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UBC Theses and Dissertations

John Stuart Mill's evaluations of poetry and their influence upon his intellectual development Shaw, MiIlo Rundle Thompson 1971

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JOHN STUART MILL'S EVALUATIONS OF POETRY AND THEIR INFLUENCE UPON HIS INTELLECTUAL DEVELOPMENT by MILLO RUNDLE THOMPSON SHAW B.A., U n i v e r s i t y o f B r i t i s h Columbia, 1949 A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF MASTER OF ARTS i n the Department of E n g l i s h We accept t h i s t h e s i s as conforming to the r e q u i r e d s t a n d a r d THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA A p r i l , 1971 In presenting th i s thes i s in pa r t i a l f u l f i lment o f the requirements for an advanced degree at the Un ivers i ty of B r i t i s h Columbia, I agree that the L ibrary sha l l make i t f r ee l y ava i l ab le for reference and study. I fu r ther agree that permission for extensive copying o f th i s thes i s for scho lar ly purposes may be granted by the Head of my Department or by his representat ives. It is understood that copying or pub l i ca t i on of th i s thes i s f o r f i nanc ia l gain sha l l not be allowed without my wr i t ten permiss ion. Department of ENGLISH  The Univers i ty of B r i t i s h Columbia Vancouver 8, Canada Date October 1970 i JOHN STUART MILL'S EVALUATIONS OF POETRY AND THEIR INFLUENCE UPON HIS INTELLECTUAL DEVELOPMENT ABSTRACT The e d u c a t i o n o f John S t u a r t M i l l was one o f t h e most u n u s u a l e v e r p l a n n e d o r e x p e r i e n c e d . B e g i n n i n g w i t h h i s l e a r n i n g Greek a t t h e age o f t h r e e and con-t i n u i n g w i t h o u t a break o f any k i n d t o t h e age o f f o u r -t e e n , i t c o n s t i t u t e d an a l m o s t t o t a l c o n t r o l o f M i l l ' s e v e r y waking a c t i v i t y , w i t h the i m p o r t a n t e x c e p t i o n o f h i s v i s i t t o F r a n c e a t f o u r t e e n , u n t i l h i s a p p o i n t -ment t o t h e E a s t I n d i a Company i n 1823. I t emphasized the " t a b u l a r a s a " t h e o r y , t h e e f f e c t o f e x t e r n a l c i r -cumstances on the d e v e l o p i n g mind, H a r t l e y ' s A s s o c i a -t i o n i s t t h e o r y , and t h e j u d i c i o u s use o f t h e U t i l i t a r i a n t h e o r i e s o f t h e " p l e a s u r e - p a i n " p r i n c i p l e . C o n c e i v e d and c a r r i e d o u t by M i l l ' s f a t h e r , James M i l l , and h i s c l o s e f r i e n d , t h e U t i l i t a r i a n p h i l o s o p h e r Jeremy Ben-tham, the e d u c a t i o n was p l a n n e d t o d e v e l o p John S t u a r t M i l l as t h e i r d i s c i p l e , r e a s o n e r , and advocate who would h e l p t h e advance o f t h e U t i l i t a r i a n p h i l o s o p h y . Depen-dent on John S t u a r t M i l l ' s n a t i v e i n t e l l i g e n c e and d o c i l i t y , t h i s c a r e f u l l y p l a n n e d e d u c a t i o n was u n u s u a l l y successful, but i t was successful at the price of M i l l ' s emotional development. M i l l ' s education was so much a part of his l i f e that the development of his thought cannot be under-stood without some appreciation of i t s nature. A bio-graphical approach i s e s s e n t i a l to an understanding of M i l l . This i s p a r t i c u l a r l y true of the development of his poetic theory which i t s e l f was developed i n a response to his e f f o r t s to integrate his views of poetry with his former philosophy. His i n t e r e s t i n poetry derived from the time of his mental c r i s i s i n 1826, when he discovered that his preoccupation with the improve-ment of mankind did not provide him with the emotional s a t i s f a c t i o n that his personal l i f e demanded. Words-worth's poetry, with i t s emphasis on the restorative powers of external nature, i t s s e n s i t i v i t y to human feel i n g s , and i t s adherence to observed truths and quiet, contemplative moods, was so suited to M i l l ' s temperament and s i t u a t i o n that his reading i t marked one of the great turning points i n his l i f e . After reading Wordsworth, M i l l recovered his s p i r i t s , and not only recaptured his enjoyment of l i f e , but also ac-quired a l i f e - l o n g devotion to poetry. M i l l ' s poetic views were an outgrowth of his ex-perience with Wordsworth's poetry and his desire to i n t e g r a t e a l l new i d e a s i n t o h i s p h i l o s o p h y . Respon-d i n g t o Wordsworth's view t h a t t h e f e e l i n g e x p r e s s e d i n a poem g i v e s i m p o r t a n c e t o t h e a c t i o n and s i t u a t i o n , M i l l p l a c e d h i s g r e a t e s t emphasis on f e e l i n g as the e s s e n t i a l c h a r a c t e r i s t i c o f p o e t r y . He agreed w i t h Wordsworth t h a t p o e t r y i s spontaneous, and t h a t the th o u g h t i n a poem i s s u b o r d i n a t e t o t h e f e e l i n g . He e x p l a i n e d t h e l a t t e r i n terms o f H a r t l e y ' s A s s o c i a -t i o n i s m . H i s l i f e l o n g c o n c e r n f o r t r u t h found i t s j u s t i f i c a t i o n i n h i s i n s i s t e n c e t h a t t h e o b j e c t o f p o e t r y was t o convey t r u t h f u l l y t h e f e e l i n g s t o wh i c h t h e poem g i v e s e x p r e s s i o n . However, h i s p o e t i c views were much n a r r o w e r t h a n Wordsworth's inasmuch as he n e g l e c t e d t h e i m a g i n a t i o n , and he e x c l u d e d f i c t i o n from p o e t r y i n h i s u n u s u a l emphasis on i d e n t i f y i n g p o e t r y w i t h t h e l y r i c . I n h i s e f f o r t s t o i n t e g r a t e h i s p o e t i c t h e o r y w i t h h i s p h i l o s o p h i c a l v i e w s , M i l l f o l l o w e d Words-worth's t h i n k i n g t h a t p o e t r y i s t h e o p p o s i t e o f s c i e n c e , and by e m p h a s i z i n g t h a t the common purpose o f s c i e n c e and p o e t r y was t h e i r d e v o t i o n t o t r u t h , M i l l saw t h e i r u n i t y i n h i s c o n c e p t i o n o f t h e complementary n a t u r e o f t h e i r methods o f c o n v e y i n g t r u t h , t h e one by l o g i c and t h e o t h e r by i n t u i t i o n . M i l l ' s p o e t i c t h e o r y tended t o be narrow i n t h e i v l i g h t o f i t s overemphasis on f e e l i n g , i t s i n s i s t e n c e on c o n f i n i n g the word, p o e t r y , t o the l y r i c a l o n e , and i t s r e l a t i v e d e v a l u a t i o n o f the i m a g i n a t i o n . N e v e r t h e l e s s , w i t h i t s Wordsworthian o v e r t o n e s and i t s sense o f purpose, i t was e s s e n t i a l l y a Romantic t h e o r y . I t s c o n t e n t i o n t h a t the h i g h e s t t r u t h s a r e i n t u i t i v e l y known by the p o e t or a r t i s t u n d e r l i n e d M i l l ' s a t t e m p t t o f i n d a u n i o n o f s c i e n c e and a r t i n a d e v o t i o n t o t r u t h . CONTENTS Chapter Page I. FORMATIVE INFLUENCES IN JOHN STUART MILL'S EARLY LIFE 1 E a r l y E d u c a t i o n (1) Sojourn i n France (54) Return To England (60) I I . THE LAST STAGE OF MILL'S EARLY EDUCATION 63 His Continued E d u c a t i o n And His Growing Independence (63) His Mental C r i s i s (70) His Response t o Wordsworth (90) I I I . THE INFLUENCE OF POETRY IN THE DEVELOPMENT OF MILL'S THOUGHT 109 The Re-assessment Of His Ideas In The L i g h t Of His Experience With Wordsworth's Poetry (109) The Growth Of His Own P o e t i c Views (133) His Attempt To I n t e g r a t e Science And A r t (171) FOOTNOTES 19 3 BIBLIOGRAPHY 204 JOHN STUART MILL'S EVALUATIONS OF POETRY AND THEIR INFLUENCE UPON HIS INTELLECTUAL DEVELOPMENT For rigorous teachers seized my youth, And purged i t s f a i t h , and trimm'd i t s f i r e , Show'd me the high, white star of Truth, There bade me gaze, and there aspire. - Stanzas From The Grande Chartreuse. Matthew Arnold. There are i n our existence spots of time, That with d i s t i n c t pre-eminence re t a i n A renovating v i r t u e , whence, depressed By f a l s e opinion and contentious thought, Or aught of heavier or more deadly weight, In t r i v i a l occupations, and the round Of ordinary intercourse, our minds Are nourished and i n v i s i b l y repaired; - The Prelude Book XII 1.208-215. Wordsworth. CHAPTER I 1 The c o n v e n t i o n a l but s u p e r f i c i a l view of John S t u a r t M i l l i s the one that presents him i n d e s i c c a t e d terms. This view of him has some of i t s o r i g i n s i n h i s own prose s t y l e , which has had much to do w i t h f o s t e r i n g the con-c e p t i o n of him as a humorless person, r e s t r i c t e d i n f e e l -i ngs and i n t e r e s t s . Although such an o p i n i o n i s i l l -informed, n e v e r t h e l e s s i t has gained such wide credence t h a t i t has affected, the s e r i o u s student's approach to M i l l , and i t must be taken i n t o account i n any s e r i o u s c o n s i d e r a t i o n of h i s l i f e and work. Recently, John M. Robson, w r i t i n g i n the U n i v e r s i t y of Toronto Q u a r t e r l y has had a comment to make on t h i s view: John S t u a r t M i l l i s o f t e n h e l d up to s c o r n as a c o l d , mechanical t h i n k e r f o r whom e t h i c s i s no more than p o l i t i c a l economy. Swathed i n mournful b l a c k , hard-visaged and i c e - v e i n e d , M i l l stands f o r the V i c t o r i a n v i r t u e s to which we (thank heaven) cannot pretend. The p i c t u r e i s p a t e n t l y a c a r i c a -t u r e , f a i l i n g to do j u s t i c e to the man or to h i s thought, but c o r r e c t i n g i t seems d i f f i c u l t . M i l l i s h i m s e l f mainly respon-s i b l e f o r the d i f f i c u l t y , h i s Autobiography being l i t t l e more than the h i s t o r y of h i s education and o p i n i o n s . His f i r s t b i o g -rapher, B a i n , was plus r o y a l i s t que l e r o i , and r e c e n t biographers (most n o t a b l y Packe), w h i l e reopening important evidence, appear s t r a n g e l y unable to r e l a t e h i s p e r s o n a l experience to h i s thought. A c t u a l l y , though most of M i l l ' s work seems to h i d e r a t h e r than to r e v e a l the man, and most of h i s correspondence i s p u b l i c r a t h e r than p r i v a t e , even i n h i s System of L o g i c t h e r e i s m a t e r i a l to show more than a s u p e r f i c i a l r e l a t i o n between h i s l i f e and thought. What the e v i -dence shows, i n f a c t , i s t h a t M i l l not o n l y 2 had emotions and was m o t i v a t e d by them, b u t r e c o g n i z e d t h e i r p l a c e i n a complete m o r a l and s o c i a l t h e o r y . P r o f e s s o r Robson has r e c o g n i z e d t h e d i f f i c u l t y o f r e -l a t i n g M i l l ' s p e r s o n a l e x p e r i e n c e t o h i s t h o u g h t , t o g e t h e r w i t h the f a i l u r e o f h i s b i o g r a p h e r s t o d e a l w i t h t h i s c r i t i c a l a s p e c t o f h i s l i f e . Not o n l y has t h i s s u p e r f i c i a l and m i s l e a d i n g v i e w o f M i l l p r e v a i l e d i n E n g l i s h - s p e a k i n g l a n d s , b u t i t has a l s o found ex-p r e s s i o n i n F r a n c e . A r e p r e s e n t a t i v e o p i n i o n o f t h i s k i n d i s t h a t o f M. E m i l e Faguet o f t h e F r e n c h Academy: S t u a r t M i l l , q uoique p e n e t r e d ' a d m i r a t i o n e t de sympathie pour Comte e t p l e i n de c o n f i a n c e en l u i , borne s t r i c t e m e n t s a c o r r e s p o n d a n c e **a des c o n s i d e r a t i o n s p h i l o s o p h i q u e s . Jamais i l ne s'abandonne; j a m a i s i l ne s'epanche...ah! b i e n , o u i I j a m a i s i l n'a de p e r s o n n a l i t i dans l e s l e t t r e s q u ' i l fecrit. Ce n ' e s t qu'apres p l u s i e u r s anne'es de c orrespondance qu'une s e u l e f o i s , en une s e u l e page, e t l ' o n en e s t t o u t e t o n n e , i l p a r l e du c h a g r i n que l u i a f a i t l a mort d'un ami. On s e n t l'homme q u i e s t i m e que l a pensee de M. S t u a r t M i l l p e u t i n -t e r e s s e r M. August Comte, mais que M. M i l l lui-meme, ne p eut a v o i r aucune espece d i n t e r e t p our M. Comte e t ne r e g a r d e en aucune f a c o n M. Comte. "Jamais i l ne s'abandonne!" Even h e r e t h e r e i s a h i n t o f a n o t h e r s i d e o f M i l l , one t h a t i s h e l d i n check, one t h a t i s n o t r e a d i l y seen, f o r M. Faguet c o n t i n u e s : E t que ce s o i t m o d e s t i e , i l e s t p o s s i b l e ; e t que ce s o i t f i e r t e , i l se p o u r r a i t e n c o r e ; e t l ' o n ne s a u r a j a m a i s q u e l s i n t i m e s r a p p o r t s i l y a e n t r e l a f i e r t e e t l a m o d e s t i e ; e t , s i l a v a n i t e e s t un amour-propre devenue malade, peut-e\:re l a m o d e s t i e e s t une f i e r t e " que se p o r t e b i e n ; e t j e n'en s a i s r i e n ; mais ce que j e s a i s , 3 c ' e s t q u ' i l e s t i m p o s s i b l e d ' e t r e p l u s d i s t a n t que M. M i l l en s a correspondance, avec une p o l i t e s s e minutieuse. q u i e l l e -meYtie e s t encore une distance.-^ M. Faguet concentrates here on M i l l ' s ' d i s t a n c e ' as a w r i t e r and s p e c u l a t e s on the causes of that a l o o f n e s s . Is i t p r i d e or modesty? Or does i t have a d i f f e r e n t o r i g i n ? Far more r e v e a l i n g than M i l l ' s formal w r i t i n g s i s the cumulative testimony of h i s f r i e n d s and t h e i r r e c o l -l e c t i o n s of him i n t h e i r l e t t e r s and j o u r n a l s , the g l e a n i n g s of c a s u a l and i n f o r m a l moments t h a t d i s c l o s e unguarded t r u t h s . Of p a r t i c u l a r i n t e r e s t i s C a r o l i n e Fox's d e s c r i p t i o n of John M i l l ' s appearance. She r e -corded her impressions i n Falmouth at the time of the f a t a l i l l n e s s t h e r e of John's younger b r o t h e r , Henry: March 16 ( 1 8 4 0 ) — H i s e l d e s t b r o t h e r John i s now come, and C l a r a brought him to see us t h i s morning. He i s a very uncommon-looking p e r s o n — s u c h acuteness and s e n s i b i l i t y marked i n h i s e x q u i s i t e l y c h i s e l l e d countenance, more resembling a p o r t r a i t of L a v a t e r than any other, that I remember. His v o i c e i s refinement i t s e l f , and h i s mode of expressing h i m s e l f t a l l i e s w i t h v o i c e and countenance. He squeezed Papa's and Mamma's hands without speaking, and afterwards warmly thanked them f o r kindnesses r e c e i v e d . 4 That he c o u l d be i n t e r e s t i n g company i s borne out by her e n t r y of March 20; r e f e r r i n g to the o c c a s i o n of a v i s i t to Pendennis Cavern, she w r i t e s : " J . S. M i l l proposed l e a v i n g the l i g h t e d candles t h e r e as an o f f e r i n g to the gnomes. He was f u l l of i n t e r e s t i n g 4 t a l k . " 5 John Morley has a number of important things to say about M i l l both i n his correspondence and i n his book, Recollections. In the l a t t e r book he i s p a r t i c u l a r l y i n t e r e s t i n g : Strange i s the s p e l l of personality, and M i l l ' s personality was transparent. In his c o l l e c t i v e influence he made innumerable pulses of knowledge and thought vibrate i n his generation. Respect for him became an element of men's own self-respect. How of wit or humour, you ask? He was p e r f e c t l y patient of a p l a y f u l s a l l y l e v e l l e d at bad reasoning, or perverse f e e l i n g , or questionable act; but for himself, we were content with his swift detection of a sophism or trenchant exposure of a f a l l a c y , performed with a neatness, f i n i s h , and c e l e r i t y that was a very passable substitute for wit. I t was, i n truth, a vast deal more pleasant, amusing, and to the point than most of that which passes current for facetiae. He l a i d i t down somewhere that though seriousness must be the fond of a l l characters worth thinking about, yet a cer t a i n infusion of the laughing philosopher i s a prodigious help towards bearing the e v i l s of l i f e , and must have saved many a one from going mad.® Morley then reminds us of some of Carlyle's i l l - n a t u r e d remarks about M i l l : Goose N. came down to me today—very d i r t y — very e n t h u s i a s t i c — v e r y stupid and confused, with a d a i l y newspaper 'containing two a r t i c l e s i n e f f a b l y sublime and heart-inter-esting upon M i l l . ' Two more blusterous bags of empty wind I have seldom read. 'Immortal fame! ' ' F i r s t s p i r i t of his agei' 'Thinker of thinkers!' What a piece of work i s man with a penny-a-liner pen i n his hand.*'' 5 M o r l e y adds a comment on C a r l y l e ' s own t e s t i m o n y t o the a g r e e a b l e n e s s o f M i l l ' s t a l k and t o the r e a d i n e s s of M i l l t o make s a c r i f i c e s t o h e l p him.8 Commenting f u r t h e r on t h e warmth o f M i l l ' s p e r s o n a l i t y , M o r l e y g i v e s some o f h i s own i m p r e s s i o n s w h i c h would seem to b l u n t t h e edge o f some o f F i t z j a m e s Stephen's remarks: F i t z j a m e s Stephen, who l e d t h e f i r s t e f f e c t i v e a t t a c k on M i l l ' s p o n t i f i c a l a u t h o r i t y , s a i d he was c o l d as i c e , a w a l k i n g book. On the c o n t r a r y , he was a man o f extreme s e n s i b i l i t y and v i t a l h e a t i n t h i n g s w o r t h waxing h ot about. I n t r u t h he sometimes l e t s e n s i b i l i t y c a r r y him too f a r . One n o t a b l e a f t e r n o o n i n European h i s t o r y , I saw him i n an i n s t a n t b l a z e i n t o u n c o n t r o l l a b l e anger. I t was J u l y 14, 187 0. He was s i t t i n g i n h i s garde n , and I broug h t him the news t h a t F r a n c e had d e c l a r e d war upon P r u s s i a . He v i o l e n t l y s t r u c k h i s c h a i r and broke o u t i n a p a s s i o n a t e e x c l a m a t i o n , "What a p i t y t h e bombs o f O r s i n i m i s s e d t h e i r mark, and l e f t t h e c r i m e - s t a i n e d u s u r p e r a l i v e J " 9 I n a l e t t e r d a t e d October 7 t h , 1843, John S t e r l i n g , w r i t i n g t o R a l p h Waldo Emerson, has the f o l l o w i n g t o say about M i l l : On Sunday l a s t I had i n d e e d a v i s i t from an o l d F r i e n d who d e l i g h t e d me by h i s c o r d i a l c a n d o u r , — J o h n M i l l , son o f the h i s t o r i a n o f I n d i a , and i n many ways n o t a b l e among us now. H i s b i g book on L o g i c i s , I suppose, the h i g h e s t p i e c e o f A r i s t o t e l i a n i s m t h a t England has brought f o r t h , a t a l l events i n our time. How t h e sweet, ingenuous n a t u r e o f the man has l i v e d and t h r i v e n o u t o f h i s f a t h e r ' s c o l d and s t r i n g e n t a t h e i s m i s w o n d e r f u l to t h i n k , — a n d most so to me, who d u r i n g f i f t e e n y e a r s have seen h i s g r a d u a l growth and r i p e n i n g . There ar e v e r y few men i n the w o r l d on whose generous 6 a f f e c t i o n I should more r e l y than on h i s , whose system seems at f i r s t (but only seems) a Code of D e n i a l . 