to the
question of parliamentary reform in the _Edinburgh Review_.[142] Here
he accepts the doctrine, criticised by James Mill, that a proper
representative system must be judged, not, as Mill maintained, solely
by the identity of its interest with that of the community at large,
but by its fitness to give power to different classes. It follows that
the landowners, the professional classes, and the populace should all
be represented. And he discovers that the variety of the English
system was calculated to secure this end. Though it was only in a few
constituencies that the poorest class had a voice, their vote in such
places represented the same class elsewhere. It was as well that there
should be some extreme Radicals to speak for the poorest. But he
thinks that any uniform suffrage would be bad, and that universal
suffrage would be the most mischievous of all systems.[143] That would
mean the swamping of one class by all--a tyranny more oppressive,
perhaps, than any other tyranny. If one class alone were to be
represented, it should be the favourite middle class, which has the
'largest share of sense and virtue,' and is most connected in interest
with other classes.[144] A legitimate aim of the legislator is,
therefore, to prevent an excess of democracy. With Mackintosh it seems
essential not simply to suppress 'sinister interests,' but to save
both the aristocracy and the middle class from being crushed by the
lower classes. The opposition is vital; and it is plain that the
argument for the aristocracy, that is, for a system developed from all
manner of historical accidents and not evolved out of any simple
logical principles, must be defended upon empirical grounds.

Mackintosh was in India during the early period of the _Edinburgh
Review_. Jeffrey, as editor for its first quarter of a century, may be
taken more fully to represent its spirit. Jeffrey's trenchant, if not
swaggering style, covered a very timid, sensitive, and, in some
respects, a very conservative temperament. His objection to the 'Lake
Poets' was the objection of the classical to the romantic school.
Jeffrey's brightness of intellect may justify Carlyle's comparison of
him to Voltaire,--only a Voltaire qualified by dislike to men who were
'dreadfully in earnest.' Jeffrey was a philosophical sceptic; he
interpreted Dugald Stewart as meaning that metaphysics, being all
nonsense, we must make shift with common-sense; and he wrote a
dissertation upon taste, to prove that there are no rules about taste
whatever. He was too genuine a sceptic to sacrifice peace to the
hopeless search for truth. One of the most striking passages in his
_Essays_[145] is an attack upon 'perfectibility.' He utterly
disbelieves that progress in knowledge will improve morals or diminish
war, or cure any of the evils that flesh is heir to. Such a man is not
of the material of which enthusiastic reformers are made. Throughout
the war he was more governed by his fear than by his zeal. He was in
constant dread of failure abroad and ruin at home. The _Review_
provoked the Tories, and induced them to start its rival, not by
advocacy of political principles, but by its despairing view of the
war.[146] He was still desiring at that time (1808) to avoid 'party
politics' in the narrower sense.

The political view corresponding to this is given in the articles,
some of which (though the authorship was not yet avowed) were assailed
by Mill in the _Westminster_. In an early article[147] he defends the
French philosophers against the imputation of responsibility for the
reign of terror. Their excellent and humane doctrines had been
misapplied by the 'exasperation' and precipitation of inexperienced
voters. His most characteristic article is one published in January
1810. The failure of the Walcheren expedition had confirmed his
disbelief in our military leaders; the rise of English Radicalism, led
by Burdett in the House of Commons, and Cobbett in the press, the
widely spread distress and the severity of oppressive measures, roused
his keenest alarm.[148] We are, he declared, between two violent and
pernicious factions--the courtiers of arbitrary power and the
democrats. If the Whig leaders did not first conciliate and then
restrain the people, the struggle of the extreme parties would soon
sweep away the constitution, the monarchy, and the Whig aristocracy by
which that monarchy 'is controlled, confirmed, and exalted above all
other forms of polity.' Democracy, it was plain, was increasing with
dangerous rapidity. A third of every man's income was being taken by
taxes, and after twenty years' boastful hostility we were left without
a single ally. Considering all this, it seems as though 'the wholesome
days of England were numbered,' and we are on the 'verge of the most
dreadful of all calamities'--a civil war.

Jeffrey has learned from Hume that all government is ultimately
founded upon opinion. The great thing is to make the action of public
opinion regular and constituted. The whole machinery of the
constitution, he says, is for the express purpose of 'preventing the
kingly power from dashing itself to pieces against the more radical
power of the people.'[149] The merit of a representative body is not
to be tested simply by the goodness of its legislation, but by its
diminishing the intensity of the struggle for the supreme power.
Jeffrey in fact is above all preoccupied with the danger of
revolution. The popular will is, in fact, supreme; repression may
force it into explosion; but by judicious management it may be tamed
and tempered. Then we need above all things that it should, as he says
in his reply to Mill (December 1826), give their 'natural and
wholesome influence to wealth and rank.' The stability of the English
Constitution depends, as he said in 1810, upon the monarchy and
aristocracy, and their stability on their being the natural growth of
ages and having 'struck their roots deep into every stratum of the
political soil.'

The Whigs represent the view implied in Macaulay's attack upon
Mill--the view of cultivated men of sense, with their eyes open to
many difficulties overlooked by zealots, but far too sceptical and
despondent to rouse any enthusiasm or accept any dogmas absolutely. By
the time of the Reform Bill the danger was obviously on the side of
dogged obstructionism, and then the 'middle party,' as Jeffrey calls
it, inclined towards the Radical side and begged them to join its
ranks and abandon the attempt to realise extreme views. They could
also take credit as moderate men do for having all along been in the
right. But to both extremes, as Jeffrey pathetically complains, they
appeared to be mere trimmers.[150]

The Utilitarian held the Whig to be a 'trimmer'; the Whig thought the
Utilitarian a fanatic; they agreed in holding that the Tory was simply
stupid. And yet, when we look at the Tory creed, we shall find that
both Whig and Utilitarian overlooked some very vital problems. The
Tories of course represent the advocates of strong government; and, as
their opponents held, had no theories--only prejudices. The first
article of the creed of an Eldon or a Sidmouth was, 'I believe in
George III.';--not a doctrine capable of philosophical justification.
Such Toryism meant the content of the rich and powerful with the
system by which their power and wealth were guaranteed. Their
instincts had been sharpened by the French revolution; and they saw in
any change the removal of one of the safeguards against a fresh
outburst of the nether fires. The great bulk of all political opinion
is an instinct, not a philosophy; and the obstructive Tories
represented little more than class prejudice and the dread of a great
convulsion. Yet intelligent Tories were being driven to find some
reasons for their creed, which the Utilitarians might have considered
more carefully.


III. CONSERVATISM

A famous man of letters represents certain tendencies more clearly
than the average politician. Robert Southey (1777-1843), the 'ultra
servile sack-guzzler,' as Bentham pleasantly calls him in 1823,[151]
was probably the best abused man, on his own side at least, among
Mill's contemporaries. He was attacked by Mill himself, and savagely
denounced by Byron and Hazlitt. He was not only a conspicuous writer
in the _Quarterly Review_ but, as his enemies thought, a renegade
bought by pensions. It is, I hope, needless to defend him against this
charge. He was simply an impatient man of generous instincts and no
reflective power, who had in his youth caught the revolutionary fever,
and, as he grew up, developed the patriotic fever.

Later views are given in the _Colloquies on the Progress and Prospects
of Society_ (1829), chiefly known to modern readers by one of
Macaulay's essays. Southey was as assailable as Mill. His political
economy is a mere muddle; his political views are obviously distorted
by accidental prejudices; and the whole book is desultory and
disjointed. In a dialogue with the ghost of Sir Thomas More, he takes
the opportunity of introducing descriptions of scenery, literary
digressions, and quaint illustrations from his vast stores of reading
to the confusion of all definite arrangement. Southey is in the
awkward position of a dogmatist defending a compromise. An Anglican
claiming infallibility is necessarily inconsistent. His view of
toleration, for example, is oddly obscure. He would apparently like to
persecute infidels;[152] and yet he wishes to denounce the Catholic
church for its persecuting principles. He seems to date the main
social evils to the changes which began at the Reformation, and yet he
looks back to the period which succeeded the Reformation as
representing the ideal state of the British polity. His sympathy with
the literature of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries predisposed
him to this position. He would have been more intelligible if he had
been more distinctly reactionary. For all that, his views show the
presence of a leaven which was materially to affect the later
development of English opinions. That Jacobinism meant anarchy, and
that anarchy led irresistibly to military despotism were propositions
which to him, as to so many others, seemed to be established by the
French revolution. What, then, was the cause of the anarchy? Sir
Thomas More comes from the grave to tell us this, because he had
witnessed the past symptoms of the process. The transition from the
old feudal system to the modern industrial organisation had in his day
become unmistakably developed. In feudal times, every man had his
definite place in society; he was a member of a little group;
supported, if controlled and disciplined, by an elaborate system of
spiritual authority. The Reformation was the period at which the
'masterless man' made his appearance. The conversion of pastures into
arable land, the growth of commerce and of pauperism, were marks of
the coming change. It proceeded quietly for some generations; but the
development of the modern manufacturing system represents the
operation of the same process on a far larger scale, and with far
greater intensity. The result may be described by saying that we have
instead of a legitimate development a degeneration of society. A vast
populace has grown up outside of the old order. It is independent
indeed, but at the heavy price of being rather an inorganic mass than
a constituent part of the body politic. It is, briefly, to the growth
of a huge 'proletariate' outside the church, and hostile to the state,
that Southey attributes all social evils.

The view has become familiar enough in various shapes; and in the
reproaches which Southey brings against the manufacturing system we
have an anticipation of other familiar lamentations. Our manufacturing
wealth is a 'wen,' a 'fungous excrescence from the body politic';[153]
it is no more a proof of real prosperity than the size of a dropsical
patient is a proof of health;[154] the manufacturer worships mammon
instead of Moloch;[155] and wrings his fortune from the degradation of
his labourers as his warlike ancestors wrung wealth from their slaves;
he confines children in a tainted atmosphere, physical and moral, from
morning till night, and a celebrated minister (Pitt) boasts of this
very evil;[156] he treats his fellow-creatures as machines,[157] and
wealth, though accumulated, is not diffused; the great capitalists,
'like pikes in a fishpond,' devour the weaker fish;[158] competition
is not directed to providing the best goods, but the cheapest;[159]
every man oppresses his neighbour; the landlord racks his tenant, the
farmer grinds the labourer; all the little centres of permanent life
are broken up; not one man in a thousand is buried with his fathers,
and the natural ties and domestic affections are prematurely
dissolved.[160]

Here, too, is to be found the source of the infidel opinions which
call for suppression. London is a hotbed of corruption;[161] a centre
of wealth; and yet, in spite of poor-laws, a place where wretches are
dying of starvation, and which could collect a mob capable of
producing the most appalling catastrophes. In such a place, men become
unbelievers like savages, because removed from all humanising
influences, and booksellers can carry on a trade in blasphemy.
Infidelity is bred in 'the filth and corruption of large towns and
manufacturing districts.'[162] The disappearance of clerical influence
has led to 'a mass of ignorance, vice, and wretchedness which no
generous heart can contemplate without grief.'[163] It is not
surprising that, in Southey's opinion, it is doubtful whether the bulk
of the people has gained or lost in the last thousand years.[164]
Macaulay takes all this as mere sentimentalism and preference of a
picturesque outside to solid comfort. But whatever Southey's errors of
fact, they show at least a deeper insight than his opponent into some
social evils. His proposed remedies explain his diagnosis of the evil.
In the first place, it is not surprising, though it surprised
Macaulay, that he had many sympathies with the socialist, Robert Owen.
He saw Owen in 1816,[165] and was much impressed by his views. In the
_Colloquies_,[166] Owen is called the 'happiest, most beneficent, and
most practical of all enthusiasts'; an account is given of one of the
earliest co-operative schemes,[167] and Southey believes in the
possibility of the plan. He makes, however, one significant remark.
Owen, he thinks, could not succeed without enlisting in his support
some sectarian zeal. As Owen happened to object to all religious
sects, this defect could not be remedied.

Southey, in fact, held that the absence of religious discipline was at
the root of the whole evil. Religion, he declares, much to the scorn
of Macaulay, 'is the basis upon which civil government rests.'[168]
There must, as he infers, be an established religion, and the state
which neglects this duty is preparing its own ruin. 'Nothing,' he
declares, 'in abstract science can be more certain than these
propositions,' though they are denied by 'our professors of the arts
babblative and scribblative'--that is, by Benthamites and Whigs. For
here, in fact, we come to the irreconcilable difference. Government is
not to be a mere machinery for suppressing violence, but an ally of
the church in spreading sound religion and morality. The rulers,
instead of merely reflecting the popular will, should lead and direct
all agencies for suppressing vice and misery. Southey, as his son
takes pains to show,[169] though he was for upholding authority by the
most stringent measures, was convinced that the one way to make
government strong was to improve the condition of the people. He
proposed many measures of reform; national education on the
principles, of course, of Dr. Bell; state-aided colonisation and the
cultivation of waste lands at home; Protestant sisterhoods to
reproduce the good effects of the old order which he regretted and yet
had to condemn on Anglican principles. The English church should have
made use of the Wesleyans as the church of Rome had used the
Franciscans and Dominicans; and his _Life of Wesley_ was prompted by
his fond belief that this might yet be done. Government, he said,
ought to be 'paternal';[170] and his leading aspirations have been
adopted by Socialists on the one hand, and the converts to Catholicism
on the other.

For his philosophy, Southey was in the habit of referring to
Coleridge; and Coleridge's _Constitution of Church and State_ is
perhaps the book in which Coleridge comes nearest to bringing an
argument to a conclusion. Though marked by his usual complexities of
style, his parentheses and irrelevant allusions and glances at wide
metaphysical discussions, he succeeds in laying down a sufficient
sketch of his position. The book was originally published in 1830, and
refers to the Catholic emancipation of the previous year. Unlike
Southey, he approves of the measure, only regretting the absence of
certain safeguards; and his general purpose may be said to be to give
such a theory of the relations of church and state as may justify an
establishment upon loftier grounds than those of the commonplace Tory.

His method, as he explains, is to find the true 'idea' of a
constitution and a national church. The 'idea,' he explains, does not
mean the conscious aim of the persons who founded or now constitute
the bodies in question. An 'idea' is the subjective counterpart of an
objective law.[171] It corresponds to the vital force which moulds
the structure of the social organism, although it may never have been
distinctly formulated by any one of the actors. In this sense,
therefore, we should have to proceed by a historical method. We should
study the constitution as we study the physiology of a physical
body;[172] and he works out the analogy at some length. So far,
Coleridge is expressing the characteristic view that Nature in general
is to be regarded as an evolution; only that evolution is to be
understood in the sense of Schelling not in the sense of either
Darwin. Of course, when Coleridge professes to find the 'idea' of the
church and state, what he really finds is not the idea so much as his
idea of the idea--which may be a very different thing. His theory of
'evolution' is compatible with assuming that evolutions are
illegitimate whenever he happens to dislike them.

He coincides rather curiously with James Mill in asserting that the
'social bond' was originally formed to protect property, not to
protect life.[173] He discovers accordingly that the ancient races,
Jews, Goths, and Kelts alike, divided the land into two parts, one to
be inherited by separate families, the other to be set apart for the
nation. From the latter or the 'nationalty' springs the church
establishment. This property belongs rightfully and inalienably to the
nation itself. It is held by what he calls the 'clerisy.' Its
functions are, in the first place, to provide a career by which the
poorest classes may rise to a higher position; and secondly, to
provide for the development of all the qualities which distinguish
the civilised man from the savage.[174] Briefly, then, the church is
that part of the national organism which is devoted to educating the
people to be 'obedient, free, useful organisable subjects, citizens,
and patriots, living to the benefit of the estate, and prepared to die
for its defence.' Henry viii. would have surpassed Alfred if he had
directed the 'nationalty' to its true purposes; that is, especially to
the maintenance of universities, of a parochial clergy, and of schools
in every parish. Unluckily, Henry VIII.'s 'idea' of a national church
was vague. Ideas were not his strong point. Coleridge appears to be
especially troubled to work the principles into conformity with his
views of Catholic emancipation. The peculiarity of the theory is that
the church, according to him, seems to be simply a national
institution. It might exist, and in fact, did exist before
Christianity, as is proved not only by the Jewish but by the Druidical
church.[175] That it should be Christian in England is a 'blessed
accident,' or 'providential boon'--or, as he puts it, 'most awfully a
godsend.' Hence it follows that a primary condition of its utility is
that the clerisy should contribute to the support of the other organs
of the community. They must not be the subjects of a foreign power,
nor, as he argues at length, subject to the desocialising influence of
celibacy. It follows that the Roman church is unfitted to be ever a
national church, although, if that danger be sufficiently obviated, no
political disqualifications should be imposed upon Romanists. And
thus, too, the Church Catholic is essentially a body which has no
relations to any particular state. It is opposed to the world, not to
the nation, and can have no visible head or 'personal centre of
unity.'[176] The church which makes such claims is the revelation of
Antichrist.

We need not inquire into the prophecies. It is enough to say that to
Coleridge as to Southey the preservation of an established church
seemed to be an essential condition of morality and civilisation. They
differed from the ordinary Tory, who was content to defend any of the
abuses by the cry of sacrilege and confiscation. The church was to be
made worthy of its position, and rendered capable of discharging its
high functions effectually. Coleridge, it may be said, would fully
admit that an organ which had ceased to correspond to its idea must
die. It could not continue to preserve itself by mere force of
obstruction, but must arouse, throw off its abuses, and show itself to
be worthy of its high claims. Meanwhile, however, he was perhaps more
anxious to show the Utilitarians that in assailing the institution on
account of its abuses, they were really destroying the most essential
guarantee of progress. He sums up, in a curious passage, the proofs of
modern degradation.[177] The wicked eighteenth century is of course
responsible for everything. The 'mechanic corpuscular theory'; the
consequent decay of philosophy, illustrated by such phrases as an
excellent 'idea' of cooking; 'the ourang-outang theology of the origin
of the human species substituted for the first ten chapters of the
book of Genesis; rights of nature for the duties and privileges of
citizens; idealess facts, misnamed proofs from history, for principles
and the insight derived from them': all these and other calamitous
results of modern philosophy are connected with a neglect of the
well-being of the people, the mistaking of a large revenue for
prosperity, and the consumption of gin by paupers to the 'value of
eighteen millions yearly.' He appeals pathetically to the leaders of
the Utilitarians. They will scorn him for pronouncing that a 'natural
clerisy' is 'an essential element of a rightly constituted nation.'
All their tract societies and mechanics' institutes and 'lecture
bazaars under the absurd name of universities' are 'empiric specifics'
which feed the disease. Science will be plebified, not popularised.
The morality necessary for a state 'can only exist for the people in
the form of religion. But the existence of a true philosophy, or the
power and habit of contemplating particulars in the unity and fontal
mirror of the idea,--this in the rulers and teachers of a nation is
indispensable to a sound state of religion in all classes. In fact,
religion, true or false, is and ever has been the centre of gravity in
a realm to which all other things must and will accommodate
themselves.'

The existence of the eighteenth century always remained a hopeless
puzzle for Coleridge and his followers. Why at that period everything
went wrong in the higher regions of thought remained a mystery. 'God
is above,' says Sir Thomas More to Southey,[178] 'but the devil is
below; evil principles are in their nature more active than good.' The
devil seemed to have got into the upper air, and was working with his
allies, Bentham and Mill and Paine and Cobbett, with remarkable
success. But, whatever the theories of conservatives in church and
state, the fact that the theories were held is important. The
diametrical opposition between two schools, one of which regarded the
church as a simple abuse, and its doctrines as effete superstitions,
while the other looked to the church and its creed as giving the sole
hope for suppressing the evil principle, was a critical point in later
movements, political as well as religious.


IV. SOCIALISM

I have spoken of Southey's sympathy for Robert Owen. Owen (1771-1858)
is one of the characteristic figures of the time. He was the son of a
village tradesman in Wales, and had risen to prosperity by the
qualities of the virtuous apprentice. Industry, patience, an
imperturbably good temper, and sagacity in business matters had raised
him to high position as a manufacturer at the time of the rapid
advance of the cotton trade. Many poor men have followed the same path
to wealth. Owen's peculiarity was that while he became a capitalist he
preserved his sympathy with the working classes. While improving
machinery, he complained that the 'living machinery' was neglected.
One great step in his career was his marriage to the daughter of David
Dale of New Lanark, a religious and worthy manufacturer.[179] Dale had
employed a number of pauper children who were in that day to be
disposed of by their parishes; and had done his best to make their
position more tolerable. Owen took up this scheme, and carried it out
more systematically. New Lanark, in his hands, became a model village;
he provided in various ways for the encouragement of sobriety,
industry, and honesty among his workmen, set up stores to supply cheap
and good provisions, and especially provided infant schools and a
systematic education. 'The children,' he declares, 'were the happiest
human beings he ever saw.' When his partners interfered with his
plans, Owen bought them out and started the company to which Bentham
and Allen belonged. New Lanark rapidly became famous. It was visited
by all the philanthropists of the day. The royal dukes not only of
England but of Russia were interested; and Owen even believed that he
had converted Napoleon at Elba. So far, Owen was a benevolent
capitalist, exercising a paternal sway over his people. He became
convinced, however, that he had discovered the key to the great social
problems of the day. When the distresses followed the peace, he was
prepared to propound his remedy, and found many willing hearers in all
classes. Liverpool and Sidmouth listened to him with favour, and the
duke of Kent became president of a committee started to carry out his
views. He gave the impetus to the movement by which the Factory Act of
1819 was carried, although it was far from embodying his proposals in
their completeness.

Owen's diagnosis of the social disease explains Southey's partiality.
Like Southey, he traced the evil to the development of the
manufacturing system. That system involved, as he held, what later
Socialists have called the 'exploitation' of the labouring classes by
the capitalists. With singularly crude notions of political economy,
Owen assumed that the 'dead machinery' was in competition with the
'living machinery.' He made startling calculations as to the amount
of human labour represented by steam-engines; and took for granted
that the steam-engine displaced an equal number of workmen. His remedy
for poverty was to set up a number of communities, which should
maintain themselves by cultivating the soil with the spade, and in
which every man should labour for all. Thus New Lanarks were to be
spread over the country, with the difference that the employer was to
be omitted. Owen, in short, became properly a Socialist, having been
simply a paternal philanthropist. For a time Owen met with
considerable support. A great meeting was held in London in 1817, and
a committee was started two years afterwards, of which Ricardo was a
member. Ricardo, indeed, took pains to let it be known that he did not
believe in the efficacy of Owen's plans. Meanwhile Owen was breaking
off his connection with New Lanark, and becoming the apostle of a new
social creed. His missionary voyages took him to Ireland, to the
United States and Mexico, and attempts were made to establish
communities in Scotland and in the State of Illinois.

Owen and his followers became natural antagonists of the Utilitarians.
He agreed with Southey in tracing distress to the development of the
great manufacturing system, though he went much further. The
principles essentially involved in the whole industrial system were,
according to him, pernicious. He held the essential doctrine of his
modern successors that property is theft. Between such a man and the
men who took the _Wealth of Nations_ for their gospel, and Ricardo as
its authorised commentator, there was an impassable gulf. On the other
hand, Owen was equally far from the Tory view of religious
principles. Southey's remark that he could only succeed by allying
himself with some religious fanaticism was just to the point.

Owen was a man of very few ideas, though he held such as he had with
extraordinary tenacity, and enforced them by the effective if
illogical method of incessant repetition. Among them was the idea
which, as he declares, had occurred to him before he was ten years old
that there was something radically wrong in all religions. Whether
this opinion had come to him from the diffused rationalism of his
time, or was congenial to the practical and prosaic temperament which
was disquieted by the waste of energy over futile sectarian squabbles,
or was suggested by his early study of Seneca--the only author of whom
he speaks as having impressed him in early years--it became a fixed
conviction. He had been an early supporter of Lancaster and
'unsectarian' education. When his great meeting was to be held in 1817
it occurred to him that he might as well announce his views. He
accordingly informed his hearers that the religions of the world were
the great obstacles to progress. He expected, as he assures us, that
this candid avowal would cause him to be 'torn in pieces.' It provoked
on the contrary general applause, and Owen congratulated himself
rather hastily on having struck the deathblow of superstition.

Owen's position, at any rate, was a significant symptom. It showed
that the Socialist movement sprang from motives outside the sphere of
the churches. Owen's personal simplicity and calmness seems to have
saved him from any bitter animosity. He simply set aside Christianity
as not to the purpose, and went on calmly asserting and re-asserting
his views to Catholics and Protestants, Whigs, Radicals, and Tories.
They agreed in considering him to be a bore, but were bored rather
than irritated. Owen himself, like later Socialists, professed
indifference to the political warfare of Whigs and Tories. When, at
the height of the Reform movement, he published a paper called the
_Crisis_, the title referred not to the struggle in which all the
upper classes were absorbed, but to the industrial revolution which he
hoped to bring about. He would have been equally ready to accept help
from Whig, Tory, or Radical; but his position was one equally
distasteful to all. The Tory could not ally himself with the man who
thought all religions nonsense; nor any of the regular parties with
the man who condemned the whole industrial system and was opposed to
all the cherished prejudices of the respectable middle classes.

Owen's favourite dogma is worth a moment's notice. He was never tired
of repeating that 'character is formed by circumstances'; from which
he placidly infers that no man deserves praise or blame for his
conduct. The inference, it must be admitted, is an awkward one in any
ethical system. It represents, probably, Owen's most serious objection
to the religions of the world. The ultimate aim of the priest is to
save men's souls; and sin means conduct which leads to supernatural
punishment. Owen, on the contrary, held that immorality was simply a
disease to be cured, and that wrath with the sinner was as much out of
place as wrath with a patient. In this sense Owen's view, as I at
least should hold, defines the correct starting-point of any social
reformer. He has to consider a scientific problem, not to be an agent
of a supernatural legislator. He should try to alter the general
conditions from which social evils spring, not to deal in pardons or
punishment. Owen was acting with thoroughly good sense in his early
applications of this principle. The care, for example, which he
bestowed upon infant education recognised the fact that social reform
implied a thorough training of the individual from his earliest years.
Owen's greatest error corresponds to the transformation which this
belief underwent in his mind. Since circumstances form character, he
seems to have argued, it is only necessary to change the circumstances
of a grown-up man to alter his whole disposition. His ambitious scheme
in America seemed to suppose that it was enough to bring together a
miscellaneous collection of the poor and discontented people, and to
invite them all to behave with perfect unselfishness. At present I
need only remark that in this respect there was a close coincidence
between Owen and the Utilitarians. Both of them really aimed at an
improvement of social conditions on a scientific method; and both
justified their hopes by the characteristic belief in the indefinite
modifiability of human nature by external circumstances.

I turn to a man who was in some ways the most complete antithesis to
Owen. William Cobbett (1762-1835), unlike Owen, took a passionate and
conspicuous part in the political struggles of the day. Cobbett,
declares the _Edinburgh Review_ in July 1807, has more influence than
all the other journalists put together. He had won it, as the reviewer
thought, by his force of character, although he had changed his
politics completely 'within the last six months.' The fact was more
significant than was then apparent. Cobbett, son of a labourer who
had risen to be a small farmer, had in spite of all obstacles learned
to read and write and become a great master of the vernacular. His
earliest model had been Swift's _Tale of a Tub_, and in downright
vigour of homely language he could scarcely be surpassed even by the
author of the _Drapier's Letters_. He had enlisted as a soldier, and
had afterwards drifted to America. There he had become conspicuous as
a typical John Bull. Sturdy and pugnacious in the highest degree, he
had taken the English side in American politics when the great
question was whether the new power should be bullied by France or by
England. He had denounced his precursor, Paine, in language savouring
too much, perhaps, of barrack-rooms, but certainly not wanting in
vigour. He defied threats of tar and feathers; put a portrait of
George III. in his shop-window; and gloried in British victories, and,
in his own opinion, kept American policy straight. He had, however,
ended by making America too hot to hold him; and came back to declare
that republicanism meant the vilest and most corrupt of tyrannies, and
that, as an Englishman, he despised all other nations upon earth. He
was welcomed on his return by Pitt's government as likely to be a
useful journalist, and became the special adherent of Windham, the
ideal country-gentleman and the ardent disciple of Burke's principles.
He set up an independent paper and heartily supported the war. On the
renewal of hostilities in 1803 Cobbett wrote a manifesto[180] directed
by the government to be read in every parish church in the kingdom, in
order to rouse popular feeling. When Windham came into office in 1806,
Cobbett's friends supposed that his fortune was made. Yet at this
very crisis he became a reformer. His conversion was put down, of
course, to his resentment at the neglect of ministers. I do not think
that Cobbett was a man to whose character one can appeal as a
conclusive answer to such charges. Unfortunately he was not free from
weaknesses which prevent us from denying that his political course was
affected by personal motives. But, in spite of weaknesses and of
countless inconsistencies, Cobbett had perfectly genuine convictions
and intense sympathies which sufficiently explain his position, and
make him more attractive than many less obviously imperfect
characters. He tells us unconsciously what were the thoughts suggested
to a man penetrated to the core by the strongest prejudices--they can
hardly be called opinions--of the true country labourer.

The labourer, in the first place, if fairly represented by Cobbett,
had none of the bitter feeling against the nobility which smouldered
in the French peasantry. Cobbett looked back as fondly to the
surroundings of his youth as any nobleman could look back to Eton or
to his country mansion. He remembered the 'sweet country air' round
Crooksbury Hill, the song of birds, and the rambles through heather
and woodland. He loved the rough jovial sports; bull-baiting and
prize-fighting and single-stick play. He had followed the squire's
hounds on foot, and admired without jealousy the splendid gardens of
the bishop's palace at Farnham. Squire and parson were an intrinsic
part of the general order of things. The state of the English working
classes was, he often declares, the happiest that could be
imagined,[181] and he appeals in confirmation to his own memories.
Although, upon enlisting, he had found the army corrupt, he not only
loved the soldier for the rest of his life, but shared to the full the
patriotic exultation which welcomed the 1st of June and the Nile. Even
to the last, he could not stomach the abandonment of the title 'King
of France'; for so long as it was retained, it encouraged the farmer
to tell his son the story of Crecy and Agincourt.[182]

What, then, alienated Cobbett? Briefly, the degradation of the class
he loved. 'I wish,' he said, 'to see the poor men of England what the
poor men of England were when I was born, and from endeavouring to
accomplish this task, nothing but the want of means shall make me
desist.'[183] He had a right to make that boast, and his ardour in the
cause was as unimpeachable as honourable. It explains why Cobbett has
still a sympathetic side. He was a mass of rough human nature; no prig
or bundle of abstract formulæ, like Paine and his Radical successors.
Logic with him is not in excess, but in defect. His doctrines are
hopelessly inconsistent, except so far as they represent his stubborn
prejudices. Any view will serve his purpose which can be made a weapon
of offence in his multitudinous quarrels. Cobbett, like the Radicals
of the time, was frightened by the gigantic progress of the debt. He
had advocated war; but the peasant who was accustomed to reckon his
income by pence, and had cried like a child when he lost the price of
a red herring, was alarmed by the reckless piling up of millions of
indebtedness. In 1806 he calmly proposed to his patron Windham to put
matters straight by repudiating the interest. 'The nation must
destroy the debt, or the debt will destroy the nation,' as he argued
in the _Register_.[184] The proposal very likely caused the alienation
of a respectable minister, though propounded with an amusing air of
philosophical morality. Cobbett's alarm developed until it became to
him a revelation of the mystery of iniquity. His Radical friends were
denouncing placemen and jobbery, and Cobbett began to perceive what
was at the bottom of the evil. The money raised to carry on the war
served also to support a set of bloodsuckers, who were draining the
national strength. Already, in 1804, he was lamenting a change due to
Pitt's funding system. The old families, he said, were giving way to
'loanjobbers, contractors, and nabobs'; and the country people amazed
to find that their new masters had been 'butchers, bakers,
bottle-corkers, and old-clothesmen.'[185] Barings and Ricardos and
their like were swallowing up the old country gentry wholesale; and in
later years he reckons up, as he rides, the changes in his own
neighbourhood.[186] His affection for the old country-gentleman might
be superficial; but his lamentations over the degradation of the
peasantry sprang from his heart. It was all, in his eyes, part of one
process. Paper money, he found out, was at the bottom of it all; for
paper money was the outward and visible symbol of a gigantic system of
corruption and jobbery. It represented the device by which the
hard-earned wages of the labourer were being somehow conjured away
into the pockets of Jews and stockjobbers. The classes which profited
by this atrocious system formed what he called the 'Thing'--the huge,
intricate combination of knaves which was being denounced by the
Radicals--though with a difference. Cobbett could join the reformers
in so far as, like them, he thought that the rotten boroughs were a
vital part of the system. He meets a miserable labourer complaining of
the 'hard times.' The harvest had been good, but its blessings were
not for the labourer. That 'accursed hill,' says Cobbett, pointing to
old Sarum, 'is what has robbed you of your supper.'[187] The labourer
represented the class whose blood was being sucked.

So far, then, as the Radicals were assailing the borough-mongers,
Cobbett could be their cordial ally. Two years' imprisonment for libel
embittered his feelings. In the distress which succeeded the peace,
Cobbett's voice was for a time loudest in the general hubbub. He
reduced the price of his _Register_, and his 'two-penny trash' reached
a circulation of 25,000 or 30,000 copies. He became a power in the
land, and anticipated the immediate triumph of reform. The day was not
yet. Sidmouth's measures of repression frightened Cobbett to America
(March 1819), where he wrote his history of the 'last hundred days of
English liberty.' He returned in a couple of years, damaged in
reputation and broken in fortune; but only to carry on the war with
indomitable energy, although with a recklessness and extravagance
which alienated his allies and lowered his character. He tried to
cover his errors by brags and bombast, which became ridiculous, and
which are yet not without significance.

Cobbett came back from America with the relics of Paine. Paine, the
object of his abuse, had become his idol, not because Cobbett cared
much for any abstract political theories, or for religious dogmas.
Paine's merit was that he had attacked paper money. To Cobbett, as to
Paine, it seemed that English banknotes were going the way of French
assignats and the provincial currency of the Americans. This became
one main topic of his tirades, and represented, as he said, the 'Alpha
and Omega' of English politics. The theory was simple. The whole
borough-mongering system depended upon the inflated currency. Prick
that bubble and the whole would collapse. It was absolutely
impossible, he said, that the nation should return to cash payments
and continue to pay interest on the debt. Should such a thing happen,
he declared, he would 'give his poor body up to be broiled on one of
Castlereagh's widest-ribbed gridirons.'[188] The 'gridiron prophecy'
became famous; a gridiron was for long a frontispiece to the
_Register_; and Cobbett, far from retracting, went on proving, in the
teeth of facts, that it had been fulfilled. His inference was, not
that paper should be preserved, but that the debt should be treated
with a 'sponge.'

Cobbett, therefore, was an awkward ally of political economists, whose
great triumph was the resumption of cash payments, and who regarded
repudiation as the deadly sin. The burthen of the debt, meanwhile, was
so great that repudiation was well within the limits of
possibility.[189] Cobbett, in their eyes, was an advocate of the
grossest dishonesty, and using the basest incentives. Cobbett fully
retorted their scorn. The economists belonged to the very class whom
he most hated. He was never tired of denouncing Scottish
'feelosophers'; he sneers at Adam Smith,[190] and Ricardo was to him
the incarnation of the stock-jobbing interest. Cobbett sympathised
instinctively with the doctrine of the French economists that
agriculture was the real source of all wealth. He nearly accepts a
phrase, erroneously attributed to Windham, 'Perish Commerce'; and he
argues that commerce was, in fact, of little use, and its monstrous
extension at the bottom of all our worst evils.[191] Nobody could be
more heartily opposed to the spirit which animated the political
economists and the whole class represented by them. At times he spoke
the language of modern Socialists. He defines Capital as 'money taken
from the labouring classes, which, being given to army tailors and
suchlike, enables them to keep foxhounds and trace their descent from
the Normans.'[192]

The most characteristic point of his speculations is his view of the
poor-laws. Nobody could speak with more good sense and feeling of the
demoralisation which they were actually producing, of the sapping of
the spirit of independence, and of all the devices by which the
agricultural labourer was losing the happiness enjoyed in early years.
But Cobbett's deduction from his principles is peculiar. 'Parson
Malthus' is perhaps the favourite object of his most virulent abuse.
'I have hated many men,' he says, 'but never any one so much as you,'
'I call you parson,' he explains, 'because that word includes
"boroughmonger" among other meanings, though no single word could be
sufficient.'[193] Cobbett rages against the phrase 'redundant
population.' There would be plenty for all if the borough-mongers and
stockjobbers could be annihilated, taxes abolished, and the debt
repudiated. The ordinary palliatives suggested were little to the
taste of this remarkable Radical. The man who approved bull-fighting
and supported the slave-trade naturally sneered at 'heddekashun,' and
thought savings-banks a mean device to interest the poor in the
keeping up of the funds. His remedy was always a sponge applied to the
debt, and the abolition of taxes.

This leads, however, to one remarkable conclusion. Cobbett's attack
upon the church establishment probably did more to cause alarm than
any writings of the day. For Paine's attacks upon its creed he cared
little enough. 'Your religion,' said a parson to him, 'seems to be
altogether political.' It might well be, was Cobbett's retort, since
his creed was made for him by act of parliament.[194] In fact, he
cared nothing for theology, though he called himself a member of the
church of England, and retained an intense dislike for Unitarians,
dissenters in general, 'saints' as he called the Evangelical party,
Scottish Presbyterians, and generally for all religious sects. He
looked at church questions solely from one point of view. He had
learned, it seems, from a passage in Ruggles's _History of the
Poor_,[195] that the tithes had been originally intended to support
the poor as well as the church. Gradually, as he looked back upon the
'good old times,' he developed the theory expounded in his _History of
the Reformation_. It is a singular performance, written at the period
of his most reckless exasperation (1824-27), but with his full vigour
of style. He declares[196] in 1825 that he has sold forty-five
thousand copies, and it has been often reprinted. The purpose is to
show that the Reformation was 'engendered in beastly lust, brought
forth in hypocrisy, and cherished and fed by plunder and devastation,
and by rivers of English and Irish blood.'[197] Briefly, it is the
cause of every evil that has happened since, including 'the debt, the
banks, the stockjobbers, and the American revolution.'[198] In proving
this, Cobbett writes in the spirit of some vehement Catholic bigot,
maddened by the penal laws. Henry VIII., Elizabeth, and William III.
are his monsters; the Marys of England and Scotland his ideal martyrs.
He almost apologises for the massacre of St. Bartholomew and the
Gunpowder Plot; and, in spite of his patriotism, attributes the defeat
of the Armada to a storm, for fear of praising Elizabeth. The
bitterest Ultramontane of to-day would shrink from some of this
Radical's audacious statements. Cobbett, in spite of his extravagance,
shows flashes of his usual shrewdness. He remarks elsewhere that the
true way of studying history is to examine acts of parliament and
lists of prices of labour and of food;[199] and he argues upon such
grounds for the prosperity of the agricultural labourer under Edward
III., 'when a dung-cart filler could get a fat goose and a half for
half a day's work.' He makes some telling hits, as when he contrasts
William of Wykeham with Brownlow North, the last bishop of Winchester.
Protestants condemned celibacy. Well, had William been married, we
should not have had Winchester school, or New College; had Brownlow
North been doomed to celibacy, he would not have had ten sons and
sons-in-law to share twenty-four rich livings, besides prebends and
other preferments; and perhaps he would not have sold small beer from
his episcopal palace at Farnham. Cobbett's main doctrine is that when
the Catholic church flourished, the population was actually more
numerous and richer, that the care of the priests and monks made
pauperism impossible, and that ever since the hideous blunder
perpetrated by the reformers everything has been going from bad to
worse. When it was retorted that the census proved the population to
be growing, he replied that the census was a lie. Were the facts truly
stated, he declares, we should have a population of near twenty-eight
million in England by the end of this century,[200] a manifest
_reductio ad absurdum_. If it were remarked that there was a Catholic
church in France, and that Cobbett proves his case by the superiority
of the English poor to the French poor, he remarked summarily that the
French laws were different.[201]

Thus, the one monster evil is the debt, and the taxes turn out to have
been a Protestant invention made necessary by the original act of
plunder. That was Cobbett's doctrine, and, however perverse might be
some of his reasonings, it was clearly to the taste of a large
audience. The poor-law was merely a partial atonement for a vast and
continuous process of plunder. Corrupt as might be its actual
operation, it was a part of the poor man's patrimony, extorted by fear
from the gang of robbers who fattened upon their labours.

Cobbett's theories need not be discussed from the logical or
historical point of view. They are the utterances of a man made
unscrupulous by his desperate circumstances, fighting with boundless
pugnacity, ready to strike any blow, fair or foul, so long as it will
vex his enemies, and help to sell the _Register_. His pugnacity
alienated all his friends. Not only did Whigs and Tories agree in
condemning him, but the Utilitarians hated and despised him, and his
old friends, Burnett and Hunt, were alienated from him, and reviled by
him. His actual followers were a small and insignificant remnant. Yet
Cobbett, like Owen, represented in a crude fashion blind instincts of
no small importance in the coming years. And it is especially to be
noted that in one direction the philosophic Coleridge and the keen
Quarterly Reviewer Southey, and the Socialist Owen and the reactionary
Radical Cobbett, were more in agreement than they knew. What alarmed
them was the vast social change indicated by the industrial
revolution. In one way or another they connected all the evils of the
day with the growth of commerce and manufactures, and the breaking up
of the old system of domestic trade and village life.[202] That is to
say, that in a dumb and inarticulate logic, though in the loudest
tones of denunciation, Tories and Socialists, and nondescript Radicals
were raging against the results of the great social change, which the
Utilitarians regarded as the true line of advance of the day. This
gives the deepest line of demarcation, and brings us to the political
economy, which shows most fully how the case presented itself to the
true Utilitarian.

FOOTNOTES:

[80] Bain's _James Mill_, p. 215.

[81] _Autobiography_, p. 104.

[82] _Miscellaneous Works_ (Popular Edition), p. 131.

[83] The articles from the _Encyclopædia_ upon Government,
Jurisprudence, Liberty of the Press, Prisons and Prison Discipline,
Colonies, Law of Nations, Education, were reprinted in a volume 'not
for sale,' in 1825 and 1828. I quote from a reprint not dated.

[84] 'Government,' pp. 3-5.

[85] 'Government,' p. 8.

[86] 'Government,' p. 9.

[87] _Ibid._ p. 11.

[88] _Ibid._ p. 9.

[89] _Ibid._ p. 12.

[90] 'Government,' p. 9.

[91] C'est une expérience éternelle que tout homme qui a du pouvoir
est porté à en abuser; il va jusqu'à ce qu'il trouve des
limites.--_Esprit des Lois_, Bk. xi. chap 4.

[92] 'Government,' p. 15.

[93] 'Government,' p. 7.

[94] _Ibid._ p. 18.

[95] 'Government,' p. 21.

[96] _Ibid._ p. 22

[97] _Autobiography_, p. 104.

[98] 'Government,' p. 28.

[99] _Ibid._ p. 30. Mill especially refers to the exposure of clerical
artifices in Father Paul's _Council of Trent_.

[100] 'Education,' p. 20

[101] _Ibid._ p. 45.

[102] _Autobiography_, p. 106.

[103] 'Government,' p. 31.

[104] Bain's _James Mill_, p. 392.

[105] They were reprinted in the _Miscellaneous Works_ after
Macaulay's death. I quote from the 'popular edition' of that work
(1875).

[106] _Miscellaneous Works_, p. 166.

[107] _Miscellaneous Works_, p. 132.

[108] Mill's _Autobiography_, p. 158.

[109] 'Government,' p. 12.

[110] _Miscellaneous Works_, p. 169.

[111] _Fragment on Mackintosh_ (1870), pp. 275-94.

[112] Essay on the 'Independency of Parliament.'

[113] _Fragment_, p. 292.

[114] _Ibid._ p. 276.

[115] _Miscellaneous Works_, p. 170.

[116] _Miscellaneous Works_, p. 173.

[117] _Miscellaneous Works_, p. 138.

[118] _Miscellaneous Works_, pp. 135-40.

[119] _Miscellaneous Works_, p. 158, and see pp. 143-47.

[120] _Speeches_ (Popular Edition), p. 125.

[121] _Ibid._ p. 128.

[122] _Miscellaneous Works_, p. 146.

[123] _Miscellaneous Works_, p. 183.

[124] A full analysis of this article is in Bain's _James Mill_, pp.
265-75.

[125] Article upon Sheridan, reprinted in Jeffrey's _Essays_, iv.
(1844).

[126] _Table-Talk_, 27th April 1823.

[127] _Vindiciæ Gallicæ_, in _Miscellaneous Works_, iii. (1846), p.
57.

[128] Mackintosh thinks it necessary to add that this parallel was
suggested to him by William Thomson (1746-1837), a literary gentleman
who continued Watson's _Philip III._, and may, for anything I know,
deserve Mackintosh's warm eulogy.

[129] _Vindiciæ Gallicæ_, p. 59.

[130] _Ibid._ p. 51.

[131] _Ibid._ p. 148.

[132] _Ibid._ p. 68.

[133] _Ibid._ p. 72.

[134] _Ibid._ p. 125.

[135] _Vindiciæ Gallicæ_, p. 128.

[136] _Ibid._ p. 84.

[137] _Ibid._ p. 30.

[138] _Life of Mackintosh_, i. 125.

[139] _Miscellaneous Works_, iii. 261-65.

[140] _Life_, i. 309-16.

[141] See _Miscellaneous Works_, iii. 3.

[142] _Ibid._ iii. 203-38 (an article highly praised by Bagehot in his
_Parliamentary Reform_).

[143] _Miscellaneous Works_, iii. 215-16.

[144] _Ibid._ iii. 226. Mackintosh in this article mentions the
'caucus,' and observes that the name implies that combinations have
been already formed upon 'which the future government of the
confederacy may depend more than on the forms of election, or the
letter of the present laws.' He inclines to approve the system as
essential to party government.

[145] _Essays_ (1844), i. 84-106.

[146] The famous 'Cevallos' article of 1808, said to be written by
Jeffrey and Brougham (Macvey Napier's _Correspondence_, p. 308), gave
the immediate cause of starting the _Quarterly_; and, according to
Brougham, first gave a distinctly Liberal character to the
_Edinburgh_. For Jeffrey's desire to avoid 'party politics,' see
Lockhart's _Life of Scott_, M. Napier's _Correspondence_, p. 435, and
Homer's _Memoirs_ (1853), i. 464.

[147] April 1805; reprinted in _Essays_, ii. 38, etc., to show, as he
says, how early he had taken up his view of the French revolution.

[148] Sydney Smith complains in his correspondence of this article as
exaggerating the power of the aristocracy.

[149] _Essays_, iv. 29.

[150] I need not speak of Brougham, then the most conspicuous advocate
of Whiggism. He published in 1843 a _Political Philosophy_, which,
according to Lord Campbell, killed the 'Society for the Diffusion of
Useful Knowledge.' No such hypothesis is necessary to account for the
death of a society encumbered by a 'Dictionary of Universal
Biography.' But the book was bad enough to kill, if a collection of
outworn platitudes can produce that effect.

[151] Bentham's _Works_, x. 536.

[152] _Colloquies_, i. 253.

[153] _Colloquies_, i. 171.

[154] _Ibid._ i. 178.

[155] _Ibid._ i. 169.

[156] _Ibid._ i. 167.

[157] _Ibid._ i. 170.

[158] _Ibid._ i. 194.

[159] _Ibid._ ii. 247.

[160] _Colloquies_, ii. 259.

[161] _Ibid._ i. 109.

[162] _Ibid._ ii. 105-7.

[163] _Ibid._ i. 106.

[164] _Ibid._ i. 47.

[165] _Life and Correspondence_, iv. 195; _Selections_, iii. 45.

[166] _Colloquies_, i. 62.

[167] _Colloquies_, i. 135.

[168] _Ibid._ ii. 147. Southey is here almost verbally following
Burke's _Reflections_.

[169] _Life and Correspondence_, v. 4-6.

[170] _Colloquies_, i. 105.

[171] _On the Constitution of Church and State, according to the idea
of each_, 1852 (fourth edition).

[172] _Church and State_, p. 100.

[173] _Ibid._ p. 97.

[174] _Church and State_, p. 85.

[175] _Ibid._ p. 67.

[176] _Church and State_, p. 142.

[177] _Ibid._ pp. 75-79.

[178] _Colloquies_, i. 37.

[179] See an early account of Dale (in 1798) in Sydney Smith's _Life
and Letters_, i. 35, and another in Wilberforce's _Correspondence_
(1840), i. 137 (in 1796).

[180] Printed in _Political Works_, i. 302.

[181] _Political Works_, v. 313; vi. 579.

[182] _Political Works_, i. 473; v. 319.

[183] _Ibid._ ii. 285.

[184] _Political Works_, ii. 28; iv. 388.

[185] _Ibid._ i. 443.

[186] _Rural Rides_ (1853), p. 311.

[187] _Rural Rides_, p. 386.

[188] _Political Works_, v. 436 (22nd July 1819).

[189] Even M'Culloch had recommended a partial repudiation.

[190] _Political Works_, iv. 237.

[191] _Ibid._ ii. 19, 107, 250, 346; and iii. 423. See _Parliamentary
History_, xxx., where the first use of the phrase by Hardinge is
reported.

[192] _Political Works_, vi. 176.

[193] _Ibid._ 395.

[194] _Rural Rides_, p. 446.

[195] He complains bitterly that Ruggles had suppressed this in a
second edition. _Protestant Reformation_ (1850), ii., Introduction.

[196] _Political Register_, 29th Jan. 1825.

[197] _Protestant Reformation_, p. 13.

[198] _Ibid._ p. 262.

[199] _Advice to Young Men_, p. 8.

[200] _Political Works_, v. 405. If our census be not a lie, there
were twenty-seven million Englishmen in 1891.

[201] _Protestant Reformation_, i. 311.

