No More Learning

This first introduction to the highest order of mountain scenery made
the deepest impression on me, and gave a colour to my tastes through
life. In October we proceeded by the beautiful mountain route of
Castres and St. Pons, from Toulouse to Montpellier, in which last
neighbourhood Sir Samuel had just bought the estate of Restincliere,
near the foot of the singular mountain of St. Loup. During this
residence in France I acquired a familiar knowledge of the French
language, and acquaintance with the ordinary French literature; I took
lessons in various bodily exercises, in none of which, however, I made
any proficiency; and at Montpellier I attended the excellent winter
courses of lectures at the Faculte des Sciences, those of M. Anglada
on chemistry, of M. Provencal on zoology, and of a very accomplished
representative of the eighteenth century metaphysics, M. Gergonne, on
logic, under the name of Philosophy of the Sciences. I also went
through a course of the higher mathematics under the private tuition
of M. Lentheric, a professor at the Lycee of Montpellier. But the
greatest, perhaps, of the many advantages which I owed to this episode
in my education, was that of having breathed for a whole year, the
free and genial atmosphere of Continental life. This advantage was not
the less real though I could not then estimate, nor even consciously
feel it. Having so little experience of English life, and the few
people I knew being mostly such as had public objects, of a large and
personally disinterested kind, at heart, I was ignorant of the low
moral tone of what, in England, is called society; the habit of, not
indeed professing, but taking for granted in every mode of
implication, that conduct is of course always directed towards low and
petty objects; the absence of high feelings which manifests itself by
sneering depreciation of all demonstrations of them, and by general
abstinence (except among a few of the stricter religionists) from
professing any high principles of action at all, except in those
preordained cases in which such profession is put on as part of the
costume and formalities of the occasion. I could not then know or
estimate the difference between this manner of existence, and that of
a people like the French, whose faults, if equally real, are at all
events different; among whom sentiments, which by comparison at least
may be called elevated, are the current coin of human intercourse,
both in books and in private life; and though often evaporating in
profession, are yet kept alive in the nation at large by constant
exercise, and stimulated by sympathy, so as to form a living and
active part of the existence of great numbers of persons, and to be
recognised and understood by all. Neither could I then appreciate the
general culture of the understanding, which results from the habitual
exercise of the feelings, and is thus carried down into the most
uneducated classes of several countries on the Continent, in a degree
not equalled in England among the so-called educated, except where an
unusual tenderness of conscience leads to a habitual exercise of the
intellect on questions of right and wrong. I did not know the way in
which, among the ordinary English, the absence of interest in things
of an unselfish kind, except occasionally in a special thing here and
there, and the habit of not speaking to others, nor much even to
themselves, about the things in which they do feel interest, causes
both their feelings and their intellectual faculties to remain
undeveloped, or to develop themselves only in some single and very
limited direction; reducing them, considered as spiritual beings, to
a kind of negative existence. All these things I did not perceive till
long afterwards; but I even then felt, though without stating it
clearly to myself, the contrast between the frank sociability and
amiability of French personal intercourse, and the English mode of
existence, in which everybody acts as if everybody else (with few, or
no exceptions) was either an enemy or a bore. In France, it is true,
the bad as well as the good points, both of individual and of national
character, come more to the surface, and break out more fearlessly in
ordinary intercourse, than in England: but the general habit of the
people is to show, as well as to expect, friendly feeling in every one
towards every other, wherever there is not some positive cause for the
opposite. In England it is only of the best bred people, in the upper
or upper middle ranks, that anything like this can be said.

In my way through Paris, both going and returning, I passed some time
in the house of M. Say, the eminent political economist, who was a
friend and correspondent of my father, having become acquainted with
him on a visit to England a year or two after the Peace. He was a man
of the later period of the French Revolution, a fine specimen of the
best kind of French Republican, one of those who had never bent the
knee to Bonaparte though courted by him to do so; a truly upright,
brave, and enlightened man. He lived a quiet and studious life, made
happy by warm affections, public and private. He was acquainted with
many of the chiefs of the Liberal party, and I saw various noteworthy
persons while staying at this house; among whom I have pleasure in the
recollection of having once seen Saint-Simon, not yet the founder
either of a philosophy or a religion, and considered only as a clever
original. The chief fruit which I carried away from the society I saw,
was a strong and permanent interest in Continental Liberalism, of
which I ever afterwards kept myself _au courant_, as much as of
English politics: a thing not at all usual in those days with
Englishmen, and which had a very salutary influence on my development,
keeping me free from the error always prevalent in England--and from
which even my father, with all his superiority to prejudice, was not
exempt--of judging universal questions by a merely English standard.
After passing a few weeks at Caen with an old friend of my father's,
I returned to England in July, 1821 and my education resumed its
ordinary course.




CHAPTER III

LAST STAGE OF EDUCATION, AND FIRST OF SELF-EDUCATION


For the first year or two after my visit to France, I continued my old
studies, with the addition of some new ones. When I returned, my
father was just finishing for the press his _Elements of Political
Economy_, and he made me perform an exercise on the manuscript, which
Mr. Bentham practised on all his own writings, making what he called
"marginal contents"; a short abstract of every paragraph, to enable
the writer more easily to judge of, and improve, the order of the
ideas, and the general character of the exposition. Soon after, my
father put into my hands Condillac's _Traite des Sensations_, and the
logical and metaphysical volumes of his _Cours d'Etudes_; the first
(notwithstanding the superficial resemblance between Condillac's
psychological system and my father's) quite as much for a warning as
for an example. I am not sure whether it was in this winter or the
next that I first read a history of the French Revolution. I learnt
with astonishment that the principles of democracy, then apparently in
so insignificant and hopeless a minority everywhere in Europe, had
borne all before them in France thirty years earlier, and had been the
creed of the nation. As may be supposed from this, I had previously a
very vague idea of that great commotion. I knew only that the French
had thrown off the absolute monarchy of Louis XIV. and XV. , had put
the King and Queen to death, guillotined many persons, one of whom was
Lavoisier, and had ultimately fallen under the despotism of Bonaparte.
From this time, as was natural, the subject took an immense hold of my
feelings. It allied itself with all my juvenile aspirations to the
character of a democratic champion. What had happened so lately,
seemed as if it might easily happen again: and the most transcendent
glory I was capable of conceiving, was that of figuring, successful or
unsuccessful, as a Girondist in an English Convention.

During the winter of 1821-2, Mr. John Austin, with whom at the time of
my visit to France my father had but lately become acquainted, kindly
allowed me to read Roman law with him. My father, notwithstanding his
abhorrence of the chaos of barbarism called English Law, had turned
his thoughts towards the bar as on the whole less ineligible for me
than any other profession: and these readings with Mr. Austin, who had
made Bentham's best ideas his own, and added much to them from other
sources and from his own mind, were not only a valuable introduction
to legal studies, but an important portion of general education. With
Mr. Austin I read Heineccius on the Institutes, his _Roman Antiquities_,
and part of his exposition of the Pandects; to which was added a
considerable portion of Blackstone. It was at the commencement of these
studies that my father, as a needful accompaniment to them, put into my
hands Bentham's principal speculations, as interpreted to the Continent,
and indeed to all the world, by Dumont, in the _Traite de Legislation_.
The reading of this book was an epoch in my life; one of the turning
points in my mental history.