1 0 There were many who did not experience the "generous a f f e c t i o n " of which S t e r l i n g spoke; seeing M i l l from a greater distance they did not have the same perspective of generous warmth, but even they were aware of some-thing i n M i l l that brought out the generous and noble i n themselves; James Sully was one of these: For a l l his seemingly cold s e l f - r e s t r a i n t , M i l l appealed to the humaner side of me as neither Spencer nor Bain appealed. More than one student i n our Baptist College had some-thing l i k e a pupil's combined reverence and fondness for him. It was i n my t h i r d year, when philosophy became a leading subject of study, that M i l l f i r s t stood as L i b e r a l can-didate for Westminster (186 5). Accompanied by a fellow-student, I went down to hear him speak just before the election. The other p o l i t i c a l party, with the customary eagerness to score o f f opponents, had been plastering the street walls of Westminster with alarming-looking quotations from M i l l ' s writings. And the evening on which we heard him he was pretty hotly p l i e d with questions. He q u i e t l y but firmly refused to have anything to say about his r e l i g i o u s opinions, herein s e t t i n g an example not always r i g i d l y followed by l a t e r candidates suspected of heterodoxy. But on other matters he was frank enough. I remember to-day what a t h r i l l of f e a r f u l e x pectation— i n s t a n t l y displaced by a f e e l i n g of joyous r e l i e f — s h o t through me as I heard a man i n the h a l l ask M i l l whether he had ac t u a l l y used c e r t a i n words by no means f l a t t e r i n g to the working classes and M i l l at once reply i n a quiet, almost an i n d i f f e r e n t , manner that he had used the words quoted; which plucky answer 7 was i n s t a n t l y f o l l o w e d by l o u d c h e e r s . The scene b u r n t i t s e l f i n t o my memory: t h e sunken f a c e , the l a r g e , calm brow, and t h e t h i n v o i c e o f the t h i n k e r , a g a i n s t t h e r o b u s t heads and commanding., v o i c e s o f h i s i n t e r r o g a t o r s . The G a r i -b a l d i p r o c e s s i o n had shown me t h e g r e a t s i m p l i c i t y o f the s o l d i e r ; the meeting i n t he W e s t m i n s t e r H a l l r e v e a l e d t o me an o t h e r s i m p l i c i t y no l e s s g r e a t , t h a t o f t h e t h i n k e r s c h o o l e d by l o n g p r a c t i c e t o so s c r u p u l o u s a c a r e i n u t t e r a n c e as t o have f o r g o t t e n t h e v e r y p o s s i b i l i t y o f such a t h i n g as p r e v a r i c a t i o n . There i s among M i l l ' s f r i e n d s and contemporaries., ample t e s t i m o n y t o the warmth, g e n e r o s i t y , and s p i r i t o f John S t u a r t M i l l . I t was no "made" o r "manu-f a c t u r e d " man-'-2 who evoked the responses a l r e a d y n o t e d . S t e r l i n g , who r e p o r t e d t o M i l l the v i e w t h a t he was r e g a r d e d by many o f h i s c o n t e m p o r a r i e s as a manuf a c t u r e d man, g i v e s h i s own a f f i r m a t i o n o f M i l l ' s warmth o f p e r s o n a l i t y i n t h e l e t t e r a l r e a d y quoted. There i s , i n f a c t , a g r e a t d e a l o f e v i d e n c e t o show t h a t t h e r e was a n o t h e r s i d e t o John S t u a r t M i l l ' s n a t u r e , a s e n s i t i v i t y , a generous warmth, an i n w a r d -ness w h i c h , a l t h o u g h i t sometimes appeared h e s i t a n t -l y , n e v e r t h e l e s s gave i n d i c a t i o n s o f a s t e a d y d e v e l o p -ment w h i c h may be a s s o c i a t e d w i t h a s i g n i f i c a n t s h i f t i n h i s a t t e n t i o n away from t h e d e f i n e d areas o f g e n e r a l i n t e r e s t f a v o u r e d by h i s f a t h e r and Jeremy Bentham, a 8 s h i f t t h a t e x e r c i s e d an i m p o r t a n t i n f l u e n c e on h i s v i e w s o f the n a t u r e o f human h a p p i n e s s and the r o l e o f p o e t r y i n the c u l t i v a t i o n o f t h e f e e l i n g s . An e x p l a n a t i o n f o r t h e v a r i e t y o f i m p r e s s i o n s g e n e r a l l y h e l d o f M i l l may be found i n t h e o b s e r v a -t i o n t h a t M i l l ' s w r i t i n g , i n g e n e r a l , g i v e s v e r y l i t t l e h i n t o f h i s r e a l c h a r a c t e r and p e r s o n a l i t y . However, t h i s q u e s t i o n c a r r i e s w i t h i t a deeper q u e s t i o n , t h e one t h a t would seek t h e r e a s o n s f o r the degree o f d e t a c h -ment i n h i s w r i t i n g , t h e ' d i s t a n c e ' w h i c h Faguet has remarked on. The degree o f detachment i n much o f h i s w r i t i n g i s so marked t h a t one f i n d s l i t t l e d i r e c t e v i d e n c e o f h i s i n t e r e s t s and p r e f e r e n c e s i n h i s pub-l i s h e d works. Why t h i s s h o u l d be so must be sought i n t h e o r i g i n s and s o u r c e s o f h i s t h i n k i n g , and i n t h e d i s c i p l i n e t h a t shaped h i s mind and d e t e r m i n e d h i s approach t o l i f e . A b e t t e r u n d e r s t a n d i n g o f t h e problem o f M i l l ' s detachment, may be a c h i e v e d by c o n s i d e r i n g o t h e r v i e w s o f t h i s s e l f - s a m e q u e s t i o n when seen as a r e c u r r e n t l i t e r a r y phenomenon. I n t h e i r famous c o n t r o v e r s y , The P e r s o n a l Heresy, P r o f e s s o r s C. S. Lewis and E. M. W. T i l l y a r d e x p l o r e d some o f the m i s c o n c e p t i o n s t h a t may a f f e c t one's approach t o a poet. I n t h i s c o n t e x t , 9 C. S. Lewis has sounded some important warnings about what we should expect from a w r i t e r . He notes i n one of h i s essays that "Poetry i s w i d e l y b e l i e v e d to be the 'expression of p e r s o n a l i t y ' , : the end which we are supposed to pursue i n re a d i n g i t i s a c e r t a i n c o n t a c t w i t h the poet's s o u l ; and ' l i f e ' and 'works' are sim-1 o p l y two d i v e r s e expressions of t h i s s i n g l e q u i d d i t y . " i J F o l l o w i n g t h i s a s s e r t i o n he s t a t e s h i s own p o s i t i o n i n the c o n t r o v e r s y : "In t h i s paper I s h a l l m a i n t a i n t h a t when we read po e t r y as p o e t r y should be read, we have b e f o r e us no r e p r e s e n t a t i o n of a man, a c h a r a c t e r , or a p e r s o n a l i t y air7 a l l . Again, i n s e t t i n g f o r t h h i s views, he s t r e s s e s an o b j e c t i v e or impersonal theory of poetry, n o t i n g the duty of the reader "To see things as the poet sees them" and he adds "I must share h i s consciousness and not atte n d to i t ; I must look where he looks and not t u r n round to f a c e him;". J Lewis emphasizes r e p e a t e d l y t h a t -in r e a d i n g a poem one i s sh a r i n g a s t a t e o f consciousness, and not contemplating the poet's p e r s o n a l i t y : "What we share i n re a d i n g Wordsworth i s j u s t Wordsworth's p o i n t of view as i t happens to e x i s t i n him as a p s y c h o l o g i c a l f a c t ; " . x ^ In h i s essay, T r a d i t i o n and the I n d i v i d u a l T a l e n t , Mr. T. S. E l i o t has supported much the same viewpoint when he says: "the progress of an a r t i s t i s a c o n t i n u a l 10 s e l f - s a c r i f i c e , a c o n t i n u a l e x t i n c t i o n of p e r s o n a l -i t y . m 1 7 i n h i s n e g a t i v e r e j o i n d e r to Mr. Lewis's conte n t i o n s that the poet's p e r s o n a l i t y must be ab-sent from h i s w r i t i n g s , Mr. E. M. W. T i l l y a r d seeks to d i f f e r e n t i a t e the normal p e r s o n a l i t y of the poet from the p e r s o n a l i t y i m p l i c i t i n h i s w r i t i n g s : "In o t h e r words by ' p e r s o n a l i t y ' or 'normal p e r s o n a l i t y ' I do not mean p r a c t i c a l or everyday p e r s o n a l i t y , I mean r a t h e r some mental p a t t e r n which makes Keats Keats and not Mr. Smith or Mr. Jones. ...And I be-l i e v e we read Keats i n some measure because h i s p o e t r y g i v e s a v e r s i o n of a remarkable p e r s o n a l i t y of which I Q another v e r s i o n i s h i s l i f e . " Without becoming embroiled i n t h i s famous c o n t r o v e r s y one can be sure t h a t the o u t l i n e s and p a t t e r n s o f the poet's or w r i t e r ' s p e r s o n a l i t y i n h i s work sh o u l d be i m p l i c i t r a t h e r than e x p l i c i t . Throughout h i s l i f e M i l l was f a s c i n a t e d by the Greeks. They were h i s heroes i n a number of ways. When he p u b l i s h e d i n 1834 and 1835 a s e r i e s of t r a n s -l a t i o n s from P l a t o ' s dialogues i n the Monthly Repos-i t o r y , he was content f o r most of the passages to l e t P l a t o speak f o r h i m s e l f , but he was moved to add h i s own comment to h i s a b s t r a c t from the Georqias. This i s 11 a passage about which he f e l t warmly; i t i s a l s o t y p i c a l of h i s prose s t y l e w i t h i t s c o o l and balanced argument. Underneath the s u r f a c e , however, one may d e t e c t the warmth of f e e l i n g . Argument may show what g e n e r a l r e g u l a t i o n of the d e s i r e s , or what p a r t i c u l a r course of conduct, v i r t u e r e q u i r e s : how to l i v e v i r t u o u s l y , i s a q u e s t i o n the s o l u t i o n of which belongs to the understanding; but the understanding has no inducements which i t can b r i n g to the a i d of one who has not yet determined whether he w i l l endeavour to l i v e v i r t u o u s l y or no. I t i s i m p o s s i b l e , by any arguments, to prove that a l i f e of obedience to duty i s p r e f e r a b l e , so f a r as r e s p e c t s the agent h i m s e l f , to a l i f e o f circumspect and c a u t i o u s s e l f i s h n e s s . I t w i l l be answered, perhaps, that v i r t u e i s the road to happiness, and t h a t "honesty i s the best p o l i c y . " Of t h i s c e l e b r a t e d maxim, may we not venture to say, once f o r a l l , without h e s i t a t i o n or r e s e r v e , t h a t i t i s not true? The whole experience of mankind runs counter to i t . The l i f e o f a good man or woman i s f u l l o f u n p r a i s e d and u n r e q u i t e d s a c r i f i c e s . In the p r e s e n t d i a l o g u e , which, though scanty i n c o n c l u s i v e arguments, i s r i c h i n profound r e f l e c t i o n s , there i s one remark of which the t r u t h i s q u i t e u n i v e r s a l : t h a t the world l o v e s i t s l i k e , and r e f u s e s i t s favour to i t s u n l i k e . To be more honest than the many i s n e a r l y as p r e j u d i c i a l , i n a w o r l d l y sense, as to be a g r e a t e r rogue. They, indeed, who have no c o n c e p t i o n of any h i g h e r honesty than i s p r a c t i s e d by the m a j o r i t y of the so-c i e t y i n which they l i v e , are r i g h t i n con-s i d e r i n g such honesty as accordant w i t h p o l i c y . But how i s he i n d e m n i f i e d , who s c r u p l e s to do that which h i s neighbours do without s c r u p l e ? Where i s the reward, i n any w o r l d l y sense, f o r heroism? C i v i l i z a -t i o n , w i t h i t s l a i s s e z - a l l e r and i t s l a i s s e z -12 f a i r e w h i c h i t c a l l s , t o l e r a n c e , h a s, i n two thousand y e a r s , done thus much f o r t h e m o r a l h e r o , t h a t he now ru n s l i t t l e r i s k o f d r i n k i n g hemlock l i k e S o c r a t e s , o r , l i k e C h r i s t , o f d y i n g on t h e c r o s s . The w o r s t t h a t can w e l l happen t o him i s t o be e v e r y -where i l l spoken o f , and t o f a i l i n a l l h i s w o r l d l y c o n c e r n s ; and i f he be u n u s u a l l y f o r t u n a t e , he may, pe r h a p s , be so w e l l t r e a t e d by t h e r e s t o f mankind, as t o be a l l o w e d t o be h o n e s t i n p e a c e . x ^ So o b j e c t i v e was M i l l i n w r i t i n g about t h e s u b j e c t s commanding h i s a t t e n t i o n t h a t he seldom p e r m i t t e d h i s p e r s o n a l i t y t o i n t r u d e i n t o an argument. Always, c a r e -f u l c r a f t s m a n t h a t he was, M i l l k e p t h i s eye s t e a d i l y on t h e purpose o f h i s w r i t i n g . R a r e l y d i d he e x p a t i a t e on h i s own f e e l i n g s ; y e t t h i s q u a l i t y o f ne v e r i n t r o -d u c i n g i n t o h i s w r i t i n g s h i s own p e r s o n a l i t y and h i s own emotions has added f u e l t o the f i r e r a i s e d by t h e f r e q u e n t c r i t i c i s m s t h a t he was "a m a n u f a c t u r e d man". F a r from c o m p l a i n i n g o r making t r i v i a l c harges o f a p e r s o n a l n a t u r e , h i s c r i t i c s would have been b e t t e r o c c u p i e d by r e a d i n g t h e t e s t i m o n y o f such c o n t e m p o r a r i e s o f M i l l as John M o r l e y : From a n y t h i n g l i k e l i t e r a r y v a n i t y no m o r t a l c o u l d have been more f r e e . He once t o l d me t h a t a f t e r r e v i s i o n and r e - v i s i o n o f a p i e c e o f h i s own, he f e l t so l i t t l e s a t i s f i e d o f i t s e x a c t c o n f o r m i t y t o h i s p u r p o s e , t h a t he c o u l d o n l y b r i n g h i m s e l f t o send i t t o t h e p r i n t e r by r e c a l l i n g how he had f e l t t h e same of o t h e r w r i t i n g t h a t p e o p l e t h o u g h t u s e f u l . A p a r t from t h i s , w h i c h i s a secondary p o i n t , 13 we met a p e r s o n a l modesty t h a t almost spoke the language of f a t a l i s m . T h i s was one o f h i s a t t r a c t i o n s — s o s i n g u l a r a con-t r a s t to the common s e l f - a p p l a u s e t h a t exaggerates a secondary s e r v i c e i n t o a supreme achievement, or s e t s down good f o r t u n e to one's own f o r e s i g h t and pene-t r a t i o n . 20 M i l l ' s s t r i c t d i s c i p l i n e over h i s emotions and h i s f a i l u r e to g i v e f u l l e r e x p r e s s i o n to h i s f e e l i n g s , i n d i c a t e a p e r s o n a l i t y r e s t r a i n e d and h e l d c o n s t a n t l y i n check. H i s w r i t t e n e x p r e s s i o n , r e f l e c t i n g h i s c l o s e c o n t r o l i n the use of words, never g i v e s a ready impression of the p e r s o n a l i t y known to h i s f r i e n d s and acquaintances. For a more complete understanding o f M i l l ' s thought and p e r s o n a l i t y one must t u r n to h i s beginnings. The f r e q u e n t misunderstanding of M i l l ' s nature and purpose makes i t e s p e c i a l l y necessary to seek out the man who so seldom emerges i n t o f u l l view, makes i t necessary, i n f a c t , to seek out, so f a r as one can, the boy and the young man whose n a t u r a l i n c l i n a t i o n s were overladen by tasks and purposes t h a t were by h i s own admission w e l l beyond h i s c a p a c i t y . No one can i g n o r e the d i r e c t i o n s and channels of h i s e a r l y thoughts and f e e l i n g s ; d i r e c t i o n s and channels c a l c u l a t i n g l y predetermined by h i s f a t h e r and Jeremy Bentham, who, 14 i n mutual c o n s u l t a t i o n , had c a r e f u l l y l a i d down the o u t l i n e s of h i s education, hoping thereby to r a i s e up a supporter and i n t e r p r e t e r of t h e i r own mutual phi l o s o p h y , U t i l i t a r i a n i s m . To a p p r e c i a t e the e f f e c t s of t h i s education on i t s young r e c i p i e n t , one must examine the more outst a n d i n g f e a t u r e s of John S t u a r t M i l l ' s boyhood, begging the reader's indulgence w h i l e doing so, and g i v i n g i n r e t u r n an assurance t h a t the time w i l l not be spent i d l y i n the p u r s u i t of b i o -g r a p h i c a l g o s s i p . In the mental and moral growth of the v a s t m a j o r i t y of mankind, the p l a y of sheer haphazard chance i s s t r i k i n g l y apparent. In sharp c o n t r a s t , the most p e r v a s i v e i n f l u e n c e i n the mental and moral growth of John M i l l was h i s f a t h e r ' s c o n c e p t i o n and a p p l i c a -t i o n of the d o c t r i n e s of H a r t l e y ' s A s s o c i a t i o n i s m and John Locke's " t a b u l a r a s a . " Having h i m s e l f ex-p e r i e n c e d the d i f f i c u l t i e s o f an obscure o r i g i n , James M i l l had observed t h a t a b i l i t y was the means whereby a man might advance h i m s e l f ; i n the words of M i c h a el St. John Packe, M i l l S e n i o r reached con-c l u s i o n s that were c h a r a c t e r i s t i c a l l y 'sharp, s w i f t ' and f i n a l ' , never dreaming that they might by some chance be wrong or incomplete. Determined to do the 15 best for both his son and the world at large, and having no doubts about what that best was, he trans-formed his conclusions into an educational theory which was designed so that with the least possible delay and confusion, i t s re c i p i e n t might reach a l o g i -c a l l y predetermined mental state. It would be extremely d i f f i c u l t to imagine a father and a son more clos e l y associated than the two M i l l s . From the age of three u n t i l the age of four-teen, John M i l l spent the greater part of each very long day i n the strenuous i n t e l l e c t u a l company of his father, a company that was no haphazard family arrange-ment, but a c a r e f u l l y planned circumstance embracing most of the hours of the waking day i n a s t e a d i l y growing symbiosis: the young boy growing under the mental stimulation and d i r e c t i o n of his father, and the l a t t e r i n turn deriving a growing s a t i s f a c t i o n from viewing the maturing incarnation of h i s own v i s i o n . James M i l l , John's famous father, was a man of singular force and energy, raised i n a hard environ-ment where a b i l i t y alone counted. Had he been as a youth more p l i a b l e i n w i l l and less energetic i n mind, he would most l i k e l y have continued i n the t r a d i t i o n of his own father, a humble tradesman, or 16 at best he might have f u l f i l l e d the more modest hopes of his ambitious mother by occupying a country p u l p i t i n Scotland. But from the f i r s t , his response to l i f e was an exhaustingly active one. By his mental keenness, his strength of w i l l , and by his d i s c i p l i n e d p e r s i s t -ence, he responded so well to the exhortations of his ambitious mother that he won, i n that age of patronage, the generous support and encouragement of S i r John and Lady Jane Stuart of Fet t e r c a i r n , and with t h e i r support he gained his entry into the great University of Edinburgh. The formidable forces that had raised James M i l l i n the world were the forces that he brought to bear on his son. Paradoxically, James M i l l ' s ultimate success i n London depended on his i n i t i a l f a i l u r e as a candidate for a post i n the Scottish church. Mr. Packe records the testimony that M i l l ' s abstruse argument and im-maculate reasoning were quite l o s t on the untrained minds of the humble Scottish countryfolk i n his oc-casional congregations. Whatever the reasons, the Church passed him by i n granting i t s permanent appoint-ments and at the age of t h i r t y years, James ?Mill had found himself i n the unimagined s i t u a t i o n of having the best education that Scotland could afford, but of 17 being unable to secure a l i v i n g . Yet the same intense determination that had characterized his application to his youthful studies continued to sustain him. Armed with his energetic view of destiny, and convinced that when fate does not move e a s i l y one must give her a shove, he ceased to wait on the Church, or preferment, and abandoning the doubtful future offered by his homeland he resolutely turned to England for opportu-n i t y . Before he had been long i n London, he had secured an important e d i t o r i a l post, the f i r s t of sev-era l remunerative positions from which he was to launch himself as an independent writer, editor, and leading public servant. The s a c r i f i c e s of his mother and his family together with his own perseverance now began to bring their many rewards, and the strenuous elements that had made for his own success were soon turned to the forging of the educational theory that was to govern the development of his son. The theory that James M i l l applied to his son's mind and character with a l l the force and compression of a steam mould was distinguished by two complemen-tary views: that the mind was a soft malleable sub-stance (tabula rasa) as blank as a clean sheet of paper, and that the circumstances determining the pattern of 18 t h i s p u t t y - l i k e blank were as e x t e r n a l as those which determined the development of any other p h y s i c a l organ. Mr. St. John Packe e x p l a i n s t h i s view w i t h h i s u s u a l c l a r i t y : A c c o r d i n g to James M i l l ' s theory, a l l minds s t a r t e d as much a l i k e as a l l stomachs or a l l hands or any other p h y s i c a l organs. They were a l l blank sheets, f o r c e d to r e -co r d every experience which the senses i n -troduced to them: and, i n the event of a repeated sequence of experiences, to r e c a l l the order