[202] Coleridge in a letter to Allsop (_Conversations_, etc., i. 20)
approves one of Cobbett's articles, because it popularises the weighty
truth of the 'hollowness of commercial wealth.' Cobbett, he sadly
reflects, is an overmatch for Liverpool. See Cobbett's _Political
Works_, v. 466 _n._



CHAPTER IV

MALTHUS


I. MALTHUS'S STARTING-POINT

The political movement represented the confluence of many different
streams of agitation. Enormous social changes had generated
multifarious discontent. New wants and the new strains and stresses
between the various parts of the political mechanism required new
adaptations. But, if it were inquired what was the precise nature of
the evils, and how the reform of parliament was to operate, the most
various answers might be given. A most important line of division did
not coincide with the line between the recognised parties. One wing of
the Radicals agreed with many Conservatives in attributing the great
evils of the day to the industrial movement and the growth of
competition. The middle-class Whigs and the Utilitarians were, on the
contrary, in thorough sympathy with the industrial movement, and
desired to limit the functions of government, and trust to self-help
and free competition. The Socialistic movement appeared for the
present to be confined to a few dreamers and demagogues. The
Utilitarians might approve the spirit of the Owenites, but held their
schemes to be chimerical. Beneath the political controversies there
was therefore a set of problems to be answered; and the Utilitarian
answer defines their distinction from Radicals of a different and, as
they would have said, unphilosophical school.

What, then, was the view really taken by the Utilitarians of these
underlying problems? They not only had a very definite theory in
regard to them, but in working it out achieved perhaps their most
important contribution to speculation. Beneath a political theory
lies, or ought to lie, what we now call a 'sociology'--a theory of
that structure of society which really determines the character and
the working of political institutions. The Utilitarian theory was
embodied in their political economy. I must try to define as well as I
can what were the essential first principles implied, without going
into the special problems which would be relevant in a history of
political economy.

The two leading names in the literature of political economy during
the first quarter of this century were undoubtedly Malthus and
Ricardo. Thomas Robert Malthus[203] (1766-1834) was not one of the
Utilitarian band. As a clergyman, he could not share their opinion of
the Thirty-nine Articles. Moreover, he was a Whig, not a Radical; and
he was even tainted with some economic heresy. Still, he became one of
the prophets, if not the leading prophet, of the Utilitarians. Belief
in the Malthusian theory of population was the most essential article
of their faith, and marked the line of cleavage between the two wings
of the Radical party.

Malthus was the son of a country gentleman in Surrey. His father was
a man of studious habits, and one of the enthusiastic admirers of
Rousseau. His study of _Émile_ probably led to the rather desultory
education of his son. The boy, after being taught at home, was for a
time a pupil of R. Graves (1715-1804), author of the _Spiritual
Quixote_, a Whig clergyman who was at least orthodox enough to
ridicule Methodism. Malthus was next sent to attend Gilbert
Wakefield's lectures at the Warrington 'Academy,' the Unitarian place
of education, and in 1784 went to Jesus College, Cambridge, of which
Wakefield had been a fellow. For Wakefield, who had become a
Unitarian, and who was afterwards a martyr to political Radicalism, he
appears to have retained a strong respect. At Jesus, again, Malthus
was under Frend, who also was to join the Unitarians. Malthus was thus
brought up under the influences of the modified rationalism which was
represented by the Unitarians outside the establishment and by Paley
within. Coleridge was at Jesus while Malthus was still a fellow, and
there became an ardent admirer of Priestley, Malthus remained within
the borders of the church. Its yoke was light enough, and he was
essentially predisposed to moderate views. He took his degree as ninth
wrangler in 1788, became a fellow of his college in 1793, took orders,
and in 1798 was curate of Albury, near his father's house in Surrey.
Malthus's home was within a walk of Farnham, where Cobbett had been
born and passed his childhood. He had, therefore, before his eyes the
same agricultural labourer whose degradation excited Cobbett to
Radicalism. Very different views were suggested to Malthus. The
revolutionary doctrine was represented in England by the writings of
Godwin, whose _Political Justice_ appeared in 1793 and _Enquirer_ in
1797. These books naturally afforded topics for discussion between
Malthus and his father. The usual relations between senior and junior
were inverted; the elder Malthus, as became a follower of Rousseau,
was an enthusiast; and the younger took the part of suggesting doubts
and difficulties. He resolved to put down his arguments upon paper, in
order to clear his mind; and the result was the _Essay upon
Population_, of which the first edition appeared anonymously in 1798.

The argument upon which Malthus relied was already prepared for him.
The dreams of the revolutionary enthusiasts supposed either a neglect
of the actual conditions of human life or a belief that those
conditions could be radically altered by the proposed political
changes. The cooler reasoner was entitled to remind them that they
were living upon solid earth, not in dreamland. The difficulty of
realising Utopia may be presented in various ways. Malthus took a
point which had been noticed by Godwin. In the conclusion of his
_Political Justice_,[204] while taking a final glance at the coming
millennium, Godwin refers to a difficulty suggested by Robert Wallace.
Wallace had[205] said that all the evils under which mankind suffers
might be removed by a community of property, were it not that such a
state of things would lead to an 'excessive population.' Godwin makes
light of the difficulty. He thinks that there is some 'principle in
human society by means of which everything tends to find its own level
and proceed in the most auspicious way, when least interfered with by
the mode of regulation.' Anyhow, there is plenty of room on the earth,
at present. Population may increase for 'myriads of centuries.' Mind,
as Franklin has said, may become 'omnipotent over matter';[206] life
may be indefinitely prolonged; our remote descendants who have filled
the earth 'will probably cease to propagate';[207] they will not have
the trouble of making a fresh start at every generation; and in those
days there will be 'no war, no crimes, no administration of justice';
and moreover, 'no disease, anguish, melancholy, or resentment.'
Briefly, we shall be like the angels, only without the needless
addition of a supreme ruler. Similar ideas were expressed in
Condorcet's famous _Tableau historique des progrès de l'esprit
humain_,[208] written while he was in daily fear of death by the
guillotine, and so giving the most striking instance on record of the
invincibility of an idealist conviction under the hardest pressure of
facts.

The argument of Malthus is a product of the whole previous course of
speculation. The question of population had occupied the French
economists. The profound social evils of France gave the
starting-point of their speculations; and one of the gravest symptoms
had been the decay of population under the last years of Louis XIV.
Their great aim was to meet this evil by encouraging agriculture. It
could not escape the notice of the simplest observer that if you would
have more mouths you must provide more food, unless, as some pious
people assumed, that task might be left to Providence. Quesnay had
laid it down as one of his axioms that the statesman should aim at
providing sustenance before aiming simply at stimulating population.
It follows, according to Gulliver's famous maxim, that the man who
makes two blades of grass grow where one grew before deserves better
of his country than the 'whole race of politicians put together.'
Other writers, in developing this thesis, had dwelt upon the
elasticity of population. The elder Mirabeau, for example, published
his _Ami des hommes ou traité de la population_ in 1756. He observes
that, given the means of subsistence, men will multiply like rats in a
barn.[209] The great axiom, he says,[210] is 'la mesure de la
subsistance est celle de la population.' Cultivate your fields, and
you will raise men. Mirabeau replies to Hume's essay upon the
'Populousness of ancient nations' (1752), of which Wallace's first
treatise was a criticism. The problem discussed by Hume and Wallace
had been comparatively academical; but by Malthus's time the question
had taken a more practical shape. The sentimentalists denounced luxury
as leading to a decay of the population. Their prevailing doctrine is
embodied in Goldsmith's famous passage in the _Deserted Village_
(1770):

    'Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,
    Where wealth accumulates and men decay.'

The poetical version only reflected the serious belief of Radical
politicians. Although, as we are now aware, the population was in fact
increasing rapidly, the belief prevailed among political writers that
it was actually declining. Trustworthy statistics did not exist. In
1753 John Potter, son of the archbishop, proposed to the House of
Commons a plan for a census. A violent discussion arose,[211] in the
course of which it was pointed out that the plan would inevitably lead
to the adoption of the 'canvas frock and wooden shoes.' Englishmen
would lose their liberty, become French slaves, and, when counted,
would no doubt be taxed and forcibly enlisted. The bill passed the
House of Commons in spite of such reasoning, but was thrown out by the
House of Lords. Till the first census was taken in 1801--a period at
which the absolute necessity of such knowledge had become obvious--the
most elementary facts remained uncertain. Was population increasing or
decreasing? That surely might be ascertainable.

Richard Price (1723-1791) was not only a distinguished moralist and a
leading politician, but perhaps the best known writer of his time upon
statistical questions. He had the credit of suggesting Pitt's sinking
fund,[212] and spoke with the highest authority upon facts and
figures. Price argued in 1780[213] that the population of England had
diminished by one-fourth since the revolution of 1688. A sharp
controversy followed upon the few ascertainable data. The vagueness of
the results shows curiously how much economists had to argue in the
dark. Malthus observes in his first edition that he had been
convinced by reading Price that population was restrained by 'vice and
misery,' as results, not of political institutions, but of 'our own
creation.'[214] This gives the essential point of difference. Mirabeau
had declared that the population of all Europe was decaying. Hume's
essay, which he criticises, had been in answer to a similar statement
of Montesquieu. Price had learned that other countries were increasing
in number, though England, he held, was still declining. What, then,
was the cause? The cause, replied both Price and Mirabeau, was
'luxury,' to which Price adds the specially English evils of the
'engrossment of farms' and the enclosure of open fields. Price had to
admit that the English towns had increased; but this was an additional
evil. The towns increased simply by draining the country; and in the
towns themselves the deaths exceeded the births. The great cities were
the graves of mankind. This opinion was strongly held, too, by Arthur
Young, who ridiculed the general fear of depopulation, and declared
that if money were provided, you could always get labour, but who
looked upon the towns as destructive cancers in the body politic.

The prevalence of this view explains Malthus's position. To attribute
depopulation to luxury was to say that it was caused by the inequality
of property. The rich man wasted the substance of the country, became
demoralised himself, and both corrupted and plundered his neighbours.
The return to a 'state of nature,' in Rousseau's phrase, meant the
return to a state of things in which this misappropriation should
become impossible. The whole industry of the nation would then be
devoted to supporting millions of honest, simple peasants and
labourers, whereas it now went to increasing the splendour of the
great at the expense of the poor. Price enlarges upon this theme,
which was, in fact, the contemporary version of the later formula that
the rich are growing richer and the poor poorer. The immediate effect
of equalising property, then, would be an increase of population. It
was the natural retort, adopted by Malthus, that such an increase
would soon make everybody poor, instead of making every one
comfortable. Population, the French economists had said, follows
subsistence. Will it not multiply indefinitely? The rapid growth of
population in America was noticed by Price and Godwin; and the theory
had been long before expanded by Franklin, in a paper which Malthus
quotes in his later editions. 'There is no bound,' said Franklin in
1751,[215] 'to the prolific nature of plants and animals but what is
made by their crowding and interfering with each other's means of
subsistence.' The whole earth, he infers, might be overspread with
fennel, for example, or, if empty of men, replenished in a few ages
with Englishmen. There were supposed to be already one million of
Englishmen in North America. If they doubled once in twenty-five
years, they would in a century exceed the number of Englishmen at
home. This is identical with Mirabeau's principle of the multiplying
of rats in a barn. Population treads closely on the heels of
subsistence. Work out your figures and see the results.[216]

Malthus's essay in the first edition was mainly an application of
this retort, and though the logic was effective as against Godwin, he
made no elaborate appeal to facts. Malthus soon came to see that a
more precise application was desirable. It was clearly desirable to
know whether population was or was not actually increasing, and under
what conditions. I have spoken of the contemporary labours of
Sinclair, Young, Sir F. Eden, and others. To collect statistics was
plainly one of the essential conditions of settling the controversy.
Malthus in 1799 travelled on the continent to gather information, and
visited Sweden, Norway, Russia, and Germany. The peace of Amiens
enabled him in 1802 to visit France and Switzerland. He inquired
everywhere into the condition of the people, collected such
statistical knowledge as was then possible, and returned to digest it
into a elaborate treatise. Meanwhile, the condition of England was
giving a fresh significance to the argument. The first edition had
been published at the critical time when the poor-law was being
relaxed, and disastrous results were following war and famine. The old
complaint that the poor-law was causing depopulation was being changed
for the complaint that it was stimulating pauperism. The first edition
already discussed this subject, which was occupying all serious
thinkers; it was now to receive a fuller treatment. The second
edition, greatly altered, appeared in 1803, and made Malthus a man of
authority. His merits were recognised by his appointment in 1805 to
the professorship of history and political economy at the newly
founded East India College at Haileybury. There he remained till the
end of his life, which was placid, uneventful, and happy. He made a
happy marriage in 1804; and his calm temperament enabled him to bear
an amount of abuse which might have broken the health of a more
irritable man. Cobbett's epithet, 'parson Malthus,' strikes the
keynote. He was pictured as a Christian priest denouncing charity, and
proclaiming the necessity of vice and misery. He had the ill luck to
be the centre upon which the antipathies of Jacobin and anti-Jacobin
converged. Cobbett's language was rougher than Southey's; but the
poet-laureate and the author of 'two-penny trash' were equally
vehement in sentiment. Malthus, on the other hand, was accepted by the
political economists, both Whig and Utilitarian. Horner and
Mackintosh, lights of the Whigs, were his warm friends as well as his
disciples. He became intimate with Ricardo, and he was one of the
original members of the Political Economy Club. He took abuse
imperturbably; was never vexed 'after the first fortnight' by the most
unfair attack; and went on developing his theories, lecturing his
students, and improving later editions of his treatise. Malthus died
on 23rd December 1834.


II. THE RATIOS

The doctrine marks a critical point in political economy. Malthus's
opponents, as Mr. Bonar remarks,[217] attacked him alternately for
propounding a truism and for maintaining a paradox. A 'truism' is not
useless so long as its truth is not admitted. It would be the greatest
of achievements to enunciate a law self-evident as soon as formulated,
and yet previously ignored or denied. Was this the case of Malthus? Or
did he really startle the world by clothing a commonplace in paradox,
and then explain away the paradox till nothing but the commonplace was
left?

Malthus laid down in his first edition a proposition which continued
to be worried by all his assailants. Population, he said, when
unchecked, increases in the geometrical ratio; the means of
subsistence increase only in an arithmetical ratio. Geometrical ratios
were just then in fashion.[218] Price had appealed to their wonderful
ways in his arguments about the sinking fund; and had pointed out that
a penny put out to 5 per cent. compound interest at the birth of
Christ would, in the days of Pitt, have been worth some millions of
globes of solid gold, each as big as the earth. Both Price and Malthus
lay down a proposition which can easily be verified by the
multiplication-table. If, as Malthus said, population doubles in
twenty-five years, the number in two centuries would be to the present
number as 256 to 1, and in three as 4096 to 1. If, meanwhile, the
quantity of subsistence increased in 'arithmetical progression,' the
multipliers for it would be only 9 and 13. It follows that, in the
year 2003, two hundred and fifty-six persons will have to live upon
what now supports nine. So far, the case is clear. But how does the
argument apply to facts? For obvious reasons, Price's penny could not
become even one solid planet of gold. Malthus's population is also
clearly impossible. That is just his case. The population of British
North America was actually, when he wrote, multiplying at the assigned
rate. What he pointed out was that such a rate must somehow be
stopped; and his question was, how precisely will it be stopped? The
first proposition, he says[219] (that is, that population increased
geometrically), 'I considered as proved the moment that the American
increase was related; and the second as soon as enunciated.' To say
that a population increases geometrically, in fact, is simply to say
that it increases at a fixed rate. The arithmetical increase
corresponds to a statement which Malthus, at any rate, might regard as
undeniable; namely, that in a country already fully occupied, the
possibility of increasing produce is restricted within much narrower
limits. In a 'new country,' as in the American colonies, the increase
of food might proceed as rapidly as the increase of population.
Improved methods of cultivation, or the virtual addition of vast
tracts of fertile territory by improved means of communication, may of
course add indefinitely to the resources of a population. But Malthus
was contemplating a state of things in which the actual conditions
limited the people to an extraction of greater supplies from a
strictly limited area. Whether Malthus assumed too easily that this
represented the normal case may be questionable. At any rate, it was
not only possible but actual in the England of the time. His problem
was very much to the purpose. His aim was to trace the way in which
the population of a limited region is prevented from increasing
geometrically. If the descendants of Englishmen increase at a certain
rate in America, why do they not increase equally in England? That, it
must be admitted, is a fair scientific problem. Finding that two races
of similar origin, and presumably like qualities, increase at
different rates, we have to investigate the causes of the difference.

Malthus answered the problem in the simplest and most consistent way
in his first edition. What are the checks? The ultimate check would
clearly be starvation. A population might multiply till it had not
food. But before this limit is actually reached, it will suffer in
various ways from scarcity. Briefly, the checks may be distinguished
into the positive, that is, actual distress, and the preventive, or
'foresight.' We shall actually suffer unless we are restrained by the
anticipation of suffering. As a fact, however, he thinks that men are
but little influenced by the prudence which foresees sufferings. They
go on multiplying till the consequences are realised. You may be
confined in a room, to use one of his illustrations,[220] though the
walls do not touch you; but human beings are seldom satisfied till
they have actually knocked their heads against the wall. He sums up
his argument in the first edition in three propositions.[221]
Population is limited by the means of subsistence; that is obvious;
population invariably increases when the means of subsistence are
increased; that is shown by experience to be practically true; and
therefore, finally, the proportion is maintained by 'misery and
vice.' That is the main conclusion which not unnaturally startled the
world. Malthus always adhered in some sense to the main doctrine,
though he stated explicitly some reserves already implicitly involved.
A writer must not be surprised if popular readers remember the
unguarded and dogmatic utterances which give piquancy to a theory, and
overlook the latent qualifications which, when fully expressed, make
it approximate to a commonplace. The political bearing of his
reasoning is significant. The application of Godwin's theories of
equality would necessarily, as he urges, stimulate an excessive
population. To meet the consequent evils, two measures would be
obviously necessary; private property must be instituted in order to
stimulate prudence; and marriage must be instituted to make men
responsible for the increase of the population. These institutions are
necessary, and they make equality impossible. Weak, then, as foresight
may be with most men, the essential social institutions have been
developed by the necessity of enabling foresight to exercise some
influence; and thus indirectly societies have in fact grown in wealth
and numbers through arrangements which have by one and the same action
strengthened prudence and created inequality. Although this is clearly
implied, the main impression produced upon Malthus's readers was that
he held 'vice and misery' to be essential to society; nay, that in
some sense he regarded them as blessings. He was accused, as he tells
us,[222] of objecting to vaccination, because it tended to prevent
deaths from small-pox, and has to protest against some one who had
declared his principles to be favourable to the slave trade.[223] He
was represented, that is, as holding depopulation to be good in
itself. These perversions were grotesque, but partly explain the
horror with which Malthus was constantly regarded; and we must
consider what made them plausible.

I must first notice the maturer form of his doctrine. In the second
edition he turns to account the result of his later reading, his
personal observations, and the statistical results which were
beginning to accumulate. The remodelled book opens with a survey of
the observed action of the checks; and it concludes with a discussion
of the 'moral restraint' which is now added to 'vice and misery.'
Although considerable fragments of the old treatise remained to the
last, the whole book was altered both in style and character. The
style certainly suffers, for Malthus was not a master of the literary
art; he inserts his additions with little care for the general effect.
He tones down some of the more vivid phrases which had given offence,
though he does not retract the substance. A famous passage[224] in the
second edition, in which he speaks of 'nature's mighty feast,' where,
unluckily, the 'table is already full,' and therefore unbidden guests
are left to starve, was suppressed in the later editions. Yet the
principle that no man has a claim to subsistence as of right remains
unaltered. The omission injures the literary effect without altering
the logic; and I think that, where the argument is amended, the new
element is scarcely worked into the old so as to gain thorough
consistency.

Malthus's survey of different countries showed how various are the
'checks' by which population is limited in various countries. We take
a glance at all nations through all epochs of history. In the South
Sea we find a delicious climate and a fertile soil, where population
is mainly limited by vice, infanticide, and war; and where, in spite
of these influences, the population multiplies at intervals till it is
killed off by famine. In China, a vast and fertile territory,
inhabited by an industrious race, in which agriculture has always been
encouraged, marriage stimulated, and property widely diffused, has
facilitated the production of a vast population in the most abject
state of poverty, driven to expose children by want, and liable at
intervals to destructive famines. In modern Europe, the checks appear
in the most various forms; in Switzerland and Norway a frugal
population in small villages sometimes instinctively understands the
principle of population, and exhibits the 'moral restraint,' while in
England the poor-laws are producing a mass of hopeless and inert
pauperism. Consideration of these various cases, and a comparison of
such records as are obtainable of the old savage races, of the
classical states of antiquity, of the Northern barbarians and of the
modern European nations, suggests a natural doubt. Malthus abundantly
proves what can hardly be denied, that population has everywhere been
found to press upon the means of subsistence, and that vice and misery
are painfully abundant. But does he establish or abandon his main
proposition? He now asserts the 'tendency' of population to outrun the
means of subsistence. Yet he holds unequivocally that the increase of
population has been accompanied by an increased comfort; that want has
diminished although population has increased; and that the
'preventive' check is stronger than of old in proportion to the
positive check. Scotland, he says,[225] is 'still overpeopled, but not
so much as when it contained fewer inhabitants.' Many nations, as he
points out in general terms, have been most prosperous when most
populous.[226] They could export food when crowded, and have ceased to
import it when thinned. This, indeed, expresses his permanent views,
though the facts were often alleged by his critics as a disproof of
them. Was not the disproof real? Does not a real evasion lurk under
the phrase 'tendency'? You may say that the earth has a tendency to
fall into the sun, and another 'tendency' to move away from the sun.
But it would be absurd to argue that we were therefore in danger of
being burnt or of being frozen. To explain the law of a vital process,
we may have to analyse it, and therefore to regard it as due to
conflicting forces; but the forces do not really exist separately, and
in considering the whole concrete phenomenon we must take them as
mutually implied. A man has a 'tendency' to grow too fat; and another
'tendency' to grow too thin. That surely means that on the whole he
has a 'tendency' to preserve the desirable mean. The phrase, then, can
only have a distinct meaning when the conflicting forces represent two
independent or really separable forces. To use an illustration given
by Malthus, we might say that a man had a 'tendency' to grow upwards;
but was restrained by a weight on his head. The man has the
'tendency,' because we may regard the weight as a separable accident.
When both forces are of the essence, the separate 'tendencies'
correspond merely to our way of analysing the fact. But if one can be
properly regarded as relatively accidental, the 'tendency' means the
way in which the other will manifest itself in actual cases.

In 1829, Senior put this point to Malthus.[227] What, he asked, do you
understand by a 'tendency' when you admit that the tendency is
normally overbalanced by others? Malthus explains his meaning to be
that every nation suffers from evils 'specifically arising from the
pressure of population against food.' The wages of the labourer in old
countries have never been sufficient to enable him to maintain a large
family at ease. There is overcrowding, we may say, in England now as
there was in England at the Conquest; though food has increased in a
greater proportion than population; and the pressure has therefore
taken a milder form. This, again, is proved by the fact that, whenever
a relaxation of the pressure has occurred, when plagues have
diminished population, or improvements in agriculture increased their
supply of food, the gap has been at once filled up. The people have
not taken advantage of the temporary relaxation of the check to
preserve the new equilibrium, but have taken out the improvement by a
multiplication of numbers. The statement then appears to be that at
any given time the population is in excess. Men would be better off if
they were less numerous. But, on the other hand, the tendency to
multiply does not represent a constant force, an irresistible instinct
which will always bring men down to the same level, but something
which, in fact, may vary materially. Malthus admits, in fact, that
the 'elasticity' is continually changing; and therefore repudiates the
interpretation which seemed to make all improvement hopeless. Why,
then, distinguish the 'check' as something apart from the instinct?
If, in any case, we accept this explanation, does not the theory
become a 'truism,' or at least a commonplace, inoffensive but hardly
instructive? Does it amount to more than the obvious statement that
prudence and foresight are desirable and are unfortunately scarce?


III. MORAL RESTRAINT

The change in the theory of 'checks' raises another important
question. Malthus now introduced a modification upon which his
supporters laid great stress. In the new version the 'checks' which
proportion population to means of subsistence are not simply 'vice and
misery,' but 'moral restraint, vice, and misery.'[228] How, precisely,
does this modify the theory? How are the different 'checks' related?
What especially is meant by 'moral' in this connection? Malthus takes
his ethical philosophy pretty much for granted, but is clearly a
Utilitarian according to the version of Paley.[229] He agrees with
Paley that 'virtue evidently consists in educing from the materials
which the Creator has placed under our guidance the greatest sum of
human happiness.'[230] He adds to this that our 'natural impulses are,
abstractedly considered, good, and only to be distinguished by their
consequences.' Hunger, he says, as Bentham had said, is the same in
itself, whether it leads to stealing a loaf or to eating your own
loaf. He agrees with Godwin that morality means the 'calculation of
consequences,'[231] or, as he says with Paley, implies the discovery
of the will of God by observing the effect of actions upon happiness.
Reason then regulates certain innate and practically unalterable
instincts by enabling us to foretell their consequences. The
reasonable man is influenced not simply by the immediate
gratification, but by a forecast of all the results which it will
entail. In these matters Malthus was entirely at one with the
Utilitarians proper, and seems to regard their doctrine as
self-evident.

He notices briefly one logical difficulty thus introduced. The
'checks' are vice, misery, and moral restraint. But why distinguish
vice from misery? Is not conduct vicious which causes misery,[232] and
precisely because it causes misery? He replies that to omit 'vice'
would confuse our language. Vicious conduct may cause happiness in
particular cases; though its general tendency would be pernicious. The
answer is not very clear; and Malthus, I think, would have been more
logical if he had stuck to his first theory, and regarded vice as
simply one form of imprudence. Misery, that is, or the fear of misery,
and the indulgence in conduct which produces misery are the 'checks'
which limit population; and the whole problem is to make the ultimate
sanction more operative upon the immediate conduct. Man becomes more
virtuous simply as he becomes more prudent, and is therefore governed
in his conduct by recognising the wider and more remote series of
consequences. There is, indeed, the essential difference that the
virtuous man acts (on whatever motives) from a regard to the 'greatest
happiness of the greatest number,' and not simply from self-regard.
Still the ultimate and decisive criterion is the tendency of conduct
to produce misery; and if Malthus had carried this through as
rigorously as Bentham, he would have been more consistent. The 'moral
check' would then have been simply a department of the prudential;
including prudence for others as well as for ourselves. One reason for
the change is obvious. His assumption enables him to avoid coming into
conflict with the accepted morality of the time. On his exposition
'vice' occasionally seems not to be productive of misery but an
alternative to misery; and yet something bad in itself. Is this
consistent with his Utilitarianism? The vices of the South Sea
Islanders, according to him, made famine less necessary; and, if they
gave pleasure at the moment, were they not on the whole beneficial?
Malthus again reckons among vices practices which limit the population
without causing 'misery' directly.[233] Could he logically call them
vicious? He wishes to avoid the imputation of sanctioning such
practices, and therefore condemns them by his moral check; but it
would be hard to prove that he was consistent in condemning them. Or,
again, there is another familiar difficulty. The Catholic church
encourages marriage as a remedy for vice; and thereby stimulates both
population and poverty. How would Malthus solve the problem: is it
better to encourage chastity and a superabundance of people, or to
restrict marriage at the cost of increasing temptation to vice? He
seems to evade the point by saying that he recommends both chastity
and abstinence from marriage. By 'moral restraint,' as he explains, he
means 'restraint from marriage from prudential motives, with a conduct
strictly moral during the period of this restraint.' 'I have never,'
he adds, 'intentionally deviated from this sense.'[234] A man, that
is, should postpone taking a wife, and should not console himself by
taking a mistress. He is to refrain from increasing the illegitimate
as well as from increasing the legitimate population. It is not
surprising that Malthus admits that this check has 'in past ages
operated with inconsiderable force.'[235] In fact Malthus, as a
thoroughly respectable and decent clergyman, manages by talking about
the 'moral restraint' rather to evade than to answer some awkward
problems of conduct; but at the cost of some inconsequence.

But another result of this mode of patching up his argument is more
important. The 'vices of mankind,' he says in an unusually rhetorical
summary of his historical inquiry,[236] 'are active and able ministers
of depopulation. They are the precursors in the great army of
destruction, and often finish the dreadful work themselves. But should
they fail in the war of extermination, sickly seasons, epidemics,
pestilence, and plague advance in terrific array, and sweep off their
thousands and ten thousands. Should success still be incomplete,
gigantic inevitable famine stalks in the rear, and at one mighty blow
levels the population with the food of the world.' The life of the
race, then, is a struggle with misery; its expansion is constantly
forcing it upon this array of evils; and in proportion to the
elasticity is the severity of the evils which follow. This is not only
a 'gloomy view,' but again seems to suggest that 'vice' is an
alternative to 'misery.' Vices are bad, it would seem, but at least
they obviate the necessity for disease and famine. Malthus probably
suppressed the passage because he thought it liable to this
interpretation. It indicates, however, a real awkwardness, if not
something more, in his exposition. He here speaks as if there was room
for a fixed number of guests at his banquet. Whatever, therefore,
keeps the population to that limit must be so far good. If he had
considered his 'moral check' more thoroughly, he might have seen that
this does not correspond to his real meaning. The 'moral' and the
prudential checks are not really to be contrasted as alternative, but
co-operative. Every population, vicious or virtuous, must of course
proportion its numbers to its means of support. That gives the
prudential check. But the moral check operates by altering the
character of the population itself. From the purely economic point of
view, vice is bad because it lowers efficiency. A lazy, drunken, and
profligate people would starve where an industrious, sober, and honest
people would thrive. The check of vice thus brings the check of misery
into play at an earlier stage. It limits by lowering the vitality and
substituting degeneration for progress. The check, therefore, is
essentially mischievous. Though it does not make the fields barren, it
lowers the power of cultivation. Malthus had recognised this when he
pointed out, as we have seen, that emergence from the savage state
meant the institution of marriage and property and, we may infer, the
correlative virtues of chastity, industry, and honesty. If men can
form large societies, and millions can be supported where once a few
thousands were at starvation point, it is due to the civilisation
which at every stage implies 'moral restraint' in a wider sense than
Malthus used the phrase. An increase of population by such means was,
of course, to be desired. If Malthus emphasises this inadequately, it
is partly, no doubt, because the Utilitarian view of morality tended
to emphasise the external consequences rather than the alteration of
the man himself. Yet the wider and sounder view is logically implied
in his reasoning--so much so that he might have expressed his real aim
more clearly if he had altered the order of his argument. He might
have consistently taken the same line as earlier writers and declared
that he desired, above all things, the increase of population. He
would have had indeed to explain that he desired the increase of a
sound and virtuous population; and that hasty and imprudent increase
led to misery and to a demoralisation which would ultimately limit
numbers in the worst way. We shall see directly how nearly he accepts
this view. Meanwhile, by insisting upon the need of limitation, he was
led to speak often as if limitation by any means was good and the one
thing needful, and the polemic against Godwin in the first edition had
given prominence to this side of the question. Had he put his views in
a different shape, he would perhaps have been so edifying that he
would have been disregarded. He certainly avoided that risk, and had
whatever advantage is gained by stating sound doctrine paradoxically.

We shall, I think, appreciate his real position better by considering
his approximation to the theory which, as we know, was suggested to
Darwin by a perusal of Malthus.[237] There is a closer resemblance
than appears at first. The first edition concludes by two chapters
afterwards omitted, giving the philosophical application of his
theory. He there says that the 'world is a mighty process of God not
for the trial but for the creation and formation of the mind.'[238] It
is not, as Butler thought, a place of 'probation,' but a scene in
which the higher qualities are gradually developed. Godwin had quoted
Franklin's view that 'mind' would become 'omnipotent over matter.'
Malthus holds that, as he puts it, 'God is making matter into mind.'
The difference is that Malthus regards evil in general not as a sort
of accident of which we can get rid by reason; but as the essential
stimulus which becomes the efficient cause of intellectual activity.
The evils from which men suffer raise savage tribes from their
indolence, and by degrees give rise to the growth of civilisation. The
argument, though these chapters were dropped by Malthus, was taken up
by J. B. Sumner, to whom he refers in later editions.[239] It is, in
fact, an imperfect way of stating a theory of evolution. This appears
in his opening chapters upon the 'moral restraint.'[240] He explains
that moral and physical evils are 'instruments employed by the Deity'
to admonish us against such conduct as is destructive of happiness.
Diseases are indications that we have broken a law of nature. The
plague of London was properly interpreted by our ancestors as a hint
to improve the sanitary conditions of the town. Similarly, we have to
consider the consequences of obeying our instincts. The desire of food
and necessaries is the most powerful of these instincts, and next to
it the passion between the sexes. They are both good, for they are
both natural; but they have to be properly correlated. To 'virtuous
love' in particular we owe the 'sunny spots' in our lives, where the
imagination loves to bask. Desire of necessaries gives us the stimulus
of the comfortable fireside; and love adds the wife and children,
without whom the fireside would lose half its charm. Now, as a rule,
the sexual passion is apt to be in excess. The final cause of this
excess is itself obvious. We cannot but conceive that it is an object
of 'the Creator that the earth should be replenished.'[241] To secure
that object, it is necessary that 'there should be a tendency in the
population to increase faster than food.' If the two instincts were
differently balanced, men would be content though the population of a
fertile region were limited to the most trifling numbers. Hence the
instinct has mercifully been made so powerful as to stimulate
population, and thus indirectly and eventually to produce a population
at once larger and more comfortable. On the one hand, it is of the
very utmost importance to the happiness of mankind that they should
not increase too fast,[242] but, on the other hand, if the passion
were weakened, the motives which make a man industrious and capable of
progress would be diminished also. It would, of course, be simpler to
omit the 'teleology'; to say that sanitary regulations are made
necessary by the plague, not that the plague is divinely appointed to
encourage sanitary regulations. Malthus is at the point of view of
Paley which becomes Darwinism when inverted; but the conclusion is
much the same. He reaches elsewhere, in fact, a more precise view of
the value of the 'moral restraint.' In a chapter devoted for once to
an ideal state of things,[243] he shows how a race thoroughly imbued
with that doctrine would reconcile the demands of the two instincts.
Population would in that case increase, but, instead of beginning by
an increase, it would begin by providing the means of supporting. No
man would become a father until he had seen his way to provide for a
family. The instinct which leads to increasing the population would
thus be intrinsically as powerful as it now is; but when regulated by
prudence it would impel mankind to begin at the right end. Food would
be ready before mouths to eat it.


IV. SOCIAL REMEDIES

This final solution appears in Malthus's proposed remedies for the
evils of the time. Malthus[244] declares that 'an increase of
population when it follows in its natural order is both a great
positive good in itself, and absolutely necessary' to an increase of
wealth. This natural order falls in, as he observes, with the view to
which Mirabeau had been converted, that 'revenue was the source of
population,' and not population of revenue.[245] Malthus holds
specifically that, 'in the course of some centuries,' the population
of England might be doubled or trebled, and yet every man be 'much
better fed and clothed than he is at present.'[246] He parts company
with Paley, who had considered the ideal state to be 'that of a
laborious frugal people ministering to the demands of an opulent
luxurious nation.'[247] That, says Malthus, is 'not an inviting
prospect.' Nothing but a conviction of absolute necessity could
reconcile us to the 'thought of ten millions of people condemned to
incessant toil, and to the privation of everything but absolute
necessaries, in order to minister to the excessive luxuries of the
other million.' But he denies that any such necessity exists. He
wishes precisely to see luxury spread among the poorer classes. A
desire for such luxury is the best of all checks to population, and
one of the best means of raising the standard. It would, in fact,
contribute to his 'moral restraint.' So, too, he heartily condemns
the hypocrisy of the rich, who professed a benevolent desire to
better the poor, and yet complained of high wages.[248] If, he says
elsewhere,[249] a country can 'only be rich by running a successful
race for low wages, I should be disposed to say, Perish such riches!'
No one, in fact, could see more distinctly than Malthus the
demoralising influence of poverty, and the surpassing importance of
raising the people from the terrible gulf of pauperism. He refers to
Colquhoun's account of the twenty thousand people who rose every
morning in London without knowing how they were to be supported; and
observes that 'when indigence does not produce overt acts of vice, it
palsies every virtue.'[250] The temptations to which the poor man is
exposed, and the sense of injustice due to an ignorance of the true
cause of misery, tend to 'sour the disposition, to harden the heart,
and deaden the moral sense.' Unfortunately, the means which have been
adopted to lessen the evil have tended to increase it. In the first
place, there was the master-evil of the poor-laws. Malthus points out
the demoralising effects of these laws in chapters full of admirable
common sense, which he was unfortunately able to enforce by fresh
illustrations in successive editions. He attends simply to the
stimulus to population. He thinks that if the laws had never existed,
the poor would now have been much better off.[251] If the laws had
been fully carried out, every labourer might have been certain that
all his children would be supported, or, in other words, every check
to population would have been removed.[252] Happily, the becoming
pride of the English peasantry was not quite extinct; and the poor-law
had to some extent counteracted itself, or taken away with one hand
what it gave with the other, by placing the burthen upon the
parishes.[253] Thus landlords have been more disposed to pull down
than to build cottages, and marriage has been checked. On the whole,
however, Malthus could see in the poor-laws nothing but a vast agency
for demoralising the poor, tempered by a system of petty tyrannical
interference. He proposes, therefore, that the poor-law should be
abolished. Notice should be given that no children born after a
certain day should be entitled to parish help; and, as he quaintly
suggests, the clergyman might explain to every couple, after
publishing the banns, the immorality of reckless marriage, and the
reasons for abolishing a system which had been proved to frustrate the
intentions of the founders.[254] Private charity, he thinks, would
meet the distress which might afterwards arise, though humanity
imperiously requires that it should be 'sparingly administered.' Upon
this duty he writes a sensible chapter.[255] To his negative proposals
Malthus adds a few of the positive kind. He is strongly in favour of a
national system of education, and speaks with contempt of the
'illiberal and feeble' arguments opposed to it. The schools, he
observes, might confer 'an almost incalculable benefit' upon society,
if they taught 'a few of the simplest principles of political
economy.'[256] He had been disheartened by the prejudices of the
ignorant labourer, and felt the incompatibility of a free government
with such ignorance. A real education, such as was given in Scotland,
would make the poor not, as alarmists had suggested, more inflammable,
but better able to detect the sophistry of demagogues.[257] He is, of
course, in favour of savings banks,[258] and approves friendly
societies, though he is strongly opposed to making them compulsory, as
they would then be the poor-law in a new form.[259] The value of every
improvement turns upon its effect in encouraging the 'moral
restraint.' Malthus's ultimate criterion is always, Will the measure
make people averse to premature marriage? He reaches the apparently
inconsistent result that it might be desirable to make an allowance
for every child beyond six.[260] But this is on the hypothesis that
the 'moral restraint' has come to be so habitual that no man marries
until he has a fair prospect of maintaining a family of six. If this
were the practical code, the allowance in cases where the expectation
was disappointed would not act as an encouragement to marriage, but as
a relief under a burthen which could not have been anticipated. Thus
all Malthus's teaching may be said to converge upon this practical
point. Add to the Ten Commandments the new law, 'Thou shalt not marry
until there is a fair prospect of supporting six children.' Then
population will increase, but sufficient means for subsistence will
always be provided beforehand. We shall make sure that there is a
provision for additional numbers before, not after, we add to our
numbers. Food first and population afterwards gives the rule; thus we
achieve the good end without the incidental evils.

Malthus's views of the appropriate remedy for social evils
undoubtedly show an imperfect appreciation of the great problems
involved. Reckless propagation is an evil; but Malthus regards it as
an evil which can be isolated and suppressed by simply adding a new
article to the moral code. He is dealing with a central problem of
human nature and social order. Any modification of the sexual
instincts or of the constitution of the family involves a profound
modification of the whole social order and of the dominant religious
and moral creeds. Malthus tacitly assumes that conduct is determined
by the play of two instincts, unalterable in themselves, but capable
of modification in their results by a more extensive view of
consequences. To change men's ruling motives in regard to the most
important part of their lives is to alter their whole aims and
conceptions of the world, and of happiness in every other relation. It
supposes, therefore, not a mere addition of knowledge, but a
transformation of character and an altered view of all the theories
which have been embodied in religious and ethical philosophy. He
overlooks, too, considerations which would be essential to a complete
statement. A population which is too prudent may suffer itself to be
crowded out by more prolific races in the general struggle for
existence; and cases may be suggested such as that of the American
colonies, in which an increase of numbers might be actually an
advantage by facilitating a more efficient organisation of labour.

The absence of a distinct appreciation of such difficulties gives to
his speculation that one-sided character which alienated his more
sentimental contemporaries. It was natural enough in a man who was
constantly confronted by the terrible development of pauperism in
England, and was too much tempted to assume that the tendency to
reckless propagation was not only a very grave evil, but the ultimate
source of every evil. The doctrine taken up in this unqualified
fashion by some of his disciples, and preached by them with the utmost
fervour as the one secret of prosperity, shocked both the conservative
and orthodox whose prejudices were trampled upon, and such Radicals as
inherited Godwin's or Condorcet's theory of perfectibility. Harsh and
one-sided as it might be, however, we may still hold that it was of
value, not only in regard to the most pressing difficulty of the day,
but also as calling attention to a vitally important condition of
social welfare. The question, however, recurs whether, when the
doctrine is so qualified as to be admissible, it does not also become
a mere truism.

An answer to this question should begin by recognising one specific
resemblance between his speculations and Darwin's. Facts, which appear
from an older point of view to be proofs of a miraculous
interposition, become with Malthus, as with Darwin, the normal results
of admitted conditions. Godwin had admitted that there was some
'principle which kept population on a level with subsistence.' 'The
sole question is,' says Malthus,[261] 'what is this principle? Is it
some obscure and occult cause? a mysterious interference of heaven,'
inflicting barrenness at certain periods? or 'a cause open to our
researches and within our view?' Other writers had had recourse to the
miraculous. One of Malthus's early authorities was Süssmilch, who had
published his _Göttliche Ordnung_ in 1761, to show how Providence had
taken care that the trees should not grow into the sky. The
antediluvians had been made long-lived in order that they might have
large families and people an empty earth, while life was divinely
shortened as the world filled up. Süssmilch, however, regarded
population as still in need of stimulus. Kings might help Providence.
A new Trajan would deserve to be called the father of his people, if
he increased the marriage-rate. Malthus replies that the statistics
which the worthy man himself produced showed conclusively that the
marriages depended upon the deaths. The births fill up the vacancies,
and the prince who increased the population before vacancies arose
would simply increase the rate of mortality.[262] If you want to
increase your birth-rate without absolutely producing famine, as he
remarks afterwards,[263] make your towns unhealthy, and encourage
settlement by marshes. You might thus double the mortality, and we
might all marry prematurely without being absolutely starved. His own
aim is not to secure the greatest number of births, but to be sure
that the greatest number of those born may be supported.[264] The
ingenious M. Muret, again, had found a Swiss parish in which the mean
life was the highest and the fecundity smallest known. He piously
conjectures that it may be a law of God that 'the force of life in
each country should be in the inverse ratio of its fecundity.' He
needs not betake himself to a miracle, says Malthus.[265] The case is
simply that in a small and healthy village, where people had become
aware of the importance of the 'preventive check,' the young people
put off marriage till there was room for them, and consequently both
lowered the birth-rate and raised the average duration of life.

Nothing, says Malthus very forcibly, has caused more errors than the
confusion between 'relative and positive, and between cause and
effect.'[266] He is here answering the argument that because the poor
who had cows were the most industrious, the way to make them
industrious was to give them cows. Malthus thinks it more probable
that industry got the cow than that the cow produced industry. This is
a trifling instance of a very general truth. People had been content
to notice the deaths caused by war and disease, and to infer at once
that what caused death must diminish population. Malthus shows the
necessity of observing other collateral results. The gap may be made
so great as to diminish population; but it may be compensated by a
more rapid reproduction; or, the rapidity of reproduction may itself
be the cause of the disease; so that to remove one kind of mortality
may be on some occasion to introduce others. The stream is dammed on
one breach to flow more strongly through other outlets.[267]

This is, I conceive, to say simply that Malthus was introducing a
really scientific method. The facts taken in the true order became at
once intelligible instead of suggesting mysterious and irregular
interferences. Earlier writers had been content to single out one
particular set of phenomena without attending to its place in the more
general and complex processes, of which they formed an integral part.
Infanticide, as Hume had pointed out, might tend to increase
population.[268] In prospect, it might encourage people to have
babies; and when babies came, natural affection might prevent the
actual carrying out of the intention. To judge of the actual effect,
we have to consider the whole of the concrete case. It may be carried
out, as apparently in the South Sea Islands, so generally as to limit
population; or it may be, as in China, an indication that the pressure
is so great that a number of infants become superfluous. Its
suppression might, in the one case, lead to an increase of the
population; in the other, to the increase of other forms of mortality.
Malthus's investigations illustrate the necessity of referring every
particular process to its place in the whole system, of noting how any
given change might set up a set of actions and reactions in virtue of
the general elasticity of population, and thus of constantly referring
at every step to the general conditions of human life. He succeeded in
making many points clear, and of showing how hastily many inferences
had been drawn. He explained, for example, why the revolutionary wars
had not diminished the population of France, in spite of the great
number of deaths,[269] and thus gave an example of a sound method of
inquiry which has exercised a great influence upon later observers.
Malthus was constantly misunderstood and misrepresented, and his
opponents often allege as fatal objections to his doctrine the very
facts by which it was really supported. But we may, I think, say, that
since his writing no serious economical writer has adopted the old
hasty guesses, or has ventured to propose a theory without regard to
the principles of which he first brought out the full significance.


V. POLITICAL APPLICATION

This I take to indicate one real and permanent value of Malthus's
writings. He introduced a new method of approaching the great social
problems. The value of the method may remain, however inaccurate may
be the assumptions of facts. The 'tendency,' if interpreted to mean
that people are always multiplying too rapidly, may be a figment. If
it is taken as calling attention to one essential factor in the case,
it is a most important guide to investigation. This brings out another
vital point. The bearing of the doctrine upon the political as well as
upon the economical views of the Utilitarians is of conspicuous
importance. Malthus's starting-point, as we have seen, was the
opposition to the doctrine of 'perfectibility.' Hard facts, which
Godwin and Condorcet had neglected, were fatal to their dreams. You
have, urged Malthus, neglected certain undeniable truths as to the
unalterable qualities of human nature, and, therefore, your theories
will not work. The revolutionists had opposed an ideal 'state of
nature' to the actual arrangements of society. They imagined that the
'state of nature' represented the desirable consummation, and that the
constitution of the 'natural' order could be determined from certain
abstract principles. The equality of man, and the absolute rights
which could be inferred by a kind of mathematical process, supplied
the necessary dogmatic basis. The antithesis to the state of nature
was the artificial state, marked by inequality, and manifesting its
spirit by luxury. Kings, priests, and nobles had somehow established
this unnatural order; and to sweep them away summarily was the way of
bringing the natural order into full activity. The ideal system was
already potentially in existence, and would become actual when men's
minds were once cleared from superstition, and the political made to
correspond to the natural rights of man. To this Malthus had replied,
as we have seen, that social inequality was not a mere arbitrary
product of fraud and force, but an expedient necessary to restrain the
primitive instincts of mankind. He thus coincides with Bentham's
preference of 'security' to 'equality,' and illustrates the real
significance of that doctrine. Property and marriage, though they
involve inequality, were institutions of essential importance. Godwin
had pushed his theories to absolute anarchy; to the destruction of all
law, for law in general represented coercion or an interference with
the state of nature. Malthus virtually asserted that the metaphysical
doctrine was inapplicable because, men being what they are, these
conclusions were incompatible with even the first stages of social
progress. This means, again, that for the metaphysical method Malthus
is substituting a scientific method. Instead of regarding all
government as a kind of mysterious intervention from without, which
has somehow introduced a fatal discord into the natural order, he
inquires what are the facts; how law has been evolved; and for what
reason. His answer is, in brief, that law, order, and inequality have
been absolutely necessary in order to limit tendencies which would
otherwise keep men in a state of hopeless poverty and depression.

This gives the 'differentia' of the Utilitarian considered as one
species of the genus 'Radical.' Malthus's criticism of Paine is
significant.[270] He agrees with Paine that the cause of popular
risings is 'want of happiness.' But Paine, he remarks, was 'in many
important points totally ignorant of the structure of society'; and
has fallen into the error of attributing all want of happiness to
government. Consequently, Paine advocates a plan for distributing
taxes among the poorest classes, which would aggravate the evils a
hundredfold. He fully admits with Paine that man has rights. The true
line of answer would be to show what those rights are. To give this
answer is not Malthus's present business; but there is one right, at
any rate, which a man does not and cannot possess: namely, the 'right
to subsistence when his labour will not fairly purchase it.' He does
not possess it because he cannot possess it; to try to secure it is to
try to 'reverse the laws of nature,' and therefore to produce cruel
suffering by practising an 'inhuman deceit.' The Abbé Raynal had said
that a man had a right to subsist 'before all social laws.' Man had
the same right, replied Malthus, as he had to live a hundred or a
thousand years. He may live, _if he can_ without interfering with
others. Social laws have, in fact, enlarged the power of subsistence;
but neither before nor after their institution could an unlimited
number subsist. Briefly, the question of fact comes before the
question of right, and the fault of the revolutionary theorists was to
settle the right without reference to the possibility of making the
right correspond to the fact.