My previous education had been, in a certain sense, already a course
of Benthamism. The Benthamic standard of "the greatest happiness" was
that which I had always been taught to apply; I was even familiar
with an abstract discussion of it, forming an episode in an
unpublished dialogue on Government, written by my father on the
Platonic model. Yet in the first pages of Bentham it burst upon me
with all the force of novelty. What thus impressed me was the chapter
in which Bentham passed judgment on the common modes of reasoning in
morals and legislation, deduced from phrases like "law of nature,"
"right reason," "the moral sense," "natural rectitude," and the like,
and characterized them as dogmatism in disguise, imposing its
sentiments upon others under cover of sounding expressions which
convey no reason for the sentiment, but set up the sentiment as its
own reason. It had not struck me before, that Bentham's principle put
an end to all this. The feeling rushed upon me, that all previous
moralists were superseded, and that here indeed was the commencement
of a new era in thought. This impression was strengthened by the
manner in which Bentham put into scientific form the application of
the happiness principle to the morality of actions, by analysing the
various classes and orders of their consequences. But what struck me
at that time most of all, was the Classification of Offences, which is
much more clear, compact, and imposing in Dumont's _redaction_ than in
the original work of Bentham from which it was taken. Logic and the
dialectics of Plato, which had formed so large a part of my previous
training, had given me a strong relish for accurate classification.
This taste had been strengthened and enlightened by the study of
botany, on the principles of what is called the Natural Method, which
I had taken up with great zeal, though only as an amusement, during my
stay in France; and when I found scientific classification applied to
the great and complex subject of Punishable Acts, under the guidance
of the ethical principle of Pleasurable and Painful Consequences,
followed out in the method of detail introduced into these subjects by
Bentham, I felt taken up to an eminence from which I could survey a
vast mental domain, and see stretching out into the distance
intellectual results beyond all computation. As I proceeded further,
there seemed to be added to this intellectual clearness, the most
inspiring prospects of practical improvement in human affairs. To
Bentham's general view of the construction of a body of law I was not
altogether a stranger, having read with attention that admirable
compendium, my father's article on Jurisprudence: but I had read it
with little profit, and scarcely any interest, no doubt from its
extremely general and abstract character, and also because it
concerned the form more than the substance of the _corpus juris_, the
logic rather than the ethics of law. But Bentham's subject was
Legislation, of which Jurisprudence is only the formal part: and at
every page he seemed to open a clearer and broader conception of what
human opinions and institutions ought to be, how they might be made
what they ought to be, and how far removed from it they now are. When
I laid down the last volume of the _Traite_, I had become a different
being. The "principle of utility," understood as Bentham understood
it, and applied in the manner in which he applied it through these
three volumes, fell exactly into its place as the keystone which held
together the detached and fragmentary component parts of my knowledge
and beliefs. It gave unity to my conceptions of things. I now had
opinions; a creed, a doctrine, a philosophy; in one among the best
senses of the word, a religion; the inculcation and diffusion of which
could be made the principal outward purpose of a life. And I had a
grand conception laid before me of changes to be effected in the
condition of mankind through that doctrine. The _Traite de Legislation_
wound up with what was to me a most impressive picture of human life as
it would be made by such opinions and such laws as were recommended in
the treatise. The anticipations of practicable improvement were
studiously moderate, deprecating and discountenancing as reveries of
vague enthusiasm many things which will one day seem so natural to human
beings, that injustice will probably be done to those who once thought
them chimerical. But, in my state of mind, this appearance of superiority
to illusion added to the effect which Bentham's doctrines produced on me,
by heightening the impression of mental power, and the vista of improvement
which he did open was sufficiently large and brilliant to light up my life,
as well as to give a definite shape to my aspirations.

After this I read, from time to time, the most important of the other
works of Bentham which had then seen the light, either as written by
himself or as edited by Dumont. This was my private reading: while,
under my father's direction, my studies were carried into the higher
branches of analytic psychology. I now read Locke's _Essay_, and wrote
out an account of it, consisting of a complete abstract of every
chapter, with such remarks as occurred to me; which was read by, or
(I think) to, my father, and discussed throughout. I performed the same
process with _Helvetius de L'Esprit_, which I read of my own choice.
This preparation of abstracts, subject to my father's censorship, was
of great service to me, by compelling precision in conceiving and
expressing psychological doctrines, whether accepted as truths or only
regarded as the opinion of others. After Helvetius, my father made me
study what he deemed the really master-production in the philosophy
of mind, Hartley's _Observations on Man_. This book, though it did
not, like the _Traite de Legislation_, give a new colour to my
existence, made a very similar impression on me in regard to its
immediate subject. Hartley's explanation, incomplete as in many points
it is, of the more complex mental phenomena by the law of association,
commended itself to me at once as a real analysis, and made me feel by
contrast the insufficiency of the merely verbal generalizations of
Condillac, and even of the instructive gropings and feelings about for
psychological explanations, of Locke. It was at this very time that my
father commenced writing his _Analysis_ of the Mind, which carried
Hartley's mode of explaining the mental phenomena to so much greater
length and depth. He could only command the concentration of thought
necessary for this work, during the complete leisure of his holiday
for a month or six weeks annually: and he commenced it in the summer
of 1822, in the first holiday he passed at Dorking; in which
neighbourhood, from that time to the end of his life, with the
exception of two years, he lived, as far as his official duties
permitted, for six months of every year. He worked at the _Analysis_
during several successive vacations, up to the year 1829, when it was
published, and allowed me to read the manuscript, portion by portion,
as it advanced. The other principal English writers on mental
philosophy I read as I felt inclined, particularly Berkeley, Hume's
_Essays_, Reid, Dugald Stewart and Brown on Cause and Effect. Brown's
_Lectures_ I did not read until two or three years later, nor at that
time had my father himself read them.

Among the works read in the course of this year, which contributed
materially to my development, I owe it to mention a book (written on
the foundation of some of Bentham's manuscripts and published under
the pseudonyme of Philip Beauchamp) entitled _Analysis of the Influence
of Natural Religion on the Temporal Happiness of Mankind_. This was an
examination not of the truth, but of the usefulness of religious belief,
in the most general sense, apart from the peculiarities of any special
revelation; which, of all the parts of the discussion concerning
religion, is the most important in this age, in which real belief in
any religious doctrine is feeble and precarious, but the opinion of
its necessity for moral and social purposes almost universal; and when
those who reject revelation, very generally take refuge in an
optimistic Deism, a worship of the order of Nature, and the supposed
course of Providence, at least as full of contradictions, and
perverting to the moral sentiments, as any of the forms of
Christianity, if only it is as completely realized. Yet very little,
with any claim to a philosophical character, has been written by
sceptics against the usefulness of this form of belief. The volume
bearing the name of Philip Beauchamp had this for its special object.
Having been shown to my father in manuscript, it was put into my hands
by him, and I made a marginal analysis of it as I had done of the
_Elements of Political Economy_. Next to the Traite de Legislation_,
it was one of the books which by the searching character of its
analysis produced the greatest effect upon me. On reading it lately
after an interval of many years, I find it to have some of the defects
as well as the merits of the Benthamic modes of thought, and to
contain, as I now think, many weak arguments, but with a great
overbalance of sound ones, and much good material for a more
completely philosophic and conclusive treatment of the subject.

I have now, I believe, mentioned all the books which had any
considerable effect on my early mental development. From this point
I began to carry on my intellectual cultivation by writing still more
than by reading. In the summer of 1822 I wrote my first argumentative
essay. I remember very little about it, except that it was an attack
on what I regarded as the aristocratic prejudice, that the rich were,
or were likely to be, superior in moral qualities to the poor. My
performance was entirely argumentative, without any of the declamation
which the subject would admit of, and might be expected to suggest to
a young writer. In that department, however, I was, and remained, very
inapt. Dry argument was the only thing I could, manage, or willingly
attempted; though passively I was very susceptible to the effect of
all composition, whether in the form of poetry or oratory, which
appealed to the feelings on any basis of reason. My father, who knew
nothing of this essay until it was finished, was well satisfied, and,
as I learnt from others, even pleased with it; but, perhaps from a
desire to promote the exercise of other mental faculties than the
purely logical, he advised me to make my next exercise in composition
one of the oratorical kind; on which suggestion, availing myself of
my familiarity with Greek history and ideas, and with the Athenian
orators, I wrote two speeches, one an accusation, the other a defence
of Pericles, on a supposed impeachment for not marching out to fight
the Lacedemonians on their invasion of Attica. After this I continued
to write papers on subjects often very much beyond my capacity, but
with great benefit both from the exercise itself, and from the
discussions which it led to with my father.