i n which they came about, so t h a t the l a s t events i n the sequence c o u l d be" p r e d i c t e d from the f i r s t w i t h such c e r t a i n t y t h a t they c o u l d be s a i d to have been caused by them. Thus, minds d i f f e r e d o n l y i n so f a r as they recorded d i f f e r e n t chains of experiences, and from them formed d i f f e r e n t h a b i t s of a s s o c i a t i o n . As every new ex-p e r i e n c e e i t h e r confirmed, a l t e r e d , or added to a l l t h a t had gone b e f o r e , i t became a p a r t of the composition of the mind i t s e l f , and the mind never ceased to change and grow throughout i t s l i f e . But as i t grew o l d e r , i t became more crowded, and the e f f e c t of each expe-r i e n c e grew l e s s ; whereas when i t was young, the f o r c e of each new impression upon the comparatively u n s u l l i e d sheet was very power-f u l . Whoever had powefc to r e g u l a t e the s e -quence and the s t r e n g t h of the experiences which flowed i n upon a young mind, decided the h a b i t s of a s s o c i a t i o n i t would form, and to t hat extente determined both the c h a r a c t e r and the a b i l i t y o f the l a t e r man.21 James M i l l was u n u s u a l l y q u a l i f i e d to ' r e g u l a t e the sequence and the s t r e n g t h of the experiences' which flowed i n t o the mind of h i s son, and he was u n u s u a l l y determined to do so. 19 From Bentham, M i l l had learned that men's actions were regulated by the pursuit of pleasure and the avoidance of pain. With these p r i n c i p l e s i n mind i t seemed obvious to him that a judicious use of the available pleasures and pains would not only b u i l d up a desirable chain of associations but would also be conducive through experience to a more v i v i d know-ledge of the consequences of various actions. By persuading the c h i l d that he would be happier i f everyone around him were happy, M i l l hoped to en-courage him to practise habitual unselfishness i n his own interest, well aware that i t would be equally easy to make him s e l f i s h through the f a c i l e assumption that his own happiness was naturally i n c o n f l i c t with the happiness of others. Once again, Packe provides an excellent summary of the viewpoint: In short, a l l that an educator need hope to do was to help a c h i l d to reason accurately: for that granted, i t would act un-e r r i n g l y towards i t s own f i n a l happiness, which was good, and would avoid e v i l , which was definable as a miscalculation of chances. F i n a l l y , since "the f i r s t sensations experienced produce the greatest e f f e c t s " , i t was necessary on the i n t e l l e c t u a l side to prevent a c h i l d from c l u t t e r i n g i t s youthful brain with i d l e emotions, dreams or recreations. It should be t i e d down to the s t r i c t development of i t s f a c u l t i e s : anything which did not a s s i s t the main course of character and reason would 20 o n l y c l o u d the v i s i o n and d i s s i p a t e the c l a r i t y o f mind. From these premises James M i l l s e t out to educate h i s son.. With H e l v e t i u s , he b e l i e v e d t h a t "1'education peut t o u t " . 2 2 There have been very few boys i n the world's h i s t o r y who have been so e f f e c t i v e l y ' t i e d down to the s t r i c t development of h i s f a c u l t i e s ' as John S t u a r t M i l l . U n f o r t u n a t e l y , the i n t e r p r e t a t i o n of what p r o p e r l y c o n s t i t u t e d h i s f a c u l t i e s was too much i n the f i r m hands of h i s f a t h e r , and notwithstanding the good i n t e n t i o n s of the l a t t e r , the i n t e r p r e t a t i o n was f a r too narrow to p r o v i d e f o r the p r o p e r l y rounded d e v e l -opment o f h i s son. Some time i n the year 1808, when James M i l l was t h i r t y - f i v e years of age, he made the acquaintance of Jeremy Bentham. 2 3 Both men b e n e f i t t e d from the a s s o c i a t i o n , not o n l y i n new knowledge and p e r s p e c t i v e s , but a l s o i n a new ou t b u r s t o f enthusiasm. Bentham, now a t the age of s i x t y , had a c q u i r e d an i n t e r n a t i o n a l r e p u t a t i o n as an a t t a c k e r of s o c i a l i n j u s t i c e s . Packe g i v e s jus a summation of the c a t a l y t i c e f f e c t t h a t the two men had on each ot h e r , and notes i n p a r t i c u l a r that James M i l l observed t h a t Bentham at t a c k e d s o c i a l abuses w i t h impunity, and escaped the j a i l i n g t h a t might have been a n t i c i p a t e d i n that a u t h o r i t a r i a n age: 21 T h i s was a r e v e l a t i o n to James M i l l . He q u i c k l y l e a r n t t h a t under the massive p r o t e c t i o n of Bentham's i n f l u e n c e he c o u l d a c t without f e a r of h i s o v e r l o r d s , who he now saw were not competent to suppress the t r u t h . For Bentham too there was f r e s h knowledge. From what M i l l t o l d him, he a t l a s t p e r c e i v e d that i t was no mere matter of exposing the w i l e s of lawyers to a duped and outraged n a t i o n . The whole f a b r i c of s o c i e t y , i t now seemed to him, was thoroughly c o r r u p t , and s i n i s t e r i n t e r e s t s l a y behind every d i s c r i m i n a t i v e anomaly i n the c o n s t i t u t i o n . While he s t r u c k f u r i o u s l y at King and c l e r g y , nobleman and p a n d e r — a t anyone who s t o o d on the s i d e of keeping things as they w e r e — t h e c o o l c r a f t of h i s a s s o c i a t e u n e r r i n g l y d i r e c t e d h i s r a g i n g , and s t i l l more the a t t e n t i o n of h i s i n f l u -e n t i a l f o l l o w e r s , to each momentary weak-ness i n the machinery of p r i v i l e g e d gov-ernment. Though so d i f f e r e n t i n temper-ament t h a t t h e i r r e l a t i o n s were on o c c a s i o n inharmonious, each was i n d i s p e n s a b l e to the other. T h e i r impact generated an i n t e l l e c t u a l f i r e which burnt a l l through the century, and from which, i n c e r t a i n winds, the embers s t i l l emit a glow. 2^ One of the n o t a b l e e f f e c t s o f t h i s i n t e l l e c t u a l f i r e was the education of John S t u a r t M i l l , and as might be expected from so c l o s e an a s s o c i a t i o n , both men took an i n t e r e s t i n i t . Hugh S. R. E l l i o t , i n h i s e d i t i o n of The L e t t e r s of John S t u a r t M i l l , has noted i n h i s i n t r o d u c t i o n a l e t t e r from Jeremy Bentham to James M i l l , w r i t t e n when the l a t t e r had become q u i t e s i c k , a p p a r e n t l y from the gout. E l l i o t has the f o l l o w i n g to say: When John was s i x years o l d , and h i s f a t h e r ' s h e a l t h seemed very p r e c a r i o u s , Bentham wrote one of h i s c h a r a c t e r i s t i c l e t t e r s , o f f e r i n g to undertake the g u a r d i a n s h i p of the c h i l d . I t i s addressed to James M i l l from Queen's Square P l a c e , dated Saturday, 25th J u l y 1812, and runs as f o l l o w s : -" I f i n the meantime any such t h i n g as dying should happen t o you ( f o r we are a l l m o r t a l .' .' 1 1) , you having however between the a c t of such dying as a f o r e s a i d and the a c t of r e c e i v i n g these p r e s e n t s , time to make your w i l l (which to the purpose i n q u e s t i o n may be done by word of mouth, but i f you cannot w r i t e i t y o u r s e l f b e t t e r have i t s e t down i n w r i t i n g and read to you), i f you w i l l a p point me guardian to Mr. John S t u a r t M i l l , I w i l l , i n the event o f h i s f a t h e r ' s being d i s -posed of elsewhere, take him to Q. S. P. and th e r e or elsewhere, by whipping or otherwise, do whatsoever may seem most necessary and proper, f o r teaching him to make a l l proper d i s t i n c t i o n s , such as between the D e v i l and the Holy Ghost, and how to make Codes and Ency-c l o p a e d i a s , and whatsoever e l s e may be proper to be made, so long as I remain an i n h a b i t a n t o f t h i s v a l e o f t e a r s , a f t e r w h i c h — b u t t h i s must remain f o r God's providence to determine . . . . " 2 5 Thus, w i t h a somewhat heavy j o c u l a r i t y , Bentham e-v i n c e d a s e r i o u s i n t e r e s t i n the continued good ed-u c a t i o n o f John S t u a r t M i l l . The r e p l y dated three days l a t e r , p r o v i d e d h i s answer: : : J u l y 28th, 1812. I am not going to d i e , n o t w i t h s t a n d i n g your z e a l to come i n f o r a legacy. However, i f I were to d i e any time b e f o r e 23 t h i s p o o r boy i s a man, one o f the t h i n g s t h a t would p i n c h me most s o r e l y , would be, t h e b e i n g o b l i g e d t o l e a v e h i s mind unmade t o t h e degree o f e x c e l l e n c e , o f w h i c h I hope t o make i t . But a n o t h e r t h i n g i s , t h a t t h e o n l y p r o s p e c t w h i c h would l e s s e n t h a t p a i n , would be t h e l e a v i n g him i n y o u r hands. I t h e r e f o r e t a k e y o u r o f f e r q u i t e s e r i o u s l y , and s t i p u l a t e , m e r e l y , t h a t i t s h a l l be made as good as p o s s i b l e ; and t h e n we may perhaps l e a v e him a s u c c e s s o r worthy o f b o t h o f us.26 The s e r i o u s n a t u r e o f t h e u n d e r l y i n g i n t e n t o v e r r i d e s the i n i t i a l a ttempt a t humour. The p h r a s e , " t o l e a v e h i s mind unmade", p r o v i d e s an i m p o r t a n t i n s i g h t i n t o the mind o f James M i l l : i t c e r t a i n l y emphasizes how i n t e n t he was on c o n t r o l l i n g t h e e d u c a t i o n o f h i s son. Testimony t o t h e e x t e n t o f t h e c o n t r o l e x e r c i s e d o v e r John's e d u c a t i o n may be found i n t h e w i t n e s s o f h i s f a t h e r ' s c o r r e s p o n d e n c e , and t h e comment o f f r i e n d s . Graham W a l l a s , i n h i s b i o g r a p h y o f F r a n c i s P l a c e , q u otes a l e t t e r from James M i l l t o P l a c e under t h e d a t e o f December 7, 1814; t h e l e t t e r was w r i t t e n from F o r d Abbey where M i l l and h i s f a m i l y were l i v i n g i n s h a r e d r e s i d e n c e w i t h Jeremy Bentham. The r e l e v a n t t e x t g i v e s some i n d i c a t i o n o f what was e x p e c t e d o f t h e M i l l c h i l d r e n : My two c h i l d r e n , John arid W i l l i e , a r e w i t h me a t s i x A.M., and t h e n we have h a l f a day's work done b e f o r e any o t h e r body i s up i n t h e house. John i s now an adept i n 24 the f i r s t s i x books of E u c l i d and i n A l g e b r a , performing simple q u e s t i o n s w i t h g r e a t ease, w h i l e i n Greek he has read s i n c e he came here the l a s t h a l f of Thucydides, one p l a y of E u r i p i d e s and one of Sophocles, two of A r i s t o -phanes and the t r e a t i s e of P l u t a r c h . on education. W i l l i e has read along w i t h him s e v e r a l l i v e s i n C o r n e l i u s Nepos, and has got over the most d i f f i c u l t p a r t of the task of l e a r n i n g L a t i n , w h i l e John wants but l i t t l e of being a b l e to read L a t i n w i t h ease. His h i s t o r i c a l and other r e a d i n g never stands s t i l l , he i s at i t whenever he has any time to spare. T h i s looks l i k e bragging, but as I t e l l you the untoward p a r t of my circumstances, i t i s but r i g h t you s h o u l d hear t h a t which g i v e s me p l e a s u r e a l s o . There are few to whom I t a l k of e i t h e r . 2 ^ Wallas p r o v i d e s a f u r t h e r emphasis on the p o i n t of . view governing John M i l l ' s e ducation by commenting f u r t h e r on how f a r a c h i l d ' s mind i s a t a b u l a r a s a on which the educator can produce whatever e f f e c t s he d e s i r e s : "Wakefield," wrote P l a c e , " i s a b e l i e v e r i n i n n a t e p r o p e n s i t i e s , ... and so f u l l y i s he s a t i s f i e d of the t r u t h of h i s theory, that he expects to see your John's i n n a t e p r o -p e n s i t i e s break out p r e s e n t l y and form h i s c h a r a c t e r .... The p o s i t i o n I take a g a i n s t him i s , t h a t the g e n e r a l i t y of c h i l d r e n are o r g a n i z e d so n e a r l y a l i k e t h a t they may by proper management be made p r e t t y n e a r l y e q u a l l y wise and v i r t u o u s . " 2 8 There seemed thus to be very l i t t l e doubt about the e d u c a t i o n a l theory being a p p l i e d so r i g o r o u s l y to the younger M i l l , and the emphasis i s on c l o s e 'management' 25 r a t h e r t h a n on any r e l a x e d system o f g u i d a n c e . I n August o f 1817, when John was e l e v e n y e a r s o l d , P l a c e went t o s t a y a t F o r d Abbey f o r a w h i l e , and i n a l e t t e r t o h i s w i f e , has t h e f o l l o w i n g t o say about the edu c a t i o n o f the c h i l d r e n t h e r e : I cannot b u t admire t h e c h i l d r e n h e r e , who g i v e no one any t r o u b l e ; they have a h a r d t ime o f i t , l e a r n i n g t h e i r l e s s o n s from s i x e v e r y morning t o n i n e , and s a y i n g them, and l e a r n i n g o t h e r s from e l e v e n t o one; and l e a r n i n g a g a i n i n the a f t e r n o o n — l e a r n i n g , t o o , w i t h a p r e c i s i o n u t t e r l y unknown by o t h e r s ; even l i t t l e J i m s p e l l s words o f f o u r s y l l a b l e s w e l l ; and C l a r a r e a d s , as she h e r s e l f s a y s , " N a t u r a l H i s t o r y . " 2 9 What t h e younger c h i l d r e n had t o do, John had t o do t o o , f o r he was charg e d w i t h t h e duty o f t e a c h i n g h i s younger b r o t h e r s and s i s t e r s , a dut y added t o t h o s e o f h i s own p a r t i c u l a r s t u d i e s . Of t h i s d u t y , he has the f o l l o w i n g t o say i n the e a r l y d r a f t o f h i s a u t o b i o g r a p h y : I n my e i g h t h y e a r I commenced l e a r n i n g L a t i n by means o f t e a c h i n g i t t o a younger s i s t e r , who a f t e r w a r d s r e p e a t e d t h e l e s s o n s t o my f a t h e r . From t h i s t i me o t h e r s i s t e r s & b r o t h e r s b e i n g s u c c e s s i v e l y added as p u p i l s , a c o n s i d e r a b l e p a r t o f my day's work con-s i s t e d o f t h i s p r e p a r a t o r y , t e a c h i n g ; & i t was a p a r t w h i c h I e s p e c i a l l y d i s l i k e d . The p r i n c i p a l advantage w h i c h , as f a r as I am aware, arose from i t , was t h a t I m y s e l f l e a r n t more t h o r o u g h l y & r e t a i n e d more l a s t i n g l y the t h i n g s w h i c h I had t o t e a c h as w e l l as l e a r n ; perhaps t o o , the p r a c t i c e i t a f f o r d e d i n e x p l a i n i n g d i f f i c u l t i e s t o o t h e r s , may even a t t h a t age have been u s e f u l . I n 26 o t h e r r e s p e c t s the experience of my boyhood i s not f a v o r a b l e to the p l a n of teaching c h i l d r e n by means of one another. The te a c h i n g , I am sure, i s very i n e f f i c i e n t as te a c h i n g , & I w e l l know that the r e l a t i o n between teacher & taught i s a most un-f a v o u r a b l e moral d i s c i p l i n e to both. I went through the grammar &. p a r t o f C o r n e l i u s Nepos & Caesar's Commentaries i n t h i s manner, but afterwards added to the superintendance of these l e s s o n s , much lon g e r ones of my own which I repeated to my f a t h e r i n the u s u a l manner.3° Of the content of h i s education, i t s very e a r l y s t a r t , and the u n u s u a l l y c l o s e working r e l a t i o n s h i p w i t h h i s f a t h e r , M i l l has spoken a t c o n s i d e r a b l e l e n g t h i n h i s autobiography. He notes: A man who i n h i s own p r a c t i c e so v i g o r o u s l y acted up to the p r i n c i p l e of l o s i n g no time, was l i k e l y to adhere to the same r u l e i n the i n s t r u c t i o n of h i s p u p i l . I have no remembrance of the time when I began to l e a r n Greek. I have been t o l d t h a t i t was when I was th r e e years o l d . My e a r l i e s t r e c o l l e c t i o n on the s u b j e c t i s o f l e a r n i n g what my f a t h e r termed Vocables, being l i s t s of common Greek words, w i t h t h e i r s i g n i f i c a t i o n i n E n g l i s h , which he wrote on cards & gave me to l e a r n by h e a r t . Of grammar I l e a r n t , u n t i l some years l a t e r , nothing except the i n f l e x i o n s of the nouns & verbs but a f t e r a course of vocables, proceeded at once to t r a n s l a t i o n ; & I can f a i n t l y remember going through AEsop's F a b l e s , the f i r s t Greek book ; which I read. The Anabasis was the second. I l e a r n t no L a t i n u n t i l my e i g h t h year. Before that time I had read a number o f Greek prose authors, among whom I remember the whole of Herodotus, Xenophon's Cyropaedia and Memorials of Soc-r a t e s , some of the l i v e s of the p h i l o s o p h e r s by Diogenes L a e r t i u s , p a r t of L u c i a n , a l i t t l e o f I s o c r a t e s , & I t h i n k p a r t o f Thucydides; 27 I also read i n 1813 the f i r s t s i x d i a -logues of Plato (in the common arrange-ment) from the Euthyphron to the Theaetetus i n c l u s i v e , which l a s t dialogue had been better omitted, as i t was u t t e r l y impossible I should understand i t . But my father, i n a l l his teaching, demanded & expected of me not only the utmost that I could do, but much that I could by no p o s s i b i l i t y have done. What he was himself w i l l i n g to undergo for the sake of my i n s t r u c t i o n may be judged from the fact, that I went through the whole process of preparing my Greek lessons i n the same room & at the same table at which he was writing, and as i n those days Greek & English Lexicons were not, & I could make no more use of a Greek & L a t i n Lexicon than could be made without having begun to learn Latin, I was forced to have recourse to him for the meaning of every word which I did not know; & thi s incessant interruption he, one of the most impatient of mankind, sub-mitted to, & wrote under that interruption several volumes of his History & a l l else that he had to write during those years.31 If the reader experiences a fee l i n g of exhaustion at such long l i s t s and extensive quotations, one can only point out that no adequate appreciation of John Stuart M i l l ' s early education can be arrived at without them. If such l i s t s are exhausting to the reader, the l a t t e r may imagine then how exhausting they must have been i n th e i r d a i l y embodiment to the small boy who da i l y gave most of his waking hours to the i r understanding. Yet th i s was only a beginning. Recalling when he wrote the Autobiography that, during his early years, his evenings were occupied with arithmetic, he also r e c a l l e d the disagreeableness of 28 these l e s s o n s . In a d d i t i o n to h i s l e s s o n s he r e p o r t e d to h i s f a t h e r on h i s r e a d i n g d u r i n g the course o f f r e q u e n t walks which appear to have been p l e a s a n t . Then he g i v e s a long catalogue of h i s t o r i e s , both a n c i e n t and modern, to which he gave h i s a t t e n t i o n , much of i t a p p a r e n t l y w i t h r e a l p l e a s u r e . In 1819, b e f o r e h i s s o j o u r n i n France, John wrote a l e t t e r to S i r Samuel Bentham, the b r o t h e r of Jeremy, s e t t i n g f o r t h one of the more complete resumes of h i s s t u d i e s : Acton P l a c e , Hoxton, J u l y 30, 1819 My Dear S i r , I t i s so long s i n c e I l a s t had the p l e a s u r e o f s e e i n g you t h a t I have almost f o r g o t t e n when i t was, but I b e l i e v e i t was i n the year 1814, the f i r s t year we were at Ford Abbey. I am very much o b l i g e d to you f o r your i n q u i r i e s w i t h r e s p e c t to my progress i n my s t u d i e s ; and as n e a r l y as I can remember I w i l l endeavour to g i v e an account of them from that year. In the year 1814, I read Thucydides, and Anacreon, and I b e l i e v e the E l e c t r a of Sophocles, the Phoenissae of E u r i p i d e s , and the P l u t u s and the Clouds of A r i s t o p h a n e s . I a l s o read the P h i l i p p i c s of Demosthenes. The L a t i n which I read was o n l y the O r a t i o n of C i c e r o f o r the poet A r c h i a s , and the ( f i r s t or l a s t ) p a r t of h i s p l e a d i n g a g a i n s t V e r r e s . And i n Mathematics, I was then rea d i n g E u c l i d ; -I a l s o began E u l e r ' s A l g e b r a , Bonnycastle's p r i n c i p a l l y f o r the sake of the examples to perform. I read l i k e w i s e some of West's Geometry. Aet. 9.