Hence Malthus draws his most emphatic political moral. The admission
that all evil is due to government is the way to tyranny. Make men
believe that government is the one cause of misery, and they will
inevitably throw the whole responsibility upon their rulers; seek for
redress by cures which aggravate the disease; and strengthen the hands
of those who prefer even despotism to anarchy. This, he intimates, is
the explanation of the repressive measures in which the
country-gentlemen had supported Pitt. The people had fancied that by
destroying government they would make bread cheap; government was
forced to be tyrannical in order to resist revolution; while its
supporters were led to 'give up some of the most valuable privileges
of Englishmen.'[271] It is then of vital importance to settle what is
and what is not to be set down to government. Malthus, in fact, holds
that the real evils are due to underlying causes which cannot be
directly removed, though they may be diminished or increased, by
legislators. Government can do something by giving security to
property, and by making laws which will raise the self-respect of the
lower classes. But the effect of such laws must be slow and gradual;
and the error which has most contributed to that delay in the progress
of freedom, which is 'so disheartening to every liberal mind,'[272] is
the confusion as to the true causes of misery. Thus, as he has already
urged, professed economists could still believe, so long after the
publication of Adam Smith's work, that it was 'in the power of the
justices of the peace or even of the omnipotence of parliament to
alter by a _fiat_ the whole circumstances of the country.'[273] Yet
men who saw the absurdity of trying to fix the price of provisions
were ready to propose to fix the rate of wages. They did not see that
one term of the proportion implied the other. Malthus's whole
criticism of the poor-law, already noticed, is a commentary upon this
text. It is connected with a general theory of human nature. The
author of nature, he says, has wisely made 'the passion of self-love
beyond expression stronger than the passion of benevolence.'[274] He
means, as he explains, that every man has to pursue his own welfare
and that of his family as his primary object. Benevolence, of course,
is the 'source of our purest and most refined pleasures,' and so
forth; but it should come in as a supplement to self-love. Therefore
we must never admit that men have a strict right to relief. That is to
injure the very essential social force. 'Hard as it may seem in
individual instances, dependent poverty ought to be held
disgraceful.'[275] The spirit of independence or self-help is the one
thing necessary. 'The desire of bettering our condition and the fear
of making it worse, like the _vis medicatrix_ in physics, is the _vis
medicatrix naturae_ in politics, and is continually counteracting the
disorders arising from narrow human institutions.'[276] It is only
because the poor-laws have not quite destroyed it, that they have not
quite ruined the country. The pith of Malthus's teaching is fairly
expressed in his last letter to Senior.[277] He holds that the
improvement in the condition of the great mass of the labouring
classes should be considered as the main interest of society. To
improve their condition, it is essential to impress them with the
conviction that they can do much more for themselves than others can
do for them, and that the _only_ source of permanent improvement is
the improvement of their moral and religious habits. What government
can do, therefore, is to maintain such institutions as may strengthen
the _vis medicatrix_, or 'desire to better our condition,' which
poor-laws had directly tended to weaken. He maintains in his letter to
Senior, that this desire is 'perfectly feeble' compared with the
tendency of the population to increase, and operates in a very slight
degree upon the great mass of the labouring class.[278] Still, he
holds that on the whole the 'preventive checks' have become stronger
relatively to the positive,[279] and, at any rate, all proposals must
be judged by their tendency to strengthen the preventive.

Malthus was not a thoroughgoing supporter of the 'do-nothing'
doctrine. He approved of a national system of education, and of the
early factory acts, though only as applied to infant labour. So, as we
shall see, did all the Utilitarians. The 'individualism,' however, is
not less decided; and leads him to speak as though the elasticity of
population were not merely an essential factor in the social problem,
but the sole principle from which all solutions must be deduced. He is
thus led, as I have tried to show, to a narrow interpretation of his
'moral check.' He is apt to take 'vice' simply as a product of
excessive pressure, and, in his general phrases at least, to overlook
its reciprocal tendency to cause pressure. The 'moral check' is only
preventive or negative, not a positive cause of superior vigour. A
similar defect appears in his theory of the _vis medicatrix_. He was,
I hold, perfectly right in emphasising the importance of individual
responsibility. No reform can be permanent which does not raise the
morality of the individual. His insistence upon this truth was of the
highest importance, and it is to be wished that its importance might
be more fully recognised to-day. The one-sidedness appears in his
proposal to abolish the poor-law simply. That became the most
conspicuous and widely accepted doctrine. All men of 'sense,' said
Sydney Smith--certainly a qualified representative of the class--in
1820, agree, first, that the poor-law must be abolished; and secondly,
that it must be abolished very gradually.[280] That is really to
assume that by refusing to help people at all, you will force them to
help themselves. There is another alternative, namely, that they may,
as Malthus himself often recognises, become demoralised by excessive
poverty. To do simply nothing may lead to degeneration instead of
increased energy. The possibility of an improved law, which might act
as a moral discipline instead of a simply corrupting agency, is simply
left out of account; and the tendency to stimulate reckless population
is regarded not only as one probable consequence, but as the very
essence of all poor-laws. Upon Malthus's assumptions, the statement
that sound political and social theories must be based upon systematic
inquiry into facts, meant that the individual was the ultimate
unalterable unit, whose interest in his own welfare gave the one
fulcrum for all possible changes. The ideal 'state of nature' was a
fiction. The true basis of our inquiries is the actual man known to us
by observation. The main fault of this being was the excess of the
instinct of multiplication, and the way to improve him was to show how
it might conflict with the instinct of self-preservation. In this
shape the doctrine expressed the most characteristic tendency of the
Utilitarians, and divided them from the Socialists or believers in
abstract rights of man.


VI. RENT

Here, then, we are at a central point of the Utilitarian creed. The
expansive force of population is, in a sense, the great motive power
which moulds the whole social structure; or, rather, it forces
together the independent units, and welds them into an aggregate. The
influence of this doctrine upon other economical speculations is of
the highest importance. One critical stage in the process is marked by
the enunciation of the theory of rent, which was to become another
essential article of the true faith. The introduction of this doctrine
is characteristic, and marks the point at which Ricardo superseded
Malthus as chief expositor of the doctrine.

Malthus's views were first fully given in his _Inquiry into Rent_, the
second of three pamphlets which he published during the corn-law
controversy of 1814-15.[281] The opinions now stated had, he says,
been formed in the course of his lecturing at Haileybury; and he made
them public on account of their bearing upon the most absorbing
questions of the time. The connection of the theory with Malthus's
speculations and with the contemporary difficulties is indeed obvious.
The landlord had clearly one of the reserved seats at the banquet of
nature. He was the most obvious embodiment of 'security' as opposed to
equality. Malthus, again, had been influenced by the French economists
and their theory of the 'surplus fund,' provided by agriculture.
According to them, as he says,[282] this fund or rent constitutes the
whole national wealth. In his first edition he had defended the
economists against some of Adam Smith's criticisms; and though he
altered his views and thought that they had been led into preposterous
errors, he retained a certain sympathy for them. Agriculture has still
a certain 'pre-eminence.' God has bestowed upon the soil the
'inestimable quality of being able to maintain more persons than are
necessary to work it.'[283] It has the special virtue that the supply
of necessaries generates the demand. Make more luxuries and the price
may fall; but grow more food and there will be more people to eat it.
This, however, seems to be only another way of stating an unpleasant
fact. The blessing of 'fertility' counteracts itself. As he argues in
the essay,[284] an equal division of land might produce such an
increase of population as would exhaust any conceivable increase of
food. These views--not, I think, very clear or consistently worked
out--lead apparently to the conclusion that the fertility is indeed a
blessing, but on condition of being confined to a few. The result, in
any case, is the orthodox theory of rent. The labourer gets less than
he would if the products of the soil were equally distributed. Both
wages and profits must fall as more is left to rent, and that this
actually happens, he says, with unusual positiveness, is an
'incontrovertible truth.'[285] The fall enables the less fertile land
to be cultivated, and gives an excess of produce on the more fertile.
'This excess is rent.'[286] He proceeds to expound his doctrine by
comparing land to a set of machines for making corn.[287] If, in
manufacture, a new machine is introduced every one adopts it. In
agriculture the worst machines have still to be used; and those who
have the best and sell at the same price, can appropriate the surplus
advantage. This, he declares, is a law 'as invariable as the action of
the principle of gravity.'[288] Yet Smith and others have overlooked a
'principle of the highest importance'[289] and have failed to see that
the price of corn, as of other things, must conform to the cost of
production. The same doctrine was expounded in the same year by Sir
Edward West;[290] and, as it seems to me, more clearly and simply.
West, like Malthus, says that he has to announce a principle
overlooked by Adam Smith. This is briefly that 'each equal additional
quantity of work bestowed on agriculture yields an actually diminished
return.' He holds that profits fall as wealth increases, but he denies
Adam Smith's view that this is a simple result of increased
competition.[291] Competition would equalise, but would not lower
profits, for 'the productive powers of manufactures are constantly
increasing.' In agriculture the law is the opposite one of diminishing
returns. Hence the admitted fall of profits shows that the necessity
of taking inferior soils into cultivation is the true cause of the
fall.

Such coincidences as that between Malthus and West are common enough,
for very obvious reasons. In this case, I think, there is less room
for surprise than usual. The writer generally credited with the
discovery of the rent doctrine is James Anderson, who had stated it
as early as 1777.[292] The statement, however, did not attract
attention until at the time of West and Malthus it was forced upon
observers by the most conspicuous facts of the day. Adam Smith and
other economists had, as Malthus notices, observed what is obvious
enough, that rent in some way represented a 'net produce'--a something
which remained after paying the costs of production. So much was
obvious to any common-sense observer. In a curious paper of December
1804,[293] Cobbett points out that the landlords will always keep the
profits of farmers down to the average rate of equally agreeable
businesses. This granted, it is a short though important step to the
theory of rent. The English system had, in fact, spontaneously
analysed the problem. The landlord, farmer, and labourer represented
the three interests which might elsewhere be combined. Prices raised
by war and famine had led to the enclosure of wastes and the breaking
up of pastures. The 'margin of cultivation' was thus illustrated by
facts. Farmers were complaining that they could not make a profit if
prices were lowered. The landed classes were profiting by a rise of
price raised, according to a familiar law, in greater proportion than
the deficiency of the harvest. Facts of this kind were, one must
suppose, familiar to every land-agent; and to discover the law of
rent, it was only necessary for Malthus and West to put them in their
natural order. The egg had only to be put on its end, though that, as
we know, is often a difficult task. When the feat was accomplished
consequences followed which were fully developed by Ricardo.

FOOTNOTES:

[203] Mr. James Bonar's _Malthus and his Work_ (1885) gives an
admirable account of Malthus. The chief original authorities are a
life by Bishop Otter, prefixed to a second edition of the _Political
Economy_ (1831), and an article by Empson, Malthus's colleague, in the
_Edinburgh Review_ for January 1837.

[204] _Political Justice_ (3rd edition, 1798), ii. bk. viii. chap.
ix., p. 514.

[205] Wallace wrote in answer to Hume, _A Dissertation on the Numbers
of Mankind in Ancient and Modern Times_ (1753), and _Various Prospects
of Mankind_, and _Nature and Providence_ (1761). Godwin refers to the
last.

[206] _Political Justice_, ii. 520.

[207] _Ibid._ ii. 528.

[208] First published in 1795, after the first edition, as Godwin
remarks, of the _Political Justice_.

[209] _Ami des hommes_ (reprint of 1883), p. 15.

[210] _Ami des hommes_, p. 26.

[211] See the curious debate in _Parl. Hist._ xiv. 1318-1365.

[212] The seventh edition of Price's _Observations on Reversionary
Payments_, etc. (1812), contains a correspondence with Pitt (i. 216,
etc.). The editor, W. Morgan, accuses Pitt of adopting Price's plans
without due acknowledgment and afterwards spoiling them.

[213] _Essay on Population_, p. 18. In _Observations_, ii. 141, he
estimates the diminution at a million and a half. Other books
referring to the same controversy are Howlett's _Examination of Dr.
Price's Essay_ (1781); _Letter to Lord Carlisle_, by William Eden
(1744-1814), first Lord Auckland; William Wales's _Enquiry into
Present State of Population_, etc. (1781); and Geo. Chalmers's
_Estimate of the Comparative Strength of Great Britain_ (1782 and
several later editions).

[214] _Essay_ (first edition), p. 339.

[215] _Memoirs_, etc. (1819), ii. 10.

[216] So Sir James Stewart, whose light was extinguished by Adam
Smith, begins his _Enquiry into the Principles of Political Economy_
(1767) by discussing the question of population, and compares the
'generative faculty' to a spring loaded with a weight, and exerting
itself in proportion to the diminution of resistance (_Works_, 1805,
i. 22). He compares population to 'rabbits in a warren.' Joseph
Townsend, in his _Journey Through Spain_ (1792), to whom Malthus
refers, had discussed the supposed decay of the Spanish population,
and illustrates his principles by a geometric progression: see ii.
213-56, 386-91. Eden, in his book on the poor (i. 214), quotes a tract
attributed to Sir Matthew Hale for the statement that the poor
increase on 'geometrical progression.'

[217] _Malthus and his Work_, p. 85.

[218] Voltaire says in the _Dictionnaire Philosophique_ (art.
'Population'): 'On ne propage point en Progression Géométrique. Tous
les calculs qu'on a faits sur cette prétendue multiplication sont des
chimères absurdes.' They had been used to reconcile the story of the
deluge with the admitted population of the world soon afterwards.

[219] _Essay_ (1826), ii 453 _n._ I cite from this, the last edition
published in Malthus's lifetime, unless otherwise stated.

[220] _Essay_, ii. 251 (bk. iii. ch. xiv.).

[221] _Ibid._ (1798), p. 141.

[222] _Essay_, ii. 449 (Appendix).

[223] _Essay_, ii. 473 (Appendix).

[224] _Ibid._ (Second Edition), p. 400. The passage is given in full
in _Malthus and his Work_, p. 307.

[225] _Essay_, i. 469 (bk. ii. ch. x.). Eden had made the same remark.

[226] _Ibid._ ii. 229 (bk. iii. ch. xiv.).

[227] Correspondence in Senior's _Three Essays on Population_ (1829).

[228] _Essay_, i. 234 (bk. i. ch. ii.).

[229] Mr. Bonar thinks (_Malthus and his Work_, p. 324) that Malthus
followed Paley's predecessor, Abraham Tucker, rather than Paley. The
difference is not for my purpose important. In any case, Malthus's
references are to Paley.

[230] _Essay_, ii. 266 (bk. iv. ch. i.).

[231] _Essay_ (first edition), p. 212.

[232] _Ibid._ i. 16 _n._ (bk. i. ch. ii.).

[233] See _e.g._ his remarks upon Condorcet in _Essay_, ii. 8 (bk.
iii. ch. i.); and Owen in _Ibid._ ii. 48 (bk. iii ch. ii.).

[234] _Essay_, i. 15 _n._ (bk. i. ch. ii.); and see _Ibid._ (edit. of
1807) ii. 128.

[235] _Ibid._ (1807) ii. 128.

[236] _Ibid._ (1807) ii. 3 (bk. ii. ch. ii.). (Omitted in later
editions.)

[237] Mr. A. R. Wallace, Darwin's fellow-discoverer of the doctrine,
also learned it from Malthus. See Clodd's _Pioneers of Evolution_.
Malthus uses the phrase 'struggle for existence' in relation to a
fight between two savage tribes in the first edition of his _Essay_,
p. 48. In replying to Condorcet, Malthus speaks (_Essay_, ii. 12, bk.
iii. ch. i.) of the possible improvement of living organisms. He
argues that, though a plant may be improved, it cannot be indefinitely
improved by cultivation. A carnation could not be made as large as a
tulip. It has been said that this implies a condemnation by
anticipation of theories of the development of species. This is hardly
correct. Malthus simply urges against Condorcet that our inability to
fix limits precisely does not imply that there are no limits. This, it
would seem, must be admitted on all hands. Evolution implies definite
though not precisely definable limits. Life may be lengthened, but not
made immortal.

[238] _Essay_ (first edition), 353.

[239] _Ibid._ 42 _n._ (bk. iii. ch. iii.)

[240] _Essay_, ii. 301-36 (bk. iv. ch. i. and ii.). Sumner's _Treatise
on the Records of the Creation, and on the Moral Attributes of the
Creator: with Particular Reference to the Jewish History and the
Consistency of the Principle of Population with the Wisdom and
Goodness of the Creator_ (1815), had gained the second Burnett prize.
It went through many editions; and shows how Cuvier confirms Genesis,
and Malthus proves that the world was intended to involve a
competition favourable to the industrious and sober. Sumner's view of
Malthus is given in Part ii., chaps, v. and vi. In previous chapters
he has supported Malthus's attack on Godwin and Condorcet.

[241] _Essay_, ii. 266 (bk. iv. ch. i.).

[242] _Essay_, ii 268 (bk. iv. ch. i.).

[243] _Ibid._ (bk. iv. ch. ii.).

[244] _Essay_, 241 (bk. iii. ch. iv.).

[245] _Ibid._ ii. 241 (bk. iii. ch. xiv.).

[246] _Ibid._ ii. 293 (bk. iv. ch. iv.).

[247] _Ibid._ ii. 425 (bk. iv. ch. xiii.). Malthus expresses a hope
that Paley had modified his views upon population, and refers to a
passage in the _Natural Theology_.

[248] _Essay_, ii. 292 (bk. iv. ch. iv.).

[249] _Political Economy_ (1836), p. 214.

[250] _Essay_, ii. 298 (bk. iv. ch. iv.).

[251] _Ibid._ ii. 86 (bk. iii. ch. vi.).

[252] _Ibid._ ii. 87 (bk. iii. ch. vi.).

[253] _Essay_, ii. 90 (bk. iii. ch. vi.).

[254] _Ibid._ ii. 338 (bk. iv. ch. viii.).

[255] _Ibid._ ii. (bk. iv. ch. x.).

[256] _Ibid._ ii. 353 (bk. iv. ch. ix.).

[257] _Essay_, ii. 356 (bk. iv. ch. ix.).

[258] _Ibid._ ii. 407 (bk. iv. ch. xii.).

[259] _Ibid._ ii. 375 (bk. iv. ch. xi.).

[260] _Ibid._ ii. 429 (bk. iv. ch. xiii.).

[261] _Essay of 1807_ (bk. iii. ch. ii., and vol. ii. p. 111). The
phrases quoted are toned down in later editions.

[262] _Essay_, i. 330 (bk. ii. ch. iv.).

[263] _Ibid._ ii. 300 (bk. iv. ch. v.).

[264] _Ibid._ ii. 405 (bk. iv. ch. xiii.).

[265] _Ibid._ i. 343 (bk. ii. ch. v.).

[266] _Essay_, ii. 424 (bk. iv. ch. xiii.).

[267] _Ibid._ ii. 304 (bk. iv. ch. v.).

[268] _Essay_, i. 75 (bk. i. ch. v.).

[269] _Ibid._ (bk. ii. ch. vi.).

[270] _Essay_, ii. 318 (bk. iv. ch. vi.).

[271] _Essay_, ii. 315 (bk. iv. ch. v.).

[272] _Ibid._ ii. 326 (bk. iv. ch. vi.).

[273] _Ibid._ ii. 78 (bk. iii. ch. v.).

[274] _Essay_, ii. 454 (Appendix).

[275] _Ibid._ ii. 82 (bk. iii. ch. vi.).

[276] _Ibid._ ii. 90 (bk. iii. ch. vi.).

[277] Senior's _Three Lectures_, p. 86.

[278] Senior's _Three Lectures_, p. 60.

[279] _Essay_, i. 534 (bk. ii. ch. xiii.).

[280] Smith's _Works_ (1859), i. 295.

[281] _Observations on the Effects of the Corn-laws, 1814; Inquiry
into the Nature and Progress of Rent, 1815_; and _The Grounds of an
Opinion on the Policy of restricting the Importation of Foreign Corn_,
intended as an appendix to the _Observations on the Corn-laws_, 1815.

[282] _Inquiry into Rent_, p. 1.

[283] _Ibid._ p. 16.

[284] _Essay_, ii. 35 (bk. iii. ch. ii.).

[285] _Inquiry into Rent_, p. 20.

[286] _Ibid._ p. 18.

[287] _Ibid._ p. 38.

[288] _Inquiry into Rent_, p. 20.

[289] _Ibid._ p. 37.

[290] _Essay on the Application of Capital to Land, by a Fellow of
University College, Oxford, 1815._

[291] _Essay_, p. 19.

[292] _In An Inquiry into the Nature of the Corn-laws_, and again
(1801) in _Observations on Agriculture_, etc., vol. v. 401-51.

[293] _Political Works_, i. 485, etc. In this paper, I may add,
Cobbett, not yet a Radical, accepts Malthus's view of the tendency of
the human species to multiply more quickly than its support. He does
not mention Malthus, but speaks of the belief as universally admitted,
and afterwards illustrates it amusingly by saying that, in his
ploughboy days, he used to wonder that there was always just enough
hay for the horses and enough horses for the hay.



CHAPTER V

RICARDO


I. RICARDO'S STARTING-POINT

David Ricardo,[294] born 19th April 1772, was the son of a Dutch Jew
who had settled in England, and made money upon the Stock Exchange.
Ricardo had a desultory education, and was employed in business from
his boyhood. He abandoned his father's creed, and married an
Englishwoman soon after reaching his majority. He set up for himself
in business, and, at a time when financial transactions upon an
unprecedented scale were giving great opportunities for speculators,
he made a large fortune, and about 1814 bought an estate at Gatcombe
Park, Gloucestershire. He withdrew soon afterwards from business, and
in 1819 became member of parliament. His death on 11th September 1823
cut short a political career from which his perhaps too sanguine
friends anticipated great results. His influence in his own department
of inquiry had been, meanwhile, of the greatest importance. He had
shown in his youth some inclination for scientific pursuits; he
established a laboratory, and became a member of scientific societies.
The perusal of Adam Smith's _Wealth of Nations_ in 1799 gave him an
interest in the application of scientific methods to the questions
with which he was most conversant. Accepting Adam Smith as the leading
authority, he proceeded to think out for himself certain doctrines,
which appeared to him to have been insufficiently recognised by his
teacher. The first result of his speculations was a pamphlet published
in 1809 upon the depreciation of the currency. Upon that topic he
spoke as an expert, and his main doctrines were accepted by the famous
Bullion Committee. Ricardo thus became a recognised authority on one
great set of problems of the highest immediate interest. Malthus's
_Inquiry into Rent_ suggested another pamphlet; and in 1817,
encouraged by the warm pressure of his friend, James Mill, he
published his chief book, the _Principles of Political Economy and
Taxation_. This became the economic Bible of the Utilitarians. The
task of a commentator or interpreter is, for various reasons, a
difficult one.

There is a certain analogy between Ricardo and a very different
writer, Bishop Butler. Each of them produced a great effect by a short
treatise, and in each case the book owed very little to the ordinary
literary graces. Ricardo's want of literary training, or his natural
difficulty of utterance, made his style still worse than Butler's;
but, like Butler, he commands our respect by his obvious sincerity and
earnestness. He is content when he has so expressed his argument that
it can be seized by an attentive reader. He is incapable of, or
indifferent to, clear and orderly exposition of principles. The logic
is there, if you will take the trouble to look for it. Perhaps we
ought to be flattered by this tacit reliance upon our patience. 'You,'
Ricardo, like Butler, seems to say to us, 'are anxious for truth: you
do not care for ornament, and may be trusted to work out the full
application of my principles.' In another respect the two are alike.
Butler's argument has impressed many readers as a demolition of his
own case. It provokes revolt instead of adhesion. Ricardo, an orthodox
economist, laid down principles which were adopted by Socialists to
upset his own assumptions. Such a God as you worship, said Butler's
opponents, is an unjust being, and therefore worse than no God. Such a
system as you describe, said Ricardo's opponents, is an embodiment of
injustice, and therefore to be radically destroyed. Admitting the
logic, the argument may be read as a _reductio ad absurdum_ in both
cases.

Ricardo has involved himself in certain special difficulties. In the
first place, he presupposes familiarity with Adam Smith. The
_Principles_ is a running comment upon some of Smith's theories, and
no attempt is made to reduce them to systematic order. He starts by
laying down propositions, the proof of which comes afterwards, and is
then rather intimated than expressly given. He adopts the terminology
which Smith had accepted from popular use,[295] and often applies it
in a special significance, which is at least liable to be
misunderstood by his readers, or forgotten by himself. It is
difficult, again, to feel sure whether some of his statements are to
be taken as positive assertions of fact, or merely as convenient
assumptions for the purposes of his argument. Ricardo himself, as
appears in his letters, was painfully aware of his own awkwardness of
expression, and upon that point alone all his critics seem to be in
tolerable agreement. Happily, it will be enough for my purpose if I
can lay down his essential premises without following him to the
remoter deductions.

Ricardo's pamphlet upon Malthus (1815) gives a starting-point. Ricardo
cordially adopts Malthus's theory of rent, but declares that it is
fatal to some of Malthus's conclusions. Malthus, we have seen, wished
to regard rent as in some sense a gift of Providence--a positive
blessing due to the fertility of the soil. Ricardo maintains, on the
contrary, that 'the interest of the landlord is necessarily opposed to
the interest of every other class in the community.'[296] The landlord
is prosperous when corn is scarce and dear; all other persons when it
is plentiful and cheap. This follows upon Malthus's own showing. As
men are forced to have recourse to inferior soils, the landlord
obtains a larger share of the whole produce; and, moreover, since corn
also becomes more valuable, will have a larger share of a more
valuable product. The question apparently in dispute--whether we
should be glad that some land is better than the worst, or sorry
because all is not equal to the best--seems rather idle. The real
question, however, is whether rent, being a blessing, should be kept
up by protection,[297] or, being a curse, should be brought down by
competition? What is the real working of the system? Set the trade
free, says Ricardo, and the capital will be withdrawn from the poor
land and employed upon manufactures, to be exchanged for the corn of
other countries.[298] The change must correspond to a more
advantageous distribution of capital, or it would not be adopted. The
principle involved in this last proposition is, he adds, one of the
'best established in the science of political economy, and by no one
is more readily admitted than by Mr. Malthus.' To enforce protection
would be, on Malthus's illustration, to compel us to use the 'worst
machines, when, at a less expense, we could hire the very best from
our neighbours.'[299] Briefly, then, the landlord's interest is
opposed to the national interest, because it enforces a worse
distribution of capital. He compels us to get corn from his worst
land, instead of getting it indirectly, but in greater quantity, from
our spinning-jennies.

For Ricardo, as for Malthus, the ultimate driving force is the
pressure of population. The mass of mankind is always struggling to
obtain food, and is able to multiply so rapidly as to exhaust any
conceivable increase of supplies. The landlord class alone profits.
The greater the struggle for supply the greater will be the share of
the whole produce which must be surrendered to it. Beyond this,
however, lies the further problem which specially occupied Ricardo.
How will the resulting strain affect the relations of the two
remaining classes, the labourers and the capitalists? The ultimate
evil of protection is the bad distribution of capital. But capital
always acts by employing labour. The farmer's capital does not act by
itself, but by enabling his men to work. Hence, to understand the
working of the industrial machinery, we have to settle the relation of
wages and profits. Ricardo states this emphatically in his preface.
Rent, profit, and wages, he says, represent the three parts into which
the whole produce of the earth is divided. 'To determine the laws
which regulate this distribution is the principal problem in political
economy'; and one, he adds, which has been left in obscurity by
previous writers.[300] His investigations are especially directed by
the purpose thus defined. He was the first writer who fairly brought
under distinct consideration what he held, with reason, to be the most
important branch of economical inquiry.

There was clearly a gap in the economic doctrine represented by the
_Wealth of Nations_. Adam Smith was primarily concerned with the
theory of the 'market.' He assumes the existence of the social
arrangement which is indicated by that phrase. The market implies a
constitution of industrial agencies such that, within it, only one
price is possible for a given commodity, or, rather, such that a
difference of price cannot be permanent. According to the accepted
illustration, the sea is not absolutely level, but it is always
tending to a level.[301] A permanent elevation at one point is
impossible. The agency by which this levelling or equilibrating
process is carried out is competition, involving what Smith called the
'higgling of the market.' The momentary fluctuation, again, supposes
the action of 'supply and demand,' which, as they vary, raise and
depress prices. To illustrate the working of this machinery, to show
how previous writers had been content to notice a particular change
without following out the collateral results, and had thus been led
into fallacies such as that of the 'mercantile system,' was Smith's
primary task.

Beyond or beneath these questions lie difficulties, which Smith,
though not blind to their existence, treated in a vacillating and
inconsistent fashion. Variations of supply and demand cause
fluctuations in the price; but what finally determines the point to
which the fluctuating prices must gravitate? We follow the process by
which one wave propagates another; but there is still the question,
What ultimately fixes the normal level? Upon this point Ricardo could
find no definite statement in his teacher. 'Supply and demand' was a
sacred phrase which would always give a verbal answer, or indicate the
immediate cause of variations on the surface. Beneath the surface
there must be certain forces at work which settle why a quarter of
corn 'gravitates' to a certain price; why the landlord can get just so
many quarters of corn for the use of his fields; and why the produce,
which is due jointly to the labourer and the farmer, is divided in a
certain fixed proportion. To settle such points it is necessary to
answer the problem of distribution, for the play of the industrial
forces is directed by the constitution of the classes which co-operate
in the result. Ricardo saw in Malthus's doctrines of rent and of
population a new mode of approaching the problem. What was wanted, in
the first place, was to systematise the logic adopted by his
predecessors. Rent, it was clear, could not be both a cause and an
effect of price, though at different points of his treatise Smith had
apparently accepted each view of the relation. We must first settle
which is cause and which effect; and then bring our whole system into
the corresponding order. For the facts, Ricardo is content to trust
mainly to others. The true title of his work should be that which his
commentator, De Quincey, afterwards adopted, the _Logic of Political
Economy_. This aim gives a partial explanation of the characteristic
for which Ricardo is most generally criticised. He is accused of being
abstract in the sense of neglecting facts. He does not deny the
charge. 'If I am too theoretical (which I really believe to be the
case) you,' he says to Malthus, 'I think, are too practical.'[302] If
Malthus is more guided than Ricardo by a reference to facts, he has of
course an advantage. But so far as Malthus or Adam Smith
theorised--and, of course, their statement of facts involved a
theory--they were at least bound to be consistent. It is one thing to
recognise the existence of facts which your theory will not explain,
and to admit that it therefore requires modification. It is quite
another thing to explain each set of facts in turn by theories which
contradict each other. That is not to be historical but to be
muddleheaded. Malthus and Smith, as it seemed to Ricardo, had
occasionally given explanations which, when set side by side,
destroyed each other. He was therefore clearly justified in the
attempt to exhibit these logical inconsistencies and to supply a
theory which should be in harmony with itself. He was so far neither
more nor less 'theoretical' than his predecessors, but simply more
impressed by the necessity of having at least a consistent theory.

There was never a time at which logic in such matters was more wanted,
or its importance more completely disregarded. Rash and ignorant
theorists were plunging into intricate problems and propounding
abstract solutions. The enormous taxation made necessary by the war
suggested at every point questions as to the true incidence of the
taxes. Who really gained or suffered by the protection of corn? Were
the landlords, the farmers, or the labourers directly interested?
Could they shift the burthen upon other shoulders or not? What, again,
it was of the highest importance to know, was the true 'incidence' of
tithes, of a land-tax, of the poor-laws, of an income-tax, and of all
the multitudinous indirect taxes from which the national income was
derived? The most varying views were held and eagerly defended. Who
really paid? That question interested everybody, and occupies a large
part of Ricardo's book. The popular answers involved innumerable
inconsistencies, and were supported by arguments which only required
to be confronted in order to be confuted. Ricardo's aim was to
substitute a clear and consistent theory for this tangle of perplexed
sophistry. In that sense his aim was in the highest degree
'practical,' although he left to others the detailed application of
his doctrines to the actual facts of the day.


II. THE DISTRIBUTION PROBLEM

The rent doctrine gives one essential datum. A clear comprehension of
rent is, as he was persuaded, 'of the utmost importance to political
economy.'[303] The importance is that it enables him to separate one
of the primary sources of revenue from the others. It is as though, in
the familiar illustration, we were considering the conditions of
equilibrium of a fluid; and we now see that one part may be considered
as a mere overflow, resulting from (not determining) the other
conditions. The primary assumption in the case of the market is the
level of price. When we clearly distinguish rent on one side from
profits and wages on the other, we see that we may also assume a level
of profits. There cannot, as Ricardo constantly says, 'be two rates of
profit,' that is, at the same time and in the same country. But so
long as rent was lumped with other sources of revenue it was
impossible to see, what Malthus and West had now made clear, that in
agriculture, as in manufactures, the profits of the producer must
conform to the principle. Given their theory, it follows that the
power of land to yield a great revenue does not imply a varying rate
of profit or a special bounty of nature bestowed upon agriculture. It
means simply that, since the corn from the good and bad land sells at
the same price, there is a surplus on the good. But as that surplus
constitutes rent, the farmer's rate of profit will still be uniform.
Thus we have got rid of one complication, and we are left with a
comparatively simple issue. We have to consider the problem, What
determines the distribution as between the capitalist and the
labourer? That is the vital question for Ricardo.

Ricardo's theory, in the first place, is a modification of Adam
Smith's. He accepts Smith's statement that wages are determined by the
'supply and demand of labourers,' and by the 'price of commodities on
which their wages are expended.'[304] The appeal to 'supply and
demand' implies that the rate of wages depends upon unchangeable
economic conditions. He endorses[305] Malthus's statement about the
absurdity of considering 'wages' as something which may be fixed by
his Majesty's 'Justices of the Peace,' and infers with Malthus that
wages should be left to find their 'natural level.' But what precisely
is this 'natural level?' If the Justice of the Peace cannot fix the
rate of wages, what does fix them? Supply and demand? What, then, is
precisely meant in this case by the supply and demand? The 'supply' of
labour, we may suppose, is fixed by the actual labouring population at
a given time. The 'demand,' again, is in some way clearly related to
'capital.' As Smith again had said,[306] the demand for labour
increases with the 'increase of revenue and "stock," and cannot
possibly increase without it.' Ricardo agrees that 'population
regulates itself by the funds which are to employ it, and therefore
always increases or diminishes with the increase or diminution of
capital.'[307] It was indeed a commonplace that the increase of
capital was necessary to an increase of population, as it is obvious
enough that population must be limited by the means of subsistence
accumulated. Smith, for example, goes on to insist upon this in one of
the passages which partly anticipates Malthus.[308] But this does not
enable us to separate profit from wages, or solve Ricardo's problem.
When we speak of supply and demand as determining the price of a
commodity, we generally have in mind two distinct though related
processes. One set of people is growing corn, and another working coal
mines. Each industry, therefore, has a separate existence, though each
may be partly dependent upon the other. But this is not true of labour
and capital. They are not products of different countries or
processes. They are inseparable constituents of a single process.
Labour cannot be maintained without capital, nor can capital produce
without labour. Capital, according to Ricardo's definition, is the
'part of the wealth of a country which is employed in production, and
consists of food, clothing, raw materials, machinery, etc., necessary
to give effect to labour.'[309] That part, then, of capital which is
applied to the support of the labourer--his food, clothing, and so
forth--is identical with wages. To say that, if it increases, his
wages increase is to be simply tautologous. If, on the other hand, we
include the machinery and raw materials, it becomes difficult to say
in what sense 'capital' can be taken as a demand for labour. Ricardo
tells Malthus that an accumulation of profit does not, as Malthus had
said, necessarily raise wages[310]; and he ultimately decided, much
to the scandal of his disciple, M'Culloch, that an increase of 'fixed
capital' or machinery might be actually prejudicial, under certain
circumstances, to the labourer. The belief of the labouring class that
machinery often injures them is not, he expressly says, 'founded on
prejudice and error, but is conformable to the correct principles of
political economy.'[311] The word 'capital,' indeed, was used with a
vagueness which covered some of the most besetting fallacies of the
whole doctrine. Ricardo himself sometimes speaks as though he had in
mind merely the supply of labourers' necessaries, though he regularly
uses it in a wider sense. The generalities, therefore, about supply
and demand, take us little further.

From these difficulties Ricardo escapes by another method. Malthus's
theory of population gives him what he requires. The 'natural price of
labour' (as distinguished from its 'market price') is, as he asserts,
'that price which is necessary to enable the labourers, one with
another, to subsist and perpetuate their race without either increase
or diminution.'[312] This is the true 'natural price,' about which the
'market price' oscillates. An increase of capital may raise wages for
a time above the natural price, but an increase of population will
bring back the previous rate. Ricardo warns us, indeed, that this
natural price of labour is not to be regarded as something 'absolutely
fixed and constant.'[313] It varies in different times and countries,
and even in the same country at different times. An English cottager
now possesses what would once have been luxuries. Ricardo admits
again[314] that the wages of different classes of labourers may be
different, although he does not consider that this fact affects his
argument. We may allow for it by considering the skilled labourer as 2
or 1-1/2 labourers rolled into one. The assumption enables him to get
out of a vicious circle. He is seeking to discover the proportions in
which produce will be divided between the two classes, and which
co-operate in the production. The 'demand and supply' principle may
show that an increase of capital will tend to increase wages, but even
that tendency, as he carefully points out, can only be admitted
subject to certain important reservations. In any case, if it explains
temporary fluctuations, it will not ascertain the point round which
the fluctuations take place. But the two variables, wages and profit,
are clearly connected, and if we can once assume that one of these
variables is fixed by an independent law, we may explain in what way
the other will be fixed. Having got rid of 'rent,' the remaining
produce has to be divided between wages and profit. If the produce be
fixed, the greater the share of the labourer the less will be the
share of the capitalist, and _vice versa_. But the labourer's share
again is determined by the consideration that it must be such as to
enable him to keep up the population. The capitalist will get the
surplus produce after allowing to the labourer the share so
determined. Everything turns ultimately upon this 'natural price'--the
constant which underlies all the variations.

One other point is implied. The population is limited, as we see, by
the necessity of raising supplies of food from inferior soils.
Moreover, this is the sole limit. A different view had been taken
which greatly exercised the orthodox economists. It was generally
admitted that in the progress of society the rate of profit declined.
Adam Smith explained this by arguing that, as capital increased, the
competition of capitalists lowered the rate. To this it was replied
(as by West) that though competition equalised profits, it could not
fix the rate of profit. The simple increase of capital does not prove
that it will be less profitably employed. The economists had
constantly to argue against the terrible possibility of a general
'glut.' The condition of things at the peace had suggested this alarm.
The mischief was ascribed to 'over-production' and not to misdirected
production. The best cure for our evils, as some people thought, would
be to burn all the goods in stock. On this version of the argument, it
would seem that an increase of wealth might be equivalent to an
increase of poverty. To confute the doctrine in this form, it was only
necessary to have a more intelligent conception of the true nature of
exchange. As James Mill had argued in his pamphlet against Spence,
every increase of supply is also an increase of demand. The more there
is to sell, the more there is to buy. The error involved in the theory
of a 'glut' is the confusion between a temporary dislocation of the
machinery of exchange, which can and will be remedied by a new
direction of industry, and the impossible case of an excess of wealth
in general.[315] Malthus never quite cleared his mind of this error,
and Ricardo had to argue the point with him. Abundance of capital
cannot by itself, he says, 'make capital less in demand.' The 'demand
for capital is infinite.'[316] The decline in the rate of profit,
therefore, depends upon another cause. 'If, with every accumulation of
profit, we could tack a piece of fresh fertile land to our Island,
profits would never fall.'[317] Fertile land, however, is limited. We
have to resort to inferior soil, and therefore to employ capital at a
less advantage. In the _Principles_ he enforces the same doctrine with
the help of Say, who had shown 'most satisfactorily' that any amount
of capital might be employed.[318] If, in short, labour and capital
were always equally efficient, there would be no limit to the amount
producible. If the supply of food and raw materials can be multiplied,
wealth can be multiplied to any amount. The admitted tendency of
profits to fall must therefore be explained simply and solely by the
growing difficulty of producing the food and the raw material.

Ricardo's doctrine, then, is Malthus carried out more logically. Take
a nation in a state of industrial equilibrium. The produce of the
worst soil just supports the labourer, and leaves a profit to the
capitalist. The labourer gets just enough to keep up his numbers to
the standard; the capitalist just enough profit to induce him to keep
up the capital which supports the labourer. Since there can be only
one rate of wages and only one rate of profit, this fixes the shares
into which the whole produce of the nation is divided, after leaving
to the landlord the surplus produce of the more fertile soils.
Accepting this scheme as a starting-point, we get a method for
calculating the results of any changes. We can see how a tax imposed
upon rents or profits or wages will affect the classes which are thus
related; how improvements in cultivation or machinery, or a new demand
for our manufactures, will act, assuming the conditions implied in
this industrial organisation; how, in short, any disturbance of the
balance will work, so as to produce a new equilibrium. Ricardo exerts
all his ingenuity in working out the problem which, with the help of a
few assumptions, becomes mathematical. The arithmetical illustrations
which he employed for the purpose became a nuisance in the hands of
his disciples. They are very useful as checks to general statements,
but lend themselves so easily to the tacit introduction of erroneous
assumptions as often to give a totally false air of precision to the
results. Happily I need not follow him into that region, and may omit
any consideration of the logical value of his deductions. I must be
content to say that, so far as he is right, his system gives an
economic calculus for working out the ultimate result of assigned
economic changes. The pivot of the whole construction is the 'margin
of cultivation'--the point at which the food for a pressing population
is raised at the greatest disadvantages. 'Profits,' as he says,[319]
'depend on high and low wages; wages on the price of necessaries; and
the price of necessaries chiefly on the price of food, because all
other requisites may be increased almost without limit.'

Ricardo takes the actual constitution of society for granted. The
threefold division into landowners, capitalists, and labourers is
assumed as ultimate. For him that is as much a final fact as to a
chemist it is a final fact that air and water are composed of certain
elements. Each class represents certain economic categories. The
landlord sits still and absorbs the overflow of wealth created by
others. The labourer acts a very important but in one respect a purely
passive part. His whole means of subsistence are provided by the
capitalist, and advanced to him in the shape of wages. His share in
the process is confined to multiplying up to a fixed standard. The
capitalist is the really active agent. The labourer is simply one of
the implements used in production. His wages are part of the
capitalist's 'costs of production.' The capitalist virtually raises
labourers, one may say, so long as raising them is profitable, just as
he raises horses for his farm. Ricardo, in fact, points out that in
some cases it may be for the farmer's interest to substitute horses
for men.[320] If it be essential to any product that there should be a
certain number of labourers or a certain number of horses, that number
will be produced. But when the expense becomes excessive, and in the
case of labourers that happens as worse soils have to be broken up for
food, the check is provided through its effect upon the accumulation
of capital. That, therefore, becomes the essential point. The whole
aim of the legislator should be to give facilities for the
accumulation of capital, and the way to do that is to abstain from all
interference with the free play of the industrial forces. The test,
for example, of the goodness of a tax--or rather of its comparative
freedom from the evils of every tax--is that it should permit of
accumulation by interfering as little as possible with the tendency
of the capital to distribute itself in the most efficient way.


III. VALUE AND LABOUR

To solve the distribution problem, then, it is necessary to get behind
the mere fluctuations of the market, and to consider what are the
ultimate forces by which the market is itself governed. What effect
has this upon the theory of the market itself? This leads to a famous
doctrine.

According to his disciple, M'Culloch, Ricardo's great merit was that
he 'laid down the fundamental theorem of the science of value.' He
thus cleared up what had before been an 'impenetrable mystery,' and
showed the true relations of profit, wages, and prices.[321] Ricardo's
theory of value, again, was a starting-point of the chief modern
Socialist theories. It marked, as has been said,[322] the point at
which the doctrine of the rights of man changes from a purely
political to an economical theory. Ricardo remarks in his first
chapter that the vagueness of theories of value has been the most
fertile source of economic errors. He admitted to the end of his life
that he had not fully cleared up the difficulty. Modern economists
have refuted and revised and discussed, and, let us hope, now made
everything quite plain. They have certainly shown that some of
Ricardo's puzzles implied confusions singular in so keen a thinker.
That may serve as a warning against dogmatism. Boys in the next
generation will probably be asked by examiners to expose the palpable
fallacies of what to us seem to be demonstrable truths. At any rate,
I must try to indicate the critical point as briefly as possible.

The word 'value,' in the first place, has varying meanings, which give
an opportunity for writers of text-books to exhibit their powers of
lucid exposition. The value of a thing in one sense is what it will
fetch; the quantity of some other thing for which it is actually
exchanged in the market. In that sense, as Ricardo incidentally
observes,[323] the word becomes meaningless unless you can say what is
the other thing. It is self-contradictory to speak as if a thing by
itself could have a constant or any value. Value, however, may take a
different sense. It is the economic equivalent of the 'utility' of
Bentham's 'felicific calculus.' It means the 'lot of pleasure' which
causes a thing to be desirable. If we could tell how many units of
utility it contained we could infer the rate of exchange for other
things. The value of anything 'in use' will correspond to the number
of units of utility which it contains; and things which have the same
quantity of 'utilities' will have the same 'exchangeable value.'
Ricardo can thus consider the old problem of finding 'an invariable
measure of value.' He points out the difficulty of finding any
particular thing which will serve the purpose, inasmuch as the
relations of everything to everything else are constantly varying. He
therefore proposes to make use of an imaginary measure. If gold were
always produced under exactly the same circumstances, with the same
labour and the same capital, it would serve approximately for a
standard. Accordingly he gives notice that, for the purposes of his
book, he will assume this to be the case, and money to be 'invariable
in value.'[324] We can thus, on the one hand, compare values at
different periods. A thing has the same value at all times which at
all times requires 'the same sacrifice of toil and labour to produce
it.'[325] The 'sacrifice' measures the 'utility,' and we may assume
that the same labour corresponds in all ages to the same psychological
unit. But, on the other hand, at any given period things will exchange
in proportion to the labour of producing them. This follows at once
from Ricardo's postulates. Given the single rate of wages and profits,
and assuming the capital employed to be in the same proportion, things
must exchange in proportion to the quantity of labour employed; for if
I got the same value by employing one labourer as you get by employing
two, my profits would be higher. Ricardo, indeed, has to allow for
many complexities arising from the fact that very different quantities
of capital are required in different industries; but the general
principle is given by the simplest case. Hence we have a measure of
value, applicable at any given time and in comparing different times.
It implies, again, what M'Culloch sums up as the 'fundamental
theorem,' that the value of 'freely produced commodities' depends on
the quantity of labour required for their 'production.' What is made
by two men is worth twice what is made by one man. That gives what
M'Culloch calls the 'clue to the labyrinth.'