I had now also begun to converse, on general subjects, with the
instructed men with whom I came in contact: and the opportunities of
such contact naturally became more numerous. The two friends of my
father from whom I derived most, and with whom I most associated, were
Mr. Grote and Mr. John Austin. The acquaintance of both with my father
was recent, but had ripened rapidly into intimacy. Mr. Grote was
introduced to my father by Mr. Ricardo, I think in 1819 (being then
about twenty-five years old), and sought assiduously his society and
conversation. Already a highly instructed man, he was yet, by the side
of my father, a tyro in the great subjects of human opinion; but he
rapidly seized on my father's best ideas; and in the department of
political opinion he made himself known as early as 1820, by a
pamphlet in defence of Radical Reform, in reply to a celebrated
article by Sir James Mackintosh, then lately published in he
_Edinburgh Review_. Mr. Grote's father, the banker, was, I believe,
a thorough Tory, and his mother intensely Evangelical; so that for
his liberal opinions he was in no way indebted to home influences.
But, unlike most persons who have the prospect of being rich by
inheritance, he had, though actively engaged in the business of
banking, devoted a great portion of time to philosophic studies; and
his intimacy with my father did much to decide the character of the
next stage in his mental progress. Him I often visited, and my
conversations with him on political, moral, and philosophical subjects
gave me, in addition to much valuable instruction, all the pleasure
and benefit of sympathetic communion with a man of the high
intellectual and moral eminence which his life and writings have since
manifested to the world.

Mr. Austin, who was four or five years older than Mr. Grote, was the
eldest son of a retired miller in Suffolk, who had made money by
contracts during the war, and who must have been a man of remarkable
qualities, as I infer from the fact that all his sons were of more
than common ability and all eminently gentlemen. The one with whom we
are now concerned, and whose writings on jurisprudence have made him
celebrated, was for some time in the army, and served in Sicily under
Lord William Bentinck. After the Peace he sold his commission and
studied for the bar, to which he had been called for some time before
my father knew him. He was not, like Mr. Grote, to any extent, a pupil
of my father, but he had attained, by reading and thought, a
considerable number of the same opinions, modified by his own very
decided individuality of character. He was a man of great intellectual
powers, which in conversation appeared at their very best; from the
vigour and richness of expression with which, under the excitement of
discussion, he was accustomed to maintain some view or other of most
general subjects; and from an appearance of not only strong, but
deliberate and collected will; mixed with a certain bitterness, partly
derived from temperament, and partly from the general cast of his
feelings and reflections. The dissatisfaction with life and the world,
felt more or less in the present state of society and intellect by
every discerning and highly conscientious mind, gave in his case a
rather melancholy tinge to the character, very natural to those whose
passive moral susceptibilities are more than proportioned to their
active energies. For it must be said, that the strength of will of
which his manner seemed to give such strong assurance, expended itself
principally in manner. With great zeal for human improvement, a strong
sense of duty, and capacities and acquirements the extent of which is
proved by the writings he has left, he hardly ever completed any
intellectual task of magnitude. He had so high a standard of what
ought to be done, so exaggerated a sense of deficiencies in his own
performances, and was so unable to content himself with the amount of
elaboration sufficient for the occasion and the purpose, that he not
only spoilt much of his work for ordinary use by overlabouring it, but
spent so much time and exertion in superfluous study and thought, that
when his task ought to have been completed, he had generally worked
himself into an illness, without having half finished what he
undertook. From this mental infirmity (of which he is not the sole
example among the accomplished and able men whom I have known),
combined with liability to frequent attacks of disabling though not
dangerous ill-health, he accomplished, through life, little in
comparison with what he seemed capable of; but what he did produce is
held in the very highest estimation by the most competent judges; and,
like Coleridge, he might plead as a set-off that he had been to many
persons, through his conversation, a source not only of much
instruction but of great elevation of character. On me his influence
was most salutary. It was moral in the best sense. He took a sincere
and kind interest in me, far beyond what could have been expected
towards a mere youth from a man of his age, standing, and what seemed
austerity of character. There was in his conversation and demeanour a
tone of high-mindedness which did not show itself so much, if the
quality existed as much, in any of the other persons with whom at that
time I associated. My intercourse with him was the more beneficial,
owing to his being of a different mental type from all other
intellectual men whom I frequented, and he from the first set himself
decidedly against the prejudices and narrownesses which are almost
sure to be found in a young man formed by a particular mode of thought
or a particular social circle.

His younger brother, Charles Austin, of whom at this time and for the
next year or two I saw much, had also a great effect on me, though of
a very different description. He was but a few years older than
myself, and had then just left the University, where he had shone with
great _eclat_ as a man of intellect and a brilliant orator and
converser. The effect he produced on his Cambridge contemporaries
deserves to be accounted an historical event; for to it may in part be
traced the tendency towards Liberalism in general, and the Benthamic
and politico-economic form of it in particular, which showed itself in
a portion of the more active-minded young men of the higher classes
from this time to 1830. The Union Debating Society, at that time at
the height of its reputation, was an arena where what were then
thought extreme opinions, in politics and philosophy, were weekly
asserted, face to face with their opposites, before audiences
consisting of the _elite_ of the Cambridge youth: and though many
persons afterwards of more or less note (of whom Lord Macaulay is the
most celebrated) gained their first oratorical laurels in those
debates, the really influential mind among these intellectual
gladiators was Charles Austin. He continued, after leaving the
University, to be, by his conversation and personal ascendency, a
leader among the same class of young men who had been his associates
there; and he attached me among others to his car. Through him I
became acquainted with Macaulay, Hyde and Charles Villiers, Strutt
(now Lord Belper), Romilly (now Lord Romilly and Master of the Rolls),
and various others who subsequently figured in literature or politics,
and among whom I heard discussions on many topics, as yet to a certain
degree new to me. The influence of Charles Austin over me differed
from that of the persons I have hitherto mentioned, in being not the
influence of a man over a boy, but that of an elder contemporary. It
was through him that I first felt myself, not a pupil under teachers,
but a man among men. He was the first person of intellect whom I met
on a ground of equality, though as yet much his inferior on that
common ground. He was a man who never failed to impress greatly those
with whom he came in contact, even when their opinions were the very
reverse of his. The impression he gave was that of boundless strength,
together with talents which, combined with such apparent force of will
and character, seemed capable of dominating the world. Those who knew
him, whether friendly to him or not, always anticipated that he would
play a conspicuous part in public life. It is seldom that men produce
so great an immediate effect by speech, unless they, in some degree,
lay themselves out for it; and he did this in no ordinary degree. He
loved to strike, and even to startle. He knew that decision is the
greatest element of effect, and he uttered his opinions with all the
decision he could throw into them, never so well pleased as when he
astonished anyone by their audacity. Very unlike his brother, who made
war against the narrower interpretations and applications of the
principles they both professed, he, on the contrary, presented the
Benthamic doctrines in the most startling form of which they were
susceptible, exaggerating everything in them which tended to
consequences offensive to anyone's preconceived feelings. All which,
he defended with such verve and vivacity, and carried off by a manner
so agreeable as well as forcible, that he always either came off
victor, or divided the honours of the field. It is my belief that much
of the notion popularly entertained of the tenets and sentiments of
what are called Benthamites or Utilitarians had its origin in paradoxes
thrown out by Charles Austin. It must be said, however, that his example
was followed, _haud passibus aequis_, by younger proselytes, and that to
_outrer_ whatever was by anybody considered offensive in the doctrines
and maxims of Benthamism, became at one time the badge of a small coterie
of youths. All of these who had anything in them, myself among others,
quickly outgrew this boyish vanity; and those who had not, became tired
of differing from other people, and gave up both the good and the bad part
of the heterodox opinions they had for some time professed.