—The Greek which I read i n the year 1815 was, I t h i n k , Homer's Odyssey. T h e o c r i t u s , some of Pindar, and the two Ora-t i o n s of Aeschines, and Demosthenes on the 29 Crown. In L a t i n I read the s i x f i r s t books, I b e l i e v e , o f Ovid's Metamorphoses, the f i v e f i r s t books of L i v y , the B u c o l i c s , and the s i x f i r s t books of the Aeneid o f V i r g i l , and p a r t o f C i c e r o ' s O r a t i o n s . In Mathematics, a f t e r f i n i s h i n g the f i r s t s i x books, w i t h the e l e v e n t h and t w e l f t h o f E u c l i d , and the Geometry of West, I s t u d i e d Simpson's Conic S e c t i o n s and a l s o West's Conic S e c t i o n s , Mensuration and S p h e r i c s ; and i n A l g e b r a , Kersey's A l g e b r a , and Newton's U n i v e r s a l A r i t h m e t i c , i n which I performed a l l the problems without the book, and most of them without any h e l p from the book. Aet. 1 0 — I n the year 1816 I read the f o l l o w i n g Greek: P a r t o f P o l y b i u s , a l l Xenophon's H e l l e n i c s , the Ajax and the P h i l o c t e t e s of Sophocles, the Medea of E u r i p i d e s , and the Frogs of A r i s t o p h a n e s , and g r e a t p a r t o f the A n t h o l o g i a Graeca. In L a t i n I read a l l Horace, except the Book of Epodes; and i n Mathematics I read Stewart's P r o p o s i t i o n e s Geometricae, P l a y -f a i r ' s Trigonometry at the end of h i s E u c l i d , and an a r t i c l e on geometry i n the Edinburgh  E n c y c l o p a e d i a . I a l s o s t u d i e d Simpson's A l g e b r a . Aet. 1 1 — I n the year 1817 I read Thu-cydides a second time, and I l i k e w i s e read a g r e a t many Orations o f Demosthenes and a l l A r i s t o t l e ' s R h e t o r i c , of which I made a s y n o p t i c t a b l e . In L a t i n I read a l l L u c r e t i u s , except the l a s t book, and C i c e r o ' s L e t t e r s to A t t i c u s , h i s Topi c a , and h i s t r e a t i s e , De P a r t i t i o n e O r a t o r i a . I read i n Conic S e c t i o n s an a r t i c l e i n the En c y c l o p a e d i a B r i t a n n i c a ( i n other branches of the mathematics I s t u d i e d E u l e r ' s A n a l y s i s of I n f i n i t i e s and began F l u x i o n s , on which I read an a r t i c l e i n the E n c y c l o p a e d i a  B r i t a n n i c a ) , and Simpson's F l u x i o n s . In the a p p l i c a t i o n of mathematics I read K e i l l ' s Astronomy and Robinson's Mechanical Philosophy. Aet. 1 2 — L a s t year I read some of Demos-thenes, and the f o u r f i r s t books of A r i s t o t l e ' s Organon, a l l which I t a b u l a t e d i n the same manner as h i s R h e t o r i c . 30 In L a t i n , I read a l l the works of T a c i t u s , except the di a l o g u e concerning o r a t o r y , and g r e a t p a r t of Ju v e n a l , and began Q u i n t i l i a n . In Mathematics and t h e i r a p p l i c a t i o n , I read Emerson's O p t i c s , and a T r e a t i s e on Trigonometry by Pro-f e s s o r Wallace, of the M i l i t a r y C o l l e g e , near Bagshot, intended f o r the use of the cadets. I l i k e w i s e r e - s o l v e d s e v e r a l problems i n v a r i o u s branches o f mathematics; and began an a r t i c l e on F l u x i o n s i n the Edinburgh E n c y c l o p a e d i a . Aet. 1 3 — T h i s year I read P l a t o ' s d i a -logues c a l l e d Gorgias and Protagoras, and h i s R e p u b l i c , o f which I made an a b s t r a c t . I am s t i l l r e a d i n g Q u i n t i l i a n and the a r t i c l e on F l u x i o n s , and am performing w i t h o u t book the problems i n Simpson's S e l e c t E x e r c i s e s . L a s t year I began to l e a r n l o g i c . I have read s e v e r a l L a t i n books of L o g i c : those o f Smith, Brerewood, and Du T r i e u , and p a r t of B u r g e r s d i c i u s , as f a r as I have gone i n A r i s t o t l e . I have a l s o read Hobbes' L o g i c . I am now l e a r n i n g p o l i t i c a l economy. I have made a k i n d of t r e a t i s e from what my f a t h e r has e x p l a i n e d to me on t h a t s u b j e c t , and I am now readi n g Mr. Ric a r d o ' s work and w r i t i n g an a b s t r a c t o f i t . . I have l e a r n t a l i t t l e n a t u r a l p h i l o s o p h y , and having had an o p p o r t u n i t y of a t t e n d i n g a course of l e c -t u r e s on chemistry, d e l i v e r e d by Mr. P h i l l i p s , at the Royal M i l i t a r y C o l l e g e , Bagshot, I have a p p l i e d myself p a r t i c u l a r l y to that s c i e n c e , and have read the l a s t e d i t i o n of Dr. Thomson's system o f chemistry. What E n g l i s h I have read s i n c e the year 1814 I cannot t e l l you, f o r I cannot remember so long ago. But I r e c o l l e c t t h a t s i n c e t h a t time I have read Ferguson's Roman and M i t f o r d ' s G r e c i a n H i s t o r y . I have a l s o read a g r e a t d e a l of L i v y by myself. I have sometimes t r i e d my hand at w r i t i n g h i s t o r y . I had c a r r i e d a h i s t o r y o f the United P r o v i n c e s from t h e i r r e v o l t from Spain, i n the r e i g n of P h i l l i p I I . , to the a c c e s s i o n of the S t a d t h o l d e r , W i l l i a m I I I . , to the throne of England. 31 I had l i k e w i s e begun to w r i t e a h i s -t o r y of the Roman Government, which I had c a r r i e d down to the L i c i n i a n Laws. I should have begun to l e a r n French b e f o r e t h i s time, but t h a t my f a t h e r has f o r a long time had i t i n contemplation to go to the Continent, there to r e s i d e f o r some time. But as we are h i n d e r e d from going by my f a t h e r ' s l a t e appointment i n the East I n d i a House, I s h a l l b e g i n to l e a r n French as soon as my s i s t e r s have made progress enough i n L a t i n to l e a r n w i t h me.' I have now and then attempted to w r i t e Poetry. The l a s t p r o d u c t i o n of that k i n d at which I t r i e d my hand was a tragedy. I have now another i n view i n which I hope to c o r r e c t the f a u l t o f t h i s . I b e l i e v e my s i s t e r W i l l i e was read i n g C o r n e l i u s Nepos when you saw her. She has s i n c e t h a t time read some of Caesar; almost a l l Phaedrus, a l l the C a t i l i n e and p a r t of the Jugurtha of S a l l u s t , and two play s o f Terence; she has read the f i r s t , and p a r t o f the second book of L u c r e t i u s , and i s now re a d i n g the Eclogues o f V i r g i l . C l a r a has begun L a t i n a l s o . A f t e r going through the grammar, she read some of Cor-n e l i u s Nepos and Caesar, almost as much as W i l l i e o f S a l l u s t , and i s now read i n g Ovid. They are both now t o l e r a b l y good a r i t h -m e t i c i a n s ; they have gone as f a r as the e x t r a c t i o n of the cube r o o t . They are r e a d -i n g the Roman A n t i q u i t i e s and the Greek Mythology, and are t r a n s l a t i n g E n g l i s h i n t o L a t i n from Mair's I n t r o d u c t i o n to L a t i n Syntax. This i s to the bestt o f my remembrance a t r u e account of my own and my s i s t e r s ' progress s i n c e the year 1814. I hope Lady Bentham, and George, and the young l a d i e s are i n good h e a l t h . Your obedient, humble s e r v a n t , JOHN STUART M I L L . 3 2 I t i s noteworthy t h a t t h i s l i s t i s by no means a complete 32 one. M i l l , h i m s e l f , admits t h a t he has d i f f i c u l t y -remembering a l l that he has read; consequently, one may assume t h a t f u r t h e r a d d i t i o n s c o u l d be made. Indeed, the Autobiography l i s t s numerous h i s t o r i e s and a c o n s i d e r a b l e body of E n g l i s h p o e t r y t h a t have not been l i s t e d here a t a l l . B a i n comments on some of the omissions.33 j t i s necessary to remember too t h a t the s t u d i e s l i s t e d f o r John's s i s t e r s , W i l l i e and C l a r a , were a l s o h i s r e s p o n s i b i l i t y as p a r t of h i s teaching d u t i e s . In reviewing the enormous volume and weight of John M i l l ' s s t u d i e s , one tends to t h i n k o n l y of the drudgery i n v o l v e d . However, M i l l has noted t h a t he d e r i v e d c o n s i d e r a b l e p l e a s u r e from much of h i s s t u d i e s and r e a d i n g . In p a r t i c u l a r he enjoyed the reading of h i s t o r y . He w r i t e s i n the Autobiography: I made notes on s l i p s of paper w h i l e r e a d i n g , & from these I used i n the morning walks to t e l l the s t o r y to him. I say the s t o r y , f o r the books were c h i e f l y h i s t o r i e s , of which I read i n t h i s manner a g r e a t number: Robertson's h i s t o r i e s , Hume, Gibbon; but my g r e a t e s t d e l i g h t , then & f o r long afterwards, was Wctson's P h i l i p 2n & 3d. The h e r o i c defence of the Knights of Malta a g a i n s t the Turks, & of the Dutch r e v o l t e d p r o v i n c e s a g a i n s t Spain, e x c i t e d i n me an i n t e n s e & l a s t i n g i n t e r e s t . 3 4 33 A f t e r adding f u r t h e r comment on h i s d e l i g h t s i n Greek h i s t o r y , he adds b o y i s h l y t h a t i n E n g l i s h h i s t o r y he cared l i t t l e f o r anything except the wars and b a t t l e s . He r e l a t e s h i s d e l i g h t i n r e a d i n g Anson's Voyage and a c o l l e c t i o n of voyages round the world, from Drake to Cook and B o u g a i n v i l l e . He a l s o r e c a l l s a number of books of c h i l d h o o d , some of which h i s f a t h e r es-p e c i a l l y borrowed f o r him; of these he remembers p a r t i c u l a r l y Robinson Crusoe, which he s a i d continued to d e l i g h t him a l l through h i s boyhood. In h i s e i g h t h year M i l l made h i s f i r s t a c q u a i n t -ance w i t h the Greek poets by reading the I l i a d . His f a t h e r gave him Pope's t r a n s l a t i o n a f t e r he had l a -boured on the o r i g i n a l Greek. He recounts how he read t h i s , the f i r s t E n g l i s h verse t h a t he had cared to read, some twenty to t h i r t y times through. He a l s o notes w i t h astonishment t h a t Pope's v e r s i o n of the I l i a d was l e s s popular among boys than he would have supposed. John M i l l r e l a t e s how throughout h i s boyhood he f r e q u e n t l y attempted to w r i t e what he c a l l e d h i s t o r i e s i n i m i t a t i o n of h i s f a t h e r who used to g i v e him the manuscript of p a r t of h i s h i s t o r y of I n d i a to read. His f a t h e r encouraged him i n t h i s a c t i v i t y but never 3 4 asked to see what he had w r i t t e n . ( R e g r e t t a b l y he l a t e r destroyed these e a r l y attempts at w r i t i n g . ) He a l s o wrote many E n g l i s h verses, the f i r s t i n i m i -t a t i o n o f Pope's Homer, others as p r e s c r i b e d exer-c i s e s , some i n i m i t a t i o n of w r i t e r s such as Thomson, the author of The Seasons. He adds h i s f a t h e r ' s comments on the two primary advantages of w r i t i n g i n v e r s e : the one t h a t some things c o u l d be expressed b e t t e r and more f o r c i b l y i n verse than i n prose, the r e a l ad-vantage a c c o r d i n g to James M i l l ; and the other t h a t people i n g e n e r a l attached more value to v e r s e than i t deserved.35 There are echoes of the e i g h t e e n t h century i n these reasons w i t h t h e i r i m p l i e d r e l i a n c e on the d i s c u r s i v e statement. John M i l l was exposed to a very c o n s i d e r a b l e number of the E n g l i s h poets. Once again, we have h i s own word f o r t h i s i n h i s autobiography: I remember h i s g i v i n g me Thomson's "Winter" to read, & afterwards making me attempt to w r i t e something myself on the same s u b j e c t . I had read very l i t t l e E n g l i s h poetry a t t h i s time. Shakespeare my f a t h e r had put i n t o my hands, at f i r s t f o r the sake of the • h i s t o r i c a l p l a y s , from which however I went on to the o t h e r s . My f a t h e r was never a g r e a t admirer of Shakespeare, the E n g l i s h i d o l a t r y of whom, he used to a t t a c k i n un-measured terms. He had l i t t l e v a lue f o r any E n g l i s h p o e t r y except M i l t o n , Goldsmith, Burns, & Gray's Bard, which he p r e f e r r e d to h i s E legy: perhaps I may a l s o add B e a t t i e . 35 I remember h i s reading to me ( u n l i k e h i s u s u al p r a c t i c e of making me read to him) the f i r s t book of the F a i r i e Queene: but I took l i t t l e p l e a s u r e i n i t . The p o e t r y of the p r e s e n t century he s e t no value on - & I h a r d l y saw any of i t t i l l I was grown up to manhood, except Walter S c o t t ' s m e t r i c a l romances, which he borrowed f o r me & which I was much de-l i g h t e d w i t h - as I always was w i t h a l l animated n a r r a t i v e . Dryden's Poems were among my f a t h e r ' s books & many of these he made me read, though I never cared f o r any of them except Alexander's Feast, which l i k e the songs i n Walter S c o t t I used to s i n g i n t e r n a l l y , to a music of my own. Cowper's s h o r t poems I read w i t h some p l e a s u r e but never got f a r i n t o the longer ones - & nothing i n the two volumes i n t e r e s t e d me l i k e the l i t t l e prose account of h i s three hares. In my t h i r -t e e n t h year I met w i t h the poems of Campbell, among which L o c h i e l , Hohenlinden, the E x i l e of E r i n & some others gave me sen-s a t i o n s I had never b e f o r e r e c e i v e d from poetry. Here too I made nothing of the l o n g e r poems, except the opening of Gertrude of Wyoming, which appeared to me the p e r f e c t i o n of pathos. ° In t h i s account of h i s e a r l y acquaintance w i t h poetry, M i l l has r e v e a l e d h i m s e l f as being very much l i k e many other boys; there i s i n d i c a t e d , f o r example, a l o v e of nature, the romantic past, b a t t l e , sentiment, and an a d m i r a t i o n f o r the h e r o i c , much as one would expect to f i n d among most i n t e l l i g e n t youths of h i s age. There are other f e a t u r e s e v i d e n t too: one notes, f o r example, that he says he used to " s i n g i n t e r n a l l y " songs from Dryden and S i r Walter S c o t t to a music of h i s own, and one f u r t h e r notes the h i n t of r e s t r a i n t 36 con t a i n e d i n the w o r d . " i n t e r n a l l y . " One need h a r d l y labour the p o i n t t h a t John S t u a r t M i l l ' s education was almost e x c l u s i v e l y i n t e l l e c t u a l . There was no p r o v i s i o n i n i t f o r games, s p o r t s , p l a y , boyhood companions, and very l i t t l e allowance f o r p h y s i c a l a c t i v i t i e s . He l i v e d and s t u d i e d i n an a d u l t atmosphere, f o r even h i s r e l a t i o n s w i t h h i s b r o t h e r s and s i s t e r s were l a r g e l y r e s t r i c t e d to those o f the teacher w i t h h i s p u p i l s . There were b r i g h t spots i n h i s days. There i s a l i g h t e n i n g o f the mood when he r e c a l l s i n the Autobiography, the walks he used to take w i t h h i s f a t h e r : But the le s s o n s were not the most important p a r t of the i n s t r u c t i o n I was r e c e i v i n g . Much of i t c o n s i s t e d i n the books I read by myself and i n my f a t h e r ' s d i s c o u r s e s to me, c h i e f l y d u r i n g our walks. From 1810 to the end of 1813 we were l i v i n g at Newington Green, then an almost r u s t i c neighbourhood. My f a t h e r ' s h e a l t h r e q u i r e d c o n s i d e r a b l e and constant e x e r c i s e and he walked ha-b i t u a l l y b e f o r e b r e a k f a s t , g e n e r a l l y i n the green lanes towards Hornsey. In these walks I always accompanied him, and what I c h i e f l y remember of them, (except the bouquets o f w i l d flowers which I used to b r i n g in) i s the account I used to g i v e him d a i l y of what I had read the previous d a y . 3 7 One notes h i s emphasis and the i m p l i c a t i o n s o f h i s r e f e r e n c e to the le s s o n s as 'not the most important p a r t o f the i n s t r u c t i o n ' . I t i s not d i f f i c u l t to 37 f e a t u r e the s m a l l boy w i t h h i s s l i p s of paper i n hand, c a s t i n g s i d e l o n g g l a nces i n 'the green l a n e s ' , and g a t h e r i n g , when permit t e d , the bouquets of w i l d f l o w e r s . In 1870, when M i l l was a widower, 64 years of age, he v i s i t e d the Amberleys, and Kate's J o u r n a l of Tuesday, 27th September bears the f o l l o w i n g entry, an echo of those e a r l i e r walks: We go to the F o r e s t o f Dean to p i c n i c . They 3 walked and I drove by them, Miss T a y l o r came home wit h me; we walked up the h i l l through B a r g a i n Wood which they admired very much everywhere and M i l l was always n o t i c i n g the flowers and hedgerows.38 W r i t i n g about a v i s i t from M i l l i n 1873, Morley has some s i m i l a r remarks to make about M i l l ' s i n t e r e s t s . He w r i t e s about M i l l ' s i n t e r e s t i n nature: Then when he g o t here, he ch a t t e d w i t h some-t h i n g of the simple amiableness o f a c h i l d to my w i f e , about the w i l d f l o w e r s , the h a b i t s of i n s e c t s , and notes of b i r d s , i n which she i s profound: but he was not l e s s so. Then I drove him to Ash, and one of the most d e l i g h t f u l days of my l i f e came to i t s end, l i k e a l l other days, d e l i g h t f u l and s o r r o w f u l . He i s a wise., good, and k i n d man, a l l s u p e r l a t i v e l y . Although M i l l was i n t e r e s t e d i n a wide range o f sub-j e c t s , he appears always to have had a p a r t i c u l a r i n t e r e s t i n the scenes and o b j e c t s of nature. C a r o l i n e Fox, w r i t i n g about 1840 when M i l l was t h i r t y - f o u r , r e c o r ds her r e c o l l e c t i o n of an o c c a s i o n when he gave 38 p a r t i c u l a r e x p r e s s i o n to t h i s i n c l i n a t i o n : "He spoke of the extreme e l a t i o n of s p i r i t s he always e x p e r i -enced i i n the country, and i l l u s t r a t e d i t , w i t h an apology, by jumping."4° There are many i n d i c a t i o n s of h i s i n t e r e s t i n nature e a r l y i n l i f e , but t h e r e i s l i t t l e s t r e s s on the importance of t h i s i n t e r e s t i n h i s l i f e u n t i l w e l l on i n h i s more mature years. There i s not, f o r example, any i n d i c a t i o n of h i s k i c k i n g h i s h e e l s or jumping i n such a f r e e manner when he was a boy. One i s f o r c e d to conclude that the p r e s s u r e of h i s s t u d i e s and the u n u s u a l l y c l o s e working r e l a t i o n -s h i p w i t h h i s f a t h e r had an i n h i b i t i n g e f f e c t on the growth of t h i s i n t e r e s t d u r i n g h i s boyhood. I t was a t the age of twelve t h a t John M i l l en-t e r e d a more advanced stage of h i s s t u d i e s , a stage i n which h i s f a t h e r i n t r o d u c e d him to the h i s t o r y and r u l e s of l o g i c . The Organon, s e v e r a l L a t i n t r e a t i s e s on the s c h o l a s t i c l o g i c , and Hobbes c o n s t i t u t e d some of the h i g h l i g h t s of h i s s t u d i e s . In a d d i t i o n , h i s f a t h e r sought by q u e s t i o n and e x p l a n a t i o n to convey an understanding of s y l l o g i s t i c l o g i c . In the course of these s t u d i e s , James M i l l sought to demonstrate by r e a d i n g , a n a l y s i s , e x p l a n a t i o n , and q u e s t i o n i n g the p r i n c i p l e s of l o g i c and d i a l e c t i c s . Demosthenes 39 and P l a t o f i g u r e d l a r g e i n these e x e r c i s e s . John r e c a l l e d at the time of w r i t i n g h i s autobiography, how even a t the age of twelve, the a n a l y t i c method took h o l d of him and became p a r t of h i s own mind. I t was a l s o a t t h i s time of more se a r c h i n g methods t h a t h i s r e l a t i o n s w i t h h i s f a t h e r seemed to enter a p e r i o d of g r e a t e r s t r a i n . In h i s e d i t i o n of Bentham's w r i t i n g s , the e d i t o r , Bowring, c i t e s a statement of Jeremy Bentham i n which the l a t t e r g i v e s presumably an e a r l y impression of James M i l l : He w i l l never w i l l i n g l y enter i n t o d i s c o u r s e w i t h me. When he d i f f e r s , he i s s i l e n t . He i s a c h a r a c t e r . He expects to subdue everybody by h i s domineering t o n e — t o convince everybody of h i s p o s i t i v e n e s s . His manner of speaking i s o p p r e s s i v e and o v e r b e a r i n g . He comes to me as i f he wore a mask upon h i s f a c e . 