The doctrine leads to a puzzle. If I can measure the 'sacrifice,' can
I measure the 'utility' which it gains? The 'utility' of an ounce of
gold is not something 'objective' like its physical qualities, but
varies with the varying wants of the employer. Iron or coal may be
used for an infinite variety of purposes and the utility will be
different in each. The thing may derive part of its 'utility' from its
relation to other things. The utility of my food is not really
separate from the utility of my hat; for unless I eat I cannot wear
hats. My desire for any object, again, is modified by all my other
desires, and even if I could isolate a 'desire' as a psychological
unit, it would not give me a fixed measure. Twice the article does not
give twice the utility; a double stimulus may only add a small
pleasure or convert it into agony. These and other difficulties imply
the hopelessness of searching for this chimerical unit of 'utility'
when considered as a separate thing. It shifts and escapes from our
hands directly we grasp it. Ricardo discusses some of these points in
his interesting chapter on 'Value and Riches.' Gold, he says, may cost
two thousand times more than iron, but it is certainly not two
thousand times as useful.[326] Suppose, again, that some invention
enables you to make more luxuries by the same labour, you increase
wealth but not value. There will be, say, twice as many hats, but each
hat may have half its former value. There will be more things to
enjoy, but they will only exchange for the same quantity of other
things. That is, he says, the amount of 'riches' varies, while the
amount of value is fixed. This, according to him, proves that value
does not vary with 'utility.' 'Utility,' as he declares in his first
chapter, is 'absolutely essential to value,' but it is 'not the
measure of exchangeable value.'[327] A solution of these puzzles may
be sought in any modern text-book. Ricardo escapes by an apparently
paradoxical conclusion. He is undertaking an impossible problem when
he starts from the buyers' desire of an 'utility.' Therefore he turns
from the buyers to the sellers. The seller has apparently a measurable
and definable motive--the desire to make so much per cent. on his
capital.[328] Ricardo, unfortunately, speaks as though the two parties
to the bargain somehow represented mutually exclusive processes.
'Supply and demand' determine the value of 'monopolised articles,' but
the cost of other articles depends _not_ 'on the state of demand and
supply,' _but_ 'on the increased or diminished cost of their
production.'[329] Why 'not' and 'but'? If supply and demand
corresponds to the whole play of motives which determines the bargain,
this is like saying, according to the old illustration, that we must
attribute the whole effect of a pair of scissors to one blade and not
to the other. His view leads to the apparent confusion of taking for
the cause of value not our desire for a thing, but the sacrifice we
must make to attain it. Bentham[330] said, for example, that Ricardo
confused 'cost' with 'value.' The denial that utility must in some
sense or other determine value perplexes an intelligible and
consistent meaning. It is clearly true, upon his postulates, that the
value of goods, other than 'monopolised,' must conform to the cost of
production. He speaks as if he confounded a necessary condition with
an 'efficient cause,' and as if one of two correlative processes could
be explained without the other. But the fact that there is a
conformity, however brought about, was enough for his purpose. The
demand of buyers, he would say, determines the particular direction of
production: it settles whether hats should be made of silk or beaver;
whether we should grow corn or spin cotton. But the ultimate force is
the capitalist's desire for profit. So long as he can raise labourers'
necessaries by employing part of his capital, he can employ the labour
as he chooses. He can always produce wealth; all the wealth produced
can be exchanged, and the demand always be equal to the supply, since
the demand is merely the other side of the supply. The buyer's tastes
decide how the capital shall be applied, but does not settle how much
wealth there shall be, only what particular forms it shall take.
Somehow or other it must always adjust itself so that the value of
each particular kind shall correspond to the 'cost of production.' The
cost of production includes the tools and the raw materials, which are
themselves products of previous labour. All capital itself is
ultimately the product of labour, and thus, as Ricardo incidentally
says, may be regarded as 'accumulated labour.'[331]

This phrase sums up the doctrine which underlies his theory of value
and indicates its connection with the theory of distribution. Ricardo
had perceived that the supply and demand formula which would serve
sufficiently in problems of exchange, or the fluctuations of
market-price, could not be made to solve the more fundamental problem
of distribution. We must look beneath the superficial phenomena and
ask what is the nature of the structure itself: what is the driving
force or the mainspring which works the whole mechanism. We seem,
indeed, to be inquiring into the very origin of industrial
organisation. The foundation of a sound doctrine comes from Adam
Smith. Smith had said that in a primitive society the only rule would
be that things should exchange in proportion to the labour of getting
them. If it cost twice as much labour to kill a beaver as to kill a
deer, one beaver would be worth two deer. In accepting this bit of
what Smith's commentator, Dugald Stewart,[332] calls 'theoretical' or
'conjectural' history, Ricardo did not mean to state a historical
fact. He was not thinking of actual Choctaws or Cherokees. The beaver
was exchanged for the deer about the time when the primitive man
signed the 'social contract.' He is a hypothetical person used for
purposes of illustration and simplification. Ricardo is not really
dealing with the question of origins; but he is not the less implying
a theory of structure. It did not matter that the 'social contract'
was historically a figment; it would serve equally well to explain
government. It did not matter that actual savages may have exchanged
beavers and deer by the help of clubs instead of competition in the
market. The industrial fabric is what would have been had it been thus
built up. It can be constructed from base to summit by the application
of his formula. As in the imaginary state of deer and beaver, we have
a number of independent persons making their bargains upon this
principle of the equivalence of labour; and that principle is supposed
to be carried out so that the most remote processes of the industrial
machinery can be analysed into results of this principle. This gives a
sufficient clue to the whole labyrinth of modern industry, and there
is no need of considering the extinct forms of social structure, which
we know to have existed, and under which the whole system of
distribution took place under entirely different conditions.[333] A
great change has taken place since the time of the deer and beaver:
the capitalist has been developed, and has become the motive power.
The labourer's part is passive; and the 'value' is fixed by the
bargaining between the proprietors of 'accumulated labour,' forced by
competition to make equal profits, instead of being fixed by the
equitable bargain between the two hunters exchanging the products of
their individual labour. Essentially, however, the principle is the
same. In the last as in the first stage of society, things are
exchanged in proportion to the labour necessary to produce them. Now
it is plain enough that such a doctrine cannot lead to a complete
solution of the problem of distribution. It would be a palpably
inadequate account of historical processes which have determined the
actual relation of classes. The industrial mechanism has been
developed as a part of the whole social evolution; and, however
important the economic forces, they have been inextricably blended
with all the other forces by which a society is built up. For the same
reason, Ricardo's theorem would be inadequate 'sociologically,' or as
a formula which would enable us to predict the future distribution of
wealth. It omits essential factors in the process, and therefore
supposes forces to act automatically and invariably which will in fact
be profoundly modified in societies differently organised and
composed of individuals differing in character. The very fundamental
assumptions as to the elasticity of population, and the accumulation
of capital as wages and profits fluctuate, are clearly not absolute
truths. An increase of the capitalist's share, for example, at the
expense of wages, may lead to the lowered efficiency of the labourer;
and, instead of the compensating process supposed to result from the
stimulus to accumulation, the actual result may be a general
degeneration of the industry. Or, again, the capacity of labourers to
combine both depends and reacts upon their intelligence and moral
character, and will profoundly modify the results of the general
competition.[334] Such remarks, now familiar enough, are enough to
suggest that a full explanation of the economic phenomena would
require reference to considerations which lie beyond the proper sphere
of the economist. Yet the economist may urge that he is making a fair
and perhaps necessary abstraction. He may consider the forces to be
constant, although he may be fully aware that the assumption requires
to be corrected when his formulæ are applied to facts. He may consider
what is the play at any given time of the operations of the market,
though the market organisation is itself dependent upon the larger
organisation of which it is a product. He does not profess to deal in
'sociology,' but 'pure political economy.' In that more limited
sphere he may accept Ricardo's postulates. The rate of wages is fixed
at any given moment by the 'labour market.' That is the immediate
organ through which the adjustment is effected. Wages rise and fall
like the price of commodities, when for any reason the number of
hirers or the number of purchasers varies. The 'supply and demand'
formula, however, could not, as Ricardo saw, be summarily identified
with labour and capital. We must go behind the immediate phenomena to
consider how they are regulated by the ultimate moving power. Then,
with the help of the theories of population and rent, we find that the
wages are one product of the whole industrial process. We must look
beyond the immediate market fluctuation to the effect upon the
capitalists who constitute the market. The world is conceived as one
great market, in which the motives of the capitalist supply the motive
power; and the share which goes to the labourer is an incidental or
collateral result of the working of the whole machinery. Now, though
the sociologist would say that this is quite inadequate for his
purpose, and that we must consider the whole social structure, he may
also admit that the scheme has a validity in its own sphere. It
describes the actual working of the mechanism at any given time; and
it may be that in Ricardo's time it gave an approximate account of the
facts. To make it complete, it requires to be set, so to speak, in a
more general framework of theory; and we may then see that it cannot
give a complete solution. Still, as a consistent scheme which
corresponds to the immediate phenomena, it helps us to understand the
play of the industrial forces which immediately regulate the market.

Ricardo's position suggested a different line of reply. The doctrines
that capital is 'accumulated labour' and that all value is in
proportion to the labour fell in with the Socialist theory. If value
is created by labour, ought not 'labour' to possess what it makes? The
right to the whole produce of labour seemed to be a natural
conclusion. Ricardo might answer that when I buy your labour, it
becomes mine. I may consider myself to have acquired the rights of the
real creator of the wealth, and to embody all the labourers, whose
'accumulated labour' is capital. Still, there is a difficulty. The
beaver and deer case has an awkward ethical aspect. To say that they
are exchanged at such a rate seems to mean that they ought to be
exchanged at the rate. This again implies the principle that a man has
a right to what he has caught; that is, to the whole fruits of his
labour. James Mill, as we have seen, starts his political treatise by
assuming this as obvious.[335] He did not consider the possible
inferences; for it is certainly a daring assumption that the principle
is carried out by the economic system. According to Ricardo rent is
paid to men who don't labour at all. The fundholder was a weight upon
all industry, and as dead a weight as the landlord. The capitalist,
Ricardo's social mainspring, required at least cross-examination. He
represents 'accumulated labour' in some fashion, but it is not plain
that the slice which he takes out of the whole cake is proportioned
accurately to his personal labour. The right and the fact which
coincided in the deer and beaver period have somehow come to diverge.

Here, then, we are at a point common to the two opposing schools.
Both are absolute 'individualists' in different senses. Society is
built up, and all industrial relations determined, by the competition
of a multitude of independent atoms, each aiming at self-preservation.
Malthus's principle applies this to the great mass of mankind.
Systematically worked out, it has led to Ricardo's identification of
value with quantities of labour. Keeping simply to the matter of fact,
it shows how a small minority have managed to get advantages in the
struggle, and to raise themselves upon the shoulders of the struggling
mass. Malthus shows that the resulting inequality prevents the
struggle from lowering every one to starvation point. But the
advantage was not obvious to the struggling mass which exemplified the
struggle for existence. If equality meant not the initial facts but
the permanent right, society was built upon injustice. Apply the
political doctrine of rights of man to the economic right to wealth,
and you have the Socialist doctrine of right to the whole produce of
labour. It is true that it is exceedingly difficult to say what each
man has created when he is really part of a complex machinery; but
that is a problem to which Socialists could apply their ingenuity. The
real answer of the political economists was that although the existing
order implied great inequalities of wealth it was yet essential to
industrial progress, and therefore to an improvement in the general
standard of comfort. This, however, was the less evident the more they
insisted upon the individual interest. The net result seemed to be
that by accident or inheritance, possibly by fraud or force, a small
number of persons have got a much larger share of wealth than their
rivals. Ricardo may expound the science accurately; and, if so, we
have to ask, What are the right ethical conclusions?

For the present, the Utilitarians seem to have considered this
question as superfluous. They were content to take the existing order
for granted; and the question remains how far their conclusions upon
that assumption could be really satisfactory.


IV. THE CLASSICAL POLITICAL ECONOMY.

Ricardo had worked out the main outlines of the 'Classical Political
Economy': the system which to his disciples appeared to be as clear,
consistent, and demonstrable as Euclid; and which was denounced by
their opponents as mechanical, materialistic, fatalistic, and
degrading. After triumphing for a season, it has been of late years
often treated with contempt, and sometimes banished to the limbo of
extinct logomachies. It is condemned as 'abstract.' Of all delusions
on the subject, replies a very able and severe critic,[336] there is
none greater than the belief that it was 'wholly abstract and
unpractical.' Its merits lay in its treatment of certain special
questions of the day; while in the purely scientific questions it was
hopelessly confused and inconsistent. Undoubtedly, as I have tried to
point out, Malthus and Ricardo were reasoning upon the contemporary
state of things. The doctrine started from observation of facts; it
was too 'abstract' so far as it neglected elements in the concrete
realities which were really relevant to the conclusions. One cause of
confusion was the necessity of starting from the classification
implied in ordinary phrases. It is exemplified by the vague use of
such words as 'capital,' 'value,' 'supply and demand.' Definitions, as
is often remarked,[337] come at the end of an investigation, though
they are placed at the beginning of an exposition. When the primary
conceptions to be used were still so shifting and contradictory as is
implied in the controversies of the day, it is no wonder that the
formulæ should be wanting in scientific precision. Until we have
determined what is meant by 'force' we cannot have a complete science
of dynamics. The economists imagined that they had reached the goal
before they had got rid of ambiguities hidden in the accepted
terminology. Meanwhile it will be enough if I try to consider broadly
what was the nature of the body of statements which thus claimed to be
an elaborated science.

Ricardo's purpose was to frame a calculus, to give a method of
reasoning which will enable us to clinch our economic reasoning. We
are to be sure that we have followed out the whole cycle of cause and
effect. Capitalists, landowners, labourers form parts of a rounded
system, implying reciprocal actions and reactions. The imposition of a
tax or a tariff implies certain changes in existing relations: that
change involves other changes; and to trace out the total effect, we
must understand what are the ultimate conditions of equilibrium, or
what are the processes by which the system will adjust itself to the
new conditions. To describe, again, the play of a number of reciprocal
forces, we have to find what mathematicians call an 'independent
variable': some one element in the changes on which all other changes
will depend. That element, roughly speaking, ultimately comes out to
be 'labour.' The simplicity of the system gave an impression both of
clearness and certainty, which was transferred from the reasoning to
the premises. The facts seemed to be established, because they were
necessary to the system. The first step to an estimate of the value of
the doctrine would be to draw up a statement of the 'postulates'
implied. Among them, we should have such formulæ as the single rate of
profits and wages; which imply the 'transferability' of labour and
capital, or the flow of either element to the best-paid employment. We
should have again the Malthusian doctrine of the multiplication of
labour up to a certain standard; and the fact that scarcity means
dearness and plenty cheapness. These doctrines at least are taken for
granted; and it may perhaps be said that they are approximations which
only require qualifications, though sometimes very important
qualifications, to hold good of the society actually contemplated.

They were true enough to give the really conclusive answer to many
popular fallacies. The type of sophistry which Ricardo specially
assailed was that which results from neglecting the necessary
implications of certain changes. The arguments for the old 'mercantile
theory'--for 'protection' of industry, for the poor-law, for resisting
the introduction of machinery, the fear of 'gluts' and all manner of
doctrines about the currency--were really exposed by the economists
upon the right grounds. It was absurd to suppose that by simply
expanding the currency, or by making industry less efficient, or
forcing it to the least profitable employments, you were increasing
the national wealth; or to overlook the demoralising effects of a
right to support because you resolved only to see the immediate
benefits of charity to individuals. It is true, no doubt, that in some
cases there might be other arguments, and that the economists were apt
to take a narrow view of the facts. Yet they decisively exploded many
bad arguments, and by the right method of enforcing the necessity of
tracing out the whole series of results. It was partly to their
success in confuting absurd doctrines that their confidence was due;
though the confidence was excessive when it was transferred to the
axioms from which they professed to start. A doctrine may be true
enough to expose an error, and yet not capable of yielding definite
and precise conclusions. If I know that nothing can come out of
nothing, I am on the way to a great scientific principle and able to
confute some palpable fallacies; but I am still a very long way from
understanding the principle of the 'conservation of energy.' The truth
that scarcity meant dearness was apparently well known to Joseph in
Egypt, and applied very skilfully for his purpose. Economists have
framed a 'theory of value' which explains more precisely the way in
which this is brought about. A clear statement may be valuable to
psychologists; but for most purposes of political economy Joseph's
knowledge is quite sufficient. It is the doctrine which is really used
in practice whatever may be its ultimate justification.

The postulates, however, were taken by the economists to represent
something more than approximate statements of the fact. They imply
certain propositions which might be regarded as axioms. Men desire
wealth and prefer their own interests. The whole theory might then be
regarded as a direct deduction from the axioms. It thus seemed to
have a kind of mathematical certainty. When facts failed to conform to
the theory the difficulty could be met by speaking, as Malthus spoke,
of 'tendencies,' or by appealing to the analogy of 'friction' in
mechanics. The excuse might be perfectly valid in some cases, but it
often sanctioned a serious error. It was assumed that the formula was
still absolutely true of something, and that the check or friction was
a really separable and accidental interference. Thus it became easy to
discard, as irrelevant, objections which really applied to the
principle itself, and to exaggerate the conformity between fact and
theory. The economic categories are supposed to state the essential
facts, and the qualifications necessary to make them accurate were apt
to slip out of sight. Ricardo,[338] to mention a familiar instance,
carefully points out that the 'economic rent,' which clearly
represents an important economic category, is not to be confounded, as
in 'popular' use, with the payments actually made, which often include
much that is really profit. The distinction, however, was constantly
forgotten, and the abstract formula summarily applied to the concrete
fact.

The economists had constructed a kind of automaton which fairly
represented the actual working of the machinery. But then, each
element of their construction came to represent a particular formula,
and to represent nothing else. The landlord is simply the receiver of
surplus value; the capitalist the one man who saves, and who saves in
proportion to profit; and the labourer simply the embodiment of
Malthus's multiplying tendency. Then the postulates as to the ebb and
flow of capital and labour are supposed to work automatically and
instantaneously. Ricardo argues that a tax upon wages will fall, not,
as Buchanan thought, upon the labourer, nor, as Adam Smith thought,
upon rent, but upon profits; and his reason is apparently that if
wages were 'lowered the requisite population would not be kept
up.'[339] The labourer is able to multiply or diminish so rapidly that
he always conforms at once to the required standard. This would seem
to neglect the consideration that, after all, some time is required to
alter the numbers of a population, and that other changes of a totally
different character may be meanwhile set up by rises and falls of
wages. Ricardo, as his letters show,[340] was well aware of the
necessity of making allowance for such considerations in applying his
theorems. He simplified the exposition by laying them down too
absolutely; and the doctrine, taken without qualification, gives the
'economic man,' who must be postulated to make the doctrine work
smoothly. The labourer is a kind of constant unit--absolutely fixed in
his efficiency, his wants, and so forth; and the same at one period as
at another, except so far as he may become more prudent, and therefore
fix his 'natural price' a little higher. An 'iron law' must follow
when you have invented an iron unit. In short, when society is
represented by this hypothetical mechanism, where each man is an
embodiment of the required formula, the theory becomes imperfect so
far as society is made up of living beings, varying, though
gradually, in their whole character and attributes, and forming part
of an organised society incomparably too complex in its structure to
be adequately represented by the three distinct classes, each of which
is merely a formula embodied in an individual man. The general rules
may be very nearly true in a great many cases, especially on the
stock-exchange; but before applying them to give either a history or a
true account of the actual working of concrete institutions, a much
closer approximation must be made to the actual data.

I need not enlarge, however, upon a topic which has been so often
expounded. I think that at present the tendency is rather to do
injustice to the common-sense embodied in this system, to the
soundness of its aims, and to its value in many practical and
immediate questions, than to overestimate its claim to scientific
accuracy. That claim may be said to have become obsolete.

One point, however, remains. The holders of such a doctrine must, it
is said, have been without the bowels of compassion. Ricardo, as
critics observe with undeniable truth, was a Jew and a member of the
stock-exchange. Now Jews, in spite of Shylock's assertions, and
certainly Jewish stockbrokers, are naturally without human feeling. If
you prick them, they only bleed banknotes. They are fitted to be
capitalists, who think of wages as an item in an account, and of the
labourer as part of the tools used in business. Ricardo, however, was
not a mere money-dealer, nor even a walking treatise. He was a kindly,
liberal man, desirous to be, as he no doubt believed himself to be, in
sympathy with the leaders of political and scientific thought, and
fully sharing their aspirations. No doubt he, like his friends, was
more conspicuous for coolness of head than for impulsive
philanthropy. Like them, he was on his guard against 'sentimentalism'
and 'vague generalities,' and thought that a hasty benevolence was apt
to aggravate the evils which it attacked. The Utilitarians naturally
translated all aspirations into logical dogmas; but some people who
despised them as hard-hearted really took much less pains to give
effect to their own benevolent impulses. Now Ricardo, in this matter,
was at one with James Mill and Bentham, and especially Malthus.[341]
The essential doctrine of Malthus was that the poor could be made less
poor by an improved standard of prudence. In writing to Malthus,
Ricardo incidentally remarks upon the possibility of raising the
condition of the poor by 'good education' and the inculcation of
foresight in the great matter of marriage.[342] Incidental references
in the _Principles_ are in the same strain. He accepts Malthus's view
of the poor-laws, and hopes that, by encouraging foresight, we may by
degrees approach 'a sounder and more healthful state.'[343] He
repudiates emphatically a suggestion of Say that one of his arguments
implies 'indifference to the happiness' of the masses,[344] and holds
that 'the friends of humanity' should encourage the poor to raise
their standard of comfort and enjoyment. The labourers, as he
elsewhere incidentally observes, are 'by far the most important class
in society.'[345] How should they not be if the greatest happiness of
the greatest number be the legitimate aim of all legislation?

It is true that in his argument Ricardo constantly assumes that his
'natural price' will also be the real price of labour. The assumption
that the labourers' wages tend to a minimum is a base for his general
arguments. The inconsistency, if there be one, is easily intelligible.
Ricardo agreed with Malthus that, though the standard might be raised,
and though a rise was the only way to improvement, the chances of such
a rise were not encouraging. Improved wages, as he says,[346] might
enable the labourer to live more comfortably if only he would not
multiply. But 'so great are the delights of domestic society, that in
practice it is invariably found that an increase of population follows
an amended condition of the labourer,' and thus the advantage is lost
as soon as gained.

I have tried to show what was the logical convenience of the
assumption. Ricardo, who has always to state an argument at the cost
of an intellectual contortion, is content to lay down a rule without
introducing troublesome qualifications and reserves. Yet he probably
held that his postulate was a close approximation to the facts.
Looking at the actual state of things at the worst time of the
poor-law, and seeing how small were the prospects of stirring the
languid mind of the pauper to greater forethought, he thought that he
might assume the constancy of an element which varied so slowly. The
indifference of the Ricardo school generally to historical inquiry had
led them no doubt to assume such constancy too easily. Malthus, who
had more leaning to history, had himself called attention to many
cases in which the 'prudential check' operated more strongly than it
did among the English poor. Probably Ricardo was in this, as in other
cases, too hasty in assuming facts convenient for his argument. The
poor man's character can, it is clear, be only known empirically; and,
in fact, Ricardo simply appeals to experience. He thinks that, as a
fact, men always do multiply in excess. But he does not deny that
better education might change their character in this respect. Indeed,
as I have said, an even excessive faith in the possible modification
of character by education was one of the Utilitarian tenets. If
Ricardo had said broadly that a necessary condition of the improvement
of the poor was a change of the average character, I think that he
would have been saying what was perfectly true and very much to the
purpose both then and now. The objection to his version of a most
salutary doctrine is that it is stated in too narrow terms. The
ultimate unit, the human being, is indeed supposed to be capable of
great modification, but it is solely through increasing his foresight
as to the effects of multiplication that the change is supposed to be
attainable. The moral thus drawn implied a very limited view of the
true nature and influence of great social processes, and in practice
came too often to limiting possible improvement to the one condition
of letting things alone. Let a man starve if he will not work, and he
will work. That, as a sole remedy, may be insufficient; though, even
in that shape, it is a doctrine more likely to be overlooked than
overvalued. And meanwhile the acquiescence in the painful doctrine
that, as a matter of fact, labourers would always multiply to
starvation point, was calculated to produce revolt against the whole
system. Macaulay's doctrine that the Utilitarians had made political
economy unpopular was so far true that the average person resented the
unpleasant doctrines thus obtruded upon him in their most unpleasant
shape; and, if he was told that they were embodied logic, revolted
against logic itself.


V. THE RICARDIANS

It will be quite sufficient to speak briefly of the minor prophets who
expounded the classical doctrine; sometimes falling into fallacies,
against which Ricardo's logical instinct had warned him; and sometimes
perhaps unconsciously revealing errors which really lurked in his
premises. When Ricardo died, James Mill told M'Culloch that they were
'the two and only genuine disciples' of their common friend.[347] Mill
wrote what he intended for a Schoolbook of Political Economy.[348]
Brief, pithy, and vigorous, it purports to give the essential
principles in their logical order; but, as his son remarks,[349] had
only a passing importance. M'Culloch took a more important place by
his writings in the _Edinburgh Review_ and elsewhere, and by his
lectures at Edinburgh and at London. He was one of the first
professors of the new university. His _Principles of Political
Economy_[350] became a text-book, to be finally superseded by John
Stuart Mill. Other works statistical and bibliographical showed great
industry, and have still their value. He was so much the typical
economist of the day that he has been identified with Carlyle's
_M'Crowdy_, the apostle of the dismal science.[351] He writes,
however, with enough vivacity and fervour of belief in his creed to
redeem him from the charge of absolute dulness. An abler thinker was
Colonel (Robert) Torrens (1780-1864).[352] He had served with
distinction in the war; but retired on half-pay, and was drawn by some
natural idiosyncrasy into the dry paths of economic discussion. He was
already confuting the French economists in 1808; and was writing upon
the Bank-charter Act and the Ten Hours' Bill in 1844. Torrens held
himself, apparently with justice, to be rather an independent ally
than a disciple of Ricardo. His chief works were an essay upon the
'External Corn-trade' (1815)[353] and an 'Essay on the Production of
Wealth' (1821). Ricardo pronounced his arguments upon the Corn-trade
to be 'unanswered and unanswerable,'[354] and he himself claimed to be
an independent discoverer of the true theory of rent.[355] He was
certainly a man of considerable acuteness and originality. In these
writings we find the most sanguine expressions of the belief that
political economy was not only a potential, but on the verge of
becoming an actual, science. Torrens observes that all sciences have
to pass through a period of controversy; but thinks that economists
are emerging from this stage, and rapidly approaching unanimity. In
twenty years, says this hopeful prophet, there will scarcely exist a
'doubt of its' (Political Economy's) 'fundamental principles.'[356]
Torrens thinks that Ricardo has generalised too much, and Malthus too
little; but proposes, with proper professions of modesty, to take the
true _via media_, and weld the sound principles into a harmonious
whole by a due combination of observation and theory. The science, he
thinks, is 'analogous to the mixed mathematics.'[357] As from the laws
of motion we can deduce the theory of dynamics, so from certain simple
axioms about human nature we can deduce the science of Political
Economy. M'Culloch, at starting, insists in edifying terms upon the
necessity of a careful and comprehensive induction, and of the study
of industrial phenomena in different times and places, and under
varying institutions.[358] This, however, does not prevent him from
adopting the same methods of reasoning. 'Induction' soon does its
office, and supplies a few simple principles, from which we may make a
leap to our conclusions by a rapid, deductive process.

The problems appear to be too simple to require long preliminary
investigations of fact. Torrens speaks of proving by 'strictly
demonstrative evidence' or of 'proceeding to demonstrate' by strict
analysis.[359] This is generally the preface to one of those
characteristic arithmetical illustrations to which Ricardo's practice
gave a sanction. We are always starting an imaginary capitalist with
so many quarters of corn and suits of clothes, which he can transmute
into any kind of product, and taking for granted that he represents a
typical case. This gives a certain mathematical air to the reasoning,
and too often hides from the reasoner that he may be begging the
question in more ways than one by the arrangement of his imaginary
case. One of the offenders in this kind was Nassau Senior (1790-1864),
a man of remarkable good sense, and fully aware of the necessity of
caution in applying his theories to facts. He was the first professor
of Political Economy at Oxford (1825-1830), and his treatise[360] lays
down the general assumption of his orthodox contemporaries clearly and
briefly. The science, he tells us, is deducible from four elementary
propositions: the first of which asserts that every 'man desires to
obtain additional wealth with as little sacrifice as possible'; while
the others state the first principles embodied in Malthus's theory of
population, and in the laws corresponding to the increasing facility
of manufacturing and the decreasing facility of agricultural
industry.[361] As these propositions include no reference to the
particular institutions or historical development of the social
structure, they virtually imply that a science might be constructed
equally applicable in all times and places; and that, having obtained
them, we need not trouble ourselves any further with inductions. Hence
it follows that we can at once get from the abstract 'man' to the
industrial order. We may, it would seem, abstract from history in
general. This corresponds to the postulate explicitly stated by
M'Culloch. 'A state,' he tells us, 'is nothing more than an aggregate
of individuals': men, that is, who 'inhabit a certain tract of
country.'[362] He infers that 'whatever is most advantageous to them'
(the individuals) 'is most advantageous to the state.' Self-interest,
therefore, the individual's desire of adding to his 'fortune,' is the
mainspring or _causa causans_ of all improvement.[363] This is, of
course, part of the familiar system, which applies equally in ethics
and politics. M'Culloch is simply generalising Adam Smith's congenial
doctrine that statesmen are guilty of absurd presumption when they try
to interfere with a man's management of his own property.[364] This
theory, again, is expressed by the familiar maxim _pas trop
gouverner_, which is common to the whole school, and often accepted
explicitly.[365]

It will be quite enough to notice one or two characteristic results.
The most important concern the relation between the labourer and the
capitalist. Malthus gives the starting-point. Torrens, for example,
says that the 'real wages of labour have a constant tendency to settle
down' to the amount rendered necessary by 'custom and climate' in
order to keep up his numbers.[366] Mill observes in his terse way that
the capitalist in the present state of society 'is as much the owner
of the labour' as the manufacturer who operates with slaves. The only
'difference is in the mode of purchasing.'[367] One buys a man's whole
labour; the other his labour for a day. The rate of wages can
therefore be raised, like the price of slaves, only by limiting the
supply. Hence the 'grand practical problem is to find the means of
limiting the number of births.'[368] M'Culloch is equally clear, and
infers that every scheme 'not bottomed on' the principle of
proportioning labour to capital must be 'completely nugatory and
ineffectual.'[369]

The doctrine common to the whole school led M'Culloch to conclusions
which became afterwards notorious enough to require a word of notice.
Torrens, like Ricardo, speaks of capital as 'accumulated labour,' but
makes a great point of observing that, although this is true, the case
is radically changed in a developed state of society. The value of
things no longer depends upon the labour, but upon the amount of
capital employed in their production.[370] This, indeed, may seem to
be the most natural way of stating the accepted principle. M'Culloch
replies that the change makes no difference in the principle,[371]
inasmuch as capital being 'accumulated labour,' value is still
proportioned to labour, though in a transubstantiated shape. M'Culloch
supposed that by carrying out this principle systematically he was
simplifying Ricardo and bringing the whole science into unity. All
questions, whether of value in exchange, or of the rate of wages, can
then be reduced to comparing the simple unit called labour. Both Mill
and M'Culloch regard capital as a kind of labour, so that things may
be produced by capital alone, 'without the co-operation of any
immediate labour'[372]--a result which can hardly be realised with the
discovery of a perpetual motion. So, again, the value of a joint
product is the 'sum' of these two values.[373] All value, therefore,
can be regarded as proportioned to labour in one of its two states.
M'Culloch advanced to an unfortunate conclusion, which excited some
ridicule. Though Ricardo and Torrens[374] rejected it, it was accepted
by Mill in his second edition.[375] Wine kept in a cask might increase
in value. Could that value be ascribed to 'additional labour actually
laid out'? M'Culloch gallantly asserted that it could, though 'labour'
certainly has to be interpreted in a non-natural sense.[376] Not only
is capital labour, but fermentation is labour, or how can we say that
all value is proportioned to labour? This is only worth notice as a
pathetic illustration of the misfortunes of a theorist ridden by a
dogma of his own creation. Another conclusion is more important. The
'real value' of anything is measured by the labour required to produce
it. Nothing 'again is more obvious' than that equal labour implies the
'same sacrifice' in all states of society.[377] It might seem to
follow that the value of anything was measured by the labour which it
would command. This doctrine, however, though maintained by Malthus,
was, according to M'Culloch, a pestilent heresy, first exploded by
Ricardo's sagacity.[378] Things exchange, as he explains, in
proportion to the labour which produces them, but the share given to
the labourer may vary widely. The labourer, he says, 'gives a
constant, but receives a variable quantity in its stead.' He makes the
same sacrifice when he works for a day, but may get for it what he
produces in ten hours, or only in one. In every case, however, he gets
less than he produces, for the excess 'constitutes profits.'[379] The
capitalist must get his interest, that is, the wages of the
accumulated labour. Here we come again to the Socialist position, only
that the Socialist infers that the labourer is always cheated by the
capitalist, and does not consider that the machine can ask for 'wages'
on the pretext that it is accumulated labour. What, however,
determines the share actually received? After all, as a machine is not
actually a labourer, and its work not a separable product, we cannot
easily see how much wages it is entitled to receive. M'Culloch follows
the accepted argument. 'No proposition,' he says, 'can be better
established than that the market rate of wages ... is exclusively
determined by the proportion between capital and population.'[380] We
have ultimately here, as elsewhere, 'the grand principle to which we
must always come at last,' namely, 'the cost of production.'[381]
Wages must correspond to the cost of raising the labourer. This leads
to a formula, which afterwards became famous. In a pamphlet[382]
devoted to the question, he repeats the statement that wages depend
upon the proportion between population and capital; and then, as if
the phrase were identical, substitutes that portion of capital which
is required for the labourer's consumption. This is generally cited as
the first statement of the 'wage-fund' theory, to which I shall have
to return.

I need not pursue these illustrations of the awkward results of
excessive zeal in a disciple. It is worth noticing, however, that
M'Culloch's practical conclusions are not so rigid as might be
inferred. His abstract doctrines do not give his true theory, so much
as what he erroneously took to be his theory. The rules with which he
works are approximately true under certain conditions, and he
unconsciously assumes the conditions to be negligible, and the rules
therefore absolute. It must be added that he does not apply his
conclusions so rigidly as might be expected. By the help of
'friction,' or the admission that the ride is only true in nineteen
cases out of twenty, he can make allowance for many deviations from
rigid orthodoxy. He holds, for example, that government interference
is often necessary. He wishes in particular for the establishment of a
'good system of public education.'[383] He seems to have become more
sentimental in later years. In the edition of 1843 he approves the
Factory Acts, remarking that the last then passed 'may not, in some
respects, have gone far enough.'[384] He approves a provision for the
'impotent poor,' on the principle of the Elizabethan act, though he
disapproves the centralising tendency of the new poor-law. Though he
is a good Malthusian,[385] and holds the instinct of population to be
a 'constant quantity,'[386] he does not believe in the impossibility
of improvement. The 'necessary' rate of wages fixes only a minimum:
an increase of population has been accompanied by an increase of
comfort.[387] Wages rise if the standard of life be raised, and a rise
of wages tends to raise the standard. He cordially denounces the
benevolent persons who held that better wages only meant more
dissipation. Better wages are really the great spur to industry and
improvement.[388] Extreme poverty causes apathy; and the worst of
evils is the sluggishness which induces men to submit to reductions of
wages. A sense of comfort will raise foresight; and the _vis
medicatrix_ should be allowed to act upon every rank of society. He is
no doubt an individualist, as looking to the removal of restrictions,
such as the Conspiracy Laws,[389] rather than to a positive action of
the government; but it is worth notice that this typical economist is
far from accepting some of the doctrines attributed to the school in
general.

The classical school blundered when it supposed that the rules which
it formulated could be made absolute. To give them that character, it
was necessary to make false assumptions as to the ultimate
constitution of society; and the fallacy became clear when the formulæ
were supposed to give a real history or to give first principles, from
which all industrial relations could be deduced. Meanwhile, the
formulæ, as they really expressed conditional truths, might be very
useful so long as, in point of fact, the conditions existed, and were
very effective in disposing of many fallacies. The best illustration
would probably be given by the writings of Thomas Tooke
(1774-1858),[390] one of the founders of the Political Economy Club.
The _History of Prices_ is an admirable explanation of phenomena which
had given rise to the wildest theories. The many oscillations of trade
and finance during the great struggle, the distress which had followed
the peace, had bewildered hasty reasoners. Some people, of course,
found consolation in attributing everything to the mysterious action
of the currency; others declared that the war-expenditure had supplied
manufacturers and agriculturists with a demand for their wares,
apparently not the less advantageous because the payment came out of
their own pockets.[391] Tooke very patiently and thoroughly explodes
these explanations, and traces the fluctuations of price to such
causes as the effect of the seasons and the varying events of the war
which opened or closed the channels of commerce. The explanation in
general seems to be thoroughly sound and conclusive, and falls in, as
far as it goes, with the principles of his allies. He shows, for
example, very clearly what were the conditions under which the
orthodox theory of rent was really applicable; how bad seasons brought
gain instead of loss to the 'agricultural interest,' that is, as Tooke
explains, to the landlord and farmer; how by a rise of price out of
proportion to the diminution of supply, the farmer made large profits;
how rents rose, enclosure bills increased, and inferior land was
brought under the plough. The landlord's interest was for the time
clearly opposed to that of all other classes, however inadequate the
doctrine might become when made absolute by a hasty generalisation. I
need not dwell upon the free-trade argument which made the popular
reputation of the economists. It is enough to note briefly that the
error as to the sphere of applicability of the doctrine did not
prevent many of the practical conclusions from being of the highest
value.

FOOTNOTES:

[294] A life of Ricardo by M'Culloch is prefixed to his _Works_. I
cite the edition of 1880. Ricardo's letters to Malthus were published
by Mr. Bonar in 1887; his letters to M'Culloch, edited by Mr.
Hollander for the American Economic Association, in 1895; and his
letters to H. Trower, edited by Mr. Bonar and Mr. Hollander, have just
appeared (1900).

[295] He remarks upon this difficulty in the case of Smith's
treatment of rent, and gives a definition to which he scarcely
adheres.--_Works_, p. 34 ('Principles,' ch. ii., 1888).

[296] _Works_, p. 378. Ricardo, it should be said, complained when
Malthus interpreted him to mean that this opposition of interests was
permanent and absolute.

[297] Malthus admits the general principle of free trade, but supports
some degree of protection to corn, mainly upon political grounds. He
holds, however, with Adam Smith, that 'no equal quantity of productive
labour employed in manufactures could ever occasion so great a
reproduction as in agriculture' (_Grounds of an Opinion, etc._, p.
35)--a relic of the 'physiocrat' doctrine.

[298] _Works_, p. 385.

[299] _Ibid._ p. 386.

[300] See also _Letters to Malthus_, p. 175.

[301] 'Your modern political economists say that it is a principle in
their science that all things find their level; which I deny, and say,
on the contrary, that it is the true principle that all things are
finding their level, like water in a storm.'--Coleridge's
_Table-Talk_, 17th May 1833.

[302] _Letters to Malthus_, p. 96; and see the frequently quoted
passage where he complains that Malthus has taken his book as more
'practical' than he had intended it to be, and speaks of his method of
imagining 'strong cases.'--_Ibid._ p. 167.

[303] _Works_, p. 40 _n._ (ch. ii.).

[304] _Works_, p. 53 (ch. v.), and p. 124 (ch. xvi.), where he quotes
from the _Wealth of Nations_ (M'Culloch), p. 390 (bk. v. ch. ii. art.
3).

[305] _Works_, p. 131.

[306] _Wealth of Nations_ (M'Culloch), p. 31 (bk. i. ch. viii.).

[307] _Works_, p. 41 (ch. ii.).

[308] _Wealth of Nations_ (M'Culloch), p. 36.

[309] _Works_, p. 51 (ch. v.).

[310] _Letters to Malthus_, p. 98.

[311] _Works_, p. 239 (ch. xxxi., added in third edition, 1821).

[312] _Ibid._ p. 50 (ch. v.).

[313] _Ibid._ p. 52.

[314] _Ibid._ p. 15 (ch. i. sec. ii.).

[315] There is, indeed, a difficulty which I happily need not discuss.
Undoubtedly the doctrine of gluts was absurd. There is, of course, no
limit to the amount of wealth which can be used or exchanged. But
there certainly seems to be a great difficulty in effecting such a
readjustment of the industrial system as is implied in increased
production of wealth; and the disposition to save may at a given time
be greater than the power of finding profitable channels for employing
wealth. This involves economical questions beyond my ability to
answer, and happily not here relevant.

[316] _Letters to Malthus_, p. 101.

[317] _Ibid._ p. 52.

[318] _Works_, p. 174 (ch. xxi.).

[319] _Works_, p. 66 (ch. vi.).

[320] _Works_, p. 240 (ch. xxxi.).

[321] Ricardo, _Works_, p. xxiv.

[322] Menger's _Das Recht auf den vollen Arbeitsertrag_ (1891), p. 38.

[323] _Works_, p. 228 (ch. xxviii.).

[324] _Works_, pp. 29, 60.

[325] _Ibid._ p. 166.

[326] _Works_, p. 170 (ch. xx.).

[327] _Ibid._ p. 7.

[328] So he tells Malthus (_Letters_, pp. 173, 174) that the buyer has
'the least to do in the world' with the regulation of prices. It is
all the competition of the sellers. 'Demand' influences price for the
moment, but 'supply follows close upon its heels, and takes up the
regulation of price.'

[329] _Works_, p. 234.

[330] Bentham's _Works_, x. 498.

[331] _Works_, p. 250 (ch. xxxii.).

[332] Stewart's _Works_, x. 34.

[333] See Bagehot's remarks upon J. S. Mill's version of this doctrine
in _Economic Studies_: chapter on 'Cost of Production.'

[334] Another illustration of the need of such considerations is
given, as has been pointed out, in Adam Smith's famous chapter upon
the variation in the rate of wages. He assumes that the highest wages
will be paid for the least agreeable employments, whereas, in fact,
the least agreeable are generally the worst paid. His doctrine, that
is, is only true upon a tacit assumption as to the character and
position of the labourer, which must be revised before the rule can be
applied.

[335] J. S. Mill, too, in his _Political Economy_ makes the foundation
of private property 'the right of producers to what they themselves
have produced.' (Bk. ii. ch. ii. § 1.)

[336] Mr. Edwin Cannan, in _Production and Distribution_ (1894), p.
383.

[337] A definition, says Burke in his essay on the 'Sublime and
Beautiful' (introduction) 'seems rather to follow than to precede our
inquiry, of which it ought to be considered as the result.'

[338] _Works_, p. 34 (chap. ii.). Rent is there defined as the sum
paid for the original and indestructible powers of the soil.

[339] _Works_, p. 132 (chap. xvii.). He admits (_Ibid._ p. 210 _n._)
that the labourer may have a little more than what is absolutely
necessary, and that his inference is therefore 'expressed too
strongly.'

[340] See _Letters to M'Culloch_, p. xxi.

[341] 'The assaults upon Malthus's "great work,"' he says (_Works_, p.
243, ch. xxxii.), 'have only served to prove its strength.'

[342] _Letters to Malthus_, p. 226.

[343] _Works_, p. 58 (ch. v.).

[344] _Ibid._ p. 211 _n._ (ch. xxvi.).

[345] _Ibid._ p. 258 (ch. xxxii.).

[346] _Works_, p. 248 (ch. xxii.).

[347] Bain's _James Mill_, p. 211.

[348] Editions in 1821, 1824, and 1826.

[349] _Autobiography_, p. 204.

[350] The first edition, an expanded version of an article in the
_Encyclopædia Britannica_, appeared in 1825.

[351] _Latter-day Pamphlets_ (New Downing Street). M'Crowdy is
obviously a type, not an individual.

[352] See Mr. Hewin's life of him in _Dictionary of National
Biography_.

[353] Fourth edition in 1827.

[354] Ricardo's _Works_, p. 164 _n._

[355] _External Corn-trade_, preface to fourth edition. J. S. Mill
observes in his chapter upon 'International Trade' that Torrens was
the earliest expounder of the doctrine afterwards worked out by
Ricardo and Mill himself. For Ricardo's opinion of Torrens, see
_Letters to Trower_, p. 39.

[356] _Production of Wealth_ (Preface).

[357] _Production of Wealth_ (Preface).

[358] _Political Economy_ (1825), p. 21.

[359] _External Corn-trade_, pp. xviii, 109, 139; _Production of
Wealth_, p. 375.

[360] Originally in the _Encyclopædia Metropolitana_, 1836.

[361] Senior's _Political Economy_ (1850), p. 26.

[362] _Ibid._ (1825), pp. 55, 129-131.

[363] Senior's _Political Economy_ (150), p. 125.

[364] _Ibid._ p. 135. M'Culloch admits the possibility that a man may
judge his own interests wrongly, but thinks that this will not happen
in one case out of twenty (_Ibid._ p. 15).

[365] See Torrens's _Production of Wealth_, p. 208; and M'Culloch's
_Political Economy_ (1843), p. 294, where he admits some exceptions.

[366] _External Corn-trade_, p. 87, etc.

[367] _Political Economy_ (second edition), pp. 21, 22.

[368] _Ibid._ p. 67.

[369] _Political Economy_ (1825), p. 329.

[370] _Production of Wealth_, p. 34, etc.

[371] _Political Economy_ (1825), p. 318.

[372] Mill's _Political Economy_ (second edition), p. 102; M'Culloch's
_Political Economy_ (1825), pp. 289-291.

[373] M'Culloch's _Political Economy_, p. 290.

[374] Preface to _External Corn-trade_.

[375] _Ibid._ p. 95.

[376] _Political Economy_ (1825), pp. 313-18. This argument disappears
in later editions.

[377] _Ibid._ p. 217.

[378] _Political Economy_, p. 221. De Quincey makes a great point of
this doctrine, of which it is not worth while to examine the meaning.

[379] _Political Economy_, p. 221 _n._

[380] _Ibid._ p. 336.

[381] _Ibid._ p. 337.

[382] 'Essay upon the Circumstances which determine the Rate of Wages'
(1826), p. 113. This was written for Constable's _Miscellany_, and is
mainly repetition from the _Political Economy_. It was republished,
with alterations, in 1851.

[383] _Political Economy_, pp. 359-61.

[384] _Ibid._ (1843), p. 178. And see his remarks on the unfavourable
side of the Factory System, p. 186 _seq._

[385] 'Wherever two persons have the means of subsisting,' as he
quaintly observes, 'a marriage invariably takes place' (_Political
Economy_, p. 154).

[386] _Political Economy_, p. 206.

[387] _Political Economy_, p. 344.

[388] _Ibid._ pp. 349-52.

[389] See pamphlet on the rate of wages, pp. 178-204.

[390] Tooke's _Thoughts and Details on the High and Low Prices of the
last Thirty Years_ appeared in 1823 (second edition 1824). This was
rewritten and embodied in the _History of Prices_, the first two
volumes of which appeared in 1838. Four later volumes appeared in
1839, 1848, and 1857.

[391] The popular view is given by Southey. The Radicals, he says in
1823, desire war because they expect it to lead to revolution. 'In
this they are greatly deceived, for it would restore agricultural
prosperity, and give a new spur to our manufactures' (_Selections from
Southey's Letters_, iii. 382. See also _Life and Correspondence_, iv.
228, 386).



CHAPTER VI

ECONOMIC HERETICS


I. THE MALTHUSIAN CONTROVERSY

The Economic theory became triumphant. Expounded from new university
chairs, summarised in text-books for schools, advocated in the press,
and applied by an energetic party to some of the most important
political discussions of the day, it claimed the adhesion of all
enlightened persons. It enjoyed the prestige of a scientific doctrine,
and the most popular retort seemed to be an involuntary concession of
its claims. When opponents appealed from 'theorists' to practical men,
the Utilitarians scornfully set them down as virtually appealing from
reason to prejudice. No rival theory held the field. If Malthus and
Ricardo differed, it was a difference between men who accepted the
same first principles. They both professed to interpret Adam Smith as
the true prophet, and represented different shades of opinion rather
than diverging sects. There were, however, symptoms of opposition,
which, at the time, might be set down as simple reluctance to listen
to disagreeable truths. In reality, they were indications of a
dissatisfaction which was to become of more importance and to lead in
time to a more decided revolt. I must indicate some of them, though
the expressions of dissent were so various and confused that it is not
very easy to reduce them to order.

Malthus's doctrine was really at the base of the whole theory, though
it must be admitted that neither Malthus himself nor his opponents
were clear as to what his doctrine really was. His assailants often
attacked theories which he disavowed, or asserted principles which he
claimed as his own.[392] I mention only to set aside some respectable
and wearisome gentlemen such as Ingram, Jarrold, Weyland, and Grahame,
who considered Malthus chiefly as impugning the wisdom of Providence.
They quote the divine law, 'Increase and multiply'; think that Malthus
regards vice and misery as blessings, and prove that population does
not 'tend' to increase too rapidly. Jarrold apparently accepts the
doctrine which Malthus attributes to Süssmilch, that lives have been
shortened since the days of the patriarchs, and the reproductive
forces diminished as the world has grown fuller. Grahame believes in a
providential 'ordeal,' constituted by infant mortality, which is not,
like war and vice, due to human corruption, but a beneficent
regulating force which correlates fertility with the state of society.
This might be taken by Malthus as merely amounting to another version
of his checks. Such books, in fact, simply show, what does not require
to be further emphasised, that Malthus had put his version of the
struggle for existence into a form which seemed scandalous to the
average orthodox person. The vagueness of Malthus himself and the
confused argument of such opponents makes it doubtful whether they are
really answering his theories or reducing them to a less repulsive
form of statement.

In other directions, the Malthusian doctrine roused keen feeling on
both sides, and the line taken by different parties is significant.
Malthus had appeared as an antagonist of the revolutionary party. He
had laid down what he took to be an insuperable obstacle to the
realisation of their dreams. Yet his views were adopted and extended
by those who called themselves thorough Radicals. As, in our days,
Darwinism has been claimed as supporting both individualist and
socialistic conclusions, the theory of his predecessor, Malthus, might
be applied in a Radical or a Conservative sense. In point of fact,
Malthus was at once adopted by the Whigs, as represented by the
_Edinburgh Review_. They were followers of Adam Smith and Dugald
Stewart; they piqued themselves, and, as even James Mill admitted,
with justice, upon economic orthodoxy. They were at the same time
predisposed to a theory which condemned the revolutionary Utopias. It
provided them with an effective weapon against the agitators whom they
especially dreaded. The Tories might be a little restrained by
orthodox qualms. In 1812 Southey was permitted to make an onslaught
upon Malthus in the _Quarterly_;[393] but more complimentary
allusions followed, and five years later the essay was elaborately
defended in an able article.[394] An apology was even insinuated for
the previous assault, though the blame was thrown upon Malthus for
putting his doctrines in an offensive shape. A reference to Owen
suggests that the alarm excited by Socialism had suggested the need of
some sound political economy.

Another controversy which was being carried on at intervals indicates
the line of cleavage between the capitalist and the landed interest.
James Mill's early pamphlet, _Commerce Defended_ (1808), and Torrens's
pamphlet, _Economists Refuted_, were suggested by this discussion.
Although the war was partly in defence of British trade, its
vicissitudes produced various commercial crises; and the patriotic
Tories were anxious to show that we could thrive even if our trade was
shut out from the Continent. The trading classes maintained that they
really supplied the sinews of war, and had a right to some control of
the policy. The controversy about the orders in council and Berlin
decrees emphasised these disputes, and called some attention to the
questions involved in the old controversy between the 'mercantile' and
the 'agricultural' systems. A grotesque exaggeration of one theory was
given by Mill's opponent, William Spence[395] (1783-1860), in his
_Britain independent of Commerce_, which went through several editions
in 1808, and refurbished or perverted the doctrine of the French
economists. The argument, at least, shows what fallacies then needed
confutation by the orthodox. In the preface to his collected tracts,
Spence observes that the high price of corn was the cause of 'all our
wealth and prosperity during the war.' The causes of the high price
('assisted,' he admits, 'by occasional bad seasons') were the
'national debt, in other words, taxation,' which raised the price,
first, of necessaries, and then of luxuries (thus, he says,
'neutralising its otherwise injurious effects'), and the virtual
monopoly by the agriculturist of the home market.[396] All our wealth,
that is, was produced by taxation aided by famine, or, in brief, by
the landowner's power of squeezing more out of the poor. Foreign
trade, according to Spence, is altogether superfluous. Its effect is
summed up by the statement that we give hardware to America, and, in
return, get only 'the vile weed, tobacco.'[397] Spence's writings only
show the effect of strong prejudices on a weak brain. A similar
sentiment dictated a more noteworthy argument to a much abler writer,
whose relation to Malthus is significant--Thomas Chalmers
(1780-1847),[398] probably best remembered at present for his
leadership of the great disruption of 1843. He had a reputation for
eloquence and philosophic ability not fully intelligible at the
present day. His appearance was uncouth, and his written style is
often clumsy. He gave an impression at times of indolence and of
timidity. Yet his superficial qualities concealed an ardent
temperament and cordial affections. Under a sufficient stimulus he
could blaze out in stirring speech and vigorous action. His
intellectual training was limited. He had, we are told, been much
influenced in his youth by the French philosophers of the time, and
had appeared on the side of the more freethinking party in the famous
Leslie controversy. Soon afterwards, however, he was converted to
'evangelical' views. He still accepted Thomas Brown as a great
metaphysician,[399] but thought that in moral questions Brown's
deistical optimism required to be corrected by an infusion of Butler's
theory of conscience. He could adapt Butler's _Analogy_, and write an
edifying Bridgewater Treatise. I need only say, however, that, though
his philosophy was not very profound, he had an enthusiasm which
enables him at times to write forcibly and impressively.