It was in the winter of 1822-3 that I formed the plan of a little
society, to be composed of young men agreeing in fundamental
principles--acknowledging Utility as their standard in ethics and
politics, and a certain number of the principal corollaries drawn from
it in the philosophy I had accepted--and meeting once a fortnight to
read essays and discuss questions conformably to the premises thus
agreed on. The fact would hardly be worth mentioning, but for the
circumstance, that the name I gave to the society I had planned was the
Utilitarian Society. It was the first time that anyone had taken the
title of Utilitarian; and the term made its way into the language, from
this humble source. I did not invent the word, but found it in one of
Galt's novels, the _Annals of the Parish_, in which the Scotch
clergyman, of whom the book is a supposed autobiography, is represented
as warning his parishioners not to leave the Gospel and become
utilitarians. With a boy's fondness for a name and a banner I seized
on the word, and for some years called myself and others by it as a
sectarian appellation; and it came to be occasionally used by some
others holding the opinions which it was intended to designate. As those
opinions attracted more notice, the term was repeated by strangers and
opponents, and got into rather common use just about the time when those
who had originally assumed it, laid down that along with other sectarian
characteristics. The Society so called consisted at first of no more
than three members, one of whom, being Mr. Bentham's amanuensis,
obtained for us permission to hold our meetings in his house. The number
never, I think, reached ten, and the Society was broken up in 1826. It
had thus an existence of about three years and a half. The chief effect
of it as regards myself, over and above the benefit of practice in oral
discussion, was that of bringing me in contact with several young men at
that time less advanced than myself, among whom, as they professed the
same opinions, I was for some time a sort of leader, and had considerable
influence on their mental progress. Any young man of education who fell
in my way, and whose opinions were not incompatible with those of the
Society, I endeavoured to press into its service; and some others I
probably should never have known, had they not joined it. Those of the
members who became my intimate companions--no one of whom was in any sense
of the word a disciple, but all of them independent thinkers on their own
basis--were William Eyton Tooke, son of the eminent political economist,
a young man of singular worth both moral and intellectual, lost to the
world by an early death; his friend William Ellis, an original thinker in
the field of political economy, now honourably known by his apostolic
exertions for the improvement of education; George Graham, afterwards
official assignee of the Bankruptcy Court, a thinker of originality and
power on almost all abstract subjects; and (from the time when he came
first to England to study for the bar in 1824 or 1825) a man who has made
considerably more noise in the world than any of these, John Arthur Roebuck.

In May, 1823, my professional occupation and status for the next
thirty-five years of my life, were decided by my father's obtaining for
me an appointment from the East India Company, in the office of the
Examiner of India Correspondence, immediately under himself. I was
appointed in the usual manner, at the bottom of the list of clerks, to
rise, at least in the first instance, by seniority; but with the
understanding that I should be employed from the beginning in preparing
drafts of despatches, and be thus trained up as a successor to those who
then filled the higher departments of the office. My drafts of course
required, for some time, much revision from my immediate superiors, but
I soon became well acquainted with the business, and by my father's
instructions and the general growth of my own powers, I was in a few
years qualified to be, and practically was, the chief conductor of the
correspondence with India in one of the leading departments, that of the
Native States. This continued to be my official duty until I was
appointed Examiner, only two years before the time when the abolition of
the East India Company as a political body determined my retirement. I
do not know any one of the occupations by which a subsistence can now be
gained, more suitable than such as this to anyone who, not being in
independent circumstances, desires to devote a part of the twenty-four
hours to private intellectual pursuits. Writing for the press cannot be
recommended as a permanent resource to anyone qualified to accomplish
anything in the higher departments of literature or thought: not only on
account of the uncertainty of this means of livelihood, especially if
the writer has a conscience, and will not consent to serve any opinions
except his own; but also because the writings by which one can live are
not the writings which themselves live, and are never those in which the
writer does his best. Books destined to form future thinkers take too
much time to write, and when written come, in general, too slowly into
notice and repute, to be relied on for subsistence. Those who have to
support themselves by their pen must depend on literary drudgery, or at
best on writings addressed to the multitude; and can employ in the
pursuits of their own choice, only such time as they can spare from
those of necessity; which is generally less than the leisure allowed by
office occupations, while the effect on the mind is far more enervating
and fatiguing. For my own part I have, through life, found office duties
an actual rest from the other mental occupations which I have carried on
simultaneously with them. They were sufficiently intellectual not to be
a distasteful drudgery, without being such as to cause any strain upon
the mental powers of a person used to abstract thought, or to the labour
of careful literary composition. The drawbacks, for every mode of life
has its drawbacks, were not, however, unfelt by me. I cared little for
the loss of the chances of riches and honours held out by some of the
professions, particularly the bar, which had been, as I have already
said, the profession thought of for me. But I was not indifferent to
exclusion from Parliament, and public life: and I felt very sensibly the
more immediate unpleasantness of confinement to London; the holiday
allowed by India House practice not exceeding a month in the year, while
my taste was strong for a country life, and my sojourn in France had
left behind it an ardent desire of travelling. But though these tastes
could not be freely indulged, they were at no time entirely sacrificed.
I passed most Sundays, throughout the year, in the country, taking long
rural walks on that day even when residing in London. The month's
holiday was, for a few years, passed at my father's house in the
country; afterwards a part or the whole was spent in tours, chiefly
pedestrian, with some one or more of the young men who were my chosen
companions; and, at a later period, in longer journeys or excursions,
alone or with other friends. France, Belgium, and Rhenish Germany were
within easy reach of the annual holiday: and two longer absences, one of
three, the other of six months, under medical advice, added Switzerland,
the Tyrol, and Italy to my list. Fortunately, also, both these journeys
occurred rather early, so as to give the benefit and charm of the
remembrance to a large portion of life.

I am disposed to agree with what has been surmised by others, that the
opportunity which my official position gave me of learning by personal
observation the necessary conditions of the practical conduct of
public affairs, has been of considerable value to me as a theoretical
reformer of the opinions and institutions of my time. Not, indeed,
that public business transacted on paper, to take effect on the other
side of the globe, was of itself calculated to give much practical
knowledge of life. But the occupation accustomed me to see and hear
the difficulties of every course, and the means of obviating them,
stated and discussed deliberately with a view to execution: it gave
me opportunities of perceiving when public measures, and other
political facts, did not produce the effects which had been expected
of them, and from what causes; above all, it was valuable to me by
making me, in this portion of my activity, merely one wheel in a
machine, the whole of which had to work together. As a speculative
writer, I should have had no one to consult but myself, and should
have encountered in my speculations none of the obstacles which would
have started up whenever they came to be applied to practice. But as a
Secretary conducting political correspondence, I could not issue an
order, or express an opinion, without satisfying various persons very
unlike myself, that the thing was fit to be done. I was thus in a good
position for finding out by practice the mode of putting a thought
which gives it easiest admittance into minds not prepared for it by
habit; while I became practically conversant with the difficulties of
moving bodies of men, the necessities of compromise, the art of
sacrificing the non-essential to preserve the essential. I learnt how
to obtain the best I could, when I could not obtain everything;
instead of being indignant or dispirited because I could not have
entirely my own way, to be pleased and encouraged when I could have
the smallest part of it; and when even that could not be, to bear with
complete equanimity the being overruled altogether. I have found,
through life, these acquisitions to be of the greatest possible
importance for personal happiness, and they are also a very necessary
condition for enabling anyone, either as theorist or as practical man,
to effect the greatest amount of good compatible with his opportunities.