4 1 One f e e l s that t h i s judgment i s too harsh, and indeed one f e e l s t h a t one must t r e a t i t w i t h a c e r t a i n amount of r e s e r v a t i o n , f o r there i s ample evidence to suggest t h a t James M i l l c o u l d be very engaging company among h i s peers. N e v e r t h e l e s s , there appears to be at l e a s t a g r a i n of t r u t h i n i t . M i l l was a Scot who had come a very long way, and one i s not s u r p r i s e d to note a dour I n t e n s i t y i n h i s nature. Packe notes t h a t long a f t e r h i s death, John l e a p t to h i s defence a g a i n s t the 40 s l i g h t s c o n t a i n e d i n Bowring's biography, but he a l s o notes t h a t w i t h the g r e a t r e s p e c t f o r h i s f a t h e r there was a l s o f e a r . 4 : 2 Mrs. Grote, i n her P e r s o n a l L i f e of George Grote, g i v e s the f o l l o w i n g e a r l y impression of the son: John S t u a r t M i l l , the e l d e s t son of James M i l l , i n 1817, then a boy of about twelve years o l d , was s t u d y i n g , w i t h h i s f a t h e r as h i s s o l e p r e c e p t o r , under the p a t e r n a l r o o f . Unquestionably forward f o r h i s y e a r s , and, a l r e a d y possessed of a competent knowledge of Greek and L a t i n , as w e l l as of some s u b o r d i n a t e though s o l i d attainments, John was, as a boy, somewhat r e p r e s s e d by t the e l d e r M i l l , and seldom took any share i n the c o n v e r s a t i o n c a r r i e d on by the s o c i e t y f r e q u e n t i n g the house. ° The son g i v e s c o n s i d e r a b l e support to the view t h a t h i s e a r l y education, thorough d i s c i p l i n e t h a t i t was, con-t a i n e d elements of r e p r e s s i o n . W r i t i n g i n h i s auto-biography of t h i s time when he was twelve, John has the f o l l o w i n g comments to make about a d i s a g r e e a b l e f e a t u r e of h i s r e a d i n g l e s s o n s : In going through Demosthenes and P l a t o , as I c o u l d now read these authors as f a r as the language was concerned w i t h p e r f e c t ease, I was not r e q u i r e d to construe them sentence by sentence but to read them aloud to my f a t h e r , answering q u e s t i o n s when asked: but the p a r t i c u l a r a t t e n t i o n which he p a i d to e l o c u t i o n ( i n which h i s own e x c e l l e n c e was remarkable) made t h i s r e a d i n g aloud to him a most p a i n f u l task. Of a l l things which he r e q u i r e d me to do, there was none which I d i d so c o n s t a n t l y i l l , or i n which he so p e r p e t u a l l y 41 l o s t his temper with me. ...These rules he constantly impressed upon me, and severely took me to task for every v i o l a -t i o n of them: but I even then remarked (though I did not venture to make the remark to him) that though he reproached me when I read a sentence i l l , and t o l d me how I ought to have read i t , he never shewed me: he often mockingly c a r i c a -tured my bad reading of the sentence, but did not, by reading i t himself, i n s t r u c t me how i t ought to be r e a d . 4 4 Here, by John Stuart M i l l ' s own admission, there i s c l e a r l y fear, the fear of making a remark to his father, and with this fear there i s the repression of his own thoughts and feelings. Elsewhere i n the Autobiography there i s plenty of evidence to support the impression of a s t r i c t , unrelenting pressure not infrequently accompanied by parental anger. Speaking of his studies during the year of 1819, when he was thirteen, the younger M i l l notes about his father's system of i n s t r u c t i o n : Such a system of i n s t r u c t i o n was excel l e n t l y suited to form a thinker; but i t required to be worked by a thinker, as close and vigorous as my father. The path was a thorny one even to him, and I am sure i t was so to me, though I took the strongest i n t e r e s t i n the subject. He was continually provoked by my f a i l u r e s both where success could, and where i t could not, have been expected; but i n the main his method was ri g h t , and i t succeeded. I do not believe that any s c i e n t i f i c teaching ever was more thorough, or better calculated for training the f a c u l t i e s , than the mode i n which l o g i c and p o l i t i c a l economy were taught to me by my f a t h e r . 4 5 42 Notwithstanding his observations about the 'thorny' nature of these studies, he recognizes t h e i r value, and the essential fact that ' i t succeeded.' At another point i n the Autobiography, he concludes, almost with approbation while suggesting that his father's anger might have been unreasonable but, that "A pup i l from whom nothing i s ever demanded which he cannot do, never does a l l he: can. With his submission to his father's f o r c e f u l methods, went a close containment of any notions of s e l f - c o n c e i t : He kept me, with extreme vigilance, out of the way of hearing myself praised, or of being led to make s e l f complimentary comparisons betwean myself and others. From his own intercourse with me I could derive none but a very humble opinion of myself; and the standard of comparison he always held up to me, was not what other people did, but what could and ought to be done.4'' Added to the r e s t r a i n t on his egotism was a close d i r e c t i o n of his moral and r e l i g i o u s views. He writes that i t would have been t o t a l l y inconsistent with his father's ideas of duty to permit him to hold notions at variance with his own convictions and feelings respecting r e l i g i o n . 4 ^ jje acknowledges his own submission and his dependence on his father when he relates the advice his father gave him on the eve of his French journey, advice i n which he was t o l d that he would f i n d that he knew many things that 43 other youths of his age would not know, but that whatever he knew more than others was not ascribable to any merit i n himself but rather to the very un-usual advantage that had f a l l e n to him. M i l l con-cludes with his own d u t i f u l recognition; "to which as to a l l other things which my father told me, I gave i m p l i c i t credence......" 4^ In the course of editing the early draft of John Stuart M i l l ' s autobiography, S t i l l i n g e r has noted a number of s i g n i f i c a n t changes i n the published version. Harriet M i l l had a good deal to do with the early editing of the published version, exercising a re-str a i n i n g hand on M i l l ' s f i r s t written language with the r e s u l t that the generally known version displays much less candour than the e a r l i e r one. In S t i l l i n g e r ' s words "she read and 'improved' the remainder of the draf t . " S t i l l i n g e r further records some of the more material effects of the l a t e r changes M i l l made i n the Autobiography: Here and there M i l l toned down his r e c o l -lections of family relationships and especially of his father. Indirect references to his mother, i n speaking of his father's " i l l assorted marriage", "to which he had not, and never could have supposed that he had, the i n -ducements of kindred i n t e l l e c t , tastes, or pursuits" are charitably omitted. 4 4 H i s f a t h e r ' s " a u t h o r i t y and i n d i g n a -t i o n " i s r e w r i t t e n as " d i s p l e a s u r e " ; and the f a c t t h a t he " o f t e n mockingly c a r i c a t u r e d " M i l l ' s bad reading i s d i s c a r d e d , along w i t h mention of the f u t i l e " short sharp c o n t e s t ( s ) " between them over d i f f e r e n c e s i n o p i n i o n and h i s f a t h e r ' s " a s p e r i t i e s of temper" .... By changes of t h i s s o r t , w i t h the a d d i t i o n o f s e v e r a l sentences comparing h i s f a t h e r w i t h Bentham, the l a t e r d r a f t comes c o n s i d e r a b l y c l o s e r than the e a r l i e r to being, i n the passages d e s c r i b i n g him, a eulogy o f h i s f ather. 51 S t i l l i n g e r ' s examination of the e a r l y d r a f t o f M i l l ' s autobiography together w i t h the i n s i g h t gained on the e d i t o r i a l p o l i c y p r a c t i s e d i n p r e p a r i n g i t f o r p u b l i -c a t i o n l e a v e no doubt t h a t the e a r l y d r a f t has much to r e v e a l . Noting t h a t the omi s s i o n of c e r t a i n terms used i n the f i r s t d r a f t had c r e a t e d a "more formal and g e n e r a l i z e d " l a t e r v e r s i o n , S t i l l i n g e r adds: " M i l l ' s s u c c e s s i v e r e v i s i o n s w i t h i n the e a r l y d r a f t show the same k i n d of progress from p r i v a t e to p u b l i c , and from p u b l i c to more p u b l i c , voice."52 In the passage j u s t quoted from S t i l l i n g e r ' s I n t r o d u c t i o n to h i s e d i t i o n of The E a r l y D r a f t of  John S t u a r t M i l l ' s Autobiography the r e f e r e n c e s to James M i l l ' s " i l l a s s o r t e d ; marriage" and the i n d i r e c t a l l u s i o n to John M i l l ' s mother, co n t a i n e d i n the c i t a -t i o n , "to which he had not and never c o u l d have supposed th a t he had, the inducements of k i n d r e d i n t e l l e c t , 45 t a s t e s , or p u r s u i t s " c a r r y w i t h them a marked d i s -paragement of h i s mother. S t i l l i n g e r ' s f i n a l v e r s i o n of the e a r l y d r a f t reads as f o l l o w s : P e r s o n a l l y I b e l i e v e my f a t h e r to have had much g r e a t e r c a p a c i t i e s of f e e l i n g than were ever developed i n him. He resembled almost a l l Englishmen i n being ashamed of the s i g n s of f e e l i n g , and by the absence of demonstration, s t a r v i n g the f e e l i n g s themselves. In an atmosphere of tenderness and a f f e c t i o n he would have been tender and a f f e c t i o n a t e ; but h i s i l l a s s o r t e d marriage and h i s a s p e r i t i e s o f temper d i s a b l e d him from making such an atmosphere.^3 I m p l i c i t i n t h i s passage are the d u t i f u l son's r e s p e c t f o r h i s f a t h e r and a r e g r e t f o r that l a c k o f tender-ness which would have c r e a t e d the atmosphere t h a t the son d e s i r e d . There i s a l s o , by the very r e t i c e n c e i n speaking of h i s mother, the i m p l i c a t i o n o f a s i l e n t a c c u s a t i o n a g a i n s t her f o r not having p r o v i d e d the tenderness, the absence of which he lamented. Although John S t u a r t M i l l i s demonstrably not the i c y V i c t o r i a n f i g u r e o f legend, he does appear c o l d and detached i n h i s d e a l i n g s w i t h h i s mother. A number of h i s l e t t e r s to her have been preserved, and they c a r r y the customary i n q u i r i e s about h e a l t h and they end w i t h the customary terms of a f f e c t i o n , but t h e r e i s something wanting i n them, the warmth between a son and h i s mother. When M i l l l a t e r i n l i f e broke w i t h h i s f a m i l y over t h e i r coolness about h i s marriage and the f a n c i e d s l i g h t s g i v e n to h i s w i f e , he caused h i s mother and h i s b r o t h e r s and s i s -t e r s much anguish. Packe has w r i t t e n a f u l l account of these unhappy events, even to the p o i n t where M i l l b e t rayed no p a r t i c u l a r emotion a t the time of h i s mother's death. Yet h i s behaviour was not t h a t of an unemotional person. He was warm-hearted and generous i n h i s r e l a t i o n s h i p s w i t h h i s many f r i e n d s and acquaintances, and h i s uxorious behaviour i n marriage has long been a t o p i c of i n t e r e s t . M i l l , h i m s e l f , p r o v i d e s one key to h i s a t t i t u d e and behav-i o u r i n the e a r l y d r a f t of the Autobiography; d i s -c u s s i n g a t f u r t h e r l e n g t h , the r e l a t i o n s h i p between h i s f a t h e r and h i s b r o t h e r s and s i s t e r s , M i l l comments But i n r e s p e c t to what I am here concerned w i t h , the moral agencies which acted on myself, i t must be mentioned as a most b a n e f u l one, that my f a t h e r ' s c h i l d r e n n e i t h e r l o v e d him, nor, w i t h any warmth of a f f e c t i o n , any one e l s e . I do not mean th a t t h ings were worse i n t h i s r e s p e c t than they are i n most E n g l i s h f a m i l i e s ; i n which genuine a f f e c t i o n i s a l t o g e t h e r e x c e p t i o n a l ; what i s u s u a l l y found being more or l e s s of an atachment of mere h a b i t , l i k e t h a t to inanimate o b j e c t s , and a few c o n v e n t i o n a l p r o p r i e t i e s of phrase and demonstration. I b e l i e v e there i s l e s s p e r s o n a l a f f e c t i o n i n England than i n any o t h e r country of which I know anything, and I g i v e my f a t h e r ' s f a m i l y not as p e c u l i a r i n t h i s r e s p e c t but o n l y 47 as a too f a i t h f u l e x e m p l i f i c a t i o n of the o r d i n a r y f a c t . That r a r i t y i n England, a r e a l l y warm heart e d mother, would i n the f i r s t p l a c e have made my f a t h e r a t o t a l l y d i f f e r e n t being, and i n the second would have made the c h i l d r e n grow up l o v i n g and being loved. But my mother wi t h the very best i n t e n t i o n s , o n l y knew how to pass her l i f e i n drudging f o r them. whatever she c o u l d do f o r them she d i d , and they l i k e d her, because she was k i n d to them, but to make h e r s e l f l o v e d , looked up to, or even obeyed, r e q u i r e d q u a l i t i e s which she u n f o r t u n a t e l y d i d not p o s s e s s . 5 4 The e a r l i e r c r i t i c a l a l l u s i o n s to h i s mother are g i v e n added f o r c e by these s t r i c t u r e s . M i l l i s c l e a r l y on the s i d e o f h i s f a t h e r , and these l i n e s w r i t t e n some time a f t e r October, 1852, express h i s disappointment both f o r h i s f a t h e r ' s sake and f o r h i s own. He ac-knowledges h i s mother's kindness, but he withholds from her the d e s c r i p t i o n of ' l o v i n g ' , and somewhat c a s u a l l y d i s m i s s e s her l i f e o f drudging f o r her f a m i l y as being, s e r v a n t - l i k e , her c h i e f c o n t r i b u t i o n to them. I t seems ev i d e n t t h a t M i l l was judging h i s mother a g a i n s t an i d e a l , one t h a t she c o u l d not meet. His standards, determined i n l a r g e p a r t by h i s acquaintance w i t h such women as Lady Bentham, h i s w i f e , Jane Welsh C a r l y l e , C a r o l i n e Fox, and others were u n u s u a l l y h i g h , demanding th a t h i g h standard of mind and tenderness of h e a r t t h a t he l a t e r r e f e r r e d to i n a l e t t e r to F r e d e r i c M i s t r a l . 48 The e x p l a n a t i o n would seem to be that John M i l l wanted from h i s mother not o n l y a tenderness of h e a r t but h e r o i c v i r t u e s as w e l l . He n a t u r a l l y wanted someone who c o u l d share h i s mental l i f e w i t h him, but u n f o r t u -n a t e l y she was too submissive and l a c k e d the mental v i g o r necessary to keep pace w i t h her husband and son. S i n c e he c o u l d not share h i s thoughts w i t h her, John's l e t t e r s and c o n v e r s a t i o n w i t h her f o l l o w e d p e r f u n c t o r y and u n s a t i s f a c t o r y formulas. John S t u a r t M i l l ' s mother, l i k e I s a b e l Fenton b e f o r e her, must have knowingly s a c r i f i c e d her r e l a t i o n s h i p w i t h her son i n order to f a c i l i t a t e h i s education, and she p a i d f o r i t i n the l o s s of h i s c l o s e a f f e c t i o n . She was not, l i k e h i s f a t h e r , or l a t e r on h i s w i f e , of h e r o i c mould. In f a c t , throughout the s i l e n t y e ars of h i s c h i l d h o o d she had been a n o n e n t i t y , and M i l l t r e a t e d her as i f she were a s t r a n g e r . One of the most remarkable f e a t u r e s of John S t u a r t M i l l ' s unusual edu c a t i o n was the e x t r a o r d i n a r y degree o f r e s t r a i n t and submission that he d i s p l a y e d under h i s f a t h e r ' s e x a c t i n g t u t e l a g e . I t i s s a f e to say t h a t most o t h e r boys would have found v a r i o u s ways of f r u s t r a t i n g the tasks which M i l l always att a c k e d w i t h energy i f not a c t u a l enthusiasm. There was h a r d l y a murmur from him a t any time. Some of Place's comments on h i s a p p l i c a t i o n to h i s tasks have been noted. 49 During his sojourn i n France, Lady Bentham made the following comment i n a l e t t e r from France to James M i l l . She i s seeking the father's consent for John's continued stay with them i n France, and she notes how everyone " i n grand committee had resolved that he should remain with u s " 5 5 unless his father should desire otherwise. She adds: Upon a l l occasions his gentleness under reproof, and thankfulness for correction are remarkable; and as i t i s by reason supported by examples we point out to him that we endeavour to convince him, not by command that we induce him to act so or so, we trust that you ;will have s a t i s f a c t i o n from that part of his education we are giving him to f i t him for commerce with the world at large-; 5 6 With his knowledge that many fanatics espouse bad causes, James M i l l held a strong aversion bordering on intolerance for many i n t e l l e c t u a l errors, a d i s l i k e that bore, i n the words of his son, something of the character of a moral f e e l i n g . 5 7 I m p l i c i t i n this a t t i -tude -is James M i l l ' s energy i n a l l i n t e l l e c t u a l matters, a perfectionism when seeking the solution to a problem; this attitude was a l l i e d to his stand on moral matters. John M i l l described him as inculcating the pr i n c i p l e s of the " S o c r a t i c i v i r i " . 5 8 With an outlook on l i f e that partook of the 50 character of the Stoic, the Epicurean, and the Cynic, and with a predominance of the Stoic i n his c h a r a c t e r 5 9 i t i s not surprising to learn that James M i l l placed very l i t t l e emphasis on pleasure, deeming that the greatest miscarriages i n l i f e derived from the over-valuing of p l e a s u r e s . ^ He held this view notwith-standing the teachings of the U t i l i t a r i a n s , concerning the greatest happiness of the greatest number. His attitude to pleasure and the emotions i s summed up i n the Autobiography: He never varied i n rating i n t e l l e c t u a l enjoyments above a l l others, even i n th e i r value as pleasures, independently of u l t e r i o r consequences. The pleasures of the benevolent affections he placed high i n the scale; and used to say that he had never known a happy old man, except those who were able to l i v e over again i n the pleasures of the young. For passionate emotions of a l l sorts, and for everything which has been said or written i n exaltation of them, he professed the greatest contempt: he regarded them as a form of madness; "the intense" was with him a bye-word of scornful disapprobation. He regarded as an aberration of the moral standard of modern times, compared with that of the ancients, the great stress l a i d upon f e e l i n g . Feelings, as such, he considered to be no proper subjects of praise of blame; ... Concerning his relations with his own father, John M i l l s a i d that his father had greater capacities of f e e l i n g than were ever developed i n him. Adding that his i l l -51 a s s o r t e d marriage and h i s a s p e r i t i e s of temper pre-vented him from developing the needed tenderness and a f f e c t i o n , he c o n t i n u e s : I t was one of the most unfavourable of the moral agencies which acted on me i n my boyhood, that mine was not an education of l o v e but of f e a r . ... I do not be-l i e v e that f e a r , as an element i n edu-c a t i o n , can be dispensed with; but I am sure t h a t i t ought not to be the predom-i n a n t element; and when i t i s c a r r i e d so f a r as to p r e c l u d e l o v e or c o n f i d e n c e on the p a r t of the c h i l d to those who should be the u n r e s e r v e d l y t r u s t e d a d v i s e r s of a f t e r y e a r s , and perhaps to s e a l up a l -together the f o u n t a i n s of frank and spontaneous communicativeness i n the c h i l d ' s c h a r a c t e r , i t i s an e v i l f o r which a l a r g e abatement must be made from the b e n e f i t s , moral and i n t e l l e c -t u a l , which may flow from any other p a r t of the e d u c a t i o n . 