Chalmers was from 1803 to 1815 minister of Kilmany, Fifeshire, and his
attention had already been drawn to the question of pauperism. He took
part in the Spence controversy, by an essay upon the _Extent and
Stability of National Resources_.[400] In this he expounds a doctrine
which is afterwards given in his _Political Economy in Connection with
the Moral State and Moral Aspects of Society_.[401] The main purpose
of his early book is the patriotic. It is meant, like Spence's
pamphlet, to prove that Napoleon could do us no vital injury. Should
he succeed, he would only lop off superfluous branches, not hew down
the main trunk. Chalmers's argument to show the ease with which a
country may recover the effects of a disastrous war is highly praised
by J. S. Mill[402] as the first sound explanation of the facts.
Chalmers's position, however, is radically different from the
position of either James or J. S. Mill. Essentially it is the
development of the French economists' theory, though Chalmers is
rather unwilling to admit his affinity to a discredited school.[403]
He has reached some of their conclusions, he admits, but by a
different path.[404] He coincides, in this respect, with Malthus, who
was equally impressed by the importance of 'subsistence,' or of the
food-supply of the labourer. The great bulk of the food required must
be raised within our own borders. As Chalmers says, in 1832, the total
importation of corn, even in the two famine years, 1800 and 1801,
taken together, had only provided food for five weeks,[405] and could
normally represent a mere fringe or superfluous addition to our
resources. His main argument is simple. The economists have fallen
into a fatal error. A manufacturer, he observes, only makes his own
article.[406] The economists somehow imagine that he also supports
himself. You see a prosperous 'shawl-making village.' You infer that
its ruin would cause the destitution of so many families. It would
only mean the loss of so many shawls. The food which supports the
shawl-makers would still be produced, and would be only diverted to
support makers of some other luxury.[407] There would be a temporary
injury to individuals, but no permanent weakening of national
resources. Hence we have his division of the population. The
agriculturists, and those who make the 'second necessaries' (the
cottages, ploughs, and so forth, required by the agriculturist),
create the great wealth of the country. Besides these we have the
'disposable' population, which is employed in making luxuries for the
landowners, and, finally, the 'redundant' or what he calls in his
later book the 'excrescent' or 'superinduced' population,[408] which
is really supported by foreign trade. Commerce, then, is merely 'the
efflorescence of our agriculture.'[409] Were it annihilated this
instant, we should still retain our whole disposable population. The
effect of war is simply to find a different employment for this part
of the nation. Napoleon, he says, is 'emptying our shops and filling
our battalions.'[410] All the 'redundant' population might be
supported by simply diminishing the number of our cart-horses.[411]
Similarly, the destruction of the commerce of France 'created her
armies.' It only transferred men from trade to war, and 'millions of
artisans' were 'transformed into soldiers.'[412] Pitt was really
strengthening when he supposed himself to be ruining his enemy.
'Excrescence' and 'efflorescence' are Chalmers's equivalent for the
'sterility' of the French economists. The backbone of all industry is
agriculture, and the manufacturers simply employed by the landowner
for such purposes as he pleases. Whether he uses them to make his
luxuries or to fight his battles, the real resources of the nation
remain untouched. The Ricardians insist upon the vital importance of
'capital.' The one economic end of the statesmen, as the capitalist
class naturally thinks, should be to give every facility for its
accumulation, and consequently for allowing it to distribute itself in
the most efficient way. Chalmers, on the contrary, argues that we may
easily have too much capital. He was a firm believer in gluts. He
admits that the extension of commerce was of great good at the end of
the feudal period, but not as the 'efficient cause' of wealth, only as
'unlocking the capabilities of the soil.'[413] This change produced
the illusion that commerce has a 'creative virtue,' whereas its
absolute dependence upon agriculture is a truth of capital importance
in political economy. More Malthusian than Malthus, Chalmers argues
that the case of capital is strictly parallel to the case of
population.[414] Money may be redundant as much as men, and the real
causes of every economic calamity are the 'over-speculation of
capitalists,' and the 'over-population of the community at
large.'[415] In this question, however, Chalmers gets into
difficulties, which show so hopeless a confusion between 'capital,'
income, and money, that I need not attempt to unravel his
meaning.[416] Anyhow, he is led to approve the French doctrine of the
single tax. Ultimately, he thinks, all taxes fall upon rent.[417]
Agriculture fills the great reservoir from which all the subsidiary
channels are filled. Whether the stream be tapped at the source or
further down makes no difference. Hence he infers that, as the
landlords necessarily pay the taxes, they should pay them openly. By
an odd coincidence, he would tax rents like Mill, though upon
opposite grounds. He holds that the interest of the landowners is not
opposed to, but identical with, the interest of all classes.
Politically, as well as economically, they should be supreme. They
are, 'naturally and properly, the lords of the ascendant,' and, as he
oddly complains in the year of the Reform Bill, not 'sufficiently
represented in parliament.'[418] A 'splendid aristocracy' is, he
thinks, a necessary part of the social edifice;[419] the law of
primogeniture is necessary to support them; and the division of land
will cause the decay of France. The aristocracy are wanted to keep up
a high standard of civilisation and promote philosophy, science, and
art.[420] The British aristocracy in the reign of George IV. scarcely
realised this ideal, and would hardly have perceived that to place all
the taxes upon their shoulders would be to give them a blessing in
disguise. According to Chalmers, however, an established church
represents an essential part of the upper classes, and is required to
promote a high standard of life among the poor.[421] In connection
with this, he writes a really forcible chapter criticising the
economical distinction of productive and unproductive labour, and
shows at least that the direct creation of material wealth is not a
sufficient criterion of the utility of a class.

Chalmers's arguments are of interest mainly from their bearing upon
his practical application of the Malthusian problem. His interest in
the problem of pauperism had been stimulated by his residence in
Glasgow, where from 1815 to 1823 he had been actively engaged in
parochial duties. In 1819 he had set up an organised system of
charity in a poor district, which both reduced the expenditure and
improved the condition of the poor. The experiment, though dropped
some years later, became famous, and in later years Chalmers
successfully started a similar plan in Edinburgh. It was this
experience which gave shape to his Malthusian theories. He was, that
is, a Malthusian in the sense of believing that the great problem was
essentially the problem of raising the self-respect and spirit of
independence of the poor. The great evil which confronted him in
Glasgow was the mischief connected with the growth of the factory
system. He saw, as he thought, the development of wealth leading to
the degradation of the labourer. The great social phenomenon was the
tendency to degeneration, the gradual dissolution of an organism, and
corruption destroying the vital forces. On the one hand, this
spectacle led him, as it led others, to look back fondly to the good
old times of homely food and primitive habits, to the peasantry as
represented in Burns's _Cotter's Saturday Night_ or Scott's _Heart of
Midlothian_, when the poor man was part of a social, political, and
ecclesiastical order, disciplined, trained, and self-respecting, not a
loose waif and stray in a chaotic welter of separate atoms. These were
the facts which really suggested his theory of the 'excrescent'
population, produced by the over-speculation of capitalists. The
paupers of Glasgow were 'excrescent,' and the 'gluts' were visible in
the commercial crises which had thrown numbers of poor weavers out of
employment and degraded them into permanent paupers. The facts were
before his eyes, if the generalisation was hasty and crude. He held,
on the other hand, that indiscriminate charity, and still more the
establishment by poor-laws of a legal right to support, was
stimulating the evil. The poor-law had worked incalculable mischiefs
in England,[422] and he struggled vigorously, though unavailingly, to
resist its introduction into Scotland. Chalmers, however, did not
accept the theory ascribed to the Utilitarians, that the remedy for
the evils was simply to leave things alone. He gives his theory in an
article upon the connection between the extension of the church and
the extinction of pauperism. He defends Malthus against the
'execrations' of sentimentalism. Malthus, he thinks, would not
suppress but change the direction of beneficence. A vast expenditure
has only stimulated pauperism. The true course is not to diminish the
rates but to make them 'flow into the wholesome channel of maintaining
an extended system of moral and religious instruction.'[423] In other
words, suppress workhouses but build schools and churches; organise
charity and substitute a systematic individual inspection for reckless
and indiscriminate almsgiving. Then you will get to the root of the
mischief. The church, supported from the land, is to become the great
civilising agent. Chalmers, accordingly, was an ardent advocate of a
church establishment. He became the leader of the Free Church movement
not as objecting to an establishment on principle, but because he
thought that the actual legal fetters of the Scottish establishment
made it impossible to carry out an effective reorganisation and
therefore unable to discharge its true functions.

Here Chalmers's economical theories are crossed by various political
and ecclesiastical questions with which I am not concerned. His
peculiarities as an economist bring out, I think, an important point.
He shows how Malthus's views might be interpreted by a man who,
instead of sharing, was entirely opposed to the ordinary capitalist
prejudices. It would be idle to ask which was the more logical
development of Malthus. When two systems are full of doubtful
assumptions of fact and questionable logic and vague primary
conceptions, that question becomes hardly intelligible. We can only
note the various turns given to the argument by the preconceived
prejudices of the disputants. By most of them the Malthusian view was
interpreted as implying the capitalist as distinguished from the
landowning point of view.

To Southey as to Chalmers the great evil of the day was the growth of
the disorganised populace under the factory system. The difference is
that while Chalmers enthusiastically adopted Malthus's theory as
indicating the true remedy for the evil, Southey regards it with
horror as declaring the evil to be irremediable. Chalmers, a shrewd
Scot actively engaged in parochial work, had his attention fixed upon
the reckless improvidence of the 'excrescent' population, and welcomed
a doctrine which laid stress upon the necessity of raising the
standard of prudence and morality. He recognised and pointed out with
great force the inadequacy of such palliatives as emigration,
home-colonisation, and so forth.[424] Southey, an ardent and impulsive
man of letters, with no practical experience of the difficulties of
social reform, has no patience for such inquiries. His remedy, in all
cases, was a 'paternal government' vigorously regulating society; and
Malthus appears to him to be simply an opponent of all such action.
Southey had begun the attack in 1803 by an article in the _Annual
Review_ (edited by A. Aikin) for which the leading hints were given by
Coleridge, then with Southey at Keswick.[425] In his letters and his
later articles he never mentions Malthus without abhorrence.[426]
Malthus, according to his article in the _Annual Review_, regards
'vice' and 'misery' as desirable; thinks that the 'gratification of
lust' is a 'physical necessity'; and attributes to the 'physical
constitution of our nature' what should be ascribed to the 'existing
system of society.' Malthus, that is, is a fatalist, a materialist,
and an anarchist. His only remedy is to abolish the poor-rates, and
starve the poor into celibacy. The folly and wickedness of the book
have provoked him, he admits, to contemptuous indignation; and Malthus
may be a good man personally. Still, the 'farthing candle' of
Malthus's fame as a political philosopher must soon go out. So in the
_Quarterly Review_ Southey attributes the social evils to the
disintegrating effect of the manufacturing system, of which Adam Smith
was the 'tedious and hard-hearted' prophet. The excellent Malthus
indeed becomes the 'hard-hearted' almost as Hooker was the
'judicious.' This sufficiently represents the view of the sentimental
Tory. Malthus, transformed into a monster, deserves the 'execrations'
noticed by Chalmers. There is a thorough coincidence between this view
and that of the sentimental Radicals. Southey observes that Malthus
(as interpreted by him) does not really answer Godwin. Malthus argues
that 'perfectibility' gives an impossible end because equality would
lead to vice and misery. But why should we not suppose with Godwin a
change of character which would imply prudence and chastity? Men as
they are may be incapable of equality because they have brutal
passions. But men as they are to be may cease to be brutal and become
capable of equality. This, indeed, represents a serious criticism.
What Malthus was really concerned to prove was that the social state
and the corresponding character suppose each other; and that real
improvement supposes that the individual must somehow acquire the
instincts appropriate to an improved state. The difference between him
and his opponents was that he emphasised the mischief of legislation,
such as that embodied in the poor-law, which contemplated a forcible
change, destroying poverty without raising the poor man's character.
Such a rise required a long and difficult elaboration, and he
therefore dwells mainly upon the folly of the legislative, unsupported
by the moral, remedy. To Godwin, on the other hand, who professed an
unlimited faith in the power of reason, this difficulty was
comparatively unimportant. Remove political inequalities and men will
spontaneously become virtuous and prudent.

Godwin accordingly, when answering Dr. Parr and Mackintosh,[427] in
1801, welcomed Malthus's first version of the essay. He declares it to
be as 'unquestionable an addition to the theory of political economy'
as has been made by any writer for a century past; and 'admits the
ratios to their full extent.'[428] In this philosophical spirit he
proceeds to draw some rather startling conclusions. He hopes that, as
mankind improves, such practices as infanticide will not be necessary;
but he remarks that it would be happier for a child to perish in
infancy than to spend seventy years in vice and misery.[429] He refers
to the inhabitants of Ceylon as a precedent for encouraging other
practices restrictive of population. In short, though he hopes that
such measures may be needless, he does not shrink from admitting their
possible necessity. So far, then, Godwin and Malthus might form an
alliance. Equality might be the goal of both; and both might admit the
necessity of change in character as well as in the political
framework; only that Malthus would lay more stress upon the evil of
legislative changes outrunning or independent of moral change. Here,
however, arose the real offence. Malthus had insisted upon the
necessity of self-help. He had ridiculed the pretensions of government
to fix the rate of wages; and had shown how the poor-laws defeated
their own objects. This was the really offensive ground to the
political Radicals. They had been in the habit of tracing all evils to
the selfishness and rapacity of the rulers; pensions, sinecures,
public debts, huge armies, profligate luxuries of all kinds, were the
fruits of bad government and the true causes of poverty. Kings and
priests were the harpies who had settled upon mankind, and were
ruining their happiness. Malthus, they thought, was insinuating a base
apology for rulers when he attributed the evil to the character of the
subjects instead of attributing it to the wickedness of their rulers.
He was as bad as the old Tory, Johnson,[430] exclaiming:--

    'How small of all that human hearts endure
    That part which kings and laws can cause or cure!'

He was, they held, telling the tyrants that it was not their fault if
the poor were miserable. The essay was thus an apology for the
heartlessness of the rich. This view was set forth by Hazlitt in an
attack upon Malthus in 1807.[431] It appears again in the _Enquiry_ by
G. Ensor (1769-1843)--a vivacious though rather long-winded Irishman,
who was known both to O'Connell and to Bentham.[432] Godwin himself
was roused by the appearance of the fifth edition of Malthus's _Essay_
to write a reply, which appeared in 1820. He was helped by David Booth
(1766-1846),[433] a man of some mathematical and statistical
knowledge. Hazlitt's performance is sufficiently significant of the
general tendency. Hazlitt had been an enthusiastic admirer of Godwin,
and retained as much of the enthusiasm as his wayward prejudices would
allow. He was through life what may be called a sentimental Radical,
so far as Radicalism was compatible with an ardent worship of
Napoleon. To him Napoleon meant the enemy of Pitt and Liverpool and
Castlereagh and the Holy Alliance. Hazlitt could forgive any policy
which meant the humiliation of the men whom he most heartily hated.
His attack upon Malthus was such as might satisfy even Cobbett, whose
capacity for hatred, and especially for this particular object of
hatred, was equal to Hazlitt's. The personal rancour of which Hazlitt
was unfortunately capable leads to monstrous imputations. Not only
does Malthus's essay show the 'little low rankling malice of a parish
beadle ... disguised in the garb of philosophy,' and bury 'false
logic' under 'a heap of garbled calculations,'[434] and so forth; but
he founds insinuations upon Malthus's argument as to the constancy of
the sexual passion. Malthus, he fully believes, has none of the
ordinary passions, anger, pride, avarice, or the like, but declares
that he must be a slave to an 'amorous complexion,' and believe all
other men to be made 'of the same combustible materials.'[435] This
foul blow is too characteristic of Hazlitt's usual method; but
indicates also the tone which could be taken by contemporary
journalism.

The more serious argument is really that the second version of Malthus
is an answer to his first. Briefly, the 'moral check' which came in
only as a kind of afterthought is a normal part of the process by
which population is kept within limits, and prevents the monstrous
results of the 'geometrical ratio.' Hazlitt, after insisting upon
this, admits that there is nothing in 'the general principles here
stated that Mr. Malthus is at present disposed to deny, or that he has
not himself expressly insisted upon in some part or other of his
various works.'[436] He only argues that Malthus's concessions are
made at the cost of self-contradiction. Why then, it may be asked,
should not Hazlitt take the position of an improver and harmoniser of
the doctrine rather than of a fierce opponent? The answer has been
already implied. He regards Malthus as an apologist for an unjust
inequality. Malthus, he says, in classifying the evils of life, has
'allotted to the poor all the misery, and to the rich as much vice as
they please.'[437] The check of starvation will keep down the numbers
of the poor; and the check of luxury and profligacy will restrain the
multiplication of the rich. 'The poor are to make a formal surrender
of their right to provoke charity or parish assistance that the rich
may be able to lay out all their money on their vices.'[438] The
misery of the lower orders is the result of the power of the upper. A
man born into a world where he is not wanted has no right, said
Malthus, to a share of the food. That might be true if the poor were a
set of lazy supernumeraries living on the industrious. But the truth
is that the poor man does the work, and is forced to put up in return
with a part of the produce of his labour.[439] The poor-laws recognise
the principle that those who get all from the labour of others should
provide from their superfluities for the necessities of those in
want.[440] The 'grinding necessity' of which Malthus had spoken does
not raise but lower the standard; and a system of equality would
lessen instead of increasing the pressure. Malthus, again, has
proposed that parents should be responsible for their children. That
is, says Hazlitt, Malthus would leave children to starvation, though
he professes to disapprove infanticide. He would 'extinguish every
spark of humanity ... towards the children of others' on pretence of
preserving the 'ties of parental affection.' Malthus tries to argue
that the 'iniquity of government' is not the cause of poverty. That
belief, he says, has generated discontent and revolution. That is,
says Hazlitt, the way to prevent revolutions and produce reforms is to
persuade people that all the evils which government may inflict are
their own fault. Government is to do as much mischief as it pleases,
without being answerable for it.[441] The poor-laws, as Hazlitt
admits, are bad, but do not show the root of the evil. The evils are
really due to increasing tyranny, dependence, indolence, and
unhappiness due to other causes. Pauperism has increased because the
government and the rich have had their way in everything. They have
squandered our revenues, multiplied sinecures and pensions, doubled
salaries, given monopolies and encouraged jobs, and depressed the poor
and industrious. The 'poor create their own fund,' and the necessity
for it has arisen from the exorbitant demands made by the rich.[442]
Malthus is a Blifil,[443] hypocritically insinuating arguments in
favour of tyranny under pretence of benevolence.

Hazlitt's writing, although showing the passions of a bitter partisan,
hits some of Malthus's rather cloudy argumentation. His successor,
Ensor, representing the same view, finds an appropriate topic in the
wrongs of Ireland. Irish poverty, he holds, is plainly due not to
over-population but to under-government,[444] meaning, we must
suppose, misgovernment. But the same cause explains other cases. The
'people are poor and are growing poorer,'[445] and there is no mystery
about it. The expense of a court, the waste of the profits and money
in the House of Commons, facts which are in striking contrast to the
republican virtues of the United States, are enough to account for
everything; and Malthus's whole aim is to 'calumniate the people.'
Godwin in 1820 takes up the same taunts. Malthus ought, he thinks, to
welcome war, famine, pestilence, and the gallows.[446] He has taught
the poor that they have no claim to relief, and the rich that, by
indulging in vice, they are conferring a benefit upon the country. The
poor-laws admit a right, and he taunts Malthus for proposing to
abolish it, and refusing food to a poor man on the ground that he had
notice not to come into the world two years before he was born.[447]

Godwin, whose earlier atheism had been superseded by a vague deism,
now thinks with Cobbett that the poor were supported by the piety of
the mediæval clergy, who fed the hungry and clothed the naked from
their vast revenues, while dooming themselves to spare living.[448] He
appeals to the authority of the Christian religion, which indeed might
be a fair _argumentum ad hominem_ against 'Parson Malthus.' He
declares that Nature takes more care of her work than such irreverent
authors suppose, and 'does not ask our aid to keep down the excess of
population.'[449] In fact, he doubts whether population increases at
all. Malthus's whole theory, he says, rests upon the case of America;
and with the help of Mr. Booth and some very unsatisfactory
statistics, he tries to prove that the increase shown in the American
census has been entirely due to immigration. Malthus safely declined
to take any notice of a production which in fact shows that Godwin
had lost his early vigour. The sound Utilitarian, Francis Place, took
up the challenge, and exploded some of Godwin's statistics. He shows
his Radicalism by admitting that Malthus, to whose general benevolence
he does justice, had not spoken of the poor as one sprung like himself
from the poor would naturally do; and he accepts modes of limiting the
population from which Malthus himself had shrunk. For improvement, he
looks chiefly to the abolition of restrictive laws.


II. SOCIALISM

The arguments of Hazlitt and his allies bring us back to the Socialist
position. Although it was represented by no writer of much literary
position, Owen was becoming conspicuous, and some of his sympathisers
were already laying down principles more familiar to-day. Already, in
the days of the Six Acts, the government was alarmed by certain
'Spencean Philanthropists.' According to Place they were a very feeble
sect, numbering only about fifty, and perfectly harmless. Their
prophet was a poor man called Thomas Spence (1750-1815),[450] who had
started as a schoolmaster, and in 1775 read a paper at Newcastle
before a 'Philosophical Society.'[451] He proposed that the land in
every village should belong to all the inhabitants--a proposal which
Mr. Hyndman regards as a prophecy of more thoroughgoing schemes of
Land Nationalisation. Spence drifted to London, picked up a precarious
living, partly by selling books of a revolutionary kind, and died in
1815, leaving, it seems, a few proselytes. A writer of higher literary
capacity was Charles Hall, a physician at Tavistock, who in 1805
published a book on _The Effects of Civilisation_.[452] The effects of
civilisation, he holds, are simply pernicious. Landed property
originated in violence, and has caused all social evils. A great
landlord consumes unproductively as much as would keep eight thousand
people.[453] He gets everything from the labour of the poor; while
they are forced to starvation wages by the raising of rents. Trade and
manufactures are equally mischievous. India gets nothing but jewellery
from Europe, and Europe nothing but muslin from India, while so much
less food is produced in either country.[454] Manufactures generally
are a cause and sign of the poverty of nations.[455]

Such sporadic protests against the inequalities of wealth may be taken
as parts of that 'ancient tale of wrong' which has in all ages been
steaming up from the suffering world, and provoking a smile from
epicurean deities. As Owenism advanced, the argument took a more
distinct form. Mill[456] mentions William Thompson of Cork as a 'very
estimable man,' who was the 'principal champion' of the Owenites in
their debates with the Benthamites. He published in 1824 a book upon
the distribution of wealth.[457] It is wordy, and is apt to remain in
the region of 'vague generalities' just at the points where specific
statements would be welcome. But besides the merit of obvious
sincerity and good feeling, it has the interest of showing very
clearly the relation between the opposing schools. Thompson had a
common ground with the Utilitarians, though they undoubtedly would
consider his logic to be loose and overridden by sentimentalism. In
the first place, he heartily admired Bentham: 'the most profound and
celebrated writer on legislation in this or any other country.'[458]
He accepts the 'greatest happiness principle' as applicable to the
social problem. He argues for equality upon Bentham's ground. Take a
penny from a poor man to give it to the rich man, and the poor man
clearly loses far more happiness than the rich man gains. With
Bentham, too, he admits the importance of 'security,' and agrees that
it is not always compatible with equality. A man should have the
fruits of his labour; and therefore the man who labours most should
have most. But, unlike Bentham, he regards equality as more important
than security. To him the main consideration is the monstrous mass of
evil resulting from vast accumulations of wealth in a few hands. In
the next place, he adapts to his own purpose the Ricardian theory of
value. All value whatever, he argues, is created by labour. The
labourer, he infers, should have the value which he creates. As things
are, the labourer parts with most of it to the capitalist or the owner
of rents. The capitalist claims a right to the whole additional
production due to the employment of capital. The labourer, on the
other hand, may claim a right to the whole additional production,
after replacing the wear and tear and allowing to the capitalist
enough to support him in equal comfort with the productive
labourers.[459] Thompson holds that while either system would be
compatible with 'security,' the labourer's demand is sanctioned by
'equality.' In point of fact, neither system has been fully carried
out; but the labourer's view would tend to prevail with the spread of
knowledge and justice. While thus anticipating later Socialism, he
differs on a significant point. Thompson insists upon the importance
of 'voluntary exchange' as one of his first principles. No one is to
be forced to take what he does not himself think a fair equivalent for
his labour. Here, again, he would coincide with the Utilitarians.
They, not less than he, were for free trade and the abolition of every
kind of monopoly. But that view may lead by itself to the simple
adoption of the do-nothing principle, or, as modern Socialists would
say, to the more effectual plunder of the poor. The modern Socialist
infers that the means of production must be in some way nationalised.
Thompson does not contemplate such a consummation. He denounces, like
all the Radicals of the day, monopolies and conspiracy laws. Sinecures
and standing armies and State churches are the strongholds of tyranny
and superstition. The 'hereditary possession of wealth' is one of the
master-evils, and with sinecures will disappear the systems of entails
and unequal distribution of inheritance.[460] Such institutions have
encouraged the use of fraud and force, and indirectly degraded the
labourer into a helpless position. He would sweep them all away, and
with them all disqualifications imposed upon women.[461] This once
done, it will be necessary to establish a universal and thoroughgoing
system of education. Then the poor man, freed from the shackles of
superstition and despotism, will be able to obtain his rights as
knowledge and justice spread through the whole community. The desire
to accumulate for selfish purposes will itself disappear. The labourer
will get all that he creates; the aggregate wealth will be enormously
multiplied, though universally diffused; and the form taken by the new
society will, as he argues at great length, be that of voluntary
co-operative associations upon Owen's principles.

The economists would, of course, reject the theory that the
capitalists should have no profits; but, in spite of this, they might
agree to a great extent with Thompson's aspirations. Thompson,
however, holds the true Socialist sentiment of aversion to Malthus. He
denies energetically what he takes to be the Malthusian doctrine: that
increased comfort will always produce increased numbers.[462] This has
been the 'grand scarecrow to frighten away all attempts at social
improvement.' Thompson accordingly asserts that increased comfort
always causes increased prudence ultimately; and looks forward to a
stationary state in which the births will just balance the deaths. I
need not inquire here which theory puts the cart before the horse. The
opposition possibly admits of reconciliation; but here I only remark
once more how Malthus stood for the appeal to hard facts which always
provoked the Utopians as much as it corresponded to the stern
Utilitarian view.

Another writer, Thomas Hodgskin, honorary secretary of the Birkbeck
Institution, who published a tract called _Labour defended against the
Claims of Capital, or the Unproductiveness of Capital proved_ (1825),
and afterwards gave some popular lectures on political economy, has
been noticed as anticipating Socialist ideas. He can see, he says, why
something should go to the maker of a road and something be paid by
the person who gets the benefit of it. But he does not see why the
road itself should have anything.[463] Hodgskin writes without
bitterness, if without much logic. It is not for me to say whether
modern Socialists are well advised in admitting that these crude
suggestions were anticipations of their own ideas. The most natural
inference would be that vague guesses about the wickedness of the rich
have been in all ages current among the poor, and now and then take
more pretentious form. Most men want very naturally to get as much and
to work as little as they can, and call their desire a first principle
of justice.

Perhaps, however, it is fairer to notice in how many points there was
unconscious agreement; and how by converting very excellent maxims
into absolute dogmas, from which a whole system was deducible, the
theories appeared to be mutually contradictory, and, taken separately,
became absurd. The palpable and admitted evil was the growth of
pauperism and demoralisation of the labourer. The remedy, according to
the Utilitarians, is to raise the sense of individual responsibility,
to make a man dependent upon his own exertions, and to give him
security that he will enjoy their fruit. Let government give education
on one hand and security on the other, and equality will follow in due
time. The sentimental Radical naturally replies that leaving a man to
starve does not necessarily make him industrious; that, in point of
fact, great and growing inequality of wealth has resulted; and that
the rights of man should be applied not only to political privilege,
but to the possession of property. The Utilitarians have left out
justice by putting equality in the background. Justice, as Bentham
replied, has no meaning till you have settled by experience what laws
will produce happiness; and your absolute equality would destroy the
very mainspring of social improvement. Meanwhile the Conservative
thinks that both parties are really fostering the evils by making
individualism supreme, and that organisation is necessary to
improvement; while one set of Radicals would perpetuate a mere blind
struggle for existence, and the other enable the lowest class to
enforce a dead level of ignorance and stupidity. They therefore call
upon government to become paternal and active, and to teach not only
morality but religion; and upon the aristocracy to discharge its
functions worthily, in order to stamp out social evils and prevent a
servile insurrection. But how was the actual government of George IV.
and Sidmouth and Eldon to be converted to a sense of its duties? On
each side appeal is made to a sweeping and absolute principle, and
amazingly complex and difficult questions of fact are taken for
granted. The Utilitarians were so far right that they appealed to
experience, as, in fact, such questions have to be settled by the slow
co-operation of many minds in many generations. Unfortunately the
Utilitarians had, as we have seen, a very inadequate conception of
what experience really meant, and were fully as rash and dogmatic as
their opponents. I must now try to consider what were the intellectual
conceptions implied by their mode of treating these problems.

FOOTNOTES:

[392] The discussions of population most frequently mentioned are:--W.
Godwin, _Thoughts occasioned by Dr. Parr's Spital Sermon_, etc., 1801;
R. Southey, in (Aikin's) _Annual Review for 1803_, pp. 292-301; Thomas
Jarrold, _Dissertations on Man_, etc., 1806; W. Hazlitt, _Reply to the
Essay on Population_, 1807; A. Ingram, _Disquisitions on Population_,
1808; John Weyland, _Principles of Population_, etc., 1806; James
Grahame, _Inquiry into the Principle of Population_, 1816; George
Ensor, _Inquiry concerning the Population of Nations_, 1818; W.
Godwin, _On Population_, 1820; Francis Place, _Principles of
Population_, 1822; David Booth, _Letter to the Rev. T. R. Malthus_,
1823; M. T. Sadler, _Law of Population_, 1830; A. Alison, _Principles
of Population_, 1840; T. Doubleday, _True Law of Population_, 1842.

[393] _Quarterly Review_, Dec. 1812 (reprinted in Southey's _Moral and
Political Essays_, 1832).

[394] _Quarterly Review_, July 1817, by (Archbishop) Sumner, Malthus's
commentator in the _Records of Creation_. Ricardo's _Letters to
Trower_, p. 47.

[395] _Spence's Tracts on Political Economy_ were collected with a
preface in 1822. Spence is better known as an entomologist, and
collaborated with William Kirby.

[396] _Tracts_ (1822), p. xiii.

[397] _Ibid._ p. 59.

[398] Chalmers's _Works_ were published in twenty-five volumes in
1841-42.

[399] Chalmers's _Works_, i. 237.

[400] This essay is not in his collected _Works_, though in vol. xxi.
it is promised for the next volume.

[401] _Works_, xix. and xx.

[402] Mill's _Political Economy_, bk. i. ch. v. § 7 and 8. See
Chalmers, xix. 140.

[403] _National Resources_ (Appendix).

[404] _Works_, xix. 306.

[405] _Ibid._ xix. 226, 233.

[406] _National Resources_, p. 48.

[407] _Works_, xix. 64.

[408] _Works_, xix. 226.

[409] _Ibid._ xix. 235.

[410] _National Resources_, p. 158.

[411] _Ibid._ p. 160.

[412] _Works_, xix. 262.

[413] _Works_, xix. 75.

[414] _Ibid._ xix. 118-47.

[415] _Ibid._ xix. 343.

[416] See _Ibid._ xix. 171. J. S. Mill speaks of Chalmers's
speculations with a respect which it is difficult to understand.

[417] Chalmers holds that the Ricardian doctrine of rent inverts the
true order. Fertile lands do not pay rent because poor lands are
brought into cultivation, but poor lands are cultivated because
fertile lands pay rent. He apparently wishes, like Malthus, to regard
rent as a blessing, not a curse. The point is not worth arguing. See
_Works_, xix. 320.

[418] _Works_, xix. 304-5.

[419] _Ibid._ xix. 370.

[420] _Ibid._ xix. 366.

[421] _Ibid._ xix. 322.

[422] _Works_, xx. 247, 296.

[423] _Ibid._ xx. 290.

[424] _Works_, xix. 380.

[425] The copy of Malthus's second edition with Coleridge's notes used
by Southey is in the British Museum.

[426] See Southey's _Political_.

[427] _Thoughts occasioned by Dr. Parr's Spital Sermon._ A copy
annotated by Coleridge is in the British Museum.

[428] _Thoughts_, etc., pp. 56, 61, 62.

[429] _Ibid._ p. 71.

[430] Lines added to Goldsmith's _Traveller_.

[431] _Reply to the Essay on Population_, etc., 1807. The book was
anonymous. The first three letters had appeared in Cobbett's
_Register_. Two others with an appendix are added.

[432] Bentham's _Works_, x. 603, 604; and _Dictionary of National
Biography_.

[433] See _Dictionary of National Biography_.

[434] Hazlitt's _Reply_, p. 19.

[435] _Ibid._ pp. 139-41.

[436] _Ibid._ p. 117.

[437] _Reply_, p. 263.

[438] _Ibid._ p. 344.

[439] _Ibid._ p. 284.

[440] _Ibid._ p. 287.

[441] _Reply_, p. 351.

[442] _Ibid._ pp. 362-64.

[443] _Ibid._ p. 352.

[444] Ensor's _Enquiry_, p. 294.

[445] _Ibid._ p. 441.

[446] _Godwin on Population_, p. 506.

[447] _Ibid._ p. 553.

[448] _Ibid._ p. 558.

[449] Godwin, p. 219.

[450] See account of him reprinted from Mackenzie's _History of
Newcastle_ and _Dictionary of National Biography_.

[451] Reprinted by Mr. Hyndman in 1822, with a preface.

[452] See _Dictionary of National Biography_. Hall's book was
reprinted by J. M. Morgan in the 'Phoenix Library,' 1850. See Anton
Menger's _Das Recht auf den vollen Arbeitsertrag_ (second edition,
1891), for notices of Hall, Thompson, and others.

[453] _Effects of Civilisation_ (1850), p. 86.

[454] _Ibid._ p. 71.

[455] _Ibid._ p. 115.

[456] _Autobiography_, p. 125. See Holyoake's _History of
Co-operation_, i. 16, 109, 278-83, 348, for some interesting notices
of Thompson. Menger (_Recht auf den vollen Arbeitsertrag_, p. 100
_n._) holds that Thompson not only anticipated but inspired Marx:
Rodbertus, he says, drew chiefly upon St. Simon and Proudhon.

[457] _An Inquiry into the Principles of the Distribution of Wealth
most conducive to Human Happiness; applied to the Newly Proposed
System of Voluntary Equality of Wealth._--1824.

[458] _Distribution of Wealth_, p. 327.

[459] _Distribution of Wealth_, p. 167, etc.

[460] _Ibid._ p. 310.

[461] He wrote, as J. S. Mill observes, an _Appeal_ [1825] against
James Mill's views on this matter--a fact which no doubt commended him
to the son.

[462] _Distribution of Wealth_, pp. 425, 535, etc.

[463] _Labour Defended_, p. 16.



CHAPTER VII

PSYCHOLOGY


I. THOMAS BROWN

The politicians and economists, of whom I have spoken, took first
principles for granted. The intellectual temperament, which made
certain methods congenial to them, would no doubt have led them to an
analogous position in philosophy. Bentham had touched upon
philosophical points in a summary way, and James Mill, as we shall
see, gave a more explicit statement. But such men as Ricardo and
Malthus had no systematic philosophy, though a certain philosophy was
congenial to their methods. Desire to reach a solid groundwork of
fact, hearty aversion to mere word-juggling, and to effeminate
sentimentalism, respect for science and indifference to, if not
contempt for, poetry, resolution to approve no laws or institutions
which could not be supported on plain grounds of utility, and to
accept no theory which could not be firmly based on verifiable
experience, imply moral and intellectual tendencies, in which we may
perhaps say that the Utilitarians represent some of the strongest and
most valuable qualities of the national character. Taking these
qualities for granted, let us consider how the ultimate problems
presented themselves to the school thus distinguished.

I have already observed that the Scottish philosophy, taught by Reid
and Dugald Stewart, represented the only approach to a living
philosophical system in these islands at the beginning of the century.
It held this position for a long period. Mill, who had heard Dugald
Stewart's lectures, knew nothing of German thought. He was well read
in French philosophers, and in harmony with one leading sect. The
so-called _idéologues_,[464] who regarded Condillac as representing
the true line of intellectual progress, were in France the analogues
of the English Utilitarians. Destutt de Tracy and Cabanis were their
most conspicuous leaders in this generation. The philosophy of Reid
and Stewart crossed the channel, and supplied the first assailants of
the _idéologues_ with their controversial weapons. Thus, until the
German influence came to modify the whole controversy, the vital issue
seemed to lie between the doctrine of Reid or 'intuitionism' on the
one hand, and the purely 'experiential' school on the other, whether,
as in France, it followed Condillac, or, as in England, looked back
chiefly to Hartley. Both sections traced their intellectual ancestry
to Locke and Hobbes, with some reference to Bacon, and, by the French
writers, to Descartes. Stewart, again, as I have said, was the
accepted Whig philosopher. It is true that the Whig sat habitually in
the seat of Gallio. Jeffrey, whether he fully realised the fact or
not, was at bottom a sceptic in philosophy as in politics. John Allen,
the prophet of Holland House, was a thorough sceptic, and says[465]
that Horner, one of Stewart's personal admirers, was really a
follower of Hume. The Whigs were inclined to Shaftesbury's doctrine
that sensible men had all one religion, and that sensible men never
said what it was. Those who had a more definite and avowable creed
were content to follow Stewart's amiable philosophising. Brougham
professed, let us hope, sincerely, to be an orthodox theist, and
explained the argument from design in a commentary upon Paley. Sydney
Smith expounded Reid and Stewart in lectures which showed at least
that he was still a wit when talking 'philosophy' at the Royal
Institution; and, though he hated 'enthusiasm' in dissenters,
evangelicals, and tractarians, and kept religion strictly in its
place--a place well outside of practical politics--managed to preach a
wholesome, commonplace morality in terms of Christian theology. The
difference between the Whig and the Radical temper showed itself in
philosophical as in political questions. The Radical prided himself on
being logical and thoroughgoing, while the Whig loved compromise, and
thought that logic was very apt to be a nuisance. The systematic
reticence which the Utilitarians held to be necessary prevented this
contrast from showing itself distinctly on the surface. The
Utilitarians, however, though they avoided such outspoken scepticism
as would startle the public, indicated quite sufficiently to the
initiated their essential position. It implied what they fully
recognised in private conversation--a complete abandonment of
theology. They left the obvious inferences to be drawn by others. In
philosophy they could speak out in a well-founded confidence that few
people were able to draw inferences. I will begin by considering the
doctrine against which they protested; for the antagonism reveals, I
think, the key to their position.

When Stewart was obliged by infirmity to retire from the active
discharge of his duties, he was succeeded by Thomas Brown (1778-1820).
Brown had shown early precocity, and at the age of fifteen had
attracted Stewart's notice by some remarks on a psychological point.
He published at twenty a criticism of Darwin's _Zoonomia_, and he
became one of the _Edinburgh Review_ circle. When the _Review_ was
started he contributed an article upon Kant. In those happy days it
was so far from necessary to prepare oneself for such a task by
studying a library of commentators that the young reviewer could
frankly admit his whole knowledge to be derived from Villers'
_Philosophie de Kant_ (1801).[466] Soon afterwards he took an
important share in a once famous controversy. John Leslie, just
elected to the mathematical chair at Edinburgh, was accused of having
written favourably of Hume's theory of causation. Whigs and Tories
took this up as a party question,[467] and Brown undertook to explain
in a pamphlet what Hume's theory was, and to show that it did not lead
to atheism. Leslie's friends triumphed, though it does not appear how
far Brown's arguments contributed to their success. The pamphlet was
rewritten and enlarged, and a third edition of 1818 gives a full
exposition of his theory. Brown had meanwhile become Stewart's leading
disciple, and in 1810 was elected to be his colleague. Brown held the
position, doing all the active duties, until his premature death in
1820. Brown, according to his biographer, wrote his lectures
immediately before delivery, and completed them during his first two
years of office. His theories, as well as his words, were often,
according to the same authority, extemporised. Brown found that he
could not improve what he had written under 'very powerful
excitement.' Moreover, he had an unlucky belief that he was a poet.
From 1814 till 1819 he brought out yearly what he supposed to be a
poem. These productions, the _Paradise of Coquets_ and the rest, are
in the old-fashioned taste, and have long passed into oblivion.

The lectures, published posthumously, became a text-book for students,
and reached a nineteenth edition in 1851. Their faults, considered as
philosophical treatises, are palpable. They have the wordiness of
hasty composition, and the discursive rhetoric intended to catch the
attention of an indolent audience. Brown does not see that he is
insulting his hearers when he apologises for introducing logic into
lectures upon metaphysics, and indemnifies them by quotations from
Akenside and the _Essay on Man_. Brown, however, showed great
acuteness and originality. He made deviations, and took pains to mark
his deviations, from Reid, though he spoke more guardedly of his own
friend, Stewart. Stewart, who had strongly supported Brown's election,
was shocked when, on the publication of the lectures, he came to
discover that his colleague had been preaching heresy, and wrote with
obvious annoyance of Brown's hastiness and dangerous concessions to
the enemy.[468] Brown, however, impressed his contemporaries by his
ability. Sydney Smith is probably reporting the current judgment of
his own circle when he says[469] that in metaphysics Stewart was a
'humbug' compared with Brown. I certainly think that Stewart, whom I
should be sorry to call a humbug, shows less vigour and subtlety.
Brown, at any rate, impressed both the Mills, and his relation to them
is significant.

Brown's essay upon Causation indicates this relation. In this, indeed,
there is little, if any, divergence from Stewart, though he attacks
Reid with considerable asperity. He urges that Reid, while really
agreeing with Hume, affected to answer him under cover of merely
verbal distinctions.[470] The main point is simple. Hume had asserted
that all events seem to be 'entirely loose and separate,' or, in other
words, 'conjoined but never connected.' Yet he points out that, in
fact, when we have found two events to be 'conjoined,' we call one
cause and the other effect, and assume a 'necessary connection'
between them. He then asks, What is the origin of this belief, and
what, therefore, is the logical warrant for its validity? Brown
entirely accepts Hume's statement of the facts. The real meaning of
our statements is evaded by appealing to the conception of 'power.'
When the loadstone (in his favourite illustration) attracts the iron,
we say it has a 'power' of attracting iron. But to speak thus of a
power is simply to describe the same facts in other words. We assert
this, and nothing more than this, that when the loadstone comes near
the iron, each moves towards the other. 'Power' is a word which only
covers a statement of 'invariable antecedence.' Brown traces the
various confusions which have obscured the true nature of this belief.
He insists especially that we can no more discover power in mental
than in physical sequences. The will had been supposed to be the type
of causal power; but volition, according to Brown, reveals simply
another succession of desires and bodily actions. The hypothesis of
'power' has been really the source of 'illusion.' The tendency to
personify leads us to convert metaphor into fact, to invent a subject
of this imaginary 'power,' and thus to create a mythology of beings to
carry on the processes of nature. In other words, Brown here follows
Hume or even anticipates Comte. As J. S. Mill remarks,[471] this
erroneous identification of 'power' with 'will' gives the
'psychological rationale of Comte's great historical generalisation';
and, so far, Brown, as a follower of Hume, is clearly on the way to
positivism.

The world, then, is a vast aggregate of 'loose' phenomena. A
contemplation of things reveals no reason for one order rather than
another. You may look at your loadstone as long as you please, but you
will find no reason for its attracting iron. You may indeed
interpolate a number of minute intervening sequences, and the process
often suggests a vague something more than sequence; but this is a
mere illusion.[472] Could we, in fact, see all the minute changes in
bodies we should actually perceive that cause means nothing but 'the
immediate invariable antecedence of an event.'[473] Brown especially
argues against the attempts of d'Alembert and Euler to deduce the
first laws of motion from the principle of 'sufficient reason.'[474]
That, as he argues in detail, is merely begging the question, by
introducing the principle of causation under an alias.

What, then, is the principle? We believe, he says,[475] that 'every
event must have a cause,' and that circumstances exactly 'similar must
have results exactly similar.' This belief, though applicable to all
events, does not give us the 'slightest aid' to determining,
independently of experience, any particular event. We observe that B
follows A, but, for all we can say, it might as well follow any other
letter of the alphabet. Yet we are entitled to say in general that it
does uniformly follow some particular letter. The metaphor which
describes cause and effect as a 'bond' tying A and B together is
perfectly appropriate if taken to express the bare fact of
sequence;[476] but we fall into error if we fancy there is really any
bond whatever beside the events themselves.

The belief, then, in causation has precisely the same import according
to Hume and Brown; and both agree that it is not produced by
'reasoning.' The proposition 'B has once succeeded A,' or 'has
succeeded A a thousand times,' is entirely different from the
proposition 'B will for ever succeed A.'[477] No process of logical
inference can extract one from the other. Shall we, then, give up a
belief in causation? The belief in any case exists as a fact. Hume
explains it by custom or association. Brown argues, and I think with
much force, that Hume's explanation is insufficient. Association may
explain (if it does more than restate) the fact that one 'idea' calls
up another idea, but such association may and often does occur without
suggesting any belief. The belief, too, precedes the association. We
begin by believing too much, not too little, and assume a necessary
connection of many phenomena which we afterwards find to be
independent. The true answer is therefore different. There are three
sources of belief, 'perception,' 'reasoning,' and 'intuition.'[478]
Now, we cannot 'perceive' anything but a present coincidence; neither
can we establish a connection by any process of 'reasoning,' and
therefore the belief must be an 'intuition.' This, accordingly, is
Brown's conclusion. 'There are principles,' he says, 'independent of
reasoning, in the mind which save it from the occasional follies of
all our ratiocinations';[479] or rather, as he explains, which
underlie all reasoning. The difference, then, between Hume and Brown
(and, as Brown argues, between Hume and Reid's real doctrine) is not
as to the import, but as to the origin, of the belief. It is an
'intuition' simply because it cannot be further analysed. It does not
allow us to pass a single step beyond experience; it merely authorises
us to interpret experience. We can discover any actual law of
connection between phenomena only by observing that they occur in
succession. We cannot get beyond or behind the facts--and therefore
intuitionism in this sense is not opposed to empiricism, but a warrant
for empirical conclusions. An 'intuition,' briefly, is an unanalysable
belief. Brown asserts that a certain element of thought has not been
explained, and assumes it to be therefore inexplicable or ultimate.
Brown's account of causation had a great influence upon both the
Mills, and especially affected the teaching of the younger Mill.

Another point is important. Reid, as I have said, had specially prided
himself upon his supposed overthrow of Berkeley's idealism. He was
considered to have shown, in spite of sceptics, that the common belief
in an external world was reasonable. Brown in his lectures ridiculed
Reid's claim. This 'mighty achievement,' the 'supposed overthrow of a
great system,' was 'nothing more than the proof that certain phrases
are metaphorical, which were intended by their authors to be
understood _only_ as metaphors.'[480] The theory was dead before Reid
slew it, though the phrases were still used as a mere 'relic,' or
survival of an obsolete doctrine.[481] The impossibility of
constructing extension out of our sensations is the _experimentum
crucis_ upon which Reid was ready to stake his case. If the attempt at
such a construction could succeed, he would 'lay his hand upon his
mouth' and give up the argument.[482] Brown takes up the challenge
thus thrown out. He holds that our knowledge of an external world is
derived from a source which Reid overlooked. He modifies the Scottish
psychology by introducing the muscular senses. His theory is that the
infant which has learned to move discovers that on some occasions its
movements are modified by a sense of 'impeded effort.'[483] The sudden
interruption to a well-known series excites in its mind the notion of
'a cause which is not in itself.' This is the source of our belief in
an external world. That belief is essentially the belief in some cause
which we know to be other than our own mental constitution or the
series of 'internal' phenomena, and of which we can know nothing else.
It is enough to indicate a theory which has been elaborated by later
psychologists, and plays a great part (for example) in the theories of
Mill, Bain, and Mr. Herbert Spencer. It shows the real tendency of
Brown's speculations. In the first place, it must be noticed that the
theory itself had been already emphatically stated by Destutt de
Tracy. Hamilton accuses Brown of plagiarism.[484] Whether his
accusation be justifiable or not, it is certainly true that Brown had
in some way reached the same principles which had been already set
forth by a leading 'ideologist.' Brown, that is, though the official
exponent of the Scottish philosophy, was in this philosophical tenet
at one with the school which they regarded as materialistic or
sceptical. The path by which he reaches his conclusions is also
characteristic.

Brown has reversed the interpretation of Reid's _experimentum crucis_.
I will give up my case, says Reid, if you can make the external world
out of sensations. That, replies Brown, is precisely what we can do.
How from sensations do we get what Berkeley called 'outness'? We get
it, says Brown, from the sense of resistance or 'impeded effort.' That
reveals to us the fact that there is something independent of
ourselves, and the belief in such a something is precisely what we
mean, and all that we mean, by the belief in an external world.
Consistently with this, Brown rejects Reid's distinction between the
primary and secondary qualities. The distinction corresponds no doubt
to some real differences, but there is no difference of the kind
suggested by Reid. 'All [the qualities] are relative and equally
relative--our perception of extension and resistance as much as our
perception of fragrance and bitterness.'[485] We ascribe the
sensations to 'external objects,' but the objects are only known by
the 'medium' of our sensations. In other words, the whole world may be
regarded as a set of sensations, whether of sight, smell, touch, or
resistance to muscular movement, accompanied by the belief that they
are caused by something not ourselves, and of which something we can
only say that it is not ourselves.