CHAPTER IV

YOUTHFUL PROPAGANDISM. THE "WESTMINSTER REVIEW"


The occupation of so much of my time by office work did not relax my
attention to my own pursuits, which were never carried on more
vigorously. It was about this time that I began to write in newspapers.
The first writings of mine which got into print were two letters
published towards the end of 1822, in the _Traveller_ evening newspaper.
The _Traveller_ (which afterwards grew into the _Globe and Traveller_,
by the purchase and incorporation of the _Globe_) was then the property
of the well-known political economist, Colonel Torrens, and under the
editorship of an able man, Mr. Walter Coulson (who, after being an
amanuensis of Mr. Bentham, became a reporter, then an editor, next a
barrister and conveyancer, and died Counsel to the Home Office), it had
become one of the most important newspaper organs of Liberal politics.
Colonel Torrens himself wrote much of the political economy of his
paper; and had at this time made an attack upon some opinion of Ricardo
and my father, to which, at my father's instigation, I attempted an
answer, and Coulson, out of consideration for my father and goodwill to
me, inserted it. There was a reply by Torrens, to which I again
rejoined. I soon after attempted something considerably more ambitious.
The prosecutions of Richard Carlile and his wife and sister for
publications hostile to Christianity were then exciting much attention,
and nowhere more than among the people I frequented. Freedom of
discussion even in politics, much more in religion, was at that time far
from being, even in theory, the conceded point which it at least seems
to be now; and the holders of obnoxious opinions had to be always ready
to argue and re-argue for the liberty of expressing them. I wrote a
series of five letters, under the signature of Wickliffe, going over the
whole length and breadth of the question of free publication of all
opinions on religion, and offered them to the _Morning Chronicle_.
Three
of them were published in January and February, 1823; the other two,
containing things too outspoken for that journal, never appeared at all.
But a paper which I wrote soon after on the same subject, _a propos_ of
a debate in the House of Commons, was inserted as a leading article; and
during the whole of this year, 1823, a considerable number of my
contributions were printed in the _Chronicle_ and _Traveller_: sometimes
notices of books, but oftener letters, commenting on some nonsense
talked in Parliament, or some defect of the law, or misdoings of the
magistracy or the courts of justice. In this last department the
_Chronicle_ was now rendering signal service. After the death of Mr.
Perry, the editorship and management of the paper had devolved on Mr.
John Black, long a reporter on its establishment; a man of most
extensive reading and information, great honesty and simplicity of mind;
a particular friend of my father, imbued with many of his and Bentham's
ideas, which he reproduced in his articles, among other valuable
thoughts, with great facility and skill. From this time the _Chronicle_
ceased to be the merely Whig organ it was before, and during the next
ten years became to a considerable extent a vehicle of the opinions of
the Utilitarian Radicals. This was mainly by what Black himself wrote,
with some assistance from Fonblanque, who first showed his eminent
qualities as a writer by articles and _jeux d'esprit_ in the
_Chronicle_. The defects of the law, and of the administration of
justice, were the subject on which that paper rendered most service to
improvement. Up to that time hardly a word had been said, except by
Bentham and my father, against that most peccant part of English
institutions and of their administration. It was the almost universal
creed of Englishmen, that the law of England, the judicature of England,
the unpaid magistracy of England, were models of excellence. I do not go
beyond the mark in saying, that after Bentham, who supplied the
principal materials, the greatest share of the merit of breaking down
this wretched superstition belongs to Black, as editor of the _Morning
Chronicle_. He kept up an incessant fire against it, exposing the
absurdities and vices of the law and the courts of justice, paid and
unpaid, until he forced some sense of them into people's minds. On many
other questions he became the organ of opinions much in advance of any
which had ever before found regular advocacy in the newspaper press.
Black was a frequent visitor of my father, and Mr. Grote used to say
that he always knew by the Monday morning's article whether Black had
been with my father on the Sunday. Black was one of the most influential
of the many channels through which my father's conversation and personal
influence made his opinions tell on the world; cooperating with the
effect of his writings in making him a power in the country such as it
has rarely been the lot of an individual in a private station to be,
through the mere force of intellect and character: and a power which was
often acting the most efficiently where it was least seen and suspected.
I have already noticed how much of what was done by Ricardo, Hume, and
Grote was the result, in part, of his prompting and persuasion. He was
the good genius by the side of Brougham in most of what he did for the
public, either on education, law reform, or any other subject. And his
influence flowed in minor streams too numerous to be specified. This
influence was now about to receive a great extension by the foundation
of the _Westminster Review_.

Contrary to what may have been supposed, my father was in no degree a
party to setting up the _Westminster Review_. The need of a Radical
organ to make head against the _Edinburgh_ and _Quarterly_ (then in the
period of their greatest reputation and influence) had been a topic of
conversation between him and Mr. Bentham many years earlier, and it had
been a part of their _Chateau en Espagne_ that my father should be the
editor; but the idea had never assumed any practical shape. In 1823,
however, Mr. Bentham determined to establish the _Review_ at his own
cost, and offered the editorship to my father, who declined it as
incompatible with his India House appointment. It was then entrusted to
Mr. (now Sir John) Bowring, at that time a merchant in the City. Mr.
Bowring had been for two or three years previous an assiduous frequenter
of Mr. Bentham, to whom he was recommended by many personal good
qualities, by an ardent admiration for Bentham, a zealous adoption of
many, though not all of his opinions, and, not least, by an extensive
acquaintanceship and correspondence with Liberals of all countries,
which seemed to qualify him for being a powerful agent in spreading
Bentham's fame and doctrines through all quarters of the world. My
father had seen little of Bowring, but knew enough of him to have formed
a strong opinion, that he was a man of an entirely different type from
what my father considered suitable for conducting a political and
philosophical Review: and he augured so ill of the enterprise that he
regretted it altogether, feeling persuaded not only that Mr. Bentham
would lose his money, but that discredit would probably be brought upon
Radical principles. He could not, however, desert Mr. Bentham, and he
consented to write an article for the first number. As it had been a
favourite portion of the scheme formerly talked of, that part of the
work should be devoted to reviewing the other Reviews, this article of
my father's was to be a general criticism of the _Edinburgh Review_ from
its commencement. Before writing it he made me read through all the
volumes of the _Review_, or as much of each as seemed of any importance
(which was not so arduous a task in 1823 as it would be now), and make
notes for him of the articles which I thought he would wish to examine,
either on account of their good or their bad qualities. This paper of my
father's was the chief cause of the sensation which the _Westminster
Review_ produced at its first appearance, and is, both in conception and
in execution, one of the most striking of all his writings. He began by
an analysis of the tendencies of periodical literature in general;
pointing out, that it cannot, like books, wait for success, but must
succeed immediately or not at all, and is hence almost certain to
profess and inculcate the opinions already held by the public to which
it addresses itself, instead of attempting to rectify or improve those
opinions. He next, to characterize the position of the _Edinburgh
Review_ as a political organ, entered into a complete analysis, from the
Radical point of view, of the British Constitution. He held up to notice
its thoroughly aristocratic character: the nomination of a majority of
the House of Commons by a few hundred families; the entire
identification of the more independent portion, the county members, with
the great landholders; the different classes whom this narrow oligarchy
was induced, for convenience, to admit to a share of power; and finally,
what he called its two props, the Church, and the legal profession. He
pointed out the natural tendency of an aristocratic body of this
composition, to group itself into two parties, one of them in possession
of the executive, the other endeavouring to supplant the former and
become the predominant section by the aid of public opinion, without any
essential sacrifice of the aristocratical predominance. He described the
course likely to be pursued, and the political ground occupied, by an
aristocratic party in opposition, coquetting with popular principles for
the sake of popular support. He showed how this idea was realized in the
conduct of the Whig party, and of the _Edinburgh Review_ as its chief
literary organ. He described, as their main characteristic, what he
termed "seesaw"; writing alternately on both sides of the question which
touched the power or interest of the governing classes; sometimes in
different articles, sometimes in different parts of the same article:
and illustrated his position by copious specimens. So formidable an
attack on the Whig party and policy had never before been made; nor had
so great a blow ever been struck, in this country, for Radicalism; nor
was there, I believe, any living person capable of writing that article
except my father. [2]

In the meantime the nascent _Review_ had formed a junction with another
project, of a purely literary periodical, to be edited by Mr. Henry
Southern, afterwards a diplomatist, then a literary man by profession.
The two editors agreed to unite their corps, and divide the editorship,
Bowring taking the political, Southern the literary department.
Southern's Review was to have been published by Longman, and that firm,
though part proprietors of the _Edinburgh_, were willing to be the
publishers of the new journal. But when all the arrangements had been
made, and the prospectuses sent out, the Longmans saw my father's attack
on the _Edinburgh_, and drew back. My father was now appealed to for his
interest with his own publisher, Baldwin, which was exerted with a
successful result. And so in April, 1824, amidst anything but hope on my
father's part, and that of most of those who afterwards aided in
carrying on the _Review_, the first number made its appearance.