6 2 There i s a w i s t f u l a i r , a f a i n t sadness i n the r e f e r e n c e to those who 'should be the t r u s t e d a d v i s e r s of a f t e r y e a r s ' ; M i l l undoubtedly loved h i s f a t h e r and wished f o r h i s a f f e c t i o n , companionship, and a p p r o v a l , but he a l s o undoubtedly f e a r e d him. Perhaps the l a s t word on t h i s aspect of h i s education i s p r o v i d e d by C a r o l i n e Fox,,who r e c a l l e d some p l a i n t i v e remarks he made to her: This method of e a r l y i n t e n s e a p p l i c a t i o n he would not recommend to o t h e r s ; i n most cases i t would not answer, and where i t does, the buoyancy of youth i s e n t i r e l y superseded by the m a t u r i t y of manhood, and a c t i o n i s very l i k e l y to be merged i n r e f l e c t i o n . "I never was a boy," he 5 2 said; "never played at c r i c k e t : i t i s fi_ better to l e t Nature have her own ways." In the l i g h t of his own remarks and the observations of friends and acquaintances, there can be l i t t l e doubt that John Stuart M i l l ' s education was marked by repression both i n opinion and feelings, but that he strove constantly to please his father and to r i s e to his demands, and i n so doing was strained to the point of overwork. Inevitably one wonders, when considering his education, just how John Stuart M i l l managed to endure the whole exhausting process. I t i s certa i n that very few boys could ever survive such a course of over-heated i n t e l l e c t u a l i n s t r u c t i o n without r e b e l l i n g or collapsing under the s t r a i n . With very few holidays, i f any, without playmates, and without the play, the d i r t , and the mud, of childhood, he nevertheless progressed and even seemed to thrive under the demanding r e s t r a i n t and s t r a i n that would have been too much for many an adult. The only resonable answer to this question would seem to be that he experienced an extraordinary and tenuous sense of s a t i s f a c t i o n i n the close working r e l a t i o n s h i p he had with his father. Caroline Fox has written her r e c o l l e c t i o n of a con-versation that grew out of the mention of John Ster-53 l i n g ' s name: John M i l l speaks t h a n k f u l l y of the t i s s u e of circumstances which had l o c a t e d them here: amongst o t h e r s , he s a i d , was the p l e a s u r e of making John S t e r l i n g and us known to each other; f o r , s a i d he, i t i s very d e l i g h t f u l to i n t r o d u c e those who w i l l a p p r e c i a t e each other. He t a l k e d e n t h u s i a s t i c a l l y of him; I remarked on h i s w r i t i n g being more obscure and i n -v o l v e d than h i s c o n v e r s a t i o n even on deep s u b j e c t s . "Yes," he s a i d , " i n t a l k i n g you address y o u r s e l f to the p a r t i c u l a r s t a t e o f mind of the person w i t h whom you are conv e r s i n g , but i n w r i t i n g you speak as i t were to an i d e a l o b j e c t . " "And then," s a i d I, "you can't ask a book q u e s t i o n s ; " which, I was proud to be informed, was what P l a t o had s a i d b e f o r e me, and on th a t ground accounted books of l i t t l e v a l u e , and always r e c -ommended d i s c u s s i o n s . " C e r t a i n l y , " he added, " i t i s of l i t t l e use to read i f you can form ideas o f your own ... but the r e i s an e x q u i s i t e d e l i g h t i n meeting w i t h a something i n the ideas of others answering to anything i n your own s e l f -consciousness; then you make the i d e a your own and never l o s e i t . " 6 4 Although M i l l seems to have d e r i v e d much s a t i s f a c t i o n from a d d r e s s i n g the ' i d e a l o b j e c t ' of a book, i t seems ev i d e n t t h a t he p r e f e r r e d the joys of d i s c u s s i o n , the ' e x q u i s i t e d e l i g h t i n meeting w i t h a something i n the ideas of others answering to anything i n h i s own s e l f -c o n sciousness.' The one with whom he had c a r r i e d on most of h i s d i s c u s s i o n s had been h i s f a t h e r , and we may assume t h a t h i s d e l i g h t i n d i s c u s s i o n was one of the sources of p l e a s u r e t h a t p e r m i t t e d him to endure the 54 g r e a t demands of h i s e d u c a t i o n a l programme, a l l r e -s t r a i n t and r e p r e s s i o n notwithstanding. One i n f e r s t h a t h i s P l a t o n i c and S o c r a t i e education w i t h i t s heavy dependence on the spoken word, had made him more than u s u a l l y s u s c e p t i b l e to the r e l a t i o n s h i p w i t h s e n s i t i v e minds, and at the same time more than u s u a l l y dependent on the presence and companionship of such minds. Here, perhaps, are the very r o o t s of h i s dependence on h i s f a t h e r , and l a t e r on H a r r i e t , h i s w i f e . U n t i l j u s t a few days b e f o r e h i s f o u r t e e n t h b i r t h d a y , John S t u a r t M i l l had spent most of h i s days as, i n h i s own words, 'an h a b i t u a l inmate' of h i s f a t h e r ' s study, l e a r n i n g a t h i s f a t h e r ' s elbow, and meeting h i s f a t h e r ' s f r i e n d s . In t h i s c l o s e atmos-phere, under the dominating presence of h i s f a t h e r , the experiences he had were so f i r m l y c o n t r o l l e d by h i s f a t h e r t h a t even t h e i r emotional tone was d e t e r -mined f o r him. One c o u l d say t h a t not u n t i l h i s journey to France and h i s year's s t a y t h e r e d i d M i l l have many experiences of h i s own. His was h a r d l y an i n d i v i d u a l l i f e , and, i n f a c t , one c o u l d say t h a t w i t h o n l y s m a l l exceptions h i s experiences to t h i s date were h i s f a t h e r ' s experiences. Not u n t i l he 55 went to France and l i v e d t h e r e d i d John S t u a r t M i l l r e a l l y have any lengthy and s i g n i f i c a n t experiences of h i s own. His s o j o u r n i n France was f o r him almost a new b i r t h . A r e c o r d of John M i l l ' s impressions, thoughts, and a c t i v i t i e s has been preserved i n h i s j o u r n a l and notebook; these documents, w r i t t e n i n France d u r i n g h i s s t a y t h e r e i n 1820 and 1821, and subsequently e d i t e d i n 1960 by Anna Jean M i l l p r o v i d e an e s s e n t i a l account of h i s l i f e d u r i n g h i s s o j o u r n i n that country. For a number of years p r i o r to John M i l l ' s journey to France, James M i l l had contemplated the p o s s i b i l i t y of a lengthy s t a y i n t h a t country, but h i s appointment to the I n d i a O f f i c e had e l i m i n a t e d the p r o j e c t from h i s mind. However, when S i r Samuel Bentham, the b r o t h e r of Jeremy Bentham, had sent an i n v i t a t i o n to John to j o i n him and h i s f a m i l y f o r an e x t e n s i v e v i s i t he accepted the o f f e r . A c c o r d i n g l y , i n 1820, James M i l l consented to the v i s i t and John s e t out from London on May 15. His departure f o r France marked the f i r s t time t h a t he had been away from h i s f a m i l y f o r any c o n s i d e r a b l e p e r i o d of time, and i t marked the f i r s t time t h a t he had l e f t the s t r i c t d a i l y c o n t r o l of h i s f a t h e r . He was j u s t s h o r t 56 of h i s f o u r t e e n t h year. John M i l l ' s j o u r n a l took the form of a s e r i e s of l e t t e r s c o n s c i e n t i o u s l y g i v i n g a day-by-day account of h i s a c t i v i t i e s and o b s e r v a t i o n s . D e t a i l e d d e s c r i p t i o n s of h i s journeys, the inns he stayed a t , and h i s t r a v -e l l i n g companions f i l l the f i r s t p a r t of h i s j o u r n a l . L a t e r e n t r i e s i n c l u d e expense items and l e t t e r s i n French. What i s p a r t i c u l a r l y i n t e r e s t i n g i s the changing p a t t e r n o f John's a c t i v i t i e s and p r e o c c u p a t i o n s . At f i r s t , he d u t i f u l l y t r i e d t o c a r r y on h i s r e a d i n g and s t u d i e s , much as he had done at home, but the o b s t a c l e s r a i s e d by h i s t r a v e l and the removal of the Benthams to Toulouse i n t e r r u p t e d h i s attempts a t f o l l o w i n g a r e g u l a r programme. I t i s amusing to note t h a t the Benthams c o n t r i v e d by v a r i o u s means to break up h i s r o u t i n e ; Lady Bentham, a very i n t e l l i g e n t and d e f i n i t e person, seems to have had much to do w i t h t h i s , but S i r Samuel had a l s o expressed the view t h a t John was too bookish. I t was c e r t a i n l y a k i n d of l i f e d i f f e r e n t from any John had ever encountered, f o r he was c o n t i n u a l l y b e i ng i n t e r r u p t e d and engaged i n c o n v e r s a t i o n e i t h e r w i t h o t h e r members of the f a m i l y or w i t h French servants and neighbors. In s p i t e of the promptings of h i s conscience he had f a r l e s s o p p o r t u n i t y to read than he had expected, f o r , pending 57 the departure for Toulouse during the f i r s t part of his v i s i t , the books were a l l packed with his a s s i s t -ance and the l i b r a r y was locked against him. The Bentham family l i k e d John, but they were determined to change some of his ways. Writing to James M i l l i n September of 1820, Lady Bentham requested that John should be allowed to remain with them, and i n addition to p r a i s i n g his d o c i l i t y , she commented: "... he has t r a v e l l e d i n the coach with Bentham, Clara, and my-s e l f and we have been considerably successful i n getting the better of his i n a c t i v i t y of mind and body when l e f t to himself." His journal therefore reveals a s i g n i f i c a n t change in the pattern of his a c t i v i t i e s . Music, dancing, bathing, and walking occupied a large part of his time. There were reading and study too, but i n -creasingly other pursuits occupied his attention and took over from his studies. Fencing, r i d i n g , and swimming were demanded of him i n spite of his protests; an increasing number of physical a c t i v i t i e s vied for his time, although his studies always claimed some of his attention. S i r Samuel and Lady Bentham were evidently determined to provide him with the s o c i a l and physical a c t i v i t y he needed to o f f s e t 58 the e x c e s s i v e l y i n t e l l e c t u a l regime he had l i v e d under i n England. I t was a t t h i s time too t h a t he was i n i t i a t e d by George Bentham, then about twenty, i n t o the f a s c i n a t i o n s of botany, f a s c i n a t i o n s t h a t c r e a t e d f o r him a l i f e - l o n g hobby. Entomology, w i t h i t s f i e l d t r i p s and b u t t e r f l y - c a t c h i n g a l s o claimed h i s time. At the U n i v e r s i t y of M o n t p e l l i e r he attended l e c t u r e s i n s c i e n c e , p a r t i c u l a r l y i n chemistry, and i n the course of h i s attendance there made f r i e n d s w i t h a youth who was to become one of France's most d i s t i n g u i s h e d chemists, Antoine Jerome B a l a r d . Repeated e x p e d i t i o n s to the r i v e r Garonne f o r b a t h i n g , wading, and p i c n i c k i n g were recorded i n h i s j o u r n a l w i t h comments on the p l e a s u r e he f e l t . On one o c c a s i o n , J u l y 30, he seems to have enjoyed him-s e l f t o an e x c e p t i o n a l degree: J u l y 30. At f o u r o ' c l o c k w i t h Dr. R u s s e l l and h i s sons, and Mr. George, to the f o r e s t of Buzet on the Alby road, on an e n t o m o l o g i c a l e x p e d i t i o n . The road i s very b e a u t i f u l ; a f t e r c r o s s i n g the c a n a l , we passed through a very f i n e long avenue of t r e e s , and through the v i l l a g e of La c r o i x Daurade, a f t e r which we c r o s s e d the r i v e r E r s , and p a s s i n g s e v e r a l h i l l s and p r e t t y v a l l i e s , we passed through the v i l l a g e s of Castel-Moron, G a r i d e c , and Gemil. - On t h i s road, i n o r der to o b t a i n 59 a f i n e l a k e and i s l a n d , a round h o l e has been dug i n a garden and heaped up i n the middle; a b r i d g e has been thrown ac r o s s , but the poor people seem never to have thought of f i n d i n g water f o r t h e i r d i t c h , and a c c o r d i n g l y i t remains dry, except i n r a i n y weather, when i t i s a l i t t l e puddle. However i t i s s t i l l an e legant l a k e . We l e f t the horses at Gemil and walked on to the f o r e s t of Buzet where we had a chase of i n s e c t s f o r some hours. The wood i s very p r e t t y . The heat of the day brought out many b u t t e r f l i e s , and my c o l l e c t i o n i s n e i t h e r s m a l l nor t r i v i a l , as i t c o n t a i n s some very r a r e k i n d s . We b r e a k f a s t e d as at Bouconne and La Ramette w i t h t h i s e x c e p t i o n that as t h e r e i s a l i t t l e stream through t h i s f o r e s t , we found a l i t t l e water, though f o r i t s c l e a r n e s s , i t i s t r u e , much cannot be s a i d . There i s a l i t t l e broken b r i d g e over the r i v u l e t . The p a r t i c u l a r e n try from which t h i s passage i s taken i s much longer, but there i s enough here to i n d i c a t e t h a t t h i s John M i l l i s not the same c o n f i n e d boy who spent each day a t h i s f a t h e r ' s elbow; these more r o -bust joys t h a t he a l l u d e s to have a s p o n t a n e i t y t h a t h i s l i f e had seldom r e v e a l e d b e f o r e , and c a r r y w i t h them evidence o f the growing enchantment w i t h nature t h a t p e r s i s t e d throughout h i s l i f e . In August, 1820, he wrote to R i c h a r d Doane: Me v o i c i dans l e s Pyrenees, i n i t i e aux deux m e t i e r s de b o t a n i s t e et d'entomologiste. C e t a i t dommage de perdre 1'occasion, q u i ne s ' o f f r i r a peut 'e'tre p l u s . J'espere que vous vous trouvez encore dans un a u s s i bon ^ t a t de sante que guand j ' a i eu l e p l a i s i r de vous v o i r . 6 6 60 Aware t h a t the o p p o r t u n i t y to become a b o t a n i s t and an entomologist might not e a s i l y r e t u r n , John M i l l was s e i z i n g the o p p o r t u n i t y b e f o r e i t vanished. Whether f o r b o t a n i z i n g or mountain-climbing, John's repeated e x p e d i t i o n s are t h e i r own witness to h i s i n t e r e s t and enthusiasm. John M i l l r e t u r n e d from France i n J u l y , 1821 to enter a new stage of h i s development. I t was an im-p o r t a n t stage, f o r he was showing an i n t e r e s t i n new enthusiasms. James M i l l , a f t e r n o t i n g how e f f i c i e n t l y John resumed h i s t u t o r i a l d u t i e s w i t h h i s b r o t h e r s and s i s t e r s , took a c a r e f u l look a t h i s r e t u r n i n g son. Packe has s u p p l i e d much of the m a t e r i a l needed to complete one's understanding of t h i s p e r i o d of M i l l ' s James M i l l c a r e f u l l y s c r u t i n i z e d the boy who had so calmly eased h i s i r r i t a t i o n . He was o l d e r i n many ways: f o u r t e e n months was a long time i n such a crowded c h i l d h o o d . Was he not a l s o grown a l i t t l e independent? He seemed to have l e a r n t something new, something he had not been taught. B e s i d e s , he even seemed to have made a f r i e n d f o r h i m s e l f w h i l e at M o n t p e l l i e r . Who was t h i s young B a l a r d the boy ke p t speaking o f , ke p t w r i t i n g to? A budding s c i e n t i s t , a p p arently; w e l l , i t might be worse, but i t would have to be c a r e f u l l y watched. That was the t r o u b l e w i t h t a b u l a r a s a : s i n c e every experience helped to form d e c i s i v e a s s o c i a t i o n s , you had not o n l y to im-press your own i n f l u e n c e on the boy, you had to censor a l l the o t h e r s . ...But now 61 t h a t John was moving on h i s own, t r a v -e l l i n g i n France, walking f r e e l y about London, t h e r e was no t e l l i n g what im-p r e s s i o n s he was p i c k i n g up. There was no time to watch him everywhere. A l r e a d y t h e r e were dangerous symptoms. Why was he r u s h i n g round to Bentham's p u l l i n g out every book he c o u l d f i n d about the French R e v o l u t i o n , t e a r i n g through them wi t h an eagerness t h a t went beyond due d i l i g e n c e ? For John had not been taught about the R e v o l u t i o n : he had o n l y been taught t h a t the French, i n a lamentable l a p s e of reason i n e x o r a b l y punished by i t s consequences, "had put the King and Queen to death, g u i l l o t i n e d many persons, one of whom was L a v o i s i e r ( t h e i r g r e a t e s t s c i e n t i s t ) , and had u l t i m a t e l y f a l l e n under the despotism of Bonaparte. 1 , 6 7 The younger M i l l , g i v i n g evidence of the f r e e r and broader e x i s t e n c e he had l e d i n France, was a l s o r e v e a l i n g s i g n s of f e e l i n g s and enthusiasms t h a t might l e a d him a f i e l d , away from the paths and d i r e c t i o n s so s e d u l o u s l y p r e -pared by h i s f a t h e r . 