Once more, the analysis of the process by which the belief is
generated is significant. From resistance, or the sensation produced
when something 'resists our attempts to grasp it,' we get the
'outness.' Then perception is 'nothing more than the association of
this complex notion with our other sensations--the notion of something
extended and resisting, suggested by these sensations, when the
suggestions themselves have previously arisen, and suggested in the
same manner and on the same principle as any other associate feeling
suggests any other associate feeling.'[486] The odour or colour of a
rose recalls the sensation of touching and of resistance to our grasp.
Thus we regard the whole group of sensations as due to the external
cause which produces the sensation of resistance. Brown seems to
hesitate a little as to whether he shall appeal to an 'intuition' or
to 'association,' but 'as I rather think,' he says, the belief is
founded 'on associations as powerful as intuition.'[487]

Whatever, then, may be the origin of the belief--'intuition' or
'association'--it is clear that it can give us no knowledge except
such as is derived from sensations. Moreover, Brown is thus led, as in
the doctrine of causation, to accept a really sceptical position. He
declares that he is in this respect at one with both Reid and Hume.
They both accept two propositions: first, that we cannot 'by mere
reasoning' prove the existence of an external world; secondly, that it
is 'absolutely impossible for us not to believe' in its existence.
Hume, he says, pronounces the first proposition in a 'loud tone
of voice' and 'whispers' the second. Reid, conversely, passes
over the first rapidly and 'dwells on the second with a tone of
confidence.'[488] Brown accepts both statements. He has already said
that there is no argument against Berkeley's denial of matter any more
than against the 'infinite divisibility of matter.' But he adds, it is
'physically impossible' for us to admit the conclusion, at least
without 'an instant dissent from a momentary logical admission.'[489]
This, indeed, is but a version of Hume's familiar statement that
Berkeley's arguments admit of no reply and produce no conviction.

Another essential doctrine of the Mills, the 'association' theory, is
treated differently by Brown. Brown, as we have seen, both in his
theory of causation and in his theory of our belief in an external
world, speaks of principles in the mind which somehow override
'ratiocination.' In the first case, he speaks of 'intuition,' but in
the other, as I have said, he seems to prefer association. The
difference is remarkable because the belief in an external world is
upon his showing simply a case of causation. It means essentially the
reference of our sensations as to an external cause. Now, in the
argument upon causation, he has insisted upon the insufficiency of
association to generate the belief; and he would have found it
difficult to meet his own arguments if applied to the belief in an
external world. Yet it does not seem to occur to him that there is any
difficulty in explaining this belief in an external world as a case
of what Mill called 'indissoluble association.' Brown, as Mill
thought, was not sufficiently aware of the power of this principle,
and the difference between them is marked by this divergence. Brown
had a great deal to say about association, though he chose generally
to substitute the word 'suggestion,' previously familiar to Reid and
Berkeley.[490] He considers it, however, mainly in another relation.
He proposes to trace the order in which 'trains' of ideas succeed each
other in our minds. He does not dwell upon the influence of
association in producing belief. His question is not primarily as to
the logic, but as to the actual succession of our thoughts. He
explains that he uses the word 'suggestion' in order to avoid the
hypothesis that the sequence of two ideas necessarily implies a
previous state of mind in which they were brought together; and
endeavours to explain various cases (as, for example, association by
'contrast' as well as by 'likeness' or 'continuity') by a more
'subtile' analysis.[491] He then works out an elaborate theory of
'simple' and 'relative' suggestion. Simple 'suggestion'[492]
corresponds mainly to ordinary association, as when a friend's name or
his book calls up the thought of the man himself. 'Relative
suggestion' arises when two or more objects are perceived and suggest
various relations of likeness and so forth.[493] This provides a
scheme for working out the whole doctrine of the sequences of ideas so
far as the sequences depend upon the mind itself and not upon external
causes. It thus leads to problems of abstraction and generalisation
and to his whole theory of what he calls the 'intellectual states.' He
again closely coincides with the French ideologists. He starts by
examining Locke and Condillac. He of course professes to hold that
Condillac's version of Locke is illegitimate, and ridicules the famous
formula _penser c'est sentir_. He is, however, equally unwilling to
admit Reid's 'variety of powers.'[494] In fact, his criticism of
Condillac shows more affinity than contrast. Condillac erred, he says,
in holding that thoughts are 'transformed sensations.' This was a
false simplification into which he considers Condillac to have been
led partly by the ambiguity of the word _sentir_.[495] Condillac
applied to the mind the theory, true in 'the chemistry of the material
chemists,' that the 'compounds are the elements themselves.'[496] He
errs when he infers from the analogy that a feeling which arises out
of others can be resolved into them. 'Love and hate' and other
emotions are fundamentally different from the sensations by which they
are occasioned, not mere 'transformations' of those sensations. We, on
the other hand (that is to say, Reid and Stewart), have erred by
excessive amplification. Instead of identifying different things, we
have admitted a superfluous number of 'ultimate principles.'

The result is that besides the original sensations, we have to
consider a number of feelings, which, while essentially different, are
'suggested' or caused by them. These are parts of the whole
intellectual construction, and, though not transformed sensations, are
still 'feelings' arising in consequence of the sensations. They are
parts of the 'trains' or sequences of 'ideas.' It is accordingly
characteristic of Brown that he habitually describes an intellectual
process as a 'feeling.' The statement of a mathematical proportion,
for example, is a case of 'relative suggestion.' When we consider
two numbers together we have a '_feeling_ of the relation of
proportion.'[497] The 'profoundest reasonings' are 'nothing more than
a continued analysis of our thought,' by which we resolve the 'complex
_feelings_ of our minds' into the simpler conceptions out of which
they were constructed.[498] In other words, Brown, it would seem,
really accepts the _penser c'est sentir_, only that he regards the
_sentir_ as including separate classes of feeling, which cannot be
regarded as simple 'transformations' of sensation. They are 'states of
the mind' caused by, that is, invariably following upon, the simpler
states, and, of course, combining in an endless variety of different
forms. Reasoning is nothing more than a series of relative
'suggestions of which the separate subjects are felt by us to be
mutually related.'[499] Hence, too, arises his theory of
generalisation. He is, he says, not a 'nominalist' but a
'conceptualist,' and here, for once, agrees with Reid as against
Stewart.[500] The 'general term,' according to him, expresses the
'feeling or general notion of resemblance,' which arises upon a
contemplation of two objects. 'In Nature,' as he observes
elsewhere,[501] 'there are no classes,' but the observation of a
number of particular cases and a certain feeling to which we give a
name. Here, again, Brown's view coincides with that of his French
contemporaries.

We may then say briefly that Brown carries out in his own fashion the
conception of psychology which makes it an inductive science parallel
to the physical sciences, and to be pursued by the same methods. We
have to do with 'feelings' instead of atoms, and with mental instead
of 'material' chemistry. Our sole method is still an analysis such as
guides us in unravelling complex physical phenomena. We have, indeed,
to admit certain first truths--the belief in our own identity is one
of them--which are necessary to our very existence, although the
assertion of such principles was carried to an extravagant and
ridiculous length 'by Reid and some of his friends.' When, however, we
come to ask what these principles are, it must be admitted that they
are very innocent. They are not dangerous things, like 'innate ideas,'
capable of leading us to a transcendental world, but simply assertions
that we are warranted in trusting our sensations and applying a
thoroughly inductive and empirical method. They are the cement which
joins the feelings, and which, as Mill thought, could be supplanted by
'indissoluble associations.' The indefinite power thus attributed to
association became, as we shall see, Mill's most characteristic
doctrine. Meanwhile, I will only mention one inference which
illustrates Brown's philosophical tendencies. Stewart had spoken
doubtfully of the ontological argument for theology. Brown throws it
over altogether. He does not even change it into an 'intuition.' He
has always, he says, regarded it as 'absolutely void of force' unless
it tacitly assumes the 'physical argument.' Nay, it is one proof of
the force of this physical argument that it has saved us from doubts
which would be rather strengthened than weakened by the 'metaphysical
arguments.'[502] The 'physical argument' means the argument from
design, which thus becomes the sole support of theology.

Hamilton naturally regards Brown as a mere sceptic in disguise. His
theory of perception destroys his theory of personal identity. He has
refused to accept our intuitive belief in one case, and cannot appeal
to it in the other. He leaves no room for 'liberty of will,' and
advances 'no argument in support of this condition of our moral
being.'[503] Indeed, as Stewart complained, Brown, by identifying
'will' and 'desire,' has got rid of the will altogether. It is only
natural that a man who is making a scientific study of the laws of
human nature should find no room for an assertion that within a
certain sphere there are no laws. A physiologist might as well admit
that some vital processes are uncaused.

Brown thus illustrates the gravitation of the 'common-sense'
philosophy to pure empiricism. He was the last in the genuine line of
Scottish common-sense philosophers. When after what may be called the
unphilosophical interregnum which followed Brown's death, Hamilton
became professor, the Scottish tradition was blended with the very
different theories derived from Kant. Upon Brown's version, the
Scottish philosophy had virtually declared itself bankrupt. The
substance of his teaching was that of the very school which his
predecessors had attempted to confute, carefully as the fact might be
hidden by dexterous rhetoric and manipulation of technical terms. He
agrees with Hume's premises, and adopts the method of Condillac. This
was perceived by his most remarkable hearer. Carlyle went to Edinburgh
at the end of 1809. Brown, 'an eloquent, acute little gentleman, full
of enthusiasm about simple suggestions, relative, etc.,' was 'utterly
unprofitable' to him, disspiriting 'as the autumn winds among withered
leaves.'[504] In _Signs of the Times_ (1829) Carlyle gave his view of
the Scottish philosophy generally. They had, he says, started from the
'mechanical' premises suggested by Hume. 'They let loose instinct as
an indiscriminatory bandog to guard them against (his) conclusions':
'they tugged lustily at the logical chain by which Hume was so coldly
towing them and the world into bottomless abysses of Atheism and
Fatalism. But the chain somehow snapped between them, and the issue
has been that nobody now cares about either--any more than about
Hartley's, Darwin's, or Priestley's contemporaneous doings in
England.'[505] The judgment goes to the root of the matter. The method
of Reid inevitably led to this result. Consider the philosophy as
based upon, if not identical with, an inductive science of psychology,
and the end is clear. You may study and analyse the phenomena as
carefully as you please; and may, as the Scottish professors did,
produce, if not a scientific psychology, yet a mass of acute
prolegomena to a science. But the analysis can only reveal the actual
combinations, chemical or mechanical, of thought. The ultimate
principles which the teachers profess to discover are simply
provisional; products not yet analysed, but not therefore incapable of
analysis. It was very desirable to point them out: an insistence upon
the insufficiency of Hume's or Condillac's theories was a most
valuable service; but it was valuable precisely because every
indication of such an unresolved element was a challenge to the next
comer to resolve it by closer analysis. And thus, in fact, the
intuitions, which had played so great a part with Reid, come in
Brown's hands to be so clearly limited to the materials given by
sensation or experience that any show of 'philosophy,' meaning an
independent theory of the universe, was an illusory combination of
fine phrases.[506]


II. JAMES MILL'S 'ANALYSIS'

James Mill's _Analysis of the Phenomena of the Human Mind_ is on the
one hand an exposition of the principles implied in Bentham's
writings, and, on the other hand, a statement of the position from
which the younger Mill started. J. S. Mill discussed the book with his
father during its composition, and in 1869 he published a new edition,
with elaborate notes by himself, George Grote, Professor Bain, and
Andrew Findlater.[507] The commentary is of great importance in
defining the relation between the two successors to the throne of
Bentham.

Mill's _Analysis_, though not widely read, made a deep impression upon
Mill's own disciples. It is terse, trenchant, and uncompromising. It
reminds us in point of style of the French writers, with whom he
sympathised, rather than of the English predecessors, to whom much of
the substance was owing. The discursive rhetoric of Brown or Stewart
is replaced by good, hard, sinewy logic. The writer is plainly in
earnest. If over confident, he has no petty vanity, and at least
believes every word that he says. Certain limitations are at once
obvious. Mill, as a publicist, a historian, and a busy official, had
not had much time to spare for purely philosophic reading. He was not
a professor in want of a system, but an energetic man of business,
wishing to strike at the root of the superstitions to which his
political opponents appealed for support. He had heard of Kant, and
seen what 'the poor man would be at.' Later German systems, had he
heard of them, would have been summarily rejected by him as so much
transcendental moonshine. The problem of philosophy was, he held, a
very simple one, if attacked in a straightforward, scientific method.

Mill, like his Scottish rivals, applies 'Baconian' principles. The
inductive method, which had already been so fruitful in the physical
sciences, will be equally effective in philosophy, and ever since
Locke, philosophy had meant psychology. The 'philosophy of the mind'
and the philosophy of the body may be treated as co-ordinate and
investigated by similar methods. In the physical sciences we come
ultimately to the laws of movement of their constituent atoms. In the
moral sciences we come in the same way to the study of 'ideas.' The
questions, How do ideas originate? and how are they combined so as to
form the actual state of consciousness? are therefore the general
problems to be solved. Hume had definitely proposed the problem.
Hartley had worked out the theory of association of ideas which Hume
had already compared[508] to the universal principle of gravitation in
the physical world; and had endeavoured to show how this might be
connected with physiological principles. Hartley's followers had been
content to dwell upon the power of association. Abraham Tucker,
Priestley, Erasmus Darwin, and Belsham represented this tendency, and
were the normal antagonists of Reid and Stewart. In France the
'ideologists' mainly followed Condillac, and apparently knew nothing
of Hartley. Mill, as his son testifies, had been profoundly influenced
by Hartley's treatise--the 'really master-production,' as he esteemed
it, 'in the philosophy of mind.'[509] Hartley's work, as the younger
Mill thought, and the elder apparently agreed, was very superior to
the 'merely verbal generalisation of Condillac.' James Mill, however,
admired Condillac and his successors. In his article upon education,
Mill traces the association theory to Hobbes, Locke, and Hume, the
last of whom, he says, was succeeded by the two 'more sober-minded'
philosophers, Condillac and Hartley; while he especially praises
Erasmus Darwin, Helvétius, and Cabanis. Mill, therefore, may be
regarded as an independent ally of the ideologists whose influence
upon Brown has been already noticed. Mill had not read Brown's
_Lectures_ when he began his _Analysis_, and after reading them
thought Brown 'but poorly read in the doctrine of association.'[510]
He had, however, read the essay upon causation, which he rather oddly
describes as 'one of the most valuable contributions to science for
which we are indebted to the last generation.'[511] He accepted
Brown's view _minus_ the 'intuition.'

The pith of Mill's book is thus determined. His aim is to give a
complete analysis of mental phenomena, and therefore to resolve those
phenomena into their primitive constituent atoms. Here we have at once
a tacit assumption which governs his method. Philosophy, speaking
roughly, is by some people supposed to start from truths, and thus to
be in some way an evolution of logic. According to Mill it must start
from facts, and therefore from something not given by logic. To state
clearly, indeed, the relation between truth and fact may suggest very
intricate problems. Mill, at any rate, must find a basis in fact, and
for him the ultimate facts must be feelings. The reality at least of a
feeling is undeniable. The _Penser c'est sentir_, or the doctrine that
all 'ideas' are transformed sensations is his starting-point. The word
'feeling,' according to him, includes every 'phenomenon of the mind.'
'Think,' he says elsewhere,[512] does not include all our experience,
but 'there is nothing to which we could not extend the term "I feel."'
He proceeds to infer that our experience is either a knowledge of the
feelings separately, or 'a knowledge of the order in which they follow
each other; and this is all.' We may add that the knowledge is the
feeling. Reid, Kant, and the Germans have indeed tried to show that
there are feelings not derived from the sensations, but this, as
Hartley and Condillac have shown, is a mistake. This is his first
principle in a nutshell, and must give a clue to the various
applications.

The next step is familiar. Hume had distinguished impressions and
ideas. 'Ideas' are copies of previous 'impressions.' It is for
psychology to say what are the laws by which they are related to their
originals. The ultimate origin cannot be explained by psychology
alone. Impressions are caused by the outward world acting in some way
upon the mind; and the psychologist can only classify the various
modes in which they present themselves. Mill therefore begins by the
usual account of the five senses, through which comes all knowledge of
the external world. He adds to Reid's list muscular sensations, and
those derived from the internal organs, to which last Cabanis in
particular had called attention. So far he is following the steps of
his predecessors. He is, he says, simply asserting an 'indisputable'
fact.[513] We have sensations and we have ideas, which are 'copies of
sensations.' We may then consider how far these facts will enable us
to explain the whole series of mental phenomena. 'Ideation,' which he
suggests as a new word--the process by which a continuous series of
thoughts goes on in our minds--is the general phenomenon to be
considered. Without, as yet, pronouncing that sensations and copies of
sensations will turn out to form the whole contents of our
consciousness, he tries to show for what part of those contents they
will account.

Here we come to the doctrine which for him and his school gave the
key to all psychological problems. It was James Mill's real merit,
according to his son, that he carried the principle of association of
ideas further than it had been carried by Hartley or other
predecessors.[514] The importance of the doctrine, indeed, is implied
in the very statement of the problem. If it be true, or so far as it
is true, that our consciousness reveals to us simply a series of
'sensations' and 'ideas,' the question must be how they are combined.
'Thought succeeds thought, idea follows idea incessantly,'[515] says
Mill; and this phrase assumes 'thoughts' and 'ideas' to be separable
atoms. How, then, do they come to coalesce into an apparently
continuous stream? The mind is a stream of 'ideas.' If the stream is
composed of drops, we must, of course, consider the drops as composing
the stream. The question is, What laws can we assign which will
determine the process of composition? The phrase 'association'
admittedly expresses some general and very familiar truths.
Innumerable connections may be established when there is no assignable
ground of connection in the ideas themselves other than the fact of a
previous contact. One idea not only calls up the other, but in some
way generates a belief in an independent connection. We hear thunder,
for example, and think of lightning. The two ideas are entirely
distinct and separate, for they are due to different senses. Yet we
not only think of lightning when we hear thunder, but we have no doubt
that there is a causal connection. We believe in this connection,
again, though no further explanation can be given of the fact.
Thunder and lightning have occurred together, and we infer that they
will, and even must, occur together. When we examine our whole
structure of belief, we find such 'arbitrary' associations pervade it
in every direction. Language itself is learned simply by association.
There is no connection whatever between the sound of the word 'man'
and the 'ideas' which the word excites, beyond the fact that the sound
has been previously heard when the ideas were excited. Here, then, is
a phenomenon to be explained or generalised. We have in countless
cases a certain connection established for which no further reason can
be assigned than the fact of its previous occurrence. On such a
ground, we believe that fire burns, that bread is wholesome, that
stones fall; and but for such beliefs could know nothing of the
outside world. 'Contingent' truth, therefore, or truth derived from
mere contact, pervades, if it does not constitute, the whole fabric of
our whole knowledge. To prove that all our knowledge is derived from
experience is, according to Mill, to prove that in some sense or other
association of ideas lies at the base of all intellectual processes.
When Locke introduced a chapter upon 'Association of Ideas' into the
fourth edition of his essay, he treated it as the exceptional case.
Some ideas had a connection traceable by reason; others were only
connected by 'chance and custom.' Association does not explain
reasoning, only the deviations from reasoning. But with Hume and
Hartley the relation is inverted. The principle, instead of being an
exceptional case, is simply the universal rule from which logical
connection may be deduced as a special case.

The facts upon which Mill relied, and the account of them which he
gave, require notice and embodiment in any sound psychology. In some
shape or other they form the starting-point of all later systems.
Mill's vigorous application of his principle, worked out with
imperfect appreciation and with many oversights, had therefrom, at
least, the merit of preparing the ground for a more scientific method.
In any case, however, his conclusions, so far as sound, must be placed
in a different framework of theory. It becomes necessary to dwell
chiefly upon the curious defects of his theory, if taken as he wished
it to be taken, for an ultimate scientific statement. The fact that
there is a synthesis and an analysis is expressed by 'association.'
But what more can we say? What are the 'laws' of association? Unless
some rule can be given, we shall get nothing that can be called a
theory. One idea is not suggested by the other through any logical
process. They are still 'conjoined' but not 'connected.' The
connection, therefore, must be given by something different from the
ideas themselves. Now the order of the original 'sensations' depends
upon the 'objects of nature,' and is therefore left to 'physical
philosophy.'[516] They occur, however, either in 'synchronous' or in
'successive' order. Then 'ideas' spring up in the order of
'sensations,' and this is the 'general law of association of
ideas.'[517] The synchronous sensations produce synchronous ideas and
the successive sensations successive ideas. Finally, the strength of
the association between the ideas depends upon 'the vividness of the
associated feelings, and the frequency of the association.'[518] Hume
had said that association depended upon three principles, 'contiguity
in time and place,' 'causation,' and 'resemblance.' Contiguity in time
corresponds to the successive, and contiguity in place to the
synchronous, order. Causation, as Brown had finally proved,[519] means
simply antecedence and consequence. 'Resemblance' remains and is, as
Mill afterwards says,[520] a most important principle; but in an
unlucky moment he is half inclined to reduce even 'resemblance' to
'contiguity.'[521] Resemblance is, he even suggests, merely 'a case of
frequency,' because we generally see like things together. When we see
one tree or sheep, we generally see several trees or sheep. J. S. Mill
mildly remarks upon this quaint suggestion as the 'least successful
simplification' in the book. He argues the point gravely. Sheep, it is
clear, are not seen to be like because they often compose a flock, but
are considered to be a flock because they are seen to be like. To do
James Mill justice, he drops the argument as soon as he has struck it
out. It is only worth notice as showing his aim. 'Likeness' seems to
imply a relation dependent on the ideas themselves; not purely
external and arbitrary. If we could get rid of likeness, all
association would ultimately be 'contiguity.' 'The fundamental law of
association,' as he says elsewhere,[522] 'is that when two things have
been frequently found together, we never perceive or think of the one
without thinking of the other.' The two ideas are associated as two
balls are associated when they are in the same box. So far as they are
themselves concerned, they might be separated without any alteration
in their own properties. What, then, corresponds to the 'box'?
Association depends upon relations of time and space. Things are
associated by occurring in succession or together; the red colour of a
rose is in the same place with the shape of the leaf; the scent is
perceived at the same time with the colour. The thunder follows the
lightning. What, then, he might ask, are 'time' and 'space'? Are they
'ideas' or 'sensations' or qualities of the objects? or, in any case,
as supplying the ultimate principle of association, do they not
require investigation? Before coming to that problem, however, we have
to settle other knotty points. We must clear away illusions which seem
to introduce something more than association. Elements of thought not
at first sight expressible simply in terms of sensations and ideas
must be analysed to show that they are only disguises for different
combinations of the facts. Reasoning, according to most logicians,
supposes, first, concepts, and therefore some process of
classification of the objects of thought; and, secondly, some process
of combining these concepts to bring out hitherto unknown truths.
What, then, is the meaning of the general or abstract symbols employed
in the process? Mill's provision of raw materials consists so far of
sensations and ideas, which are worked up so as to form 'clusters'
(the word is taken from Hartley) and 'trains.' This corresponds to
synchronous and successive associations. How does the logical
terminology express these 'clusters' and 'trains'? Mill answers by a
theory of 'naming.' Language fulfils two purposes; it is required in
order to make our ideas known to others; and in order to fix our own
ideas. Ideas are fluctuating, transitory, and 'come into the mind
unbidden.' We must catch and make a note of these shifting crowds of
impalpable entities. We therefore put marks upon the simple
sensations or upon the 'clusters.' We ticket them as a tradesman
tickets bundles of goods in his warehouse, and can refer to them for
our own purposes or those of others. As the number of objects to be
marked is enormous, as there are countless ideas and clusters and
clusters of clusters of endless variety to be arranged in various
ways, one main object of naming is economy. A single word has to be
used to mark a great number of individuals. This will account for such
general names as are represented by noun-substantives: man, horse,
dog, and so forth. Mill then proceeds, with the help of Horne Tooke,
to explain the other grammatical forms. An adjective is another kind
of noun marking a cross division. Verbs, again, are adjectives marking
other sets of facts, and enabling us to get rid of the necessity of
using a new mark for every individual or conceivable combination into
clusters. J. S. Mill remarks that this omits the special function of
verbs--their 'employment in predication.'[523] James Mill, however,
has his own view of 'predication.' 'Man' is a mark of John, Peter,
Thomas, and the rest. When I say 'John is a man,' I mean that 'man is
another mark to that idea of which John is a mark.'[524] I am then
able to make a statement which will apply to all the individuals, and
save the trouble of repeating the assertion about each. 'Predication,'
therefore, is simply a substitution of one name for another. So, for
example, arithmetic is simply naming. What I call two and two, I also
call four. The series of thoughts in this case is merely 'a series of
names applicable to the same thing and meaning the same thing.'[525]
This doctrine, as J. S. Mill remarks, is derived from Hobbes, whom
Leibniz in consequence called _plus quam nominalis_.[526] My belief
that two and two make four explains why I give the same name to
certain numbers; but the giving the name does not explain the belief.
Meanwhile, if a class name be simply the mark which is put upon a
bundle of things, we have got rid of a puzzle. Mill triumphs over the
unfortunate realists who held that a class meant a mysterious entity,
existing somewhere apart from all the individuals in which it is
embodied. There is really nothing mysterious; a name is first the mark
of an individual, the individual corresponding to a 'cluster' or a set
of 'simple ideas, concreted into a complex idea.'[527] Then the name
and the complex idea are associated reciprocally; each 'calls up' the
other. The complex idea is 'associated' with other resembling ideas.
The name becomes a talisman calling up the ideas of an indefinite
number of resembling individuals, and the name applied to one
in the first instance becomes a mark which calls up all, or, as
he says, is the 'name of the whole combination.' Classification,
therefore, 'is merely a process of naming, and is all resolvable into
association.'[528] The peculiarity of this theory, as his commentators
again remark, is that it expressly omits any reference to abstraction.
The class simply means the aggregate of resembling individuals without
any selection of the common attributes which are, in J. S. Mill's
phrase, 'connoted' by the class-name. Abstraction, as James Mill
explains, is a subsidiary process, corresponding to the 'formation of
_sub-species_.'[529]

Mill has now shown how the various forms of language correspond to
ideas, formed into clusters of various orders by the principle of
association. The next step will naturally be to show how these
clusters are connected in the process of reasoning. Here the
difficulty about predication recurs. J. S. Mill[530] remarks that his
father's theory of predication consistently omits 'the element
Belief.' When I say, 'John is a man,' I make an affirmation or assert
a belief. I do not simply mean to call up in the mind of my hearer a
certain 'cluster' or two coincident clusters of ideas, but to convey
knowledge of truths. The omission of reference to belief is certainly
no trifle. Mill has classified the various ideas and combinations of
ideas which are used in judgment, but the process of judgment itself
seems to have slipped out of account. He may have given us, or be able
to give us, a reasoned catalogue of the contents of our minds, but has
not explained how the mind itself acts. It is a mere passive recipient
of ideas, or rather itself a cluster of ideas cohering in various
ways, without energy of its own. One idea, as he tells us, calls up
another 'by its own associating power.'[531] Ideas are things which
somehow stick together and revive each other, without reference to the
mind in which they exist or which they compose. This explains his
frequent insistence upon one assertion. As we approach the question of
judgment he finds it essential. 'Having a sensation and having a
feeling,' he says, 'are not two things.' To 'feel an idea and be
conscious of that feeling are not two things; the feeling and the
consciousness are but two names for the same thing.'[532] So, again,
'to have a sensation and to believe that we have it, are not
distinguishable things.'[533] Locke's reflection thus becomes nothing
but simple consciousness, and having a feeling is the same as
attending to it.[534] The point is essential. It amounts to saying
that we can speak of a thought as though it were simply a thing.

Thus belief not only depends upon, but actually _is_ association. 'It
is not easy,' he says, 'to treat of memory, belief, and judgment
separately.'[535] As J. S. Mill naturally asks, 'How is it possible to
treat of belief without including in it memory and judgment?' Memory
is a case of belief, and judgment an 'act of belief.'[536] To James
Mill, however, it appears that as these different functions all
involve association, they may be resolved into varying applications of
that universal power. Memory involves 'an idea of my present self' and
an 'idea of my past self,' and to remember is to 'run over the
intervening states of consciousness called up by association.'[537]
Belief involves association at every step. The belief in external
objects is, as 'all men admit' ... 'wholly resolvable into
association.'[538] 'That a cause means and can mean nothing to the
human mind but constant antecedence' (and therefore 'inseparable
association,' as he thinks) 'is no longer a point in dispute.'[539]
Association, it is true, may produce wrong as well as right beliefs;
right beliefs when 'in conformity with the connections of
things,'[540] and wrong beliefs when not in conformity. In both cases
the belief is produced by 'custom,' though, happily, the right custom
is by far the commonest. The 'strength of the association follows the
frequency.' The crow flies east as well as west; but the stone always
falls downwards.[541] Hence I form an 'inseparable association'
corresponding to a belief in gravitation, but have no particular
belief about the direction of a crow's flight.

This gives the doctrine of 'indissoluble association'--the pivot of
the whole scheme--the doctrine, says J. S. Mill, which, 'if it can be
proved, is the greatest of all the triumphs of the Association
Philosophy.'[542] The younger Mill always insisted upon the vast
importance of the principle; but he here admits a difficulty. In a
long note[543] upon James Mill's chapter on 'Belief,' conspicuous for
his usual candour, he confesses the inadequacy of his father's view.
The comment indicates the point of divergence and yet shows curiously
the ground common to both. James Mill's theory states facts in some
sense undeniable. Our 'ideas' cohere and combine to form a tissue: an
imagery or series of pictures which form the content and are somehow
the ground of our beliefs. The process of formation clearly involves
'association.' The scent of the rose is associated with the colour:
both with the visible form and so forth. But is this process the same
thing as believing, or have we to explain the belief by some mental
activity different from, however closely connected with, the
imagination, or in his phrase the 'ideation'? Here J. S. Mill finds a
difficulty. The statement, 'I believe that thunder will follow
lightning,' is something more than the statement, 'the sight suggests
or calls up the sound.' The mental picture considered by itself may be
described as a fact, without considering what belief, or whether any
belief, is implied. J. S. Mill therefore makes a distinction intended
to clear up his father's confusion. There is a difference, he says,
between remembering 'a real fact' and remembering a 'thought.'[544] He
illustrates this by the difference between the idea of Lafayette and
the idea of Falstaff. Lafayette was real, and had been seen by the
rememberer. Falstaff is a figment who, having never existed, can never
have been seen. Yet the idea of Falstaff may be quite as vivid as the
idea of Lafayette. What, then, is the difference between the two
states of mind? One, says J. S. Mill, is a belief about 'real facts';
the other about 'thoughts.' This, he observes, corresponds to James
Mill's distinction between a 'sensation' and an 'idea,'[545] a
difference which he had admitted to be 'primordial.' Then, says J. S.
Mill, we may as well admit that there is an 'element' in the
remembrance of a real fact not implied in the remembrance of a thought
and not dependent on any difference in the 'ideas' themselves. It,
too, may be taken as 'primordial,' or incapable of further analysis.
This doctrine becomes important in some of Mill's logical
speculations,[546] and is connected with his whole theory of belief in
an external world. It has an uncomfortable likeness to Reid's
'common-sense' view, and even to the hated 'intuitionism'; and Mill
deserves the more credit for his candour.

Meanwhile it seems clear that the criticism implies an important
confusion. The line of distinction is drawn in the wrong place. So
far as the simple 'imagination' is concerned, there may be no question
of belief or disbelief. The picture of Falstaff or of Lafayette, a
horse or a centaur, arises equally, and is put together, let us
suppose, by simple association. But as soon as I think about either I
believe or disbelieve, and equally whether I judge the object to be a
thought or to be a 'real fact,' whether I say that I could have seen
Lafayette, or that I could not have seen Falstaff. It is not a
question between reality or unreality, but between two classes of
reality. A dream is a real dream, just as a man is a real man. The
question is simply where or how it exists, not whether it exists. The
picture is, in one case, put together by my mind; in the other, due to
a stimulus from without; but it exists in both cases; and belief is
equally present whether I put it in one class of reality or the other:
as we form a judgment equally when we pronounce a man to be lying, and
when we pronounce him to be speaking the truth. J. S. Mill seems to
suppose that association can explain the imagination of a centaur or a
Falstaff, but cannot explain the belief in a horse or Lafayette. The
imagination or 'ideation,' he should have said, accounts in both cases
for the mere contents of the thought; but in neither case can it by
itself explain the judgment as to 'reality.' That is to say, James
Mill may have described accurately a part of the process by which the
mental picture is constructed, but has omitted to explain the action
of the mind itself. Belief, we may agree, is a 'primordial' or
ultimate faculty; but we must not interpret it as belief in a 'real
fact' as distinguished from belief in 'a thought': that is a secondary
and incidental distinction.

This confusion, as I have said, apparently prevents J. S. Mill from
seeing how deeply his very frank admissions cut into the very
structure of his father's system. He has, as I have said, remarked
upon the singular absence of any reference to 'belief,' 'abstraction,'
and so forth; but he scarcely observes how much is implied by the
omission. His criticism should have gone further. James Mill has not
only omitted a faculty which enables us to distinguish between
'thoughts' and 'things,' images of fancy and pictures of reality, but
also the faculty which is equally present whenever we properly think
instead of simply seeing images passively; and equally whether we
refer an image to fact or fancy. His 'analysis of the mind' seems to
get rid of the mind itself.

The omission becomes important at the next step. 'Under the modest
title of an explanation of the meaning of several names,' says his
son, James Mill discusses 'some of the deepest and most intricate
questions in all metaphysics.' A treatise on chemistry might almost as
well be 'described as an explanation of the names, air, water, potass,
sulphuric acid, and so forth.'[547] Why does the chapter come in this
place and in this peculiar form? Probably because James Mill was
partly conscious of the inadequacy of his previous chapters. The
problems which he has been considering could not be adequately treated
by regarding ideas as 'things' bound together by association. What,
after all, is a proposition? What is meant by 'true' or 'false,' as
distinguished from real and unreal? If an association actually _is_ a
truth, what is the difference between right and wrong associations?
Both are facts, and the very words 'right' and 'wrong,' that is, true
and false, apply not to facts but to propositions.[548] The judgment
is tested in some way by correspondence to the 'order of Nature,' or
of our sensations and ideas. What precisely is meant by this order? So
far as we have gone, it seems as if ideas might be combined in any
order whatever, and the most various beliefs generated in different
minds. Perhaps, however, the principle of association itself may
reveal something as to the possible modes of coalescence. Mill makes
contiguity an ultimate ground of association; and contiguity implies
that things have certain relations expressible in terms of space and
time and so forth. These primitive relations now come up for
consideration, and should enable us to say more precisely what kind of
order is possible. In fact, Mill now endeavours to analyse the
meanings of such words as relation in general, time, space, number,
likeness, personal identity and others. The effect of his analysis is
that the principles, whatever they may be, which might be supposed to
underlie association appear to be products of association. He begins
by asking what is the meaning of 'relative terms.' Their peculiarity
is that they 'always exist in pairs,' such as 'father and son,' 'high
and low,' 'right and left.' 'If it is asked, Why do we give names in
pairs? the general answer immediately suggests itself; it is because
the things named present themselves in pairs, that is, are joined by
association.'[549] J. S. Mill thinks that no part of the _Analysis_
is more valuable than the 'simple explanation' which follows. There is
no 'mystical bond called a relation' between two things, but 'a very
simple peculiarity in the concrete fact' marked by the names. In
'ordinary names of objects, the fact connoted by a name ... concerns
one object only'; in the case of relative names, 'the fact connoted
concerns two objects, and cannot be understood without thinking of
them both.' A 'fact concerning an object' is a curiously awkward
expression; but one point is clear. If the two objects concerned are
the same, whether considered apart or together, the 'relation' must be
something more than the facts, and therefore requires to be specified.
If they are, in fact, one thing, or parts of a continuous process, we
must ask how they come to be distinguished, and what ground there is
for speaking of association. James Mill, by considering the problem as
a mere question of 'names,' seems to intimate that the relation is a
mere figment. In fact, as J. S. Mill perceives, the 'explanations'
become nugatory. They simply repeat the thing to be explained. He
begins with 'resemblance.' To feel two things to be alike is, he says,
the same thing as to have the two feelings. He means to say,
apparently, that when there are two 'ideas' there is not also a third
idea of 'likeness.' That would be what Bentham called a 'fictitious
entity.' But this cannot 'explain' the likeness of the ideas. 'Their
being alike,' as his son interprets, 'is nothing but their being felt
to be alike--which does not help us.'[550] So 'antecedence and
consequence' are 'explained' by saying that one of two feelings calls
up the other; or, as the son again remarks, antecedence is explained
by antecedence, and succession by succession. Antecedence and
consequence, like likeness and unlikeness, must therefore, according
to J. S. Mill, be 'postulated as universal conditions of Nature,
inherent in all our feelings whether of external or internal
consciousness.'[551] In other words, apparently, time is an ultimate
form of thought. Time and space, generally, as James Mill thinks, are
the 'abstract names' respectively of successive and simultaneous
order, which become 'indissolubly associated with the idea of every
object.'[552] Space, of course, is said to be a product of touch and
muscular sensations, and the problem as to how these varying
sensations and these alone give rise to apparently necessary and
invariable beliefs is not taken into consideration. Mill is here
dealing with the questions which Kant attempted to answer by showing
how the mind imposes its forms upon sense-given materials, forms them
into concepts, and combines the concepts into judgments and reasoning.
Mill evades the mysterious and transcendental at the cost of omitting
reason altogether. He represents the result of accepting one horn of a
dilemma, which presses upon philosophies of loftier pretensions. Those
who accept the other horn speak of a 'fact' as though it were a truth,
and argue as though the world could be spun out of pure logic, or a
tissue be made of relations without any things to be related. Mill,
with scarcely a glance at such doctrines, tries systematically to
speak of a truth as if it were a fact. The world for him is made up of
ideas sticking together; and nothing else exists. The relation is the
fact; belief is the association; consciousness and reflection,
considered apart, are nothing but the sensations, ideas, clusters,
and trains. The attempt to base all truth upon experience, to bring
philosophy into harmony with science was, as I hold, perfectly right.
Only, upon these assumptions it could not be carried out. Mill had the
merit which is implied even by an unsuccessful attempt to hold by
fact. He raises a number of interesting questions; and I think that it
is more remarkable that so many of his observations have still an
interest for psychologists than that so much is obviously wrong. Mill,
it may be said, took an essay upon association for a treatise upon
psychology in general. He was writing what might be one important
chapter in such a treatise, and supposes that he has written the
whole, and can deduce 'philosophy' from it, if, indeed, any philosophy
can be said to remain. Meanwhile, I may observe, that by pushing his
principles to extremes, even his 'association' doctrine is endangered.
His _Analysis_ seems to destroy even the elements which are needed to
give the simplest laws of association. It is rather difficult to say
what is meant by the 'contiguity,' 'sequence,' and 'resemblance,'
which are the only conditions specified, and which he seems to explain
not as the conditions but as the product of association. J. S. Mill
perceived that something was wanting which he afterwards tried to
supply. I will just indicate one or two points, which may show what
problems the father bequeathed to the son. James Mill, at one place,
discusses the odd problem 'how it happens that all trains of thought
are not the same.'[553] The more obvious question is, on his
hypothesis, how it happens that any two people have the same beliefs,
since the beliefs are made of the most varying materials. If, again,
two ideas when associated remain distinct, we have Hume's difficulty.
Whatever is distinguishable, he argued, is separable. If two ideas
simply lie side by side, as is apparently implied by 'contiguity,' so
that each can be taken apart without change, why should we suppose
that they will never exist apart, or, indeed, that they should ever
again come together? The contiguity does not depend upon them, but
upon some inscrutable collocation, of which we can only say that it
exists now. This is the problem which greatly occupied J. S. Mill.

The 'indissoluble' or 'inseparable' association, which became the
grand arcanum of the school, while intended to answer some of these
difficulties, raises others. Mill seems to insist upon splitting a
unit into parts in order that it may be again brought together by
association. So J. S. Mill, in an admiring note, confirms his father's
explanation ('one of the most important thought in the whole
treatise') of the infinity of space.[554] We think space infinite
because we always 'associate' position with extension. Surely space is
extension; and to think of one without the other implies a
contradiction. We think space infinite, because we think of a space as
only limited by other space, and therefore indefinitely extensible.
There is no 'association,' simply repetition. Elsewhere we have the
problem, How does one association exclude another? Only, as J. S. Mill
replies, when one idea includes the idea of the absence of the
others.[555] We cannot combine the ideas of a plane and a convex
surface. Why? Because we have never had both sets of sensations
together. The 'commencement' of one set has always been 'simultaneous
with the cessation of another set,' as, for instance, when we bend a
flat sheet of paper. The difficulty seems to be that one fact cannot
be contradictory of another, since contradiction only applies to
assertions. When I say that A is above B, however, I surely assert
that B is below A; and I cannot make both assertions about A and B at
the same time without a contradiction. To explain this by an
association of simultaneous and successive sensations seems to be a
curiously roundabout way of 'explaining.' Every assertion is also a
denial; and, if I am entitled to say anything, I am enabled without
any help from association to deny its contradictory. On Mill's
showing, the assertion and the denial of its contradiction, instead of
being identical, are taken to be two beliefs accidentally associated.
Finally, I need only make one remark upon the fundamental difficulty.
It is hard to conceive of mere loose 'ideas' going about in the
universe at large and sticking accidentally to others. After all, the
human being is in true sense also an organised whole, and his
constitution must be taken into account in discovering the laws of
'ideation.' This is the point of view to which Mill, in his anxiety to
get rid of everything that had a savour of _a priori_ knowledge about
it, remains comparatively blind. It implies a remarkable omission.
Mill's great teacher, Hartley, had appealed to physiology in a
necessarily crude fashion. He had therefore an organism: a brain or a
nervous system which could react upon the external world and modify
and combine sensations. Mill's ideas would have more apparent
connection if they could be made to correspond to 'vibratiuncles' or
physical processes of some kind. But this part of Hartley's hypothesis
had been dropped: and all reality is therefore reduced to the whirl
of vagrant and accidentally cohering ideas in brains and clusters. His
one main aim is to get rid of everything that can be called mystical
and to trace all mental processes to 'experience,' as he understands
experience--to show that we are never entitled to assert that two
ideas may not be joined in any way whatever.

The general tendency of the 'Association Philosophy' is sufficiently
clear. It may be best appreciated by comparing it to the method of the
physical sciences, which it was intended to rival. The physicist
explains the 'laws of nature' by regarding a phenomenon as due to the
varying arrangements of an indefinite multitude of uniform atoms. I
need not ask whether these atoms are to be regarded as realities, even
the sole realities, or, on the other hand, as a kind of logical
scaffolding removable when the laws are ascertained. In any case, the
assumption is necessary and most fruitful in the search for accurate
and quantitative formulæ. Mill virtually assumes that the same thing
can be done by breaking up the stream of consciousness into the ideas
which correspond to the primitive atoms. What precisely these atoms
may be, how the constantly varying flow of thought can be resolved
into constituent fractions, is not easy to see. The physicist at least
supposes his atoms to have definite space relations, but there is
nothing clearly corresponding to space in the 'ideas.' They are
capable of nothing but co-existence, sequence, and likeness; but the
attempt to explain the meaning of those words ends in nothing but
repeating them. One result is the curious combination of the absolute
and the indefinitely variable. We get absolute statements because the
ultimate constituents are taken to be absolutely constant. We have
indefinite variability because they may be collocated in any
conceivable or inconceivable way. This becomes evident when we have to
do with organisms of any kind: with characters or societies an
organism varies, but varies along definite lines. But, on Mill's
showing, the organic relations correspond to the indefinitely
variable. Education is omnipotent; state constitutions can be
manufactured at will, and produce indefinite consequences. And yet he
can lay down laws of absolute validity, because he seems to be
deducing them from one or two formulæ corresponding to the essential
and invariable properties of the ultimate unit--whether man or ideas.
From this follows, too, the tendency to speak as if human desires
corresponded to some definite measurable things, such as utility in
ethics, value in political economy, and self-interest in politics.
This point appears in the application of Mill's theories to the moral
sciences.


III. JAMES MILL'S ETHICS

James Mill in his ethical doctrine follows Bentham with little
variation; but he shows very clearly what was the psychology which
Bentham virtually assumed. I may pass very briefly over Mill's theory
of conduct[556] in general. The 'phenomena of thought,' he says, may
be divided into the 'intellectual' and the 'active' powers. Hitherto
he has considered 'sensations' and 'ideas' merely as existing; he will
now consider them as 'exciting to action.'[557] The phenomena consist
in both cases of sensations and ideas, combined into 'clusters,' and
formed into trains 'according to the sense laws.' We have now to
consider the ideas as active, and 'to demonstrate the simple laws into
which the phenomena of human life, so numerous and apparently so
diversified, may all be easily resolved.'

A desire is an 'idea' of a pleasant sensation; an 'aversion' an idea
of painful sensation. The idea and the sensation are not two things,
but two names for the same thing. Desire, again, has a 'tacit
reference to future time' when applied to a given case. We associate
these pains and pleasures with the causes; and in the important case
our own actions are the causes. Thus the association produces the
motive, and the readiness to obey the motive is, as Bentham says, the
'disposition.' Then, following Hartley, Mill explains the will. Bodily
actions are muscular contractions, which are slowly co-ordinated by
habit--association, of course, acting at every stage of the process.
Now, it is a plain fact that muscular contractions follow 'ideas.' It
is easy, then, to see how the 'idea of a pleasure should excite the
idea of the action which is the cause of it; and how, when the idea
exists, the action should follow.'[558] An 'end' is a pleasure
desired, and gives the 'motive.' When we start from the motive and get
the pleasure the same association is called 'will.' 'Free-will' is of
course nonsense. We have a full account of the human mechanism, and
can see that it is throughout worked by association, admitting the
primary fact of experience that the idea causes the muscular
contraction.

This, and the ethical conclusions which follow, substantially
coincide with Bentham's doctrine, or supply the first principles from
which Bentham might be deduced. A fuller exposition of the ethics is
given in the _Fragment on Mackintosh_. Mackintosh, in 1829, wrote a
Dissertation upon 'Ethical Philosophy,' for the _Encyclopædia
Britannica_.[559] The book stirred Mill's 'indignation against an
evil-doer.'[560] He wrote a _Fragment on Mackintosh_, which was
suppressed for a time in consequence of his antagonist's death in
1832, but published in the year of his own death, 1835.[561] According
to Professor Bain, the book was softened in consequence of
remonstrances from Bickersteth. It would be curious to see the
previous version. Professor Bain says that there are 'thousands' of
books which contain 'far worse severities of language.' I confess that
I cannot remember quite 'a thousand.' It is at least difficult to
imagine more unmitigated expressions of contempt and aversion.
Mackintosh, says Mill, uses 'macaroni phrases,' 'tawdry talk,'
'gabble'; he gets 'beyond drivelling' into something more like
'raving'; he 'deluges' us with 'unspeakable nonsense.' 'Good God!'
sums up the comment which can be made upon one sentence.[562] Sir
James, he declares, 'has got into an intellectual state so thoroughly
depraved that I doubt whether a parallel to it is possible to be
found.'[563] There is scarcely a mention of Mackintosh without an
insult. A partial explanation of Mill's wrath may be suggested by the
chapter upon Bentham. Mackintosh there accused the Utilitarians
generally of 'wantonly wounding the most respectable feelings of
mankind'; of 'clinging to opinions because they are obnoxious'; of
taking themselves to be a 'chosen few,' despising the multitude, and
retorting the dislike which their arrogance has provoked by using
still more exasperating language.[564] He suggested that they should
do more justice to 'the Romillys and the Broughams,' who had been the
real and judicious reformers; and he illustrated the errors of Bentham
by especial reference to Mill's arguments upon government and
education. There had long been an antipathy. Mackintosh, said Mill in
1820, 'lives but for London display; _parler et faire parler de lui_
in certain circles is his heaven.'[565]

Mackintosh would have been most at home in a professorial chair. He
was, indeed, professor at Haileybury from 1818 to 1824, and spoken of
as a probable successor to Brown at Edinburgh. But he could never
decidedly concentrate himself upon one main purpose. Habits of
procrastination and carelessness about money caused embarrassment
which forced him to write hastily. His love of society interfered with
study, and his study was spread over an impossible range of subjects.
His great abilities, wasted by these infirmities, were seconded by
very wide learning. Macaulay describes the impression which he made at
Holland House.[566] He passed among his friends as the profound
philosopher; the man of universal knowledge of history; of ripe and
most impartial judgment in politics; the oracle to whom all men might
appeal with confidence, though a little too apt to find out that all
sides were in the right. When he went to India he took with him some
of the scholastic writers and the works of Kant and Fichte, then known
to few Englishmen. One of Macaulay's experiences at Holland House was
a vision of Mackintosh verifying a quotation from Aquinas.[567] It
must have been delightful. The ethical 'dissertation,' however, had to
be shortened by omitting all reference to German philosophy, and the
account of the schoolmen is cursory. It is easy to see why the suave
and amiable Mackintosh appeared to Mill to be a 'dandy' philosopher,
an unctuous spinner of platitudes to impose upon the frequenters of
Holland House, and hopelessly confused in the attempt to make
compromises between contradictory theories. It is equally easy to see
why to Mackintosh the thoroughgoing and strenuous Mill appeared to be
a one-sided fanatic, blind to the merits of all systems outside the
narrow limits of Benthamism, and making even philanthropy hateful. Had
Mackintosh lived to read Mill's _Fragment_, he would certainly have
thought it a proof that the Utilitarians were as dogmatic and acrid as
he had ever asserted.

Mackintosh's position in ethics explains Mill's antagonism. Neither
Aquinas nor Kant nor Fichte influenced him. His doctrine is the
natural outcome of the Scottish philosophy. Hutcheson had both
invented Bentham's sacred formula, and taught the 'Moral Sense' theory
which Bentham attacked. To study the morality from the point of view
of 'inductive psychology' is to study the moral faculty, and to reject
the purely 'intellectual' system. To assign the position of the moral
faculty in the psychological system is to show its utility. On the
other hand, it was the very aim of the school to avoid the sceptical
conclusions of Hume in philosophy, and in ethics to avoid the complete
identification of morality with utility. There must be a distinction
between the judgments, 'this is right,' and 'this is useful'; even
'useful to men in general.' Hence, on the one hand, morality is
immediately dictated by a special sense or faculty, and yet its
dictates coincide with the dictates of utility. I have spoken of this
view as represented by Dugald Stewart; and Brown had, according to his
custom, moved a step further by diminishing the list of original first
principles, and making 'virtue' simply equivalent to 'feelings' of
approval and disapproval.[568] Virtue, he said, is useful; the utility
'accompanies our moral approbation; but the perception of that utility
does not constitute our moral approbation, nor is it necessarily
presupposed by it.'[569] He compares the coincidence between virtue
and utility to Leibniz's pre-established harmony.[570] The position is
familiar. The adaptation of an organism to its conditions may be taken
either as an explanation of its development or as a proof of a
creative purpose.