That number was an agreeable surprise to most of us. The average of the
articles was of much better quality than had been expected. The literary
and artistic department had rested chiefly on Mr. Bingham, a barrister
(subsequently a police magistrate), who had been for some years a
frequenter of Bentham, was a friend of both the Austins, and had adopted
with great ardour Mr. Bentham's philosophical opinions. Partly from
accident, there were in the first number as many as five articles by
Bingham; and we were extremely pleased with them. I well remember the
mixed feeling I myself had about the _Review_; the joy of finding, what
we did not at all expect, that it was sufficiently good to be capable of
being made a creditable organ of those who held the opinions it
professed; and extreme vexation, since it was so good on the whole, at
what we thought the blemishes of it. When, however, in addition to our
generally favourable opinion of it, we learned that it had an
extraordinary large sale for a first number, and found that the
appearance of a Radical Review, with pretensions equal to those of the
established organs of parties, had excited much attention, there could
be no room for hesitation, and we all became eager in doing everything
we could to strengthen and improve it.

My father continued to write occasional articles. The _Quarterly Review_
received its exposure, as a sequel to that of the _Edinburgh_. Of his
other contributions, the most important were an attack on Southey's
_Book of the Church_, in the fifth number, and a political article in
the twelfth. Mr. Austin only contributed one paper, but one of great
merit, an argument against primogeniture, in reply to an article then
lately published in the _Edinburgh Review_ by McCulloch. Grote also
was a contributor only once; all the time he could spare being already
taken up with his _History of Greece_. The article he wrote was on his
own subject, and was a very complete exposure and castigation of
Mitford. Bingham and Charles Austin continued to write for some time;
Fonblanque was a frequent contributor from the third number. Of my
particular associates, Ellis was a regular writer up to the ninth
number; and about the time when he left off, others of the set began;
Eyton Tooke, Graham, and Roebuck. I was myself the most frequent writer
of all, having contributed, from the second number to the eighteenth,
thirteen articles; reviews of books on history and political economy, or
discussions on special political topics, as corn laws, game laws, law of
libel. Occasional articles of merit came in from other acquaintances of
my father's, and, in time, of mine; and some of Mr. Bowring's writers
turned out well. On the whole, however, the conduct of the Review was
never satisfactory to any of the persons strongly interested in its
principles, with whom I came in contact. Hardly ever did a number come
out without containing several things extremely offensive to us, either
in point of opinion, of taste, or by mere want of ability. The
unfavourable judgments passed by my father, Grote, the two Austins, and
others, were re-echoed with exaggeration by us younger people; and as
our youthful zeal rendered us by no means backward in making complaints,
we led the two editors a sad life. From my knowledge of what I then was,
I have no doubt that we were at least as often wrong as right; and I am
very certain that if the _Review_ had been carried on according to our
notions (I mean those of the juniors), it would have been no better,
perhaps not even so good as it was. But it is worth noting as a fact in
the history of Benthamism, that the periodical organ, by which it was
best known, was from the first extremely unsatisfactory to those whose
opinions on all subjects it was supposed specially to represent.

Meanwhile, however, the _Review_ made considerable noise in the world,
and gave a recognised _status_, in the arena of opinion and discussion,
to the Benthamic type of Radicalism, out of all proportion to the number
of its adherents, and to the personal merits and abilities, at that
time, of most of those who could be reckoned among them. It was a time,
as is known, of rapidly rising Liberalism. When the fears and
animosities accompanying the war with France had been brought to an end,
and people had once more a place in their thoughts for home politics,
the tide began to set towards reform. The renewed oppression of the
Continent by the old reigning families, the countenance apparently given
by the English Government to the conspiracy against liberty called the
Holy Alliance, and the enormous weight of the national debt and taxation
occasioned by so long and costly a war, rendered the government and
parliament very unpopular. Radicalism, under the leadership of the
Burdetts and Cobbetts, had assumed a character and importance which
seriously alarmed the Administration: and their alarm had scarcely been
temporarily assuaged by the celebrated Six Acts, when the trial of Queen
Caroline roused a still wider and deeper feeling of hatred. Though the
outward signs of this hatred passed away with its exciting cause, there
arose on all sides a spirit which had never shown itself before, of
opposition to abuses in detail. Mr. Hume's persevering scrutiny of the
public expenditure, forcing the House of Commons to a division on every
objectionable item in the estimates, had begun to tell with great force
on public opinion, and had extorted many minor retrenchments from an
unwilling administration. Political economy had asserted itself with
great vigour in public affairs, by the petition of the merchants of
London for free trade, drawn up in 1820 by Mr. Tooke and presented by
Mr. Alexander Baring; and by the noble exertions of Ricardo during the
few years of his parliamentary life. His writings, following up the
impulse given by the Bullion controversy, and followed up in their turn
by the expositions and comments of my father and McCulloch (whose
writings in the _Edinburgh Review_ during those years were most
valuable), had drawn general attention to the subject, making at least
partial converts in the Cabinet itself; and Huskisson, supported by
Canning, had commenced that gradual demolition of the protective system,
which one of their colleagues virtually completed in 1846, though the
last vestiges were only swept away by Mr. Gladstone in 1860. Mr. Peel,
then Home Secretary, was entering cautiously into the untrodden and
peculiarly Benthamic path of Law Reform. At this period, when Liberalism
seemed to be becoming the tone of the time, when improvement of
institutions was preached from the highest places, and a complete change
of the constitution of Parliament was loudly demanded in the lowest, it
is not strange that attention should have been roused by the regular
appearance in controversy of what seemed a new school of writers,
claiming to be the legislators and theorists of this new tendency. The
air of strong conviction with which they wrote, when scarcely anyone
else seemed to have an equally strong faith in as definite a creed; the
boldness with which they tilted against the very front of both the
existing political parties; their uncompromising profession of
opposition to many of the generally received opinions, and the suspicion
they lay under of holding others still more heterodox than they
professed; the talent and verve of at least my father's articles, and
the appearance of a corps behind him sufficient to carry on a Review;
and finally, the fact that the _Review_ was bought and read, made the
so-called Bentham school in philosophy and politics fill a greater place
in the public mind than it had held before, or has ever again held since
other equally earnest schools of thought have arisen in England. As I
was in the headquarters of it, knew of what it was composed, and as one
of the most active of its very small number, might say without undue
assumption, _quorum pars magna fui_, it belongs to me more than to most
others, to give some account of it.

This supposed school, then, had no other existence than what was
constituted by the fact, that my father's writings and conversation drew
round him a certain number of young men who had already imbibed, or who
imbibed from him, a greater or smaller portion of his very decided
political and philosophical opinions. The notion that Bentham was
surrounded by a band of disciples who received their opinions from his
lips, is a fable to which my father did justice in his "Fragment on
Mackintosh," and which, to all who knew Mr. Bentham's habits of life and
manner of conversation, is simply ridiculous. The influence which
Bentham exercised was by his writings. Through them he has produced, and
is producing, effects on the condition of mankind, wider and deeper, no
doubt, than any which can be attributed to my father. He is a much
greater name in history. But my father exercised a far greater personal
ascendency. He _was_ sought for the vigour and instructiveness of his
conversation, and did use it largely as an instrument for the diffusion
of his opinions. I have never known any man who could do such ample
justice to his best thoughts in colloquial discussion. His perfect
command over his great mental resources, the terseness and
expressiveness of his language and the moral earnestness as well as
intellectual force of his delivery, made him one of the most striking of
all argumentative conversers: and he was full of anecdote, a hearty
laugher, and, when with people whom he liked, a most lively and amusing
companion. It was not solely, or even chiefly, in diffusing his merely
intellectual convictions that his power showed itself: it was still more
through the influence of a quality, of which I have only since learnt to
appreciate the extreme rarity: that exalted public spirit, and regard
above all things to the good of the whole, which warmed into life and
activity every germ of similar virtue that existed in the minds he came
in contact with: the desire he made them feel for his approbation, the
shame at his disapproval; the moral support which his conversation and
his very existence gave to those who were aiming at the same objects, and
the encouragement he afforded to the fainthearted or desponding among
them, by the firm confidence which (though the reverse of sanguine as to
the results to be expected in any one particular case) he always felt in
the power of reason, the general progress of improvement, and the good
which individuals could do by judicious effort.