1 As Packe p o i n t s out, John M i l l had suddenly d i s -covered t h a t the democratic p r i n c i p l e s t h a t he had r e a d about were something more than academic p r i n c i p l e s and were, i n f a c t , the dreams t h a t had animated men and "had borne down e v e r y t h i n g b e f o r e them i n France t h i r t y y ears e a r l i e r , and had been the creed of the nation."68 He has observed t h a t h i s new a p p r e c i a t i o n of these p r i n c i p l e s and t h e i r a p p l i c a t i o n took an immense h o l d on h i s f e e l i n g s , so much so that the g r e a t e s t g l o r y 62 he was "capable of c o n c e i v i n g was t h a t of f i g u r i n g , s u c c e s s f u l or u n s u c c e s s f u l , as a G i r o n d i s t i n an Eng-l i s h Convention."69 With John S t u a r t M i l l ' s r e t u r n to England, the f i r s t important p e r i o d , the e d u c a t i o n a l p e r i o d o f h i s l i f e , came to an end. T h i s f i r s t stage was marked on the one hand by the continuous p r e s s u r e of h i s f a t h e r ' s e d u c a t i o n a l programme, and on the other by h i s obedient and earnest response to the d u t i e s r e q u i r e d of him. He had never f a i l e d to do what was asked of him, and James M i l l had good reason to be pl e a s e d w i t h the product of h i s p l a n n i n g . H i s admonishment to John on the eve of h i s departure f o r France was t a c i t evidence of t h a t . Yet underneath the p l a c i d , u n r u f f l e d s u r f a c e of h i s ch i l d h o o d , John M i l l ' s l i f e gave s i g n s of a d i f f e r e n t s p i r i t s t r u g g l i n g to f r e e i t s e l f from the c o n t r o l s of h i s planned e x i s t e n c e , and re a c h i n g out f o r the human f e e l i n g and a f f e c t i o n t h at h i s f a t h e r ' s e d u c a t i o n a l p l a n had f a i l e d to p r o v i d e . CHAPTER II 63 The t h i r d chapter i n John S t u a r t M i l l ' s a u t o b i o g -raphy, e n t i t l e d "Last Stage Of Education, And F i r s t Of S e l f - E d u c a t i o n , " i s e s p e c i a l l y notable, f o r i t re c o r d s a number o f important developments i n h i s f u r t h e r mental and s p i r i t u a l growth, the c h i e f of these being h i s heightened awareness of e t h i c a l c o n s i d e r a t i o n s i n human a f f a i r s , h i s acquaintance w i t h C h a r l e s A u s t i n , h i s o r g a n i z a t i o n of the s m a l l U t i l i t a r i a n S o c i e t y , and h i s appointment to the London o f f i c e of the East I n d i a Company. These developments t a k i n g p l a c e w i t h i n two years of M i l l ' s r e t u r n from France c o n t r i b u t e d s i g -n i f i c a n t l y to h i s growing independence and a consequent d i m i n u t i o n o f the c l o s e r e l a t i o n s h i p w i t h h i s f a t h e r t h a t had governed h i s l i f e f o r so long. M i l l has w r i t t e n about these developments w i t h a t t e n t i v e care. Not long a f t e r r e t u r n i n g from h i s year i n France, John M i l l r e c e i v e d from h i s f a t h e r a copy of Bentham 1s s p e c u l a t i o n s ; t h i s was provided as a c o r r e c t i v e to the i n f l u e n c e s t h a t might a r i s e i n the readings i n law t h a t he was then pursuing i n the company of John A u s t i n . The work t h a t contained Bentham's p r i n c i p a l s p e c u l a t i o n s was Dumont's T r a i t e de L e g i s l a t i o n . Notwithstanding h i s e a r l i e r f a m i l i a r i t y w i t h the purport o f Bentham's thought, John M i l l had never a c q u i r e d a f u l l under-sta n d i n g of Bentham's philosophy. Now, w i t h t h i s r e a d i n g , 64 he o b t a i n e d a new i n s i g h t i n t o the nature and a p p l i -c a t i o n of Bentham"s U t i l i t a r i a n creed. He wrote almost e c s t a t i c a l l y about h i s r e a c t i o n s to h i s reading o f t h i s important work: When I l a i d down the l a s t volume of the T r a i t e ? I had become a d i f f e r e n t being. The ' p r i n c i p l e of u t i l i t y 1 understood as Bentham understood i t , and a p p l i e d i n the manner i n which he a p p l i e d i t through these t h r e e volumes, f e l l e x a c t l y i n t o i t s p l a c e as the keystone which h e l d together the de-tached and fragmentary component p a r t s of my knowledge and b e l i e f s . I t gave u n i t y to my conceptions o f t h i n g s . I now had o p i n i o n s ; a creed, a d o c t r i n e , a philosophy; i n one among the b e s t senses of the word, a r e l i -g i o n ; the i n c u l c a t i o n and d i f f u s i o n o f which c o u l d be made the p r i n c i p a l outward purpose of a l i f e . And I had a grand co n c e p t i o n l a i d b e f o r e me of changes to be e f f e c t e d i n the c o n d i t i o n of mankind-through th a t d o c t r i n e . The T r a i t e de L e g i s l a t i o n wound up with what was to me a most imp r e s s i v e p i c t u r e of human l i f e as i t would be made by such o p i n i o n s and such laws as were recom-mended i n the t r e a t i s e . The a n t i c i p a t i o n s of p r a c t i c a b l e improvement were s t u d i o u s l y mod-er a t e , d e p r e c a t i n g and discountenancing as r e v e r i e s of vague enthusiasm many t h i n g s which w i l l one day seem so n a t u r a l to human beings, t h a t i n j u s t i c e w i l l p r obably be done to those who once thought them c h i m e r i c a l . But i n my s t a t e o f mind, t h i s appearance of s u p e r i o r i t y to i l l u s i o n added to the e f f e c t which Bentham's d o c t r i n e s produced on me, by he i g h t e n i n g the impression of mental power, and the v i s t a o f improvement which he d i d open was s u f f i c i e n t l y l a r g e and b r i l l i a n t to l i g h t up my l i f e , as w e l l as to g i v e a d e f i n i t e shape to my a s p i r a t i o n s . 7 0 The y o u t h f u l enthusiasm that might so e a s i l y have been 65 m i s d i r e c t e d was now s a f e l y g u i d e d i n t o t h o s e c h a n n e l s t h a t would p r o v i d e f o r t h e p r a c t i c a l improvement o f mankind. James M i l l , o b s e r v i n g t h e r e a c t i o n s o f h i s son t o Dumont's t r a n s l a t i o n must have f e l t a q u i e t and s o l i d s a t i s f a c t i o n on r e c o g n i z i n g t h a t John's i n t e r e s t s and e nthusiasms were r u n n i n g i n t h e d e s i r e d d i r e c t i o n . The f a m i l i a r i n t e l l e c t u a l regimen c o n t i n u e d . Readings i n H a r t l e y , B e r k e l e y , Hume, Dugald S t e w a r t , R e i d were combined w i t h L o c k e 1 s Essay On The Human  U n d e r s t a n d i n g , H e l v e t i u s ' De_ 1 ' E s p r i t , a book g r e a t l y a dmired, and f u r t h e r e s s a y s by Bentham, the l a t t e r w r i t t e n under the pseudonym o f P h i l i p Beauchamp. A t t h i s t i m e John began t o c a r r y on h i s own m e n t a l c u l t i -v a t i o n by w r i t i n g more e x t e n s i v e l y . I n the A u t o b i o g -raphy he e l a b o r a t e s on t h e n a t u r e o f t h e s e e s s a y s , n o t i n g t h a t h i s p a r t i c u l a r p r o f i c i e n c y seemed t o be i n t h e r e a l m o f 'dry argument'. He a l s o r e c a l l s h i s f a t h e r ' s r e s p o n s e t o h i s f i r s t a r g u m e n t a t i v e e s s a y was one o f g r e a t s a t i s f a c t i o n , and, as he l e a r n e d from o t h e r s , even p l e a s u r e . The w i t h h o l d i n g o f t h e f u l l measure o f p r a i s e s u g g e s t s t h a t James M i l l ' s r e -s e r v e had n o t b r o k e n down; t h e r e was s t i l l a damp-e n i n g r e t i c e n c e on h i s p a r t , p r e s e r v i n g some s m a l l 66 d i s t a n c e a t l e a s t between h i m s e l f and h i s maturing son. In the Autobiography John, commenting on these e x e r c i s e s , observes t h a t he continued to w r i t e papers on s u b j e c t s o f t e n very much beyond h i s c a p a c i t y , But w i t h g r e a t b e n e f i t both from the e x e r c i s e s themselves and from the d i s c u s s i o n s that they l e d to w i t h h i s f a t h e r . Perhaps the human c o n t a c t and s h a r i n g of opin i o n s d u r i n g these d i s c u s s i o n s p r o v i d e d the compensation needed under the s u s t a i n e d i n t e l l e c t u a l p r e s s u r e . A growing i n f l u e n c e i n h i s development now a c q u i r e d i n c r e a s e d importance. He began to converse on g e n e r a l s u b j e c t s w i t h h i s f a t h e r ' s f r i e n d s and v i s i t o r s . Two of these men i n p a r t i c u l a r had a c o n s i d e r a b l e i n f l u e n c e over him, Mr. Grote and Mr. John A u s t i n . Undoubtedly h i s f a t h e r , w i t h h i s ideas of a c o n t r o l l e d environment, encouraged these c o n v e r s a t i o n s . M i l l w r i t e s w i t h agreeable memories of h i s t a l k s w i t h Grote on p o l i t i c a l , ' moral, and p h i l o s o p h i c a l s u b j e c t s which gave him i n a d d i t i o n to the u s e f u l i n s t r u c t i o n ' a l l the p l e a s u r e and b e n e f i t of sympathetic communion 1 w i t h a man of h i g h i n t e l l e c t u a l and moral eminence. John A u s t i n exerted a g r e a t moral i n f l u e n c e over him, and M i l l r e c a l l s e s p e c i a l l y the highmindedness i n h i s conver-s a t i o n and demeanor. However, the i n f l u e n c e o f Charles 67 Austin over him was d i f f e r e n t from that of others and evidently profound: i t was not that of a man over a boy or of a teacher over a pupil, but of an i n t e l l e c -tual equal, and the impression of this friendship was a l a s t i n g one. M i l l ' s growing independence made a further advanc i n 1825 when he wrote several a r t i c l e s on Ireland and the Catholic Question for the Parliamentary History  And Review. Referring to these a r t i c l e s he wrote i n the Autobiography: These writings were no longer mere repro-ductions and applications of the doctrines I had been taught; they were o r i g i n a l thinking, as far as that name can be applied to old ideas i n new forms and connexions: and I do not exceed the truth i n saying there was a maturity, and a well-digested character about them, which there had not been i n any of my previous performances. Almost at the same time he became a member of a second small society, a study group that he helped to e s t a b l i i n London. This study group, consisting of a dozen or more members, engaged i n careful and exhaustive d i s -cussions on a number of topics of int e r e s t , c h i e f l y i n p o l i t i c a l economy. M i l l remarked about this group and i t s a c t i v i t i e s that he always dated from their conversations his own r e a l inauguration as an o r i g i n a l and independent thinker. At the same time he was also 68 heavily engaged i n public speaking and debating as well as writing, the l a t t e r being c h i e f l y for the Westminster Review. Out of these conversations and friendships arose a number of i n t e l l e c t u a l a c t i v i t i e s that were to exert d i r e c t i v e influences i n his l i f e . Packe has provided a f u l l account of the circumstances that led M i l l and his friends to establish t h e i r debating and study clubs, the U t i l i t a r i a n Society, and i t s successors, The Mutual Improvement Society, and The London De-bating S o c i e t y . 7 2 So far as i s known, the f i r s t two smaller s o c i e t i e s did not include non-Benthamites. It was the much larger and more i n f l u e n t i a l London Debating Society that attracted the most attention. In many respects i t was modelled on the Cambridge Union Society, and had i n i t s membership i n August 182 5 over a hun-dred names, several members of Parliament, some Lords, a l l among the leading young men of the country with t h e i r representation of a considerable range of opinion. The London Debating Society was to play an important part i n John M i l l ' s l i f e , introducing him both to new ideas and to new friends. Here he met John S t e r l i n g , one of the closest friends he ever had, G r e v i l l e , Southey, Gustave d'Eichthal, Frederick Maurice, and Wordsworth. Through his a c t i v i t i e s i n this society he became acquainted with the Saint-Simonians, August 69 Comte, C a r l y l e , de T o c q u e v i l l e , and C o l e r i d g e . Some o f t h e s e new a c q u a i n t a n c e s and i n f l u e n c e s were l a t e r f o r g o t t e n o r r e j e c t e d ; but o t h e r s , such as Wordsworth, were more p r o d u c t i v e and l e f t i m p r e s s i o n s • a n d i d e a s t h a t remained w i t h M i l l f o r l i f e . D u r i n g h i s boyhood, John S t u a r t M i l l ' s l i f e , w i t h t h e e x c e p t i o n o f h i s v i s i t t o F r a n c e , had always been s u b j e c t t o c l o s e e x t e r n a l d i r e c t i o n and p r e s s u r e . W i t h the l o o s e n i n g o f the t i e s between him and h i s f a t h e r and w i t h the d e c l i n e i n the o l d awe and f e a r t h a t he had f e l t , M i l l f e l t a growing need f o r com-p a n i o n s h i p . T y p i c a l l y he w i s h e d t o l i n k h i s compan-i o n s h i p w i t h h i s c o n c e i v e d purpose: From t h e w i n t e r o f 1821, when I f i r s t r e a d Bentham, and e s p e c i a l l y from the commence-ment o f t h e We s t m i n s t e r Review, I had what might t r u l y be c a l l e d an o b j e c t i n l i f e ; t o be a r e f o r m e r o f the w o r l d . My concep-t i o n o f my own h a p p i n e s s was e n t i r e l y i d e n t i f i e d w i t h t h i s o b j e c t . The p e r s o n a l s ympathies I w i s h e d f o r were those o f f e l l o w l a b o u r e r s i n t h i s e n t e r p r i s e . 7 4 So busy was he d u r i n g t h i s new and e x p a n s i v e p e r i o d o f h i s l i f e t h a t one wonders how he k e p t up the pace. Packe has p r o v i d e d an i m p r e s s i v e summary o f M i l l ' s a c t i v i t i e s a t t h i s time: So, i n the s i n g l e y e a r 1825 when he was n i n e t e e n , John M i l l s e t o u t t o e d i t Bentham, founded t h e D e b a t i n g S o c i e t y , d i s c u s s e d P o l i t i c a l Economy t h r e e hours a week a t G r o t e ' s house i n Threadneedle 70 Street, wound up the U t i l i t a r i a n Society, contributed major a r t i c l e s to the West-minster Review, went for long country walks with Graham and Roebuck, carried out his mounting duties at the India House with conspicuous success, and continued to be s o l e l y responsible for the education of his brothers and s i s t e r s . He also found time to write an a r t i c l e to lead o f f the f i r s t number of the Parliamentary History  And Review, a p e r i o d i c a l sponsored by Mr. Marshall, a worthy Leeds manufacturer and f r i e n d of his father. To f i l l up the remaining cracks of l e i s u r e he decided to learn German; languages never bothered him, and he took a course of lessons with Sarah Austin, who was an expert, and began to address her from that time forward by the pet name "Mutterlein". The i n t e l l e c t u a l a c t i v i t i e s i n this f a n t a s t i c l i s t were none of them of a tr a n s i t o r y nature and a l l of them continued unabated into 1826. R e t r i -bution i n e v i t a b l y f o l l o w e d . 7 5 The i n e v i t a b l e r e t r i b u t i o n was his well-known mental c r i s i s . Long after his c r i s i s , when writing his auto-biography, M i l l said that he came across some l i n e s from Coleridge's Dejection that exactly described his feelings at that time: A g r i e f without a pang, void, dark and drear, A drowsy, s t i f l e d , unimpassioned g r i e f , Which finds no natural o u t l e t or r e l i e f In word, or sigh, or tear. M i l l ' s problem was that he had 'no natural outlet' for his feelings. M i l l has described i n some d e t a i l j u st how his c r i s i s rose to disturb the smooth and channelled flow of his l i f e : 71 This did very well for several years, during which the general improvement going on i n the world and the idea of myself as engaged with others i n struggling to promote i t , seemed enough to f i l l up an interesting and animated existence. But the time came when I awakened from this as from a dream. It was i n the autumn of 1826. I was i n a d u l l state of nerves, such as everybody i s occasionally l i a b l e to; unsusceptible to enjoyment or pleasurable excitement; one of those moods when what i s pleasure at other times, becomes i n s i p i d or i n -d i f f e r e n t ; the state, I should think, i n which converts to Methodism usually are, when smitten by the i r f i r s t "conviction of s i n " . In this frame of mind i t occurred to me to put the question d i r e c t l y to my-s e l f : "Suppose that a l l your objects i n l i f e were reali z e d ; that a l l the changes i n i n s t i t u t i o n s and opinions which you are looking forward to, could be completely effected at this very instant: would this be a great joy and happiness to you?" And an i r r e p r e s s i b l e self-consciousness d i s t i n c -t l y answered, "NoJ" At which my heart sank within me: the whole foundation on which my l i f e was constructed f e l l down. A l l my happiness was to have been found i n the continual pursuit of this end. The end had ceased to charm, and how could there ever again be any int e r e s t i n the means? I seemed to have nothing l e f t to l i v e for. With painful c l a r i t y M i l l saw the f u l l implication of his answer. Once his fundamental assumption was revealed to be i n v a l i d , the c a r e f u l l y imposed super-structure of his planned l i f e seemed to disintegrate and collapse. As with a mathematical solution, once the basic premise had been proved wrong, everything else, a l l of his prodigious t o i l and e f f o r t seemed f u t i l e . At this time his arduous education seemed to 72 have f a i l e d him, but why i t should have f a i l e d was not at f i r s t apparent. Of th i s conclusion and his distress he wrote i n the Autobiography: In vain I sought r e l i e f from my favourite books; those memorials of past nobleness and greatness from which I had always hitherto drawn strength and animation. I read them now without f e e l i n g , or with the accustomed f e e l i n g minus a l l i t s charm; and I became persuaded, that my love of mankind, and of excellence for i t s own sake, had worn i t s e l f out. I sought no comfort by speaking to others of what I f e l t . If I had loved any one s u f f i c i e n t l y to make confiding my g r i e f s a necessity, I should not have been i n the condition I was. I f e l t , too, that mine was not an in t e r e s t i n g or i n any way respectable d i s t r e s s . There was nothing i n i t to a t t r a c t sympathy. Advice, i f I had known where to seek i t , would, have been most precious. The words of Macbeth to the physician often occurred to my thoughts. But there was no one on whom I could b u i l d the f a i n t e s t hope of such assistance. My father, to whom i t would have been natural to me to have re-course i n any p r a c t i c a l d i f f i c u l t i e s , was the l a s t person to whom, i n such a case as t h i s , I looked for help. Everything con-vinced me that he had no knowledge of any such mental state as I was suff e r i n g from, and that even i f he could be made to under-stand i t , he was not the physician who would heal i t . My education, which was wholly his work, had been conducted without any regard to the p o s s i b i l i t y of i t s ending i n th i s r e s u l t ; and I saw no use i n giving him the pain of thinking that his plans had f a i l e d , when the f a i l u r e was probably irremediable, and, at a l l events, beyond the power of his remedies.'' The numbing shock of his p i t i l e s s introspection displayed no outward signs. He went about his usual occupations i n a mechanical manner. I t i s doubtful that his companions noticed anything dramatically 73 changed i n his appearance other than the v i s i b l e e f f e c t s of the fatigue that had pr e c i p i t a t e d the c r i s i s , but inwardly, behind his pride and reserve M i l l f e l t that 7 8 he had l o s t a l l i n t e r e s t and a l l f e e l i n g . He l a t e r s a i d that two further l i n e s from Coleridge gave a true description of what he f e l t at t h i s time: Work without hope draws nectar i n a sieve, And hope without an object cannot l i v e . ("Work Without Hope," 13) He f e l t that he not only lacked hope, but that he also lacked any b e l i e f that could engender hope. His former b e l i e f s seemed to be so shaken that he had been l e f t without any b e l i e f i n anything or anyone, and had ar-rived at a state wherein he entertained a f e e l i n g of the 'something approaching to misanthropy' of which 79 he l a t e r wrote to his f r i e n d , John S t e r l i n g . M i l l ' s education had rested upon certain premises that he had never questioned before. Two of these premises went hand i n hand, and James M i l l , i n planning his son's education, had made careful use of them. They were Bentham's doctrine of U t i l i t y and David Hartley's theory of association. According to the l a t -ter theory a l l the complex contents and processes of the mind are derived from the simple sensations combined 80 by t h e i r contiguity i n the o r i g i n a l experience. Thus, i n James M i l l ' s reasoning, i f one were to i n t e r -74 fuse the necessary experiences with the appropriate pleasures and pains, one should produce the desired mental combinations which could be reproduced men-t a l l y when required. Without repudiating these the-o r i e s , John M i l l became aware that t h e i r application i n his education was the source of many of his d i f -f i c u l t i e s : My course of study had led me to believe, that a l l mental and moral feelings and q u a l i t i e s , whether of a good or of a bad kind, were the results of association; that we love one thing, and hate another, take pleasure