Mackintosh takes nearly the same position. Ethical inquiries, he says,
relate to 'two perfectly distinct subjects.' We have the problem of
the 'criterion' (What is the distinction between right and wrong?) and
the problem of the 'moral sentiments' (What are the feelings produced
by the contemplation of right and wrong?). In treating of the
feelings, again, we must avoid the confusion caused in the older
philosophy by the reduction of 'feeling' to 'thought.'[571] Reason
and sensation are distinct though inseparably combined; and hence, he
argues, it is a fallacy to speak with Clarke as if reason could by
itself be a motive. An argument to influence conduct must always be in
the last resort an appeal to a 'feeling.'[572] It is idle to tell a
man that conduct is infamous unless he _feels_ infamy to be painful.
We have then to ask what are the feelings which prompt to morality. So
far as the criterion is concerned, Mackintosh fully agrees with Hume,
whose theory that 'general utility constitutes a general ground of
moral distinctions can never be impugned until some example can be
produced of a virtue generally pernicious or a vice generally
beneficial.'[573] Hume, however, overlooks the 'rightful supremacy of
the moral faculty over every other principle of human action.'
Mackintosh thought that his best service, as he told Macvey
Napier,[574] had been his 'endeavour to slip in a foundation under
Butler's doctrine of the supremacy of the conscience, which he left
baseless.' To slip in a foundation is a very delicate operation in
logical as in material architecture; and the new foundation seems here
to be in danger of inverting the edifice. The 'supremacy of
conscience'[575] means with him that the 'moral sentiments' form a
separate class. They are the feelings with which we contemplate
voluntary actions in general, and therefore those aroused by the
character and conduct of the agent. Mackintosh thus takes an æsthetic
view of morality. We have a 'moral taste' or perception of beauty. The
same qualities which make a horse beautiful make him also swift and
safe, but we perceive the beauty without thinking of the utility, or
rather when we do not think of it. So we admire a hero or martyr for
the beauty of his character without reference to his services to
us.[576] This moral taste, though not identical with the conscience,
becomes 'absorbed into it.' The conscience differs from the 'moral
taste' because it acts upon the will. But its supremacy seems to be
this quality which it shares with or derives from the taste--its
immediate and spontaneous operation. It is, he seems to mean, a direct
perception of beauty in character applied to the regulation of
conduct. Virtue corresponds to an instinctive and so far ultimate
appreciation of beauty of character. Mackintosh insists upon this
intrinsic charm of virtue in the language which struck Mill as simply
foppish affectation. The pleasure of 'benevolence' itself, says
Mackintosh, is infinitely superior to the pleasures to which it may
lead. Could it become 'lasting and intense,' it would convert the
heart into a heaven.[577] To love virtue, you must love it 'for its
own sake.'[578] The delights of being virtuous (as he interprets the
phrase) are greater than any delight from the consequences of virtue.
And he holds up as a model Fletcher of Saltoun, who would 'lose his
life to serve his country, but would not do a base thing to save
it.'[579]

How, then, is this view to be reconciled with the unreserved admission
of 'utility' as the 'criterion' of right and wrong? One answer is that
Mackintosh fully accepts Hartley's doctrine of association. He even
criticises previous philosophers for not pushing it far enough. He
says that association, instead of merely combining a 'thought' and a
'feeling,' 'forms them into a new compound, in which the properties of
the component parts are no longer discoverable, and which may itself
become a substantive principle of human virtue.'[580] The question of
origin, therefore, is different from the question of nature. He
follows Hartley in tracing the development of various desires, and in
showing how the 'secondary desires' are gradually formed from the
primitive by transference to different objects.[581] We must start
from feelings which lie beneath any intellectual process, and thus the
judgment of utility is from the first secondary. We arrive at the
higher feelings which are 'as independent as if they were
underived,'[582] and yet, as happiness has been involved at every
stage as an end of each desire, it is no wonder that the ultimate
result should be to make the general happiness the end. The
coincidence, then, of the criterion with the end of the moral
sentiments is 'not arbitrary,' but arises necessarily from 'the laws
of human nature and the circumstances in which mankind are
placed.'[583] Hence we reach the doctrine which 'has escaped Hartley
as well as every other philosopher.'[584] That doctrine is that the
moral faculty is one; it is compound, indeed, in its origin; but
becomes an independent unit, which can no longer be resolved even in
thought into its constituent elements.

The doctrine approximates, it would seem, to Mill's; but was all the
more unpalatable to him on that account. The agreement implies
plagiarism, and the difference hopeless stupidity. To Mill Bentham was
the legitimate development of Hartley, while to Mackintosh Bentham
was the plausible perverter of Hartley. Mill regarded Mackintosh as a
sophist, whose aim was to mislead honest Utilitarians into the paths
of orthodoxy, and who also ignored the merits of Mill himself. 'It was
Mr. Mill,' he says, 'who first made known the great importance of the
principle of the indissoluble association';[585] 'Mr. Mill' who had
taken up Hartley's speculations and 'prosecuted the inquiry to its
end';[586] 'Mr. Mill' who explained affections and motives and
dispositions;[587] and 'Mr. Mill' who had cleared up mistakes about
classification which 'had done more to perpetuate darkness on the
subject of mind than any other cause, perhaps than all other causes
taken together.'[588] Sir James blundered because he had not read
Mill's book, as he pretended to have done. Mill does not say all this
from vanity; he is simply stating an obvious matter of fact.

Mill's polemic against the Moral Sense theory, even against a moral
sense produced by association, reveals the really critical points of
the true Utilitarian doctrine. Mill would cut down the moral sense
root and branch. The 'moral sense' means a 'particular faculty'
necessary to discern right and wrong. But no particular faculty is
necessary to discern 'utility.'[589] Hence the distinction between the
'criterion' and the 'moral sentiments' is absurd. The utility is not
the 'criterion' of the morality but itself constitutes the morality.
To say that conduct is right, according to the Utilitarians, is the
same thing as to say that it produces happiness. If the moral sense
orders conduct opposed to the criterion, it is so far bad. If it
never orders such conduct, it is superfluous. Happiness, as with
Bentham, is a definite thing--a currency of solid bullion; and
'virtue' means nothing except as calculated in this currency. Mill,
again, like Bentham, regards the 'utility' principle as giving the
sole 'objective' test. The complaint that it sanctions 'expediency' is
a simple fallacy.

If you do not love virtue 'for its own sake,' said Mackintosh, you
will break a general law wherever the law produces a balance of
painful consequences. Mill replies with great vigour.[590] All general
rules, it is true, imply exceptions, but only when they conflict with
the supreme rule. 'There is no exception to a rule of morality,' says
Mill, 'but what is made by a rule of morality.'[591] There are
numerous cases in which the particular laws conflict; and one law must
then be broken. The question which to break must then be decided by
the same unequivocal test, 'utility.' If a rule for increasing utility
diminishes utility in a given case, it must be broken in that case.
Mackintosh's Fletcher of Saltoun illustrates the point.[592] What is
the 'base' thing which Fletcher would not do to save his country?
Would he not be the basest of men if he did not save his country at
any cost? To destroy half a population and reduce the other half to
misery has been thought a sacrifice not too great for such an end.
Would not Mackintosh himself allow Fletcher, when intrusted with an
important fortress, to sacrifice the lives and properties of innocent
people in defence of his position?[593] What, then, does the love of
virtue 'for its own sake' come to? If you refuse to save your country,
because you think the means base, your morality is mischievous, that
is, immoral. If, on the other hand, you admit that the means cease to
be base, the supposed supremacy is an empty brag. The doctrine is then
verbally maintained, but interpreted so as to conform to the criterion
of utility. In other words, Mackintosh cannot reconcile his admission
of utility as a 'criterion' with his support of a moral sense entitled
to override the criterion. Mackintosh's moral sense is meant to
distinguish the moral motive from 'expediency.' To this, again, Mill
has a very forcible answer. A man is blameable who makes exceptions to
laws in his own private interest. But if a man consistently and
invariably acted for the 'greatest happiness of the greatest number,'
and paid no more attention to his own happiness than to other
people's, he would certainly have a very lofty and inflexible test,
assuming--as we must allow Mill to assume--that we can calculate the
effect of conduct upon happiness at large. Again, upon the assumption
that 'moral' is equivalent to 'felicific,' we get a general rule
entitled to override any individual tastes or fancies, such as Mill
supposes to be meant by the 'Moral Sense.' The rule is derived from
the interests of all, and gives an ultimate 'objective criterion.' J.
S. Mill, describing his father's system, observes that the teaching of
such a man was not likely to err on 'the side of laxity or
indulgence.'[594] It certainly did not. And, in fact, his criterion,
however obtained, had in his eyes the certainty of a scientific law.
This or that is right as surely as this or that food is wholesome. My
taste has nothing to do with it. And, moreover, the criterion
certainly gives a moral ground. If I know that any conduct will
produce more happiness than misery that is a moral reason for adopting
it. A 'moral sense' which should be radically inconsistent with that
criterion, which should order me to inflict suffering as suffering, or
without some ulterior reason, would be certainly at fault. Mackintosh
indeed would have agreed to this, though, if Mill was right, at the
expense of consistency.

Mill, however, deduces from his criterion doctrines which involve a
remarkable paradox. The mode in which he is led to them is
characteristic of the whole method. Mill, like Bentham, puts morality
upon the same plane with law. Conduct is influenced either by the
'community in its conjunct capacity'--that is, by law; or by
'individuals in their individual capacity'--that is, by morality.[595]
The sanction of one, we may infer, is force; of the other, approval
and disapproval. With this we must take another Benthamite doctrine,
of which I have already spoken.[596] 'Mr. Bentham demonstrated,' says
Mill, 'that the morality of an act does not depend upon the motive,'
and, further, that it 'is altogether dependent on the intention.'[597]
Upon this he constantly insists. Mackintosh's view that virtue depends
upon motive will be 'scorned by every man who has any knowledge of the
philosophy of the human mind.... The virtue does not depend upon the
motive. There is no bad motive. Every motive is the desire of good; to
the agent himself or to some one else.'[598] He gives an analysis of
action to put the point beyond doubt. Action supposes a 'motive,' a
'volition,' and an 'external act' or muscular contraction. So far
there is nothing moral. But then an act has consequences, good or bad,
to human beings, which constitute its utility. To make it moral, the
agent must anticipate 'beneficial consequences,' and must have no
reason to anticipate a balance of evil consequences. Intention means
the calculation of consequences, and without that calculation there
can be no morality.[599] Hence the morality is equivalent to a
'conviction of the general utility' of the action.[600] 'All this,' he
concludes, 'is settled by universal consent. It is vain, therefore, to
think of disputing it.' One may, however, ask what it means. I have
already observed that the view of the non-moral character of motive
was a natural corollary from the purely legal point of view. I must
now consider the results of applying it unreservedly in the
inappropriate sphere of ethics.

In the first place, the denial of any moral quality in motive seems to
be inconsistent with Mill's own principles. The Utilitarian, according
to him, holds that the moral law is essentially the statement that
certain conduct produces general happiness. If, then, we ask, Who is a
good man? we first reply that he is a man whose conduct produces
happiness. Another conclusion is obviously necessary, and is implied
in Mill's statement that the 'intention' is essential to morality. The
man, that is, must foresee that his conduct will produce happiness.
The 'calculation' is precisely what makes an action moral as well as
accidentally useful. In other words, the man is good to whom the
knowledge that an act will produce happiness is the same thing as a
command to perform the act. The 'intention' could not affect conduct
without the corresponding motive, and Mill can at times recognise the
obvious consequence. The 'physical law' (meaning the law enforced by
physical coercion), he says incidentally, has 'extrinsic'
sanctions;[601] the moral law is different, because it sanctions good
actions for their goodness. 'Moral approval' must therefore include
approval of character. A man, to be moral, must be one who does useful
things simply because they are useful. He must then, it would seem, be
at least benevolent. The same thing is implied by the doctrine of
'intention' or 'calculation.' An action may be useful or the reverse
without being moral when the consequences are unknown to the agent. To
make it moral he must know the consequences--for otherwise he is
merely acting at random; and the foreseen consequences constitute the
'intention.' To this Mill adds that he must have taken into account
the consequences which 'might have been foreseen.'[602] Otherwise we
should have to excuse a man because he had neglected to calculate,
whereas to calculate is the very essence of virtue. A man who fired a
gun down a crowded street would not be excusable because he had not
thought of the result. He 'ought' to have thought of it. The question
of moral approval of any given action turns upon these questions. Did
a man foresee evil consequences and disregard them? He is then cruel.
Did he neglect to consider them? He is then culpably careless, though
not actually malignant. Were the consequences altogether beyond the
powers of reasonable calculation? Then he may be blameless. The whole
moral question, therefore, depends upon the character indicated; that
is, upon the motives which induce a man to calculate consequences and
which determine his conduct when the calculation is made.

The truth is, I think, and it is characteristic of Mill's modes of
analysis, that he is making an impossible abstraction. He is
separating parts of a single process and treating them as independent.
If actions are bad because they have bad consequences, motives are bad
because they are causes of bad actions. You cannot suppress the effect
without suppressing the cause, and therefore the cause of the cause.
Mill relies chiefly upon one argument. The same conduct will produce
the same consequences whatever the motives. That is undeniable. It is
the same to me whether I am burnt because the persecutor loves my soul
or because he hates me as a rebel to his authority. But when is
conduct 'the same'? If we classify acts as the legislator has to
classify them by 'external' or 'objective' relations, we put together
the man who is honest solely from fear of the gallows and the man who
is honest from hatred of stealing. So long as both act alike, the
'consequences' to their neighbours are alike. Neither is legally
punishable. But if acts are classified by their motives, one is a
rogue and the other virtuous; and it is only then that the question of
morality properly arises. In that case, it is idle to separate the
question of motive and consequences, because the character determines
the motive and therefore the action. Nobody should have seen this more
clearly than Mill as a good 'determinist.' Conduct and character are
related as the convex and concave of the curve; conduct is simply the
manifestation of character, and to separate them is absurd.

Why did he not see this? For reasons, I think, which illustrate his
whole method. From a scientific point of view, the ethical problem
raises the wide questions, What are the moral sentiments? and, What
functions do they discharge in regard to the society or to its
individual members? We might hold that morality is justified by
'utility' in the sense that the moral rules and the character which
they indicate are essential to the welfare of the race or its
individual constituents. But to Mill this proposition is interpreted
as identical with the proposition that conduct must be estimated by
its 'consequences.' We are to consider not the action itself, but its
effects; and the effects are clearly independent of the motive when
once the action has been done. We may therefore get a calculus of
'utility': general rules stating what actions will be useful
considered abstractedly from their motives. The method, again, might
be plausible if we could further assume that all men were the same and
differed only in external circumstances. That is the point of view to
which Mill, like Bentham, is always more or less consciously
inclining. The moral and the positive law are equally enforced by
'sanctions'; by something not dependent upon the man himself, and
which he is inclined to suppose will operate equally upon all men.
Such language could be justifiable only of an average and uniform
'man,' a kind of constant unit, whose varying behaviour must always be
explained by difference in circumstance. We have sufficiently seen the
results elsewhere, and in this ethical doctrine they are especially
manifest.

Mackintosh recognised the fact that morality is essentially a
function of character. Mill cannot fully admit that, because he
virtually assumes all character to be the same. Regarding morality as
something co-ordinate with law, he does not perceive that the very
possibility of law implies the moral instincts, which correspond to
the constitution of character, and belong to a sphere underlying, not
on the same plane with, the legislative sphere. They are the source of
all order; not themselves the product of the order. It is impossible
to deduce them, therefore, from the organisation which presupposes
them. Now, in one direction, Mill's theory leads, as his son remarked,
not to laxity but to excessive strictness. The 'criterion' is laid
down absolutely. The 'moral sense' is rejected because it means an
autocratic faculty, entitled to override the criterion by its own
authority. To appeal to 'motives' is to allow the individual to make
his own feeling the ultimate test of right and wrong. If we follow
Mill in this we are not really assuming the moral neutrality of motive
or the indifference, but an impossible profession of character. Men
are not governed by abstract principles but by their passions and
affections. The emotions, as Mackintosh rightly said, cannot be
resolved into the mere logic. Utility may give the true criterion of
morality, but it does not follow that the perception of utility is
implied in moral conduct. The motives are good which in fact produce
useful conduct, though the agent does not contemplate the abstract
principle. It is impossible that men should be moved simply by a
desire for the 'greatest happiness of the greatest number.' What does
and always must guide men is their personal relation to the little
circle which they actually influence. The good man is the man so
constituted that he will spontaneously fulfil his duties. The moral
law, that is, will be also the law of his character and conduct. The
mother is good because she loves her child, not because she sees that
care of her child is dictated by the general maxim of utility. The
'utility' of character means the fitness of the agent to be an
efficient member of the social structure to which he belongs. In
particular cases this may lead to such problems as that of Fletcher of
Saltoun. His sense of honour and his general benevolence, though both
useful, might come into collision; and the most difficult of all
questions of casuistry arise from such conflicts between private and
public affections. Mill is justified in holding that a sense of honour
cannot give an ultimate and autocratic decision. Under some pretext or
other, we shall have to ask the Utilitarian question whether on the
whole it may not be causing more misery than the virtuous action is
worth. But that only means that the character must be so balanced as
to give due weight to each motive; not that we can abstract from
character altogether, as though human beings could be mere colourless
and uniform atoms, embodying abstract formulæ.

Mill is following Bentham, and only brings out more clearly the
psychological assumptions. A man, he says, acts from the 'same motive'
whether he steals five shillings or earns it by a day's labour. The
motive, in this sense, regards only one consequence, whereas the
'intention' regards all. The 'motive,' that is, is only one of the
motives or a part of the character, and this way of speaking is one of
the awkward results of turning 'motives' into 'things.' The obvious
answer is that which Mill himself makes to Mackintosh. Mackintosh and
Butler, he thinks, personify particular 'appetites.'[603] It is not
really the 'conscience' which decides, but the man. That is quite
true, and similarly it is the whole man who steals or works, not the
'personified' motive; and it is accordingly from the whole character
that we judge. We have to consider the relation of the love of five
shillings to the other qualities of industry and honesty. The same
view appears in Mill's characteristic dislike of 'sentimentalism.'
Wishing to attack Mackintosh's rhetoric about the delight of virtuous
feeling, he for once quotes a novel to illustrate this point. When
Parson Adams defined charity as a 'generous disposition to relieve the
distressed,' Peter Pounce approved; 'it is, as you say, a disposition,
and does not so much consist in the act as in the disposition to do
it.'[604] When, therefore, Mackintosh says that he finds it difficult
to separate the virtue from the act, Mill replies that nothing is
easier. The virtue is 'in the act and its consequences'; the feeling a
mere removable addition. Apparently he would hold that the good
Samaritan and the Pharisee had the same feeling, though it prompted
one to relieve the sufferer and the other to relieve himself of the
sight of the sufferer. They had, of course, a feeling in common, but a
feeling which produced diametrically opposite effects, because
entering into totally different combinations.

If Mill's doctrine leads to an impossible strictness in one direction,
it leads to less edifying results in another. We have omitted 'motive'
and come to the critical question, How, after all, is the moral code
to be enforced? By overlooking this question and declaring 'motive' to
be irrelevant, we get the paradox already accepted by Bentham. His
definition of virtue is action for the good of others as well as of
ourselves. In what way is the existence of such action to be
reconciled with this doctrine? What are the motives which make men
count the happiness of others to be equally valuable with their own?
or, in the Utilitarian language, What is the 'sanction' of morality?
After all Bentham's insistence upon the 'self-preference principle'
and Mill's account of selfishness in his political theory, we are
suddenly told that morality means a lofty and rigid code in which the
happiness of all is the one end. Here again Mill is entangled by the
characteristic difficulty of his psychology. To analyse is to divide
objects into separate units. When he has to do with complex objects
and relations apparently reciprocal, he is forced to represent them by
a simple sequence. The two factors are not mutually dependent but
distinct things somehow connected in time. One result is his account
of 'ends' or 'motives' (the two, as he observes, are synonymous).[605]
The end is something to be gained by the act, the 'association' of
which with the act constitutes a 'desire.' This, we have seen, always
refers to the future.[606] In acting, then, I am always guided by
calculations of future pleasures or pains. I believe this to be one of
the most unfortunate because one of the most plausible of Utilitarian
fallacies. If we are determined by pains and pleasures, it is in one
sense as contradictory to speak of our being determined by future
pains and pleasures as to speak of our being nourished to-day by
to-morrow's dinner. The 'future pleasure' does not exist; the
anticipated pleasure acts by making the present action pleasant; and
we then move (as it is said) along the line of least resistance.
Certain conduct is intrinsically pleasurable or painful, and the
future pleasure only acts through the present foretaste. When,
however, we regard the pleasure as future and as somehow a separable
thing, we can only express these undeniable facts by accepting a
purely egoistic conclusion. We are, of course, moved by our own
feelings, as we breathe with our own lungs and digest with our own
stomachs. But when we accept the doctrine of 'ends' this harmless and
self-evident truth is perverted into the statement that our 'end' must
be our own pleasure; that we cannot be really or directly unselfish.
The analysis, indeed, is so defective that it can hardly be applied
intelligibly. Hume observes that no man would rest his foot
indifferently upon a stool or a gouty toe. The action itself of giving
pain would be painful, and cannot be plausibly resolved into an
anticipation of an 'end.' This, again, is conspicuously true of all
the truly social emotions. Not only the conscience, but the sense of
shame or honour, or pride and vanity act powerfully and
instantaneously as present motives without necessary reference to any
future results. The knowledge that I am giving pain or causing future
pain is intrinsically and immediately painful to the normal human
being, and the supposed 'analysis' is throughout a fiction. Mill,
however, like Bentham, takes it for granted, but perceives more
clearly than Bentham the difficulty to which it leads. How, from a
theory of pure selfishness, are we to get a morality of general
benevolence? The answer is given by the universal 'association.' We
are governed, he holds, by our own emotions; our end is our own
pleasure, and we have to consider how this end dictates a desire for
general happiness. He expounds with great vigour the process by which
the love of friends, children and parents and country may be gradually
developed through the association of our pleasures with the
fellow-creatures who caused them. J. S. Mill regards his exposition as
'almost perfect,'[607] and says that it shows how the 'acquired
sentiments'--the moral sentiments and so forth--may be gradually
developed; may become 'more intense and powerful than any of the
elements out of which they may have been formed, and may also in their
maturity be perfectly disinterested.' James Mill declares that the
analysis does not affect the reality of the sentiments analysed.
Gratitude remains gratitude, and generosity generosity, just as a
white ray remains white after Newton had decomposed it into rays of
different colours.[608] Here once more we have the great principle of
indissoluble association or mental chemistry.

Granting that the emotions so generated may be real, we may still ask
whether the analysis be sufficient. James Mill's account of the way in
which they are generated leaves a doubt. Morality is first impressed
upon us by authority. Our parents praise and blame, reward and
punish. Thus are formed associations of praise and blame with certain
actions. Then, we form further associations with the causes of praise
and blame and thus acquire the sentiments of 'praiseworthiness' and
'blameworthiness.' The sensibility to praise and blame generally forms
the 'popular sanction,' and this, when praiseworthiness is concerned,
becomes the moral sanction.[609] Here we see that morality is regarded
as somehow the product of a 'sanction'; that is, of the action of
praise and blame with their usual consequences upon the individual.
His sensibility causes him through association to acquire the habits
which generally bring praise and blame; and ultimately these qualities
become attractive for their own sake. The difficulty is to see where
the line is crossed which divides truly moral or altruistic conduct
from mere prudence. Admitting that association may impel us to conduct
which involves self-sacrifice, we may still ask whether such conduct
is reasonable. Association produces belief in error as well as in
truth. If I love a man because he is useful and continue to love him
when he can no longer be useful, am I not misguided? If I wear a
ragged coat, because it was once smart, my conduct is easily explained
as a particular kind of folly. If I am good to my old mother when she
can no longer nurse me, am I not guilty of a similar folly? In short,
a man who inferred from Mill's principles that he would never do good
without being paid for it, would be hardly inconsistent. Your
associations, Mill would say, are indissoluble. He might answer, I
will try--it is surely not so hard to dissolve a tie of gratitude!
Granting, in short, that Mill gives an account of such virtue as may
be made of enlightened self-interest, he does not succeed in making
intelligible the conduct which alone deserves the name of virtuous.
The theory always halts at the point where something more is required
than an external sanction, and supposes a change of character as well
as a wider calculation of personal interest.

The imperfection of this theory may be taken for granted. It has been
exposed by innumerable critics. It is more important to observe one
cause of the imperfection. Mill's argument contains an element of real
worth. It may be held to represent fairly the historical development
of morals. That morality is first conceived as an external law
deriving its sanctity from authority; that it is directed against
obviously hurtful conduct; and that it thus serves as a protection
under which the more genuine moral sentiments can develop themselves,
I believe to be in full accordance with sound theories of ethics. But
Mill was throughout hampered by the absence of any theory of
evolution. He had to represent a series of changes as taking place in
the individual which can only be conceived as the product of a long
and complex social change. He is forced to represent the growth of
morality as an accretion of new 'ends' due to association, not as an
intrinsic development of the character itself. He has to make morality
out of atomic sensations and ideas collected in clusters and trains
without any distinct reference to the organic constitution of the
individual or of society, and as somehow or other deducible from the
isolated human being, who remains a constant, though he collects into
groups governed by external sanctions. He sees that morality is
formed somehow or other, but he cannot show that it is either
reasonable or an essential fact of human nature. Here, again, we shall
see what problem was set to his son. Finally, if Mill did not explain
ethical theory satisfactorily, it must be added in common justice that
he was himself an excellent example of the qualities for which he
tried to account. A life of devotion to public objects and a
conscientious discharge of private duties is just the phenomenon for
which a cluster of 'ideas' and 'associations' seems to be an
inadequate account. How, it might have been asked, do you explain
James Mill? His main purpose, too, was to lay down a rule of duty,
almost mathematically ascertainable, and not to be disturbed by any
sentimentalism, mysticism, or rhetorical foppery. If, in the attempt
to free his hearers from such elements, he ran the risk of reducing
morality to a lower level and made it appear as unamiable as sound
morality can appear, it must be admitted that in this respect too his
theories reflected his personal character.

FOOTNOTES:

[464] For an account of these writers and their relation to the
pre-revolutionary schools, see _Les Idéologues_ by F. Picavet (1891).

[465] Macvey Napier's _Correspondence_, p. 424.

[466] Charles François Dominique de Villers (1767-1815) was a French
officer, who emigrated in 1792, and took refuge at Lübeck. He became
profoundly interested in German life and literature, and endeavoured
to introduce a knowledge of German speculation to his countrymen. His
chief books were this exposition of Kant and an essay upon the
_Reformation of Luther_ (1803), which went through several editions,
and was translated by James Mill in 1805. An interesting account of
Villers is in the _Biographie Universelle_.

[467] See Cockburn's _Memorials_ for a good notice of this.

[468] Stewart's _Works_, iv. 345.

[469] Lady Holland's _Life of Smith_, ii. 388.

[470] _Inquiry into the Relations of Cause and Effect_ (third
edition), pp. 178, 180, and part iv. sec. 6.

[471] _Examination of Hamilton_ (fourth edition), p. 379.

[472] _Cause and Effect_, pp. 184-87.

[473] _Cause and Effect_, p. 197.

[474] _Ibid._ p. 239 _seq._

[475] _Ibid._ p. 244.

[476] _Ibid._ p. 150.

[477] _Ibid._ p. 357.

[478] _Cause and Effect_, p. 313.

[479] _Cause and Effect_, p. 482. Brown thinks that we can logically
disprove the existence of motion by the hare and tortoise argument,
and should therefore disregard logic.

[480] Brown's _Lectures_, (1851), p. 167, Lect. xxvi.

[481] Lecture xxv. This question as to whether Brown had or had not
grossly misrepresented Reid and other philosophers, led to an
entangled argument, in which Mill defended Brown against Hamilton. I
will not ask whether Reid was a 'natural realist' or a 'cosmothetic
idealist,' or what Descartes or Arnauld thought about the question.

[482] Reid's _Works_, p. 128.

[483] _Lectures_, pp. 150, 158-59.

[484] _Dissertations_, p. 98. Compare Brown's Twenty-fourth Lecture
with Tracy's _Idéologie_, ch. vii., and the account of the way in
which the infant learns from resistance to infer a cause, and make of
the cause _un être qui n'est pas moi_. The resemblance is certainly
close. Brown was familiar with French literature, and shows it by many
quotations, though he does not, I think, refer to Tracy. Brown, it
must be noticed, did not himself publish his lectures, and a professor
is not bound to give all his sources in popular lectures. An
explanation would have been due in a treatise. Picavet quotes
Rhétoré's _Philosophie de Thomas Brown_ (a book which I have not seen)
for the statement that Brown's lectures often read like a translation
of Laromiguière, with whom Brown was 'perhaps' acquainted. As,
however, the _Leçons_, to which reference is apparently made, did not
appear till 1815 and 1818, when Brown's lectures were already written,
this seems to be impossible. The coincidence, which to me seems to be
exaggerated by the statement, is explicable by a common relation to
previous writers.

[485] _Lectures_, p. 166 (Lect. xxvi.).

[486] _Lectures_, p. 158 (Lect. xxv.).

[487] _Ibid._ p. 151 (Lect. xxiv.).

[488] _Lectures_, p. 177 (ch. xxviii.). Brown made the same remark to
Mackintosh in 1812. (Mackintosh's _Ethical Philosophy_, 1872, 236
_n._)

[489] _Ibid._ p. 154 (Lect. xxiv.).

[490] See Hamilton's note to Reid's _Works_, p. 111.

[491] _Lectures_, p. 255 (Lect. xl.).

[492] _Ibid._ (Lect. xxxiii. and following).

[493] _Ibid._ p. 214-15 (Lect. xxxiii.). The phrase is revived by
Professor Stout in his _Analytic Psychology_.

[494] _Lectures_, p. 213 (Lect. xxxiii.).

[495] This is one of the coincidences with Laromiguière (_Leçons_
(1837), i. 103).

[496] _Lectures_, p. 210.

[497] _Lectures_, p. 315 (Lect. xlviii.).

[498] _Ibid._ p. 314.

[499] _Lectures_, p. 335 (Lect. li.). See Lect. xi. for a general
explanation. The mind is nothing but a 'series of feelings'; and to
say that 'I am conscious of feeling' is simply to say 'I feel.' The
same phrase often occurs in James Mill.

[500] _Ibid._ p. 298 (Lect. xlvi.).

[501] _Ibid._ p. 498 (Lect. lxxiv.).

[502] _Lectures_, p. 622 (Lect. xciii.).

[503] _Dissertations_, p. 98.

[504] Froude's _Carlyle_, p. 25.

[505] _Miscellanies_ (1858), ii. 104. See, too, _Miscellanies_, i. 60,
on German Literature, where he thinks that the Germans attacked the
centre instead of the outworks of Hume's citadel. Carlyle speaks with
marked respect of Dugald Stewart, who, if he knew what he was about,
would agree with Kant.

[506] In Caroline Fox's _Memories of Old Friends_ (second edition),
ii. 314, is a letter from J. S. Mill, expressing a very high opinion
of Brown, whom he had just been re-reading (1840) with a view to the
Logic. Brown's 'analysis in his early lectures of the amount of what
we can learn of the phenomena of the world seems to me perfect, and
his mode of inquiry into the mind is strictly founded upon that
analysis.'

[507] I quote from this edition. Andrew Findlater (1810-1885), a
Scottish schoolmaster, and editor of Chambers's _Cyclopædia_, was a
philologist (_Dictionary of National Biography_), and his notes
chiefly concern Mill's adaptations of Horne Tooke.

[508] _Treatise_ (bk. i. pt. i. sec. iv.).

[509] J. S. Mill's _Autobiography_, p. 68.

[510] _Fragment on Mackintosh_, p. 314.

[511] _Analysis_, ii. 42. 'Odd,' because Brown was six years younger
than Mill.

[512] 'Education,' p. 6.

[513] _Analysis_, i. 52.

[514] _Analysis_, i. xvii.

[515] _Ibid._ i. 70.

[516] _Analysis_, i. 71.

[517] _Ibid._ i. 78.

[518] _Ibid._ i. 83.

[519] _Analysis_, ii. 42.

[520] _Ibid._ i. 270.

[521] _Ibid._ i. 111.

[522] _Ibid._ i. 362.

[523] _Analysis_, i. 154 _n._

[524] _Ibid._ i. 161.

[525] _Analysis_, i. 189.

[526] _Ibid._ i. 163 _n._

[527] _Ibid._ i. 266.

[528] _Ibid._ i. 269.

[529] _Ibid._ i. 295.

[530] _Analysis_, i. 162 _n._, 187 _n._

[531] _Ibid._ ii. 21.

[532] _Ibid._ i. 224-25.

[533] _Analysis_, i. 342.

[534] _e.g._ _Ibid._ ii. 176.

[535] _Ibid._ i. 341.

[536] _Ibid._ i. 342 _n._

[537] _Ibid._ i. 331.

[538] _Ibid._ i. 345.

[539] _Ibid._ i. 352.

[540] _Ibid._ i. 381.

[541] _Analysis_, i. 363.

[542] _Ibid._ i. 402.

[543] _Ibid._ i. 402-23.

[544] _Analysis_, i. 423.

[545] _Ibid._ i. 413, 419.

[546] See especially his account of definition, _Logic_, bk. i. ch.
viii., and the problem about the serpent and the dragon.

[547] _Analysis_, ii. 2.

[548] This point puzzles Destutt de Tracy. All error, he says, arises
in judgments: 'Cependant les jugements, les perceptions de rapports,
en tant que perceptions que nous avons actuellement, sont aussi
certaines et aussi réelles que toutes les autres.'--_Éléments
d'Idéologie_ (1865), iii. 449.

[549] _Analysis_, ii. 6, 7.

[550] _Analysis_, ii. 18 _n._

[551] _Analysis_, ii. 24 _n._

[552] _Ibid._ ii. 132-33.

[553] _Analysis_, ii. 67-69.

[554] _Analysis_, ii. 113 _n._

[555] _Ibid._ i. 97 _n._

[556] Professor Bain points out that Mill is occasionally confused by
his ignorance of the triple division, intellect, feelings: and will,
introduced in the next generation.--_Analysis_, ii. 180 _n._

[557] _Analysis_, ii. 181-83.

[558] _Analysis_, ii. 351.

[559] Also privately printed in 1830. Later editions, edited by
Whewell, appeared in 1836, 1862, 1873. I quote the last. See M.
Napier's _Correspondence_, pp. 57-59, for the composition.

[560] Mill's _Fragment_ (Preface).

[561] See Bain's _James Mill_, pp. 374, 415-18.

[562] _Fragment_, pp. 190, 192, 213, 298, 307, 326.

[563] _Ibid._ p. 210.

[564] _Ethical Philosophy_ (1873), pp. 188, 193.

[565] M. Napier's _Correspondence_, p. 25.

[566] _Essay on Sir J. Mackintosh._

[567] _Essay on Lord Holland._

[568] _Lectures_, p. 500 (Lect. lxxv.).

[569] _Ibid._ p. 519 (Lect. lxxvii.).

[570] _Ibid._ p. 522 (Lect. lxxviii.).

[571] _Ethical Philosophy_ (Hobbes), pp. 62-64.

[572] _Ibid._ p. 85.

[573] _Ibid._ p. 145.

[574] _Ibid._ p. 9.

[575] _Ibid._ p. 120.

[576] _Ethical Philosophy_, pp. 14, 170.

[577] _Ibid._ p. 197.

[578] _Ibid._ p. 248.

[579] _Ibid._ p. 204.

[580] _Ethical Philosophy_ p. 242.

[581] _Ibid._ p. 251.

[582] _Ibid._ p. 262.

[583] _Ibid._ p. 264.

[584] _Ibid._ p. 169.

[585] _Fragment_, p. 173.

[586] _Ibid._ p. 323.

[587] _Ibid._ p. 221.

[588] _Fragment_, p. 247. Mackintosh quotes Mill's _Analysis_ at p.
197. It had only just appeared.

[589] _Fragment_, p. 11.

[590] _Fragment_, p. 246, etc.

[591] _Ibid._ p. 246.

[592] _Ibid._ pp. 269, 270.

[593] Cf. Newman's _Apologia_. 'The Catholic Church holds it better
for the sun and moon to drop from heaven, for the earth to fail, and
for all the millions on it to die of starvation in extremest agony, so
far as temporal affliction goes, than that one soul,--I will not say
should be lost, but should commit one single venial sin, tell one
wilful untruth, or should steal one poor farthing without excuse.' I
should steal the farthing and assume the 'excuse.' I confess that I
would not only lie, but should think lying right under the supposed
circumstances.

[594] _Autobiography_, p. 51.

[595] _Fragment_, p. 251.

[596] Vol. i. p. 257.

[597] _Fragment_, p. 161.

[598] _Fragment_, pp. 315-16.

[599] _Ibid._ p. 164.

[600] _Ibid._ pp. 320-22.

[601] _Fragment_, p. 102.

[602] _Ibid._ p. 162.

[603] _Analysis_, p. 73.

[604] _Fragment_, p. 209.

[605] _Fragment_, p. 316.

[606] At one point, as J. S. Mill notes, he speaks of an 'unsatisfied
desire' as a motive, which seems to indicate a present feeling; but
this is not his usual view.--_Analysis_, ii. 361, 377 _n._

[607] _Analysis_, ii. 233 _n._ Mill adds that though his father
explains the 'intellectual,' he does not explain the 'animal' element
in the affections. This, however, is irrelevant for my purpose.

[608] _Fragment_, pp. 51-52.

[609] _Analysis_, ii. 292-300; _Fragment_, pp. 247-65. Note Mill's
interpretation of this theory of 'praiseworthiness.'--_Analysis_, ii.
298 _n._



CHAPTER VIII

RELIGION


I. PHILIP BEAUCHAMP

The application of Mill's _Analysis_ to the views of orthodox
theologians required, one might have supposed, as little
interpretation as a slap in the face. But a respectable philosopher
may lay down what premises he pleases if he does not avowedly draw his
conclusions. Mill could argue in perfect safety against the
foundations of theology, while Richard Carlile was being sent to gaol
again and again for attacking the superstructure. The Utilitarians
thought themselves justified in taking advantage of the illogicality
of mankind. Whether it was that the ruling powers had no philosophical
principles themselves, or that they did not see what inferences would
follow, or that they thought that the average person was incapable of
drawing inferences, they drew the line at this point. You may openly
maintain doctrines inconsistent with all theology, but you must not
point out the inconsistency. The Utilitarians contented themselves
with sapping the fort instead of risking an open assault. If its
defenders were blind to the obvious consequences of the procedure, so
much the better. In private, there was obviously no want of plain
speaking. In Bentham's MSS. the Christian religion is nicknamed 'Jug'
as the short for 'Juggernaut.' He and his friends were as anxious as
Voltaire to crush the 'infamous,' but they would do it by indirect
means. They argued resolutely for more freedom; and Samuel Bailey's
essay upon the formation of opinions--a vigorous argument on behalf of
the widest possible toleration--was enthusiastically praised by James
Mill in the _Westminster Review_. For the present they carefully
abstained from the direct avowal of obnoxious opinions, which were
still legally punishable, and which would undoubtedly excite the
strongest hostility. Bentham, as we have seen, had ventured, though
anonymously, to assail the church catechism and to cross-examine St.
Paul. One remarkable manifesto gave a fuller utterance to his
opinions. A book called _The Analysis of the Influence of Natural
Religion on the Temporal Happiness of Mankind_, by 'Philip Beauchamp,'
appeared in 1822. The publisher was Richard Carlile, who was then
'safe in Dorchester gaol.' No legal notice was taken of 'Philip
Beauchamp.' The reason may have been that the book excited very little
attention in general. Yet it is probably as forcible an attack as has
often been written upon the popular theology. The name of 'Philip
Beauchamp' covered a combination of Bentham and George Grote.[610] The
book, therefore, represents the view of representative Utilitarians of
the first and third generation, and clearly expressed the real
opinions of the whole party. In his posthumous essays J. S. Mill
speaks of it as the only explicit discussion known to him of the
question of the utility, as distinguished from the question of the
truth, of religion. Obviously, it was desirable to apply the universal
test to religious belief, and this very pithy and condensed statement
shows the result.

A short summary may indicate the essence of the argument. It is only
necessary to observe that the phrase 'natural religion' is part of the
disguise. It enables the author to avoid an explicit attack upon
revelation; but it is superabundantly obvious that the word 'natural'
is superfluous. Revelation is really a fiction, and all religions are
'natural.' A religion is called a 'superstition,' as 'Philip
Beauchamp' remarks at starting, when its results are thought to be
bad; and allowed to be a religion only when they are thought to be
good.[611] That device covers the familiar fallacy of distinguishing
between uses and abuses, and, upon that pretence, omitting to take bad
consequences into account. We must avoid it by defining religion and
then tracing all the consequences, good or bad. Religion is
accordingly taken to mean the belief in the existence of 'an Almighty
Being, by whom pains and pleasures will be dispensed to mankind during
an infinite and future state of existence.' The definition is already
characteristic. 'Religion' may be used in a far wider sense,
corresponding to a philosophy of the universe, whether that
philosophy does or does not include this particular doctrine. But
'Philip Beauchamp's' assumption is convenient because it gives a
rational reasoning to the problem of utility. Religion is taken to be
something adventitious or superimposed upon other beliefs, and we can
therefore intelligibly ask whether it does good or harm. Taking this
definition for granted, let us consider the results.

The first point is that we are of necessity in absolute ignorance as
to a posthumous state. Now, fear is from our earliest infancy the
'never-failing companion and offspring of ignorance.' Knowledge alone
can rescue us from perpetual suffering, because all security depends
upon knowledge. Pain, moreover, is far more 'pungent' and distinct
than pleasure. 'Want and pain are natural; satisfaction and pleasure
artificial and invented.' Pain, therefore, as the strongest, will
dictate our anticipations. The hope of immortality is by the orthodox
described as a blessing; but the truth, deducible from these
principles of human nature and verified by experience, is that natural
religion, instead of soothing apprehensions, adds fresh grounds of
apprehension. A revelation, as 'Philip Beauchamp' admits, might
conceivably dispel our fears; but he would obviously say that the
religion which is taken to be revealed gives a far more vivid picture
of hell than of heaven.[612] In the next place, it is 'obvious at
first sight' that natural religion can properly give 'no rule of
guidance.' It refers us to a region of 'desperate and unfathomable'
darkness.[613] But it nevertheless indirectly suggests a pernicious
rule. It rests entirely upon conjectures as to the character of the
invisible Being who apportions pain or pleasure for inscrutable
reasons. Will this Being be expected to approve useful or pernicious
conduct? From men's language we might suppose that he is thought to be
purely benevolent. Yet from their dogmas it would seem that he is a
capricious tyrant. How are we to explain the discrepancy? The
discrepancy is the infallible result of the circumstances already
stated.[614] The Deity has limitless power, and therefore is the
natural object of our instinctive fears. The character of the Deity is
absolutely incomprehensible, and incomprehensibility in human affairs
is identical with caprice and insanity.[615] The ends and the means of
the Deity are alike beyond our knowledge; and the extremes both of
wisdom and of folly are equally unaccountable. Now, we praise or blame
human beings in order to affect their conduct towards us, to attract
favours or repel injuries. A tyrant possessed of unlimited power
considers that by simple abstinence from injury he deserves boundless
gratitude. The weak will only dare to praise, and the strong will only
blame. The slave-owner never praises and the slave never blames,
because one can use the lash while the other is subject to the lash.
If, then, we regard the invisible Being as a capricious despot, and,
moreover, as a despot who knows every word we utter, we shall never
speak of him without the highest eulogy, just because we attribute to
him the most arbitrary tyranny. Hence, the invisible despot will
specially favour the priests whose lives are devoted to supporting his
authority, and, next to priests, those who, by the practice of
ceremonies painful or useless to themselves, show that their sole aim
is to give him pleasure. He will specially detest the atheists, and,
next to atheists, all who venture to disregard his arbitrary laws. A
human judge may be benevolent, because he is responsible to the
community. They give and can take away his power. But the invisible
and irresponsible ruler will have no motives for benevolence, and
approve conduct pernicious to men because it is the best proof of a
complete subservience to himself.[616] In spite of this, it has been
generally asserted that religion supplies a motive, and the only
adequate motive, to moral conduct. But the decay of religion would
leave the sources of pain and pleasure unchanged. To say, then, that
the conduct prescribed by religion would disappear if the religious
motives were removed is virtually to admit that it produces no
'temporal benefit.' Otherwise, the motives for practising such conduct
would not be affected. In fact, morality is the same in all countries,
though the injunctions of religion are various and contradictory. If
religion ordered only what is useful, it would coincide with human
laws, and be at worst superfluous. As a fact, it condemns the most
harmless pleasures, such as the worst of human legislators have never
sought to suppress. People have become tolerant, that is, they have
refused to enforce religious observances, precisely because they have
seen that such observances cannot be represented as conducive to
temporal happiness.

Duty, again, may be divided into duty to God and duty to man. Our
'duty to God' is a 'deduction from the pleasures of the individual
without at all benefiting the species.' It must therefore be taken as
a tax paid for the efficacy supposed to be communicated to the other
branch--the 'duty to man.'[617] Does religion, then, stimulate our
obedience to the code of duty to man? 'Philip Beauchamp' admits for
once that, in certain cases, it '_might possibly_' be useful. It might
affect 'secret crimes,' that is, crimes where the offender is
undiscoverable. That, however, is a trifle. These cases, he thinks,
would be 'uncommonly rare' under a well-conceived system. The extent
of evil in this life would therefore be trifling were superhuman
inducements entirely effaced from the human bosom, and if 'human
institutions were ameliorated according to the progress of
philosophy.'[618] On the other hand, the imaginary punishments are
singularly defective in the qualities upon which Bentham had insisted
in human legislation. They are remote and uncertain, and to make up
for this are represented as boundless in intensity and durability. For
that reason, they precisely reverse the admitted principle that
punishment should be so devised as to produce the greatest possible
effect by the smallest infliction of pain. Supernatural sanctions are
supposed to maximise pain with a minimum of effect. The fear of hell
rarely produces any effect till a man is dying, and then inflicts
great suffering, though it has been totally inefficient as a
preventive at the time of temptation. The influence of supernatural
penalties is therefore in 'an inverse ratio to the demand for
it.'[619] In reality, the efficacy of the sanctions is due to their
dependence upon public opinion. Our real motive for acting rightly is
our desire for the praise of our fellows and our interest in their
good conduct. We conceal this motive even from ourselves, because we
wish to have the credit of serving the Deity exclusively. This is
confirmed by the familiar instances of a conflict between public
opinion and religious sanctions. Duelling, fornication, and perjury
are forbidden by the divine law, but the prohibition is ineffectual
whenever the real sentiment of mankind is opposed to it. The divine
law is set aside as soon as it conflicts with the popular opinion. In
exceptional cases, indeed, the credit attached to unreasonable
practices leads to fanaticism, asceticism, and even insanity; but
superhuman terrors fail at once when they try to curb the action of
genuine substantial motives. Hence we must admit that they are useless
in the case even of 'secret crimes.' Religion, in short, prescribes
mischievous practices, becomes impotent except for the production of
misery, and is really, though not avowedly, dependent on the popular
sanction.[620]

We can now classify the evils actually produced. Religion injures
individuals by prescribing useless and painful practices: fasting,
celibacy, voluntary self-torture, and so forth. It suggests vague
terrors which often drive the victim to insanity, and it causes
remorse for harmless enjoyments.[621] Religion injures society by
creating antipathies against unbelievers, and in a less degree against
heretics and nonconformists. It perverts public opinion by making
innocent actions blameable; by distorting the whole science of
morality and sanctioning the heterogeneous dictates of a certain blind
and unaccountable impulse called the 'moral instinct or
conscience.'[622] Morality becomes a 'mere catalogue of reigning
sentiments,' because it has cast away the standard of utility. A
special aversion to improvement is generated, because whatever
changes our conceptions of the 'sequences of phenomena' is supposed to
break the divine 'laws of nature.' 'Unnatural' becomes a
'self-justifying' epithet forbidding any proposed change of conduct,
which will counteract the 'designs of God.' Religion necessarily
injures intellectual progress. It disjoins belief from its only safe
ground, experience. The very basis, the belief in an inscrutable and
arbitrary power, sanctions supernatural or 'extra-experimental'
beliefs of all kinds. You reject in the case of miracles all the tests
applicable to ordinary instruction, and appeal to trial by ordeal
instead of listening to witnesses. Instead of taking the trouble to
plough and sow, you expect to get a harvest by praying to an
inscrutable Being. You marry without means, because you hold that God
never sends a child without sending food for it to eat. Meanwhile you
suborn 'unwarranted belief' by making belief a matter of reward and
penalty. It is made a duty to dwell upon the arguments upon one side
without attending to those upon the other, and 'the weaker the
evidence the greater the merit in believing.'[623] The temper is
depraved not only by the antipathies generated, but by the 'fitful and
intermittent character' of the inducements to conduct.[624]

The final result of all this is still more serious. It is that
religion, besides each separate mischief, 'subsidises a standing army
for the perpetuation of all the rest.'[625] The priest gains power as
a 'wonder-worker,' who knows how to propitiate the invisible Being,
and has a direct interest in 'depraving the intellect,' cherishing
superstition, surrounding himself with mysteries, representing the
will of the Deity as arbitrary and capricious, and forming an
organised 'array of human force and fraud.'[626] The priesthood sets
up an infallible head, imposes upon the weak and dying, stimulates
antipathy, forms the mass of 'extra-experimental' beliefs into the
likeness of a science, and allies itself with the state. Heresy
becomes a crime. The ruler helps the priests to raise a tax for their
own comfort, while they repay him by suppressing all seditious
opinions. Thus is formed an unholy alliance between the authorities of
'natural religion' and the 'sinister interests of the earth.' The
alliance is so complete that it is even more efficient than if it had
been openly proclaimed. 'Prostration and plunder of the community is
indeed the common end of both' (priests and rulers). The only chance
of dissension is about the 'partition of the spoil.'[627]

The book is as characteristic of the Utilitarians in style as in
spirit. It is terse, vigorous reasoning, with no mere rhetorical
flourishes. The consequences of the leading principle are deduced
without flinching and without reserve. Had the authors given their
names, they would no doubt have excited antipathies injurious to the
propaganda of Utilitarianism. They held, for that reason presumably,
that they were not bound to point out the ultimate goal of their
speculations. No intelligent reader of their other writings could fail
to see what that goal must be; but an 'open secret' is still for many
purposes a real secret. Whatever might be the suspicions of their
antagonists, they could only be accused of a tendency. The book
amounts to an admission that the suspicions were well founded.
Utilitarianism, the Utilitarians clearly recognised, logically implied
the rejection of all theology. Religion--on their understanding of the
word--must, like everything else, be tested by its utility, and it was
shown to be either useless or absolutely pernicious. The aim of the
Utilitarians was, in brief, to be thoroughly scientific. The man of
science must be opposed to the belief in an inscrutable agent of
boundless power, interfering at every point with the laws of nature,
and a product of the fancy instead of the reason. Such a conception,
so far as accepted, makes all theory of human conduct impossible,
suggests rules conflicting with the supreme rule of utility, and gives
authority to every kind of delusion, imposture, and 'sinister
interest.'

