"It is indispensable," writes John Stuart Mill, who was perhaps the most eminent of Bentham's disciples and was, indeed, a profounder thinker than his master in the field of utilitarian philosophy, "it is indispensable to a correct estimate of any of Bentham's dealings with the world, to bear in mind that in everything except abstract speculation he was to the last . . . essentially a boy. He had the freshness, the simplicity, the confidingness, the liveliness and activity, all the delightful qualities of boyhood, and the weaknesses which are the reverse side of those qualities -the undue importance attached to trifles, the habitual mismeasurement of the practical bearing and value of things, the readiness to be either delighted or offended on inadequate cause. These were the real sources of what was unreasonable in some of his attacks on individuals. . .; they were no more the effect of envy or malice, or any really unamiable quality, than the freaks of a pettish child, and are scarcely a fitter subject of censure or criticism." All through his life, we may truly say, Bentham remained in many respects a child,-in his vivacity, in his naïveté, in his gusto, in-occasionally-over-emphasis of trifles, exaggeration of details, and quixotic notions, in his ignorance of human nature, in his love of animals, in his cocksureness, his vanity, and love of praise. He enjoyed unfailing good health, and experienced no great grief. He lived on simple farebread, tea, fruit, etc., supplemented by home-brewed ale. Of a morning a canister of hot spiced ginger-nuts and a cup of strong coffee were served on his study table,-not very extravagant luxuries even for a literary hermit. He was attached to pets; he had a succession of cats, and cherished the memory of a "beautiful pig" at Hendon, and of a donkey at Ford Abbey. He encouraged mice to play in his study-"a taste which involved some trouble with his cats, and suggests problems as to the greatest happiness of the greatest number." He declared that he loved everything that had four legs. He was fond of his garden, took a pride in his flowers, and tried to introduce useful plants. He delighted in music, especially the works of Handel, and had an organ in his house. Hazlitt remarks that "Mr. Bentham relieves his mind sometimes after the fatigue of study by playing a fine old organ, and has a relish for Hogarth's prints." He seems to have disliked poetry, which he stigmatised as 1 Dissertations and Discussions (London, 1867), vol. i, p. 392, note. 3 1 "misrepresentation." What was the difference between prose and poetry he soon settled. "Prose," he remarks, "is when all the lines except the last go on to the margin. Poetry is when some of them fall short of it." He thought that doggerel, however, might prove useful for the purpose of "lodging facts more effectually in the mind." He read few books, paid no attention to the published criticisms on his writings, but kept regularly in touch with the news of the day. He worked with machine-like regularity, for the most part in the mornings, writing out from ten to fifteen folio pages a day, under the different headings into which he had previously divided the subject in hand. In this labour of actual composition-evolution of ideas from his inner consciousness and not based on the works of other writers-he delighted; but once the more or less scattered fragments were produced, his literary vanity-in marked contrast to his philosophical vanity— was so small, that he freely allowed his friends and disciples to put them into systematic form. He cared comparatively little for the finished product, after he had set forth the vital essence of a subject-fundamental conceptions, suggestions, schemes for reconstruction. As a rule he was "not at home" to callers, even distinguished ones. But to a small circle of friends he gave pleasant dinners, attended to their comfort, and freely discussed with them his favourite topics, on which he had frequently prepared notes beforehand. He could be irritable-as becomes a philosopher-when his cherished whims were crossed. Francis Place, who stayed several weeks with him at Ford Abbey in 1817, described him as "the most affable man in existence, perfectly good-humoured, bearing and forbearing, deeply read, deeply learned, eminently a reasoner, yet simple as a child; annoyed sometimes by trifles, but never by anything but trifles never worth a contentious observation." 2 An interesting picture of Bentham and his home is given by Richard Rush, American minister in London, in his account of a visit to Queen's Square Place in 1818, when his host was seventy years of age. "If Mr. Bentham's character is peculiar, so is his place of residence. It was a kind of blind-alley, the end of which widened into a small neat courtyard. There by itself stands Mr. Bentham's house. Shrubbery graced its area, and flowers its 1 Works, vol. x, p. 442. G. Wallas, Life of Francis Place, p. 81. Cf. Romilly's reference to his visit about the same time, Memoirs, vol. iii, pp. 315-317. window-sills. It was like an oasis in the desert. Its name is the Hermitage. Mr. Bentham received me with the simplicity of a philosopher. I should have taken him for seventy or upwards. Everything inside the house was orderly. The furniture seemed to have been unmoved since the days of his fathers, for I learned that it was a patrimony. A parlour, library, and dining-room made up the suite of his apartments. In each was a piano, the eccentric master of the whole being fond of music as the recreation of his literary hours. It is a unique, romantic-like homestead. Walking with him into the garden, I found it dark with the shade of ancient trees. They formed a barrier against all intrusion. The