If was my father's opinions which gave the distinguishing character to
the Benthamic or utilitarian propagandism of that time. They fell
singly, scattered from him, in many directions, but they flowed from him
in a continued stream principally in three channels. One was through me,
the only mind directly formed by his instructions, and through whom
considerable influence was exercised over various young men, who became,
in their turn, propagandists. A second was through some of the Cambridge
contemporaries of Charles Austin, who, either initiated by him or under
the general mental impulse which he gave, had adopted many opinions
allied to those of my father, and some of the more considerable of whom
afterwards sought my father's acquaintance and frequented his house.
Among these may be mentioned Strutt, afterwards Lord Belper, and the
present Lord Romilly, with whose eminent father, Sir Samuel, my father
had of old been on terms of friendship. The third channel was that of a
younger generation of Cambridge undergraduates, contemporary, not with
Austin, but with Eyton Tooke, who were drawn to that estimable person by
affinity of opinions, and introduced by him to my father: the most
notable of these was Charles Buller. Various other persons individually
received and transmitted a considerable amount of my father's influence:
for example, Black (as before mentioned) and Fonblanque: most of these,
however, we accounted only partial allies; Fonblanque, for instance, was
always divergent from us on many important points. But indeed there was
by no means complete unanimity among any portion of us, nor had any of
us adopted implicitly all my father's opinions. For example, although
his _Essay on Government_ was regarded probably by all of us as a
masterpiece of political wisdom, our adhesion by no means extended to
the paragraph of it in which he maintains that women may, consistently
with good government, be excluded from the suffrage, because their
interest is the same with that of men. From this doctrine, I, and all
those who formed my chosen associates, most positively dissented. It is
due to my father to say that he denied having intended to affirm that
women _should_ be excluded, any more than men under the age of forty,
concerning whom he maintained in the very next paragraph an exactly
similar thesis. He was, as he truly said, not discussing whether the
suffrage had better be restricted, but only (assuming that it is to be
restricted) what is the utmost limit of restriction which does not
necessarily involve a sacrifice of the securities for good government.
But I thought then, as I have always thought since that the opinion
which he acknowledged, no less than that which he disclaimed, is as
great an error as any of those against which the _Essay_ was directed;
that the interest of women is included in that of men exactly as much as
the interest of subjects is included in that of kings, and no more; and
that every reason which exists for giving the suffrage to anybody,
demands that it should not be withheld from women. This was also the
general opinion of the younger proselytes; and it is pleasant to be able
to say that Mr. Bentham, on this important point, was wholly on our side.

But though none of us, probably, agreed in every respect with my father,
his opinions, as I said before, were the principal element which gave
its colour and character to the little group of young men who were the
first propagators of what was afterwards called "Philosophic Radicalism. "
Their mode of thinking was not characterized by Benthamism in any sense
which has relation to Bentham as a chief or guide, but rather by a
combination of Bentham's point of view with that of the modern political
economy, and with the Hartleian metaphysics. Malthus's population
principle was quite as much a banner, and point of union among us, as
any opinion specially belonging to Bentham. This great doctrine,
originally brought forward as an argument against the indefinite
improvability of human affairs, we took up with ardent zeal in the
contrary sense, as indicating the sole means of realizing that
improvability by securing full employment at high wages to the whole
labouring population through a voluntary restriction of the increase of
their numbers. The other leading characteristics of the creed, which we
held in common with my father, may be stated as follows:

In politics, an almost unbounded confidence in the efficacy of two
things: representative government, and complete freedom of discussion.
So complete was my father's reliance on the influence of reason over the
minds of mankind, whenever it is allowed to reach them, that he felt as
if all would be gained if the whole population were taught to read, if
all sorts of opinions were allowed to be addressed to them by word and
in writing, and if by means of the suffrage they could nominate a
legislature to give effect to the opinions they adopted. He thought that
when the legislature no longer represented a class interest, it would
aim at the general interest, honestly and with adequate wisdom; since
the people would be sufficiently under the guidance of educated
intelligence, to make in general a good choice of persons to represent
them, and having done so, to leave to those whom they had chosen a
liberal discretion. Accordingly aristocratic rule, the government of the
Few in any of its shapes, being in his eyes the only thing which stood
between mankind and an administration of their affairs by the best
wisdom to be found among them, was the object of his sternest
disapprobation, and a democratic suffrage the principal article of his
political creed, not on the ground of liberty, Rights of Man, or any of
the phrases, more or less significant, by which, up to that time,
democracy had usually been defended, but as the most essential of
"securities for good government. " In this, too, he held fast only to
what he deemed essentials; he was comparatively indifferent to
monarchical or republican forms--far more so than Bentham, to whom a
king, in the character of "corrupter-general," appeared necessarily very
noxious. Next to aristocracy, an established church, or corporation of
priests, as being by position the great depravers of religion, and
interested in opposing the progress of the human mind, was the object of
his greatest detestation; though he disliked no clergyman personally who
did not deserve it, and was on terms of sincere friendship with several.
In ethics his moral feelings were energetic and rigid on all points
which he deemed important to human well being, while he was supremely
indifferent in opinion (though his indifference did not show itself in
personal conduct) to all those doctrines of the common morality, which
he thought had no foundation but in asceticism and priestcraft. He
looked forward, for example, to a considerable increase of freedom in
the relations between the sexes, though without pretending to define
exactly what would be, or ought to be, the precise conditions of that
freedom. This opinion was connected in him with no sensuality either of
a theoretical or of a practical kind. He anticipated, on the contrary,
as one of the beneficial effects of increased freedom, that the
imagination would no longer dwell upon the physical relation and its
adjuncts, and swell this into one of the principal objects of life; a
perversion of the imagination and feelings, which he regarded as one of
the deepest seated and most pervading evils in the human mind. In
psychology, his fundamental doctrine was the formation of all human
character by circumstances, through the universal Principle of
Association, and the consequent unlimited possibility of improving the
moral and intellectual condition of mankind by education. Of all his
doctrines none was more important than this, or needs more to be
insisted on; unfortunately there is none which is more contradictory to
the prevailing tendencies of speculation, both in his time and since.

These various opinions were seized on with youthful fanaticism by the
little knot of young men of whom I was one: and we put into them a
sectarian spirit, from which, in intention at least, my father was
wholly free. What we (or rather a phantom substituted in the place of
us) were sometimes, by a ridiculous exaggeration, called by others,
namely a "school," some of us for a time really hoped and aspired to be.
The French _philosophes_ of the eighteenth century were the examples we
sought to imitate, and we hoped to accomplish no less results. No one of
the set went to so great excesses in his boyish ambition as I did; which
might be shown by many particulars, were it not an useless waste of
space and time.

All this, however, is properly only the outside of our existence; or, at
least, the intellectual part alone, and no more than one side of that.
In attempting to penetrate inward, and give any indication of what we
were as human beings, I must be understood as speaking only of myself,
of whom alone I can speak from sufficient knowledge; and I do not
believe that the picture would suit any of my companions without many
and great modifications.