It would, I think, be difficult to mention a more vigorous discussion
of the problem stated. As anonymous, it could be ignored instead of
answered; and probably such orthodox persons as read it assumed it to
be a kind of _reductio ad absurdum_ of the Utilitarian creed. It might
follow, they could admit, logically from the Utilitarian analysis of
human nature, but it could only prove that the analysis was
fundamentally wrong. Yet its real significance is precisely its
thorough applicability to the contemporary state of opinion.
Beauchamp's definition coincides with Paley's. The coincidence was
inevitable. Utilitarians both in ethical and philosophical questions
start from the same assumptions as Paley, and the Paley doctrine gave
the pith of the dominant theology. I have observed that the Scottish
philosophers had abandoned the _a priori_ argument, and laid the whole
stress of their theological doctrine upon Paley's argument from final
causes. The change of base was an inevitable consequence of their
whole system. They appealed to experience, to 'Baconian' methods, and
to 'inductive psychology.' The theory of 'intuitions,' effective where
it fell in with admitted beliefs, was idle against an atheist, who
denied that he had the intuition. The 'final causes' argument,
however, rested upon common ground, and supplied a possible line of
defence. The existence of the Deity could perhaps be proved
empirically, like the existence of the 'watchmaker.' Accordingly, this
was the argument upon which reliance was really placed by the average
theologian of the time. Metaphysical or ontological reasoning had been
discarded for plain common-sense. The famous _Bridgewater Treatises_
are the characteristic product of the period. It had occurred to the
earl of Bridgewater, who died in 1829, that £8000 from his estate
might be judiciously spent in proving the existence of a benevolent
creator. The council of the Royal Society employed eight eminent men
of science to carry out this design.[628] They wrote some interesting
manuals of popular science, interspersed with proper theological
applications. The arguments were sincere enough, though they now seem
to overlook with singular blindness the answer which would be
suggested by the 'evolutionist.' The logical result is, in any case, a
purely empirical theology. The religion which emerges is not a
philosophy or theory of the world in general, but corresponds to a
belief in certain matters of fact (or fiction). The existence of the
Deity is to be proved, like the existence of Caesar, by special
evidence.

The main results are obvious. The logical base of the whole creed is
'natural theology,' and 'natural theology' is simply a branch of
science, amenable to the ordinary scientific tests. It is intended to
prove the existence of an agent essential to the working of the
machinery, as from the movements of a planet we infer the existence of
a disturbing planet. The argument from design, in this acceptation, is
briefly mentioned by 'Philip Beauchamp.' It is, he argues, 'completely
extra-experimental'; for experience only reveals design in living
beings: it supposes a pre-existing chaos which can never be shown to
have existed, and the 'omnipotent will' introduced to explain the
facts is really no explanation at all, but a collection of meaningless
words.[629] The argument is briefly dismissed as concerning the truth,
not the utility, of religion, but one point is sufficiently indicated.
The argument from 'design' is always plausible, because it applies
reasoning undeniably valid when it is applied within its proper
sphere. The inference from a watch to a watchmaker is clearly
conclusive. We know sufficiently what is meant by the watchmaker and
by 'making.' We therefore reason to a _vera causa_--an agent already
known. When the inference is to the action of an inconceivable Being
performing an inconceivable operation upon inconceivable materials, it
really becomes illusory, or amounts to the simple assertion that the
phenomenon is inexplicable. Therefore, again, it is essentially
opposed to science though claiming to be scientific. The action of
the creator is supposed to begin where the possibility of knowledge
ends. It is just the inexplicable element which suggests the creative
agency. Conversely, the satisfactory explanation of any phenomenon
takes it out of the theological sphere. As soon as the process becomes
'natural' it ceases to demand the supernatural artificer. 'Making,'
therefore, is contradistinguished from 'growing.' If we see how the
eye has come into existence, we have no longer any reason to assume
that it was put together mechanically. In other words, 'teleology' of
this variety is dispelled by theories of evolution. The hypothesis of
interference becomes needless when we see how things came to be by
working out perfectly natural processes. As science, therefore,
expands, theology recedes. This was to become more evident at a later
period. For the present, the teleological argument in the Paley form,
triumphantly set forth in Bridgewater Treatises and the like, rested
the defence of theology on the proofs of the discontinuity of the
universe and the consequent necessity for admitting supernatural
interference. Science was therefore invoked to place absolute limits
on its own progress.

But other vital difficulties were already felt. The argument from
contrivance naturally implies limitation. The maker of a machine is
strictly limited by the properties of the matter upon which he works.
The inference might be verbally saved by saying that the maker was
'potentially' omnipotent; but the argument, so far as it goes, is more
easily satisfied by the hypothesis of a Being of great but still
limited powers. The Deity so proved, if the proof be valid, is not
himself the ground of the universe, the source from which nature
itself emanates, as well as the special laws of nature, but a part of
the whole system; interfering, guiding, and controlling, but still
only one of the powers which contribute to the formation of the whole.
Hence arise questions which theologians rather evaded than attempted
to answer. If with the help of Paley we can prove the existence of an
invisible Being--potentially omnipotent, though always operating as
though limited--there would still remain the question as to his
attributes. He is skilful, we may grant, but is he benevolent or is he
moral? The benevolence could of course be asserted by optimists, if
facts were amenable to rhetoric. But a theory which is essentially
scientific or empirical, and consistently argues from the effect to
the cause, must start from an impartial view of the facts, and must
make no presupposition as to the nature of the cause. The cause is
known only through the effects, and our judgment of them cannot be
modified by simply discovering that they are caused. If, then,
contrivance is as manifest in disease as in health, in all the
sufferings which afflict mankind as well as in the pleasures which
solace him, we must either admit that the creator is not benevolent,
or frankly admit that he is not omnipotent and fall into Manichæism.
Nature, we are frequently told, is indifferent if not cruel; and
though Paley and his followers choose to shut their eyes to ugly
facts, it could be only by sacrificing their logic. They were bound to
prove from observation that the world was so designed as to secure the
'greatest happiness' before they could logically infer a purely
benevolent designer. It was of the very essence of their position that
observed facts should be the ultimate basis of the whole theory; and
to alter the primary data by virtue of deductions drawn from them
could obviously not be logically justifiable.

Such reflections, though sufficiently obvious, might be too far from
practical application to have much immediate effect. But the question
of the moral bearing of theology was of more interest; and, here, the
coincidence of the Utilitarianism with the accepted theology of the
day is especially important. The Deity regarded as the artificer
appears to be far from purely benevolent. In respect to morality, is
he not simply indifferent? Does he not make men fragile and place them
amidst pitfalls? Does he not constantly slay the virtuous and save the
wicked? How, indeed, from the purely empirical or scientific base, do
you deduce any moral attributes whatever? 'Natural theology,' as it
was called, might reveal a contriver, but could it reveal a judge or a
moral guide? Here the difficulty of a purely matter-of-fact theology
made itself felt on many sides. The remarkable influence of Butler
upon many minds was partly due to a perception of this omission.
Butler avowedly appeals to the conscience, and therefore at least
recognises God as directly revealed in a moral character. That seemed
to supply a gap in the ordinary theology. But in the purely empirical
view Butler's argument was untenable. It appealed to one of the
'intuitions' which were incompatible with its fundamental assumptions.
The compunctions of conscience were facts to be explained by
'association,' not to be regarded as intimations of wrath. Butler's
view might be inverted. The 'conscience' does, in truth, suggest the
divine wrath; but that only means that it suggests the quack remedies
upon which 'wonder-working' priests establish their power. Instead of
proving the truth of the religion, it explains the origin of
superstition. To James Mill, as we have seen, Butler's argument would
logically prove not a righteous governor but a cruel creator.
Theologians, again, of the Paley school, were bound in consistency to
the empirical or Utilitarian view of morality. Paley accepted the
consequences unreservedly; and if such philosophers as Brown and
Mackintosh persisted in regarding the coincidence between morality and
happiness as indicative of a pre-established harmony, not of an
identification of morality with the pursuit of general happiness, they
still admitted that 'utility' was the 'criterion' of morality. The
moral law, that is, coincides in its substance with the law, 'maximise
happiness,' and happiness means, as 'Philip Beauchamp' calls it,
'temporal' happiness--the happiness of actual men living in this world
and knowing nothing of any external world. How, then, is the moral law
related to theology? To know what is moral, we must appeal to
experience and 'utility.' We must discover what makes for happiness,
just as in medicine we must discover what makes for health or
pleasure, by the ordinary methods of observation. What place is left
for any supernatural intervention? The ostensible answer was that
though the moral code could be deduced from its utility, the motives
by which it was to be enforced required some supernatural agency. The
natural man might see what was right, but need not therefore do what
was right. Here 'Philip Beauchamp' comes to a direct issue with the
theologians. He denies that the supernatural motive will be on the
side of morality. When J. S. Mill remarked that there had been few
discussions of the 'utility' as distinguished from the truth of
religion, he scarcely recognises one conspicuous fact. The great
argument of divines had always been the absolute necessity of religion
to morality; and if morality be understood to mean utility, this is
simply an argument from utility. The point, indeed, was often taken
for granted; but it certainly represents one of the strongest
persuasives, if not one of the strongest reasons. The divines, in
fact, asserted that religion was of the highest utility as supplying
the motive for moral conduct. What motives, then, can be derived from
such knowledge of the Deity as is attainable from the 'Natural
theology' argument? How can we prove from it that he who puts the
world together is more favourable to the virtues than to the vices
which are its results; or, if more favourable, that he shows any other
favour than can be inferred from experience? He has, it is agreed, put
men, as Bentham had said, under the command of two sovereign masters,
Pleasure and Pain; and has enabled them to calculate consequences, and
therefore to seek future pleasure and avoid future pain. That only
proves that we can increase our happiness by prudence; but it suggests
no additional reasons either for seeking happiness or for altering our
estimate of happiness. As 'Philip Beauchamp' argues, we cannot from
the purely empirical ground get any motive for taking into account
anything beyond our 'temporal' or secular interests. This, again, was
in fact admitted by Paley. His mode of escape from the dilemma is
familiar. The existence of a supreme artificer is inferred from the
interventions in the general order of nature. The existence of a moral
ruler, or the fact that the ruler approves morality, is inferred from
his interference by the particular manifestations of power which we
call miraculous. We know that actions will have other consequences
than those which can be inferred from our own experience, because some
two thousand years ago a Being appeared who could raise the dead and
heal the sick. If sufficient evidence of the fact be forthcoming, we
are entitled to say upon his authority that the wicked will be damned
and the virtuous go to heaven. Obedience to the law enforced by these
sanctions is obviously prudent, and constitutes the true _differentia_
of moral conduct. Virtue, according to the famous definition, is doing
good 'for the sake of everlasting happiness.' The downright bluntness
with which Paley announced these conclusions startled contemporaries,
and yet it must be admitted that they were a natural outcome of his
position.

In short, the theological position of the Paley school and the
Utilitarian position of 'Philip Beauchamp' start from the common
ground of experience. Religion means the knowledge of certain facts,
which are to be inferred from appropriate evidence. It does not modify
the whole system of thought, but simply adds certain corollaries; and
the whole question is whether the corollaries are or are not proved by
legitimate reasoning. Can we discover heaven and hell as we discovered
America? Can observation of nature reveal to us a supernatural world?'
The first difficulty is that the argument for natural theology has to
rest upon interference, not upon order, and therefore comes into
conflict with the first principles of scientific procedure. The Deity
is revealed not by the rational but by the arbitrary; and the more the
world is explained, the less the proof that he exists, because the
narrower the sphere of his action. Then, as such a Deity, even if
proved, is not proved to be benevolent or moral, we have to rely for
the moral element upon the evidence of 'miracles,' that is, again, of
certain interruptions of order. The scientific tendency more or less
embodied in Protestantism, so far as it appealed to reason or to
'private judgment,' had, moreover, made it necessary to relegate
miracles to a remote period, while denying them at the present. To
prove at once that there are no miracles now, and that there were a
few miracles two thousand years ago, was really hopeless. In fact, the
argument had come to be stated in an artificial form which had no real
relation to the facts. If the apostles had been a jury convinced by a
careful legal examination of the evidence; if they had pronounced
their verdict, in spite of the knowledge that they would be put to
death for finding it, there would have been some force in Paley's
argument. But then they had not. To assume such an origin for any
religion implied a total misconception of the facts. Paley assumed
that the apostles resembled twelve respectable deans of Carlisle
solemnly declaring, in spite of the most appalling threats, that John
Wesley had been proved to have risen from the dead. Paley might
plausibly urge that such an event would require a miracle. But,
meanwhile, his argument appeared to rest the whole case for morality
and religion upon this narrow and perilous base. We can only know that
it is our interest to be moral if we know of heaven and hell; and we
only know of heaven and hell if we accept the evidence of miracles,
and infer that the worker of miracles had supernatural sources of
information. The moral difficulty which emerges is obvious. The Paley
conception of the Deity is, in fact, coincident with Bentham's
conception of the sovereign. He is simply an invisible sovereign,
operating by tremendous sanctions. The sanctions are 'external,' that
is to say, pains and pleasures, annexed to conduct by the volition of
the sovereign, not intrinsic consequences of the conduct itself. Such
a conception, thoroughly carried through, makes the relation between
religion and morality essentially arbitrary. Moreover, if with 'Philip
Beauchamp' we regard the miracle argument as obviously insufficient,
and consider what are the attributes really attributed to the
sovereign, we must admit that they suggest such a system as he
describes rather than the revelation of an all-wise and benevolent
ruler. It is true, as 'Philip Beauchamp' argues, that the system has
all the faults of the worst human legislation; that the punishment is
made atrociously--indeed infinitely--severe to compensate for its
uncertainty and remoteness; and that (as he would clearly add), to
prevent it from shocking and stunning the intellect, it is regarded as
remissible in consideration of vicarious suffering. If, then, the
religion is really what its dogmas declare, it is easier to assume
that it represents the cunning of a priesthood operating upon the
blind fears and wild imaginations of an inaccessible world; and the
ostensible proofs of a divine origin resting upon miraculous proofs
are not worth consideration. It professes to be a sanction to all
morality, but is forced to construct a mythology which outrages all
moral considerations. Taken as a serious statement of fact, the
anthropomorphism of the vulgar belief was open to the objections which
Socrates brought against the Pagan mythology. The supreme ruler was
virtually represented as arbitrary, cruel, and despotic.

If we ask the question, whether in point of fact the religion attacked
by 'Philip Beauchamp' fairly represented the religion of the day, we
should have, of course, to admit that it was in one sense a gross
caricature. If, that is, we asked what were the real roots of the
religious zeal of Wilberforce and the Evangelicals, or of the
philanthropists with whom even James Mill managed to associate on
friendly terms, it would be the height of injustice to assume that
they tried to do good simply from fear of hell and hope of heaven, or
that their belief in Christianity was due to a study of Paley's
_Evidences_. Their real motives were far nobler: genuine hatred of
injustice and sympathy for suffering, joined to the conviction that
the sects to which they belonged were working on the side of justice
and happiness; while the creeds which they accepted were somehow
congenial to their best feelings, and enabled them to give utterance
to their deepest emotions. But when they had to give a ground for that
belief they could make no adequate defence. They were better than
their ostensible creed, because the connection of their creed with
their morality was really arbitrary and traditional. We must always
distinguish between the causes of strong convictions and the reasons
officially assigned for them. The religious creed, as distinguished
from the religious sentiment, was really traditional, and rested upon
the simple fact that it was congenial to the general frame of mind.
Its philosophy meanwhile had become hopelessly incoherent. It wished
to be sensible, and admitted in principle the right of 'private
judgment' or rationalism so far as consistent with Protestantism. The
effect had been that in substance it had become Utilitarian and
empirical; while it had yet insisted upon holding on to the
essentially irrational element.

The religious tradition was becoming untenable in this sense at the
same time as the political tradition. If radicalism in both were to be
effectually resisted, some better foundation must be found for
conservatism. I should be tempted to say that a critical period was
approaching, did I not admit that every period can always be described
as critical. In fact, however, thoughtful people, perceiving on the
one hand that the foundations of their creed were shaking, and yet
holding it to be essential to their happiness, began to take a new
position. The 'Oxford movement,' started soon afterwards, implied a
conviction that the old Protestant position was as untenable as the
radical asserted. Its adherents attempted to find a living and visible
body whose supernatural authority might maintain the old dogmatic
system. Liberal thinkers endeavoured to spiritualise the creed and
prove its essential truths by philosophy, independently of the
particular historical evidence. The popular tendency was to admit in
substance that the dogmas most assailed were in fact immoral: but to
put them into the background, or, if necessary, to explain them away.
The stress was to be laid not upon miracles, but upon the moral
elevation of Christianity or the beauty of character of its founder.
The 'unsectarian' religion, represented in the most characteristic
writings of the next generation, in Tennyson and Browning, Thackeray
and Dickens, reflects this view. Such men detested the coarse and
brutalising dogmas which might be expounded as the true 'scheme of
salvation' by ignorant preachers seeking to rouse sluggish natures to
excitement; but they held to religious conceptions which, as they
thought, really underlay these disturbing images, and which, indeed,
could hardly be expressed in any more definite form than that of a
hope or a general attitude of the whole character. The problem seemed
to be whether we shall support a dogmatic system by recognising a
living spiritual authority, or frankly accept reason as the sole
authority, and, while explaining away the repulsive dogmas, try to
retain the real essence of religious belief.


II. CONTEMPORARY THOUGHT

If I were writing a general history of opinion, it would be necessary
to discuss the views of Mill's English contemporaries; to note their
attitude in regard to the Utilitarian position, and point out how they
prepared the way for the later developments of thought. The
Utilitarians were opposed to a vague sentiment rather than to any
definite system. They were a small and a very unpopular sect. They
excited antipathy on all sides. As advocating republicanism, they were
hardly more disliked by the Tories, who directly opposed them, than by
the Whigs, who might be suspected of complicity. As enthusiastic
political economists, they were equally detested by sentimental
Radicals, Socialists, and by all who desired a strong government,
whether for the suppression of social evils or the maintenance of
social abuses. And now, as suspected of atheism, they were hated by
theologians. But though the Utilitarians were on all sides condemned
and denounced, they were met by no definite and coherent scheme of
philosophy. The philosophy of Stewart and Brown had at least a strong
drift in their direction. Though 'political economy' was denounced in
general terms, all who spoke with authority accepted Adam Smith. Their
political opponents generally did not so much oppose their theories as
object to theory in general. The Utilitarian system might be both
imperfect and dogmatic; but it had scarcely to contend with any clear
and assignable rival. The dislike of Englishmen to any systematic
philosophy, whether founded upon the national character or chiefly due
to special conditions, was still conspicuous outside of the small
Utilitarian camp.

To discover, therefore, the true position of contemporary opinion, we
should have to look elsewhere. Instead of seeking for the philosophers
who did not exist, we should have to examine the men of letters who
expressed the general tendencies. In Germany, philosophical theories
may be held to represent the true drift of the national mind, and a
historian of German thought would inquire into the various systems
elaborated by professors of philosophy. He would at least be in no
want of materials for definite logical statements. In England, there
was no such intellectual movement. There we should have to consider
poetry and literature; to read Wordsworth and Coleridge, Scott and
Byron and Shelley, if we would know what men were really thinking and
feeling. The difficulty is, of course, that none of these men, unless
Coleridge be an exception, had any conscious or systematic philosophy.
We can only ask, therefore, what they would have said if they had
been requested to justify their views by abstract reasoning; and that
is a rather conjectural and indefinite enterprise. It lies,
fortunately, outside of my field; and it will be enough if I try to
suggest one or two sufficiently vague hints. In the first place, the
contrast between the Utilitarians and their opponents may almost be
identified with the contrast between the prosaic and the poetical
aspects of the world in general. Bentham frankly objected to poetry in
general. It proved nothing. The true Utilitarian was the man who held
on to fact, and to nothing but the barest, most naked and unadorned
fact. Poetry in general came within the sweep of his denunciations of
'sentimentalism' and 'vague generalities.' It was the 'production of a
rude age'; the silly jingling which might be suitable to savages, but
was needless for the grown-up man, and was destined to disappear along
with the whole rubbish of mythology and superstition in whose service
it had been enlisted. There is indeed a natural sympathy between any
serious view of life and a distrust of the æsthetic tendencies.
Theologians of many different types have condemned men for dallying
with the merely pleasurable, when they ought to be preoccupied with
the great ethical problems or the safety of their souls. James Mill
had enough of the old Puritan in him to sympathise with Carlyle's
aspiration, 'May the devil fly away with the fine arts!' To such men
it was difficult to distinguish between fiction and lying; and if some
concession might be made to human weakness, poets and novelists might
supply the relaxations and serve to fill up the intervals of life, but
must be sternly excluded if they tried to intrude into serious
studies. Somehow love of the beautiful only interfered with the
scientific investigation of hard facts.

Poets, indeed, may take the side of reform, or may perhaps be
naturally expected to take that side. The idealist and the dreamer
should be attracted most powerfully by the visions of a better world
and the restoration of the golden age. Shelley was among the most
enthusiastic prophets of the coming era. His words, he hoped, were to
be 'the trumpet of a prophecy' to 'unawakened earth.' Shelley had sat
at the feet of Godwin, and represented that vague metaphysical
dreaming to which the Utilitarians were radically hostile. To the
literary critic, Shelley's power is the more remarkable because from a
flimsy philosophy he span an imaginative tissue of such magical and
marvellous beauty. But Shelley dwelt in an ethereal region, where
ordinary beings found breathing difficult. There facts seemed to
dissolve into thin air instead of supplying a solid and substantial
base. His idealism meant unreality. His 'trumpet' did not in fact
stimulate the mass of mankind, and his fame at this period was
confined to a few young gentlemen of literary refinement. The man who
had really stirred the world was Byron; and if the decline of Byron's
fame has resulted partly from real defects, it is partly due also to
the fact that his poetry was so admirably adapted to his
contemporaries. Byron at least could see facts as clearly as any
Utilitarian, though fact coloured by intense passion. He, like the
Utilitarians, hated solemn platitudes and hypocritical conventions. I
have noticed the point at which he came into contact with Bentham's
disciples. His pathetic death shortly afterwards excited a singularly
strong movement of sympathy. 'The news of his death,' said Carlyle at
the time, 'came upon my heart like a mass of lead; and yet the thought
of it sends a painful twinge through all my being, as if I had lost a
brother.' At a later time he defines Byron as 'a dandy of sorrows and
acquainted with grief.'[630] That hits off one aspect of Byronism.
Byron was the Mirabeau of English literature, in so far as he was at
once a thorough aristocrat and a strong revolutionist. He had the
qualification of a true satirist. His fate was at discord with his
character. He was proud of his order, and yet despised its actual
leaders. He was ready alternately to boast of his vices and to be
conscious that they were degrading. He shocked the respectable world
by mocking 'Satanically,' as they held, at moral conventions, and yet
rather denounced the hypocrisy and the heartlessness of precisians
than insulted the real affections. He covered sympathy with human
suffering under a mask of misanthropy, and attacked war and oppression
in the character of a reckless outlaw. Full of the affectation of a
'dandy,' he was yet rousing all Europe by a cry of pure
sentimentalism. It would be absurd to attribute any definite doctrine
to Byron. His scepticism in religious matters was merely part of a
general revolt against respectability. What he illustrates is the
vague but profound revolutionary sentiment which indicated a belief
that the world seemed to be out of joint, and a vehement protest
against the selfish and stolid conservatism which fancied that the old
order could be preserved in all its fossil institutions and
corresponding dogmas.

What was the philosophy congenial to Conservatism? There is, of
course, the simple answer, None. Toryism was a 'reaction' due to the
great struggle of the war and the excesses of the revolution. A
'reaction' is a very convenient phrase. We are like our fathers; then
the resemblance is only natural. We differ; then the phrase 'reaction'
makes the alteration explain itself. No doubt, however, there was in
some sense a reaction. Many people changed their minds as the
revolutionary movement failed to fulfil their hopes. I need not argue
now that such men were not necessarily corrupt renegades. I can only
try to indicate the process by which they were led towards certain
philosophical doctrines. Scott, Wordsworth, and Coleridge represent it
enough for my purpose. When Mill was reproaching Englishmen for their
want of interest in history, he pointed out that Thierry, 'the
earliest of the three great French historians' (Guizot and Michelet
are the two others), ascribed his interest in his subject to
_Ivanhoe_.[631] Englishmen read _Ivanhoe_ simply for amusement.
Frenchmen could see that it threw a light upon history, or at least
suggested a great historical problem. Scott, it is often said, was the
first person to teach us that our ancestors were once as much alive as
ourselves. Scott, indeed, the one English writer whose fame upon the
Continent could be compared to Byron's, had clearly no interest in, or
capacity for, abstract speculations. An imaginative power, just
falling short of the higher poetical gift, and a masculine
common-sense were his most conspicuous faculties. The two qualities
were occasionally at issue; his judgment struggled with his
prejudices, and he sympathised too keenly with the active leaders and
concrete causes to care much for any abstract theory. Yet his
influence upon thought, though indirect, was remarkable. The vividness
of his historical painting--inaccurate, no doubt, and delightfully
reckless of dates and facts--stimulated the growing interest in
historical inquiries even in England. His influence in one direction
is recognised by Newman, who was perhaps thinking chiefly of his
mediævalism.[632] But the historical novels are only one side of
Scott. Patriotic to the core, he lived at a time when patriotic
feeling was stimulated to the utmost, and when Scotland in particular
was still a province, and yet in many ways the most vigorous and
progressive part of a great empire. He represents patriotism
stimulated by contact with cosmopolitan movements. Loving every local
peculiarity, painting every class from the noble to the peasant,
loving the old traditions, and yet sharing the great impulses of the
day, Scott was able to interest the world at large. While the most
faithful portrayer of the special national type, he has too much sense
not to be well aware that picturesque cattle-stealers and Jacobite
chiefs were things of the past; but he loves with his whole heart the
institutions rooted in the past and rich in historical associations.
He transferred to poetry and fiction the political doctrine of Burke.
To him, the revolutionary movement was simply a solvent, corroding all
the old ties because it sapped the old traditions, and tended to
substitute a mob for a nation. The continuity of national life seemed
to him the essential condition; and a nation was not a mere aggregate
of separate individuals, but an ancient organism, developing on an
orderly system--where every man had his rightful place, and the
beggar, as he observes in the _Antiquary_, was as ready as the noble
to rise against foreign invasion. To him, the kings or priests who, to
the revolutionist, represented simple despotism, represented part of a
rough but manly order, in which many virtues were conspicuous and the
governing classes were discharging great functions. Though he did not
use the phrase, the revolutionary or radical view was hateful to him
on account of its 'individualism.' It meant the summary destruction of
all that he cherished most warmly in order to carry out theories
altogether revolting to his common-sense. The very roots of a sound
social order depend upon the traditions and accepted beliefs which
bind together clans or families, and assign to every man a
satisfactory function in life. The vivid realisation of history goes
naturally with a love--excessive or reasonable--of the old order; and
Scott, though writing carelessly to amuse idle readers, was
stimulating the historical conceptions, which, for whatever reason,
were most uncongenial to the Utilitarian as to all the revolutionists.

The more conscious philosophical application is illustrated by
Wordsworth and Coleridge. Both of them had shared the truly
revolutionary enthusiasm, and both came in time to be classed with the
Tories. Both, as will be seen, had a marked influence upon J. S. Mill.
Wordsworth has written in the _Prelude_ one of the most remarkable of
intellectual autobiographies. He was to be, though he never quite
succeeded in being, a great philosophical poet. He never succeeded,
because, in truth, he was not a great philosopher. But no one has
more clearly indicated the history of his mental evolution. His
sympathy with the revolution was perfectly genuine, but involved a
vast misconception. A sturdy, independent youth, thoroughly imbued
with the instincts of his northern dalesmen, he had early leaned to a
republican sentiment. His dislike of the effete conventionalism of the
literary creed blended with his aversion to the political rule of the
time. He caught the contagion of revolutionary enthusiasm in France,
and was converted by the sight of the 'hunger-bitten' peasant
girl--the victim of aristocratic oppression. 'It is against that,'
said his friend, 'that we are fighting,' and so far Wordsworth was a
convert. The revolution, therefore, meant to him the restoration of an
idyllic state, in which the homely virtues of the independent peasant
should no longer be crushed and deprived of reward by the instruments
of selfish despotism. The outbreak of war put his principles at issue
with his patriotism. He suffered keenly when called upon to triumph
over the calamities of his countrymen. But gradually he came to think
that his sympathies were misplaced. The revolution had not altered
human nature. The atrocities disturbed him, but for a time he could
regard them as a mere accident. As the war went on, he began to
perceive that the new power could be as tyrannical and selfish as the
old. Instead of reconstructing a simple social ideal, it was forming a
military despotism. When the French armies put down the simple Swiss
peasantry, to whom he had been drawn by his home-bred sympathies, he
finally gave up the revolutionary cause. He had gone through a mental
agony, and his distracted sympathies ultimately determined a change
which corresponded to the adoption of a new philosophy. Wordsworth,
indeed, had little taste for abstract logic. He had imbibed Godwin's
doctrine, but when acceptance of Godwin's conclusions involved a
conflict with his strongest affections--the sacrifice not only of his
patriotism but of the sympathies which bound him to his fellows--he
revolted. Godwin represents the extreme of 'individualism,' the
absolute dissolution of all social and political bonds. Wordsworth
escaped, not by discovering a logical defect in the argument, but by
yielding to the protest of his emotions. The system, he thought, was
fatal to all the affections which had made life dear to him; to the
vague 'intimations' which, whatever else they might be, had yet power
to give harmony to our existence.

By degrees he adopted a new diagnosis of the great political evils. On
one side, he sympathised with Scott's sense of the fatal effects upon
the whole social organism. Among his noblest poems are the 'Brothers'
and 'Michael,' to which he specially called the attention of Fox. They
were intended, he explained, to show the surpassing value of the
domestic affections conspicuous among the shepherds and 'statesmen' of
the northern dales. He had now come to hold that the principles of
Godwin and his like were destructive to the most important elements of
human welfare. The revolutionists were not simply breaking the fetters
of the simple peasant, but destroying the most sacred ties to which
the peasant owed whatever dignity or happiness he possessed.
Revolution, in short, meant anarchy. It meant, therefore, the
destruction of all that gives real value to life. It was, as he held,
one product of the worship of the 'idol proudly named the "wealth of
nations,"'[633] selfishness and greed replacing the old motives to
'plain living and high thinking.' Wordsworth, in short, saw the ugly
side of the industrial revolution, the injury done to domestic life by
the factory system, or the substitution of a proletariate for a
peasantry, and the replacement of the lowest social order by a vast
inorganic mob. The contemporary process, which was leading to
pauperism and to the evils of the factory system, profoundly affected
Wordsworth, as well as the impulsive Southey; and their frequent
denunciations gave colour to the imputations that they were opposed to
all progress. Certainly they were even morbidly alive to the evil
aspects of the political economy of Malthus and Ricardo, which to them
seemed to prescribe insensibility and indifference to most serious and
rapidly accumulating evils.

Meanwhile, Wordsworth was also impressed by the underlying
philosophical difficulties. The effect of the revolutionary principles
was to destroy the religious sentiment, not simply by disproving this
or that historical statement, but by making the whole world prosaic
and matter-of-fact. His occasional outbursts against the man of
science--the 'fingering slave' who would 'peep and botanise upon his
mother's grave'--are one version of his feeling. The whole scientific
method tended to materialism and atomism; to a breaking up of the
world into disconnected atoms, and losing the life in dissecting the
machinery. His protest is embodied in the pantheism of the noble lines
on Tintern Abbey, and his method of answering might be divined from
the ode on the 'Intimations of Immortality.' Somehow or other the
world represents a spiritual and rational unity, not a mere chaos of
disconnected atoms and fragments. We 'see into the heart of things'
when we trust to our emotions and hold by the instincts, clearly
manifested in childhood, but clouded and overwhelmed in our later
struggles with the world. The essential thing is the cultivation of
our 'moral being,' the careful preservation and assimilation of the
stern sense of duty, which alone makes life bearable and gives a
meaning to the universe.

Wordsworth, it is plain, was at the very opposite pole from the
Utilitarians. He came to consider that their whole method meant the
dissolution of all that was most vitally sacred, and to hold that the
revolution had attracted his sympathies on false pretences. Yet it is
obvious that, however great the stimulus which he exerted, and however
lofty his highest flights of poetry, he had no distinct theory to
offer. His doctrine undoubtedly was congenial to certain philosophical
views, but was not itself an articulate philosophy. He appeals to
instincts and emotions, not to any definite theory. In a remarkable
letter, Coleridge told Wordsworth why he was disappointed with the
_Excursion_.[634] He had hoped that it would be the 'first and only
true philosophical poem in existence.' Wordsworth was to have started
by exposing the 'sandy sophisms of Locke,' and after exploding Pope's
_Essay on Man_, and showing the vanity of (Erasmus) Darwin's belief in
an 'ourang-outang state,' and explaining the fall of man and the
'scheme of redemption,' to have concluded by 'a grand didactic swell
on the identity of a true philosophy with true religion.' He would
show how life and intelligence were to be substituted for the
'philosophy of mechanism.' Facts would be elevated into theory, theory
into laws, and laws into living and intelligent powers--true idealism
necessarily perfecting itself in realism, and realism refining itself
into idealism.'

The programme was a large one. If it represents what Coleridge
seriously expected from Wordsworth, it also suggests that he was
unconsciously wandering into an exposition of one of the gigantic but
constantly shifting schemes of a comprehensive philosophy, which he
was always proposing to execute. To try to speak of Coleridge
adequately would be hopeless and out of place. I must briefly mention
him, because he was undoubtedly the most conspicuous representative of
the tendencies opposed to Utilitarianism. The young men who found
Bentham exasperating imbibed draughts of mingled poetry and philosophy
from Coleridge's monologues at Hampstead. Carlyle has told us, in a
famous chapter of his _Life of Sterling_, what they went out to see:
at once a reed shaken by the wind and a great expounder of
transcendental truth. The fact that Coleridge exerted a very great
influence is undeniable. To define precisely what that influence was
is impossible. His writings are a heap of fragments. He contemplated
innumerable schemes for great works, and never got within measurable
distance of writing any. He poured himself out indefinitely upon the
margins of other men's books; and the piety of disciples has collected
a mass of these scattered and incoherent jottings, which announce
conclusions without giving the premises, or suggest difficulties
without attempting to solve them. He seems to have been almost as
industrious as Bentham in writing; but whereas Bentham's fragments
could be put together as wholes, Coleridge's are essentially
distracted hints of views never really elaborated. He was always
thinking, but seems always to be making a fresh start at any point
that strikes him for the moment. Besides all this, there is the
painful question of plagiarism. His most coherent exposition (in the
_Biographia Literaria_) is simply appropriated from Schelling, though
he ascribes the identity to a 'genial coincidence' of thought. I need
make no attempt to make out what Coleridge really thought for himself,
and then to try to put his thoughts together,--and indeed hold the
attempt to be impossible. The most remarkable thing is the apparent
disproportion between Coleridge's definite services to philosophy and
the effect which he certainly produced upon some of his ablest
contemporaries. That seems to prove that he was really aiming at some
important aspect of truth, incapable as he may have been of
definitively reaching it. I can only try to give a hint or two as to
its general nature. Coleridge, in the first place, was essentially a
poet, and, moreover, his poetry was of the type most completely
divorced from philosophy. Nobody could say more emphatically that
poetry should not be rhymed logic; and his most impressive poems are
simply waking dreams. They are spontaneous incarnations of sensuous
imagery, which has no need of morals or definite logical schemes.
Although he expected Wordsworth to transmute philosophy into poetry,
he admitted that the achievement would be unprecedented. Even in
Lucretius, he said, what was poetry was not philosophy, and what was
philosophy was not poetry. Yet Coleridge's philosophy was essentially
the philosophy of a poet. He had, indeed, great dialectical
ingenuity--a faculty which may certainly be allied with the highest
imagination, though it may involve certain temptations. A poet who has
also a mastery of dialectics becomes a mystic in philosophy. Coleridge
had, it seems, been attracted by Plotinus in his schooldays. At a
later period he had been attracted by Hartley, Berkeley, and
Priestley. To a brilliant youth, anxious to be in the van of
intellectual progress, they represented the most advanced theories.
But there could never be a full sympathy between Coleridge and the
forefathers of English empiricism; and he went to Germany partly to
study the new philosophy which was beginning to shine--though very
feebly and intermittingly--in England. When he had returned he began
to read Kant and Schelling, or rather to mix excursions into their
books with the miscellaneous inquiries to which his versatile
intellect attracted him.

Now, it is abundantly clear that Coleridge never studied any
philosophy systematically. He never acquired a precise acquaintance
with the technical language of various schemes, or cared for their
precise logical relations to each other. The 'genial coincidence' with
Schelling, though an unlucky phrase, represents a real fact. He dipped
into Plotinus or Behmen or Kant or Schelling, or any one who
interested him, and did not know whether they were simply embodying
ideas already in his own mind, or suggesting new ideas; or, what was
probably more accurate, expressing opinions which, in a general way,
were congenial to his own way of contemplating the world. His power of
stimulating other minds proves sufficiently that he frequently hit
upon impressive and suggestive thoughts. He struck out illuminating
sparks, but he never diffused any distinct or steady daylight. His
favourite position, for example, of the distinction between the Reason
and the Understanding is always coming up and being enforced with the
strongest asseverations of its importance. That he had adopted it more
or less from Kant is obvious, though I imagine it to be also obvious
that he did not clearly understand his authority.[635] To what,
precisely, it amounts is also unintelligible to me. Somehow or other,
it implies that the mind can rise into transcendental regions, and,
leaving grovelling Utilitarians and the like to the conduct of the
understanding in matters of practical expediency, can perceive that
the universe is in some way evolved from the pure reason, and the mind
capable of ideas which correspond to stages of the evolution. How this
leads to the conclusions that the Christian doctrines of the Logos and
the Trinity are embodiments of pure philosophy is a problem upon which
I need not touch. When we have called Coleridge a mystic, with flashes
of keen insight into the weakness of the opposite theory, I do not see
how we are to get much further, or attribute to him any articulate and
definite scheme.

Hopelessly unsystematic as Coleridge may have been, his significance
in regard to the Utilitarians is noteworthy. It is indicated in a
famous article which J. S. Mill contributed to the _Westminster
Review_ in March 1840.[636] Mill's concessions to Coleridge rather
scandalised the faithful; and it is enough to observe here that it
marks the apogee of Mill's Benthamism. Influences, of which I shall
have to speak, had led him to regard his old creed as imperfect, and
to assent to great part of Coleridge's doctrine. Mill does not discuss
the metaphysical or theological views of the opposite school, though
he briefly intimates his dissent. But it is interesting to observe how
Coleridge impressed a disciple of Bentham. The 'Germano-Coleridgian
doctrine,' says Mill, was a reaction against the philosophy of the
eighteenth century: 'ontological,' 'conservative,' 'religious,'
'concrete and historical,' and finally 'poetical,' because the other
was 'experimental,' 'innovative,' 'infidel,' 'abstract and
metaphysical,' and 'matter-of-fact and prosaic.' Yet the two
approximate, and each helps to restore the balance and comes a little
nearer to a final equilibrium. The error of the French philosophers
had been their negative and purely critical tendency. They had thought
that it was enough to sweep away superstition, priestcraft, and
despotism, and that no constructive process was necessary. They had
not perceived the necessity of social discipline, of loyalty to
rulers, or of patriotic feeling among the subjects. They had,
therefore, entirely failed to recognise the historical value of old
creeds and institutions, and had tried to remodel society 'without the
binding forces which hold society together.'[637] Hence, too, the
_philosophes_ came to despise history; and D'Alembert is said to have
wished that all record of past events could be blotted out. Their
theory, in its popular version at least, came to be that states and
churches had been got up 'for the sole purpose of picking people's
pockets.'[638] This had become incredible to any intelligent reasoner,
and any Tory could prove that there was something good in the past.
The peculiarity of the 'Germano-Coleridgian' school was that they saw
beyond the immediate controversy. They were the first to inquire with
any power into 'the inductive laws of the existence and growth of
human society'; the first to recognise the importance of the great
constructive principles; and the first to produce not a piece of party
advocacy, but 'a philosophy of society in the only form in which it is
yet possible, that of a philosophy of history.' Hence arose that
'series of great writers and thinkers, from Herder to Michelet,' who
have given to past history an intelligible place in the gradual
evolution of humanity.[639] This very forcible passage is interesting
in regard to Mill, and shows a very clear perception of some defects
in his own philosophy. It also raises an important question.

Accepting Mill's view, it is remarkable that the great error of his
own school, which professed to be based upon experience, was the
rejection of history; and the great merit of the _a priori_ and
'intuitionist' school was precisely their insistence upon history. To
this I shall have to return hereafter. Meanwhile, Mill proceeds to
show how Coleridge, by arguing from the 'idea' of church and state,
had at least recognised the necessity of showing that political and
social institutions must have a sufficient reason, and be justified by
something more than mere obstinate prejudice. Men like Pitt and Sir
Robert Peel, if they accepted Coleridge's support, would have to alter
their whole position. Coleridge's defence of his ideal church was at
once the severest satire upon the existing body and a proof, as
against Bentham and Adam Smith, of the advantages of an endowed class
for the cultivation and diffusion of learning. Coleridge, moreover,
though he objected to the Reform Bill, showed himself a better
reformer than Lord John Russell. He admitted what the Whigs refused to
see, the necessity of diminishing the weight of the landowner
interest. Landowners were not to be ultimate sources of power, but to
represent one factor in a reasoned system. In short, by admitting that
all social arrangements in some sense were embodiments of reason, he
admitted that they must also be made to conform to reason.

Coleridge and Bentham, then, are not really enemies but allies, and
they wield powers which are 'opposite poles of one great force of
progression.'[640] The question, however, remains, how the philosophy
of each leader is really connected with his practical conclusions.
Mill's view would apparently be that Coleridge somehow managed to
correct the errors or fill the gaps of the Utilitarian system--a very
necessary task, as Mill admits--while Coleridge would have held that
those errors were the inevitable fruit of the whole empirical system
of thought. The Reason must be restored to its rightful supremacy over
the Understanding, which had been working its wicked will since the
days of Locke and eighteenth century. The problem is a wide one. I
must be content to remark the inevitable antithesis. Whether enemies
or allies, the Utilitarians and their antagonists were separated by a
gulf which could not be bridged for the time. The men of
common-sense, who had no philosophy at all, were shocked by the
immediate practical applications of Utilitarianism, its hostility to
the old order which they loved, its apparent helplessness in social
questions, its relegation of all progress to the conflict of selfish
interests, its indifference to all the virtues associated with
patriotism and local ties. By more reflective minds, it was condemned
as robbing the world of its poetry, stifling the religious emotions,
and even quenching sentiment in general. The few who wished for a
philosophy found the root of its errors in the assumptions which
reduced the world to a chaos of atoms, outwardly connected and
combined into mere dead mechanism. The world, for the poet and the
philosopher alike, must be not a congeries of separate things, but in
some sense a product of reason. Thought, not fact, must be the
ultimate reality. Unfortunately or otherwise, the poetical sentiment
could never get itself translated into philosophical theory.
Coleridge's random and discursive hints remained mere hints--a
suggestion at best for future thought. Mill's criticism shows how far
they could be assimilated by a singularly candid Utilitarian. To him,
we see, they represented mainly the truth that his own party,
following the general tendency of the eighteenth century, had been led
to neglect the vital importance of the constructive elements of
society; that they had sacrificed order to progress, and therefore
confounded progress with destruction, and failed to perceive the real
importance in past times even of the institutions which had become
obsolete. Social atomism or individualism, therefore, implied a total
misconception of what Mill calls the 'evolution of humanity.' This
marks a critical point. The 'Germano-Coleridgians' had a theory of
evolution. By evolution, indeed, was meant a dialectical evolution;
the evolution of 'ideas' or reason, in which each stage of history
represents a moment of some vast and transcendental process of
thought. Evolution, so understood, seemed rightly or wrongly to be
mere mysticism or intellectual juggling. It took leave of fact, or
managed by some illegitimate process to give to a crude generalisation
from experience the appearance of a purely logical deduction. In this
shape, therefore, it was really opposed to science, although the time
was to come in which evolution would present itself in a scientific
form.[641] Meanwhile, the concessions made by J. S. Mill were not
approved by his fellows, and would have been regarded as little short
of treason by the older Utilitarians. The two schools, if Coleridge's
followers could be called a school, regarded each other's doctrines as
simply contradictory. In appealing to experience and experience alone,
the Utilitarians, as their opponents held, had reduced the world to a
dead mechanism, destroyed every element of cohesion, made society a
struggle of selfish interests, and struck at the very roots of all
order, patriotism, poetry, and religion. They retorted that their
critics were blind adherents of antiquated prejudice, and sought to
cover superstition and despotism either by unprovable dogmatic
assertions, or by taking refuge in a cloudy mystical jargon, which
really meant nothing.

They did not love each other.

FOOTNOTES:

[610] See _Dictionary of National Biography_, under 'George Grote.'
Bentham's MS. is in the British Museum, and shows, I think, that
Grote's share in the work was a good deal more than mere editing. I
quote from a reprint by Truelove (1875). It was also privately
reprinted by Grote himself in 1866.

[611] Cf. Hobbes's definition: 'Fear of power invisible feigned by the
mind, or imagined from tales publicly allowed, [is] Religion: not
allowed, Superstition. And when the power imagined is truly such as we
imagine, True Religion.'--_Works_ (Molesworth), iii. 45.

[612] 'Philip Beauchamp,' ch. ii. pp. 11-15.

[613] _Ibid._ p. 17.

[614] 'Philip Beauchamp,' p. 21.

[615] _Ibid._ pp. 22 and 104.

[616] 'Philip Beauchamp,' ch. iii.

[617] 'Philip Beauchamp,' ch. iv.

[618] _Ibid._ p. 45, ch. v.

[619] _Ibid._ p. 52, ch. vi.

[620] 'Philip Beauchamp,' ch. viii.

[621] _Ibid._ part ii. ch. i.

[622] _Ibid._ p. 80, part ii. ch. ii.

[623] 'Philip Beauchamp,' pp. 97, 99.

[624] _Ibid._ p. 101.

[625] _Ibid._ p. 103.

[626] 'Philip Beauchamp,' p. 163.

[627] _Ibid._ p. 122.

[628] The writers were Chalmers, Kidd, Whewell, Sir Charles Bell,
Roget, Buckland, Kirby, and Prout. The essays appeared from 1833 to
1835. The versatile Brougham shortly afterwards edited Paley's
_Natural Theology_.

[629] 'Philip Beauchamp,' p. 88.

[630] Froude's _Carlyle_, i. 215; ii. 93.

[631] Mill's _Dissertations_, i. 235; ii. 130.

[632] George Borrow's vehement dislike of Scott as the inventor of
Puseyism and modern Jesuitism of all kinds is characteristic.

[633] _Prelude_, bk. xiii.

[634] Coleridge's _Letters_ (1890), pp. 643-49.

[635] Mr. Hutchison Stirling insists upon this in the _Fortnightly
Review_ for July 1867. He proves, I think, that Coleridge's knowledge
of the various schemes of German philosophy and of the precise
relation of Kant, Fichte, and Schelling was altogether desultory and
confused. How far this is important depends upon whether we attach
much or little importance to precise combinations of words used by
these philosophers.

[636] _Dissertations_, i. 392-474.

[637] _Ibid._ i. 424.

[638] _Dissertations_, i. 437.

[639] _Ibid._ i. 425-27.

[640] _Dissertations_, i. 437.

[641] Coleridge's _Hints towards the Formation of a more Comprehensive
Theory of Life_, edited by S. B. Watson, in 1848, is a curious attempt
to apply his evolution doctrine to natural science. Lewes, in his
_Letters on Comte's Philosophy of the Sciences_, says that it is a
'shameless plagiarism' from Schelling's _Erster Entwurf_, etc. It
seems, as far as I can judge, that Coleridge's doctrines about
magnetism, reproduction, irritability, sensibility, etc., are, in
fact, adapted from Schelling. The book was intended, as Mr. E. H.
Coleridge tells me, for a chapter in a work on Scrophula, projected by
Gillman. As Coleridge died long before the publication, he cannot be
directly responsible for not acknowledging obligations to Schelling.
Unfortunately he cannot claim the benefit of a good character in such
matters. Anyhow, Coleridge's occasional excursions into science can
only represent a vague acceptance of the transcendental method
represented, as I understand, by Oken.

       *       *       *       *       *

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