company was small but choice. Mr. Brougham; Sir Samuel Romilly; Mr. Mill, author of the well-known work on India; M. Dumont, the learned Genevan, once the associate of Mirabeau, were all who sat down to table. Mr. Bentham did not talk much. He had a benevolence of manner suited to the philanthropy of his mind. He seemed to be thinking only of the convenience and pleasure of his guests, not as a rule of artificial breeding as from Chesterfield or Madame Genlis, but from innate feeling. Bold as are his opinions in his works, here he was wholly unobtrusive of theories that might not have commanded the assent of all present. When he did converse, it was in simple language, a contrast to his later writings. His features in old age "bespoke serenity, benevolence, and conscious power." One who met him in 1818 said that "it was impossible to conceive a physiognomy more strongly marked with ingenuousness and philanthropy." 3 The appearance of the octogenarian philosopher and reformer, ever hale and hearty, is thus sketched in a notice that appeared soon after his death: "His apparel hung loosely about him, and consisted chiefly of a grey coat, light breeches, and white woollen stockings, hanging loosely about his legs; whilst his venerable locks, which floated over the collar and down his back, were surmounted by a straw hat of most grotesque and indescribable shape, communicating to his appearance a strong contrast to the quietude and sobriety of his general aspect. He wended round the walks of his garden at a pace somewhat faster than a walk, but not so quick as a trot." "4 He was fond of taking the air in his garden; he 2 "1 1 Richard Rush, Residence at the Court of London (London, 1872), pp. 286-291. Sir John Macdonell, in Dict. Nat. Biog., s.v. Bentham. J. Parton, The Life and Times of Aaron Burr (New York, 1861), p. 521. regularly indulged in what he characteristically termed his "ante - jentacular" and "post-prandial" perambulations, and "ante-prandial circumgyrations.' Apart from his disappointed attachment to Miss Caroline Fox, it appears that no other woman-beyond his cook or housemaid-ever entered his life. His literary labours, exempt from the disturbances of love and the misunderstandings and difficulties that sometimes arise in conjugal life, no doubt profited thereby in certain respects; but had he had these experiences, had he mixed more with the world, he would certainly have become more acquainted with real everyday human nature-its caprices, its vicissitudes, its varying ideals, its inconsistent strivingsand would have avoided a good deal of his somewhat mechanical psychology, to the great advantage of his speculations. To show men the way in which they should go, to set up laws for them requires an intimate knowledge, which is obtainable only by personal and frequent contact with them. For the achievement of unimpeachable results it is not enough to conjure up a phantasmal "average" man from the fastness of one's hermitage, and then to seek to minister to his imaginary needs and contrive a remedy for his presumed maladies. Bentham's self-detachment begot in him-naturally of a sanguine disposition-an over-confidence in himself, in all his ideas and projects, and a corresponding depreciation of, even contempt for, the views and productions of others. Even a man like Burke he thought shallow and insincere. The world had not yet indeed produced intellects worthy of his whole-hearted admiration and esteem. His settled conviction of his pre-eminence accompanied him even in his sleep. "When I am in good health," he once said, "I dream that I am a master among disciples." He sincerely believed that the world, burdened with inefficient laws and institutions, needed his legislative guidance in the work of fundamental reconstruction. He put himself forward, then, as a veritable "preux chevalier" in the arduous field of legislation; he was—like a doughty champion deeply solicitous for the welfare of his fellow-creaturesready to rescue nations in distress, and to legislate for anybody, anywhere, and at any time. How very strange that one who was such a keen wit and true humorist should be lacking in the sense of the ludicrous-that last touchstone of self-criticism! The nature of Bentham presents an extraordinary mixture of antithetical characteristics-his attachment to reason and scientific method added to a predisposition to dogmatism; whilst dealing in concrete facts, he yet remains often unpractical; absence of fear, even unrestrained audacity in his writings opposed to reserve verging on bashfulness in his personal relationships with others; exceeding vanity in respect of his intellectual productions coupled with a singular indifference to the retouching and reorganising of his manuscripts by other hands; ever impatient of obscurity and technicality, yet himself perplexing and alarming his readers by his manner of expression; full of genuine benevolence and philanthropy, yet lacking in passion and imagination. But the totality of his foibles is easily outweighed by the great virtues of his heart and the unique excellences of his mind. The totality of his mistakes does not prevent him from occupying the very first place as a reformer of law and administration. He had that in him which could call forth the unqualified encomium of one of the acutest observers of men: ". . . My twenty years' friend, my good master from whom I learned I know not how much, as it spread in so many directions. He was my constant, excellent, venerable preceptor, of whom I think every day of my life, whose death I continually lament, whose memory I revere, and whose absence I deplore." 1 1 Francis Place to S. Harrison, May 2, 1834; quoted in G. Wallas, op. cit., p. 92. |