I conceive that the description so often given of a Benthamite, as a
mere reasoning machine, though extremely inapplicable to most of those
who have been designated by that title, was during two or three years of
my life not altogether untrue of me. It was perhaps as applicable to me
as it can well be to anyone just entering into life, to whom the common
objects of desire must in general have at least the attraction of
novelty. There is nothing very extraordinary in this fact: no youth of
the age I then was, can be expected to be more than one thing, and this
was the thing I happened to be. Ambition and desire of distinction I had
in abundance; and zeal for what I thought the good of mankind was my
strongest sentiment, mixing with and colouring all others. But my zeal
was as yet little else, at that period of my life, than zeal for
speculative opinions. It had not its root in genuine benevolence, or
sympathy with mankind; though these qualities held their due place in
my ethical standard. Nor was it connected with any high enthusiasm for
ideal nobleness. Yet of this feeling I was imaginatively very
susceptible; but there was at that time an intermission of its natural
aliment, poetical culture, while there was a superabundance of the
discipline antagonistic to it, that of mere logic and analysis. Add to
this that, as already mentioned, my father's teachings tended to the
undervaluing of feeling. It was not that he was himself cold-hearted or
insensible; I believe it was rather from the contrary quality; he
thought that feeling could take care of itself; that there was sure to
be enough of it if actions were properly cared about. Offended by the
frequency with which, in ethical and philosophical controversy, feeling
is made the ultimate reason and justification of conduct, instead of
being itself called on for a justification, while, in practice, actions
the effect of which on human happiness is mischievous, are defended as
being required by feeling, and the character of a person of feeling
obtains a credit for desert, which he thought only due to actions, he
had a real impatience of attributing praise to feeling, or of any but
the most sparing reference to it, either in the estimation of persons or
in the discussion of things. In addition to the influence which this
characteristic in him had on me and others, we found all the opinions to
which we attached most importance, constantly attacked on the ground of
feeling. Utility was denounced as cold calculation; political economy as
hard-hearted; anti-population doctrines as repulsive to the natural
feelings of mankind. We retorted by the word "sentimentality," which,
along with "declamation" and "vague generalities," served us as common
terms of opprobrium. Although we were generally in the right, as against
those who were opposed to us, the effect was that the cultivation of
feeling (except the feelings of public and private duty) was not in much
esteem among us, and had very little place in the thoughts of most of
us, myself in particular. What we principally thought of, was to alter
people's opinions; to make them believe according to evidence, and know
what was their real interest, which when they once knew, they would, we
thought, by the instrument of opinion, enforce a regard to it upon one
another. While fully recognising the superior excellence of unselfish
benevolence and love of justice, we did not expect the regeneration of
mankind from any direct action on those sentiments, but from the effect
of educated intellect, enlightening the selfish feelings. Although this
last is prodigiously important as a means of improvement in the hands of
those who are themselves impelled by nobler principles of action, I do
not believe that any one of the survivors of the Benthamites or
Utilitarians of that day now relies mainly upon it for the general
amendment of human conduct.

From this neglect both in theory and in practice of the cultivation of
feeling, naturally resulted, among other things, an undervaluing of
poetry, and of Imagination generally, as an element of human nature. It
is, or was, part of the popular notion of Benthamites, that they are
enemies of poetry: this was partly true of Bentham himself; he used to
say that "all poetry is misrepresentation": but in the sense in which he
said it, the same might have been said of all impressive speech; of all
representation or inculcation more oratorical in its character than a
sum in arithmetic. An article of Bingham's in the first number of the
_Westminster Review_, in which he offered as an explanation of something
which he disliked in Moore, that "Mr. Moore _is_ a poet, and therefore
is _not_ a reasoner," did a good deal to attach the notion of hating
poetry to the writers in the _Review_. But the truth was that many of us
were great readers of poetry; Bingham himself had been a writer of it,
while as regards me (and the same thing might be said of my father), the
correct statement would be, not that I disliked poetry, but that I was
theoretically indifferent to it. I disliked any sentiments in poetry
which I should have disliked in prose; and that included a great deal.
And I was wholly blind to its place in human culture, as a means of
educating the feelings. But I was always personally very susceptible to
some kinds of it. In the most sectarian period of my Benthamism, I
happened to look into Pope's _Essay on Man_, and, though every opinion
in it was contrary to mine, I well remember how powerfully it acted on
my imagination. Perhaps at that time poetical composition of any higher
type than eloquent discussion in verse, might not have produced a
similar effect upon me: at all events I seldom gave it an opportunity.
This, however, was a mere passive state. Long before I had enlarged in
any considerable degree the basis of my intellectual creed, I had
obtained, in the natural course of my mental progress, poetic culture of
the most valuable kind, by means of reverential admiration for the lives
and characters of heroic persons; especially the heroes of philosophy.
The same inspiring effect which so many of the benefactors of mankind
have left on record that they had experienced from Plutarch's _Lives_,
was produced on me by Plato's pictures of Socrates, and by some modern
biographies, above all by Condorcet's _Life of Turgot_; a book well
calculated to rouse the best sort of enthusiasm, since it contains one
of the wisest and noblest of lives, delineated by one of the wisest and
noblest of men. The heroic virtue of these glorious representatives of
the opinions with which I sympathized, deeply affected me, and I
perpetually recurred to them as others do to a favourite poet, when
needing to be carried up into the more elevated regions of feeling and
thought. I may observe by the way that this book cured me of my
sectarian follies. The two or three pages beginning "Il regardait toute
secte comme nuisible," and explaining why Turgot always kept himself
perfectly distinct from the Encyclopedists, sank deeply into my mind.
I left off designating myself and others as Utilitarians, and by the
pronoun "we," or any other collective designation, I ceased to
_afficher_ sectarianism. My real inward sectarianism I did not get rid
of till later, and much more gradually.

About the end of 1824, or beginning of 1825, Mr. Bentham, having lately
got back his papers on Evidence from M. Dumont (whose _Traite des
Preuves Judiciaires_, grounded on them, was then first completed and
published), resolved to have them printed in the original, and bethought
himself of me as capable of preparing them for the press; in the same
manner as his _Book of Fallacies_ had been recently edited by Bingham.
I gladly undertook this task, and it occupied nearly all my leisure for
about a year, exclusive of the time afterwards spent in seeing the five
large volumes through the press. Mr. Bentham had begun this treatise
three time's, at considerable intervals, each time in a different
manner, and each time without reference to the preceding: two of the
three times he had gone over nearly the whole subject. These three
masses of manuscript it was my business to condense into a single
treatise, adopting the one last written as the groundwork, and
incorporating with it as much of the two others as it had not completely
superseded. I had also to unroll such of Bentham's involved and
parenthetical sentences as seemed to overpass by their complexity the
measure of what readers were likely to take the pains to understand. It
was further Mr. Bentham's particular desire that I should, from myself,
endeavour to supply any _lacunae_ which he had left; and at his instance
I read, for this purpose, the most authoritative treatises on the
English Law of Evidence, and commented on a few of the objectionable
points of the English rules, which had escaped Bentham's notice. I also
replied to the objections which had been made to some of his doctrines
by reviewers of Dumont's book, and added a few supplementary remarks on
some of the more abstract parts of the subject, such as the theory of
improbability and impossibility. The controversial part of these
editorial additions was written in a more assuming tone than became one
so young and inexperienced as I was: but indeed I had never contemplated
coming forward in my own person; and as an anonymous editor of Bentham I
fell into the tone of my author, not thinking it unsuitable to him or to
the subject, however it might be so to me. My name as editor was put to
the book after it was printed, at Mr. Bentham's positive desire, which I
in vain attempted to persuade him to forego.

The time occupied in this editorial work was extremely well employed in
respect to my own improvement. The _Rationale of Judicial Evidence_ is
one of the richest in matter of all Bentham's productions. The theory of
evidence being in itself one of the most important of his subjects, and
ramifying into most of the others, the book contains, very fully
developed, a great proportion of all his best thoughts: while, among
more special things, it comprises the most elaborate exposure of the
vices and defects of English law, as it then was, which is to be found
in his works; not confined to the law of evidence, but including, by way
of illustrative episode, the entire procedure or practice of Westminster
Hall. The direct knowledge, therefore, which I obtained from the book,
and which was imprinted upon me much more thoroughly than it could have
been by mere reading, was itself no small acquisition. But this
occupation did for me what might seem less to be expected; it gave a
great start to my powers of composition. Everything which I wrote
subsequently to this editorial employment, was markedly superior to
anything that I had written before it. Bentham's later style, as the
world knows, was heavy and cumbersome, from the excess of a good
quality, the love of precision, which made him introduce clause within
clause into the heart of every sentence, that the reader might receive
into his mind all the modifications and qualifications simultaneously
with the main proposition: and the habit grew on him until his sentences
became, to those not accustomed to them, most laborious reading.