i n one sort of action or contem-plation, and pain i n another sort, through the cli n g i n g of pleasurable or p a i n f u l ideas to those things, from the e f f e c t of education or of experience. As a c o r o l l a r y from t h i s , I had always heard i t maintained by my father, and was myself convinced, that the object of education should be to form the strongest possible associations of the salutary class; associations of pleasure with a l l things b e n e f i c i a l to the great whole, and of pain with a l l things h u r t f u l to i t . This doc-tr i n e appeared inexpugnable; but i t now seemed to me, on retrospect, that my teachers had occupied themselves but s u p e r f i c i a l l y with the means of forming and keeping up these salutary associations. They seemed to have trusted altogether to the old f a m i l i a r i n s t r u -ments, praise and blame, reward and punishment. Now, I did not doubt that by these means, begun early, and applied unremittingly, intense associations of pain and pleasure, especially of pain, might be created, and might produce desires and aversions capable of l a s t i n g un-diminished to the end of l i f e . But there must always be something a r t i f i c i a l and casual i n associations thus produced.81 M i l l now detected a weakness i n his education: i t 75 seemed to him that the powers of analysis so c a r e f u l l y developed i n him were the very means of destroying the effectiveness of the bonds so painstakingly woven. Analytic habits may thus even strengthen the associations between causes and e f f e c t s , means and ends, but tend altogether to weaken those which are, to speak f a m i l i a r l y , a mere matter of f e e l i n g . They are therefore (I thought) favourable to prudence and clear-sightedness, but a perpetual worm at the root both of the passions and of the virtues; and, above a l l , f e a r f u l l y under-mine a l l desires, and a l l pleasures, which are the e f f e c t s of association, that i s , according to the theory I held, a l l except the purely physical and organic; of the entire i n s u f f i c i e n c y of which to make l i f e desirable, no one had a stronger conviction than I had. 8 2 Concluding that his education had f a i l e d to create those feelings i n necessary strength to r e s i s t the d i s s o l v i n g power of analysis, M i l l f e l t that neither s e l f i s h nor u n s e l f i s h pleasures could appeal to him, and that i t would be impossible now to begin anew the formation of a character which was now 'irrevocably a n a l y t i c 1 . Desperately he f e l t that he could only l i v e another year i n t h i s state of mind. I t i s s i g n i f i c a n t that M i l l ' s escape from his sense of f u t i l i t y and from his doubts and fears should have come through the medium of l i t e r a t u r e . In the Autobiography he has related how his reading i n Marmontel's Memoires brought him to the passage which relates the 76 f a t h e r ' s d e a t h , and how, a t t h i s p o i n t he was reduced t o t e a r s . The passage concerned i s d r a m a t i c and s y m b o l i c , and has a d r e a m - l i k e q u a l i t y w h i c h must have c a p t u r e d M i l l ' s a t t e n t i o n c o m p l e t e l y . Marmontel speaks here o f h i s own t e a r f u l r e u n i o n w i t h h i s f a m i l y a f t e r h i s f a t h e r ' s d e a t h : Je ne s a i s q u e l l e f o r c e que l a n a t u r e nous r e s e r v e , sans doute, pour l e malheur extreme, se d e p l o y a t o u t - a - c o u p en moi. Jamais j e ne me s u i s ^ s e n t i s i s u p e r i e u r V^moi-meme. J ' a v a i s a s o u l e v e r un p o i d s enorme de d o u l e u r ; j e n'y succombai p o i n t . J ' o u v r i s mes b r a s , mon s e i n va c e t t e f o u l e de malheureux; j e l e s y recjus t o u s ; e t , avec 1'assurance d'un homme i n s p i r e p a r l e C i e l , sans marquer de f a i b -l e s s e , sans v e r s e r ^ u n e l a r m e , moi q u i p l e u r e f a c i l e m e n t : "Ma mere, mes f r e r e s , mes s o e u r s , nous eprouvons, l e u r d i s - j e , l a p l u s grande des a f f l i c t i o n s ; ne nous y l a i s s o n s p o i n t a b a t t r e . Mes e n f a n t s , vous perdez un p e r e ; vous en r e t r o u v e z un, i e vous en s e r v i r a i ; j e l e s u i s , j e veux l ' e t r e ; j ' e n embrasse t o u s l e s d e v o i r s ; e t vous n'e^tes p l u s o r p h e l i n s . " A ces mots, des r u i s s e a u x de l a r m e s , mais des larmes b i e n moins ameres, coule^rent de l e u r s yeux. "Ah! s ' e c r i a ma mere, en me p r e s s a n t c o n t r e son c o e u r , mon f i l s ! mon c h e r e n f a n t ! que j e t ' a i b i e n connu!" e t mes f r e r e s , mes s o e u r s , mes bonnes t a n t e s , ma grand'mere, tombe'rent *a genoux. . . . J ' e t a i s a c c a b l e d e ^ f a t i g u e ; j e demandai un l i t . " H e l a s ! me d i t ma mere, i l n'y a dans l a maison que l e l i t de.... Ses p l e u r s l u i c o u p e r e n t l a v o i x . - E h ^ b i e n ! qu'on me l e donne, j ' y c o u c h e r a i sans repugnance." J'y c o u c h a i . Je ne dormis p o i n t ! mes n e r f s e^taient t r o p e b r a n l e s . Toute l a n u i t j e v i s 1'image de mon p ^ r e ^ a u s s i v i v e , a u s s i f o r t e m e n t e m p r e i n t e dans mon ame que s ' i l a v a i t *et£ present. Je c r o y a i s q u e l q u e f o i s l e v o i r r e e l l e -ment. Je n'en e t a i s p o i n t e f f r a y e ' ; j e l u i t e n d a i s l e s b r a s , j e l u i p a r l a i s . "Ah! que 77 n ' e s t - i l v r a i , l u i disais-'-je, que n'etes-vous ce q u ' i l me semble voirJ que ne pouvez-vous me repondre, et me d i r e du moins s i vous etes content de moij"83 With M i l l ' s tears came a f e e l i n g of r e l i e f . He was not a stock or a stone. He could f e e l again. Cheerfulness returned together with an enjoyment i n sunshine and sky, a delight i n books and conversation, and once again i n public a f f a i r s . The cloud began to l i f t , and once again M i l l found i t possible to f i n d an i n t e r e s t i n l i f e . Reading Marmontel had released him from his despair, but i t had not buttressed the b e l i e f s that had guided his l i f e . A l l his prodigious t o i l had not brought him happiness. As he regained his s p i r i t , almost unconsciously he began to look about him for ways i n which to construct anew where his ideas had l a i n so l a t e l y i n disarray. The scene from Marmontel has a peculiar, timeless q u a l i t y . The simple scene, the chorus imploring the hero, the outstretched arms, the hero's s t o i c courage i n the face of tears and the awareness of overwhelming loss, a l l present themselves l i k e an ancient Greek tableau, the economy of words contrasting with the sequence of actions. In the background one discerns some haunting p a r a l l e l s between the s i t u a t i o n of Marmontel and that of John M i l l . Each has l o s t a 7 8 father on whom a l l depended: Marmontel, by death; M i l l , by the deprivation of a rel a t i o n s h i p through a s t o i c and unbridgeable reserve. Each family was dependent: Marmontel 1s for physical and emotional sustenance; M i l l ' s f or education and pride. Each son i s a hero to his family, but for d i f f e r e n t reasons, and here a sharp contrast intervenes: Marmontel received the open manifestations of love and dependency, but M i l l , separated from his mother by his father's require-ments, and from his brothers and s i s t e r s by the ne-ce s s i t y of his acting as t h e i r preceptor, received very few manifestations of love i n his spartan l i f e ; he complained i n his autobiography about the lack of tenderness on his father's part and of the inadequacy on his mother's part. The whole scene was suggestive of M i l l ' s s i t u a t i o n , but with the tears added and the forbidding reserve cast aside. There can be l i t t l e doubt that i n some measure, M i l l i d e n t i f i e d himself with Marmontel, and i n doing so obtained the emotional release he so desperately needed. M i l l ' s admiration, so often given generously to the s t o i c hero, was obviously given to Marmontel, and seemingly to himself. Nevertheless the solace and r e l i e f found i n Marmontel were only p a r t i a l and incomplete. Of the lowest point i n his depression, when everything 79 seemed dark, M i l l wrote: Thus neither s e l f i s h nor u n s e l f i s h pleasures were pleasures to me. And there seemed no power i n nature s u f f i c i e n t to begin the formation of my character afresh and create i n a mind now irrevocably analytic, fresh associations of pleasure with any of the objects of human d e s i r e . 8 4 He had become conscious of the elements of his edu-cation and of the p r i n c i p l e s that had dictated i t s nature. In our own times, F. R. Leavis, writing of the remoteness from natural rhythms of the c i v i l i z a t i o n celebrated i n The Waste Land, has said "There are ways i n which i t i s possible to be too conscious; and to be so i s , as a r e s u l t of the break-up of forms and the loss of axioms noted above, one of the troubles of the present age....." 8 5 At this p a r t i c u l a r juncture i n his mental l i f e , John Stuart M i l l was too conscious, and too remote from the natural rhythms of l i f e , and i t would seem that his reading of the pathetic scene portrayed by Marmontel permitted him to f i n d empathy with the eldest son of this French family on whom so much weight was placed. M i l l ' s unconscious response to the scene i n Marmontel not only gave him a needed emotional r e l i e f , but by the nature and time of i t s occurrence i t presented him with an implication that he quickly seized: i t i s possible to be too conscious of one's purpose. 80 From the experiences of this period of his l i f e , M i l l l a t e r said that he learned two things: The experiences of this period had two very-decided effects on my opinions and character. In the f i r s t place, they led me to adopt a theory of l i f e very unlike that on which I had before acted, and having much i n common with what at that time I had never heard of, the anti-self-consciousness theory of Carlyle. I never indeed varied i n the conviction that happiness i s the test of a l l rules of conduct, and the end of l i f e . But I now thought that this end was only to be attained by not making i t the d i r e c t aim. Those only are happy (I thought) who have their attention fixed on something other than t h e i r own happiness: on the happiness of others, either i n d i v i d u a l l y or c o l l e c t i v e l y ; on the improvement of man-kind, even on some art or favorite pursuit followed not as a means but as an i d e a l end. Aiming thus at something else, they f i n d happiness by the way. The enjoyments of l i f e (such was now my theory) are s u f f i c i e n t to make i t a pleasant thing, when they are taken en passant, without being made a p r i n c i p a l object. Once make them so, and they are immediately f e l t to be i n s u f f i c i e n t . They w i l l not bear a s c r u t i n i z i n g examination. Ask yourself whether you are happy, and you cease to be so. The only chance is to treat, not happiness, but some end external to i t , as the purpose of l i f e . Let your self- c o n -sciousness, your scrutiny, your s e l f - i n t e r -rogation, exhaust themselves on that; and i f otherwise fortunately circumstanced you w i l l inhale happiness with the a i r you breathe, without dwelling on i t or thinking about i t , without either f o r e s t a l l i n g i t i n imagination, or putting i t to f l i g h t by f a t a l questioning. This theory now became the basis of my philosophy of l i f e . . . . The other important change which my opinions at this time under-went, was that I, for the f i r s t time, gave i t s proper place, among the prime necessities of human well-being, to the i n t e r n a l culture of the i n d i v i d u a l . I ceased to attach almost exclusive importance to the ordering of out-81 ward circumstances, and the training of the human being for speculation and for action. I had now learnt by experience that the passive s u s c e p t i b i l i t i e s needed to be c u l -tivated as well as the active capacities, and required to be nourished and enriched as well as guided. I did not, for an i n -stant, lose sight of, or undervalue, that part of the truth which I had seen before; I never turned recreant to i n t e l l e c t u a l culture, or ceased to consider the power and practice of analysis as an essential condition both of i n d i v i d u a l and of s o c i a l improvement. But I thought that i t had consequences which required to be corrected, by joining other kinds of c u l t i v a t i o n with i t . The maintenance of a due balance among the f a c u l t i e s , now seemed to me of primary importance. The c u l t i v a t i o n of the feelings became one of the cardinal points i n my e t h i c a l and philosophical creed. And my thoughts and inclinations, turned i n an i n -creasing degree towards whatever seemed capable of being instrumental to that o b j e c t . 8 6 M i l l now sought the 'due balance among the f a c u l t i e s ' he spoke of, and i t i s s i g n i f i c a n t that he should have done so i n conjunction with his statement that he never l o s t sight of 'that part of the.truth' which he had seen before, and that he 'never turned recreant to i n t e l l e c t u a l culture' or ceased to value the power and habit of analysis. M i l l ' s method, notwithstanding his reputation as a r a d i c a l thinker, was e s s e n t i a l l y conservative; i t was characterized by a continual, a l b e i t cautious, building and expanding. The balance between the f a c u l t i e s that he was seeking was to be a 82 balance i n which neither i n t e l l e c t nor feeling was to predominate, and i t was to be linked with a seeking of the enjoyment of l i f e en passant, i n a manner reminiscent of Arnold 1 s "disinterestedness." John Stuart M i l l ' s education presented him with a s i t u a t i o n that his father had not foreseen. James M i l l had placed his f a i t h i n the power of reason to guide mankind; a l l that an educator need do was to teach men how to reason accurately and a l l would be well; at least that was the theory that guided the education of his son. James M i l l had also assumed, with a f a i t h drawn from his own experience, that the l o g i c a l solutions arrived at by accurate reasoning would be of a benevolent nature. John M i l l wrote about his father's f a i t h i n the power of reason: On p o l i t i c s , an almost unbounded confidence i n the e f f i c a c y of two things: representative government, and complete freedom of discussion. So complete was my father's reliance on the i n -fluence of reason over the minds of mankind, whenever i t i s allowed to reach them, that he f e l t as i f a l l would be gained i f the whole population were taught to read, i f a l l sorts of opinions were allowed to be addressed to them by word and i n writing, and i f by means of the suffrage they could nominate a l e g i s l a t u r e to give e f f e c t to the opinions they adopted. He thought that when the l e g i s l a t u r e no longer represented a class i n t e r e s t , i t would aim at the general i n t e r e s t , honestly and with adequate wis-dom; since the people would be s u f f i c i e n t l y under the guidance of educated i n t e l l i g e n c e , to make i n general a good choice of persons to represent them, and having done so, to leave to those whom they had chosen a l i b e r a l d i s c r e t i o n . 8 7 83 In that "melancholy winter of 1826-271 John M i l l became aware of a serious weakness i n the f a i t h he had d u t i f u l l y accepted from his father: i t made no allowance for i n d i v i d u a l feelings. It was true that this f a i t h had been founded on the e t h i c a l standard of U t i l i t y or general happiness, but the ' f e l i c i f i c calculus' was too abstract, too remote to help him establish his own posi t i o n ; i n this f a i t h i n U t i l i t y supported by the power or reason, there was no adequate recognition of the importance of the in d i v i d u a l feelings i n s e l f -motivation. Recognizing i n the Autobiography the weakness of his father's point of view, M i l l conceded the v a l i d i t y of the charge that he was a 'mere reasoning machine': 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 t i t l e , was during two or three years of my l i f e not altogether untrue of me. It was perhaps as applicable to me as i t can well be to any one just entering into l i f e , to whom the common objects of desire must i n general have at least the a t t r a c t i o n of novelty. There i s nothing very extraordinary i n this f a c t : 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 d i s t i n c t i o n , I had i n abundance; and zeal for what I thought the good of mankind was my strongest sentiment, mixing with and colouring a l l others. But my zeal was as yet l i t t l e else, at that period of my l i f e , than zeal for speculative opinions. It had not i t s root i n genuine benevolence or sympathy with mankind; though these q u a l i t i e s held t h e i r due place i n my e t h i c a l standard. 84 Nor was i t connected with any high enthusiasm for i d e a l nobleness. Yet of this f e e l i n g I was imaginatively very susceptible; but there was at that time an intermission of i t s natural aliment, p o e t i c a l culture, while there was a superabundance of the d i s c i p l i n e an-tagonistic to i t , that of mere l o g i c and analysis. Add to this that, as already mentioned, my father's teachings tended to the undervaluing of f e e l i n g . It was not that he was himself cold-hearted or insensiblejo I believe i t was rather from the contrary q u a l i t y ; he thought that f e e l i n g could take care of i t s e l f ; that there was sure to be enough of i t i f actions were properly cared about. 8 8 M i l l ' s father, by placing the emphasis i n his son's education on l o g i c and analysis, and by reducing the attention given to f e e l i n g , had unintentionally and unknowingly created an imbalance i n his son's outlook. John M i l l concluded, af t e r his reading of Wordsworth, that one of the causes of this imbalance was a lack of poetic culture. He also concluded that he lacked a genuine sympathy for mankind. Although lamenting his father's lack of tenderness, M i l l s t i l l retained his profound respect for him, and he conceded that James M i l l had s o l i d ground for di s t r u s t i n g the role of fee l i n g i n human a f f a i r s : Offended by the frequency with which, i n e t h i c a l and philosophical controversy, f e e l i n g i s made the ultimate reason and j u s t i f i c a t i o n of conduct, instead of being i t s e l f c a l l e d on for a j u s t i f i c a t i o n , while, i n practice, actions the e f f e c t of which on human happiness i s mischievous, are defended as being required by f e e l i n g , 85 and the character of a person of f e e l i n g obtains a c r e d i t for desert, which he thought only due to actions, he had a r e a l impatience of a t t r i b u t i n g praise to f e e l i n g , or of any but the most sparing reference to i t , either i n the estima-t i o n of persons or i n the discussion of things. In addition to the influence which this c h a r a c t e r i s t i c i n him, had on me and others, we found a l l the opinions to which we attached most im-portance, constantly attacked on the ground of f e e l i n g . U t i l i t y was de-nounced as cold c a l c u l a t i o n ; p o l i t i c a l economy as hard-hearted; anti-population doctrines as repulsive to the natural feelings of mankind. The d i f f i c u l t y was that James M i l l had leaned hard against the wind of f e e l i n g , and his son, emulating his admired father, had leaned too far and had l o s t his balance. Undoubtedly he had l o s t his balance through too s e n s i t i v e a response to the feelings he experienced i n his father's presence, and through too anxious a desire to please this father who, l i k e the heroes of old, could do everything r i g h t . The r e a l weakness i n John M i l l ' s v i s i o n of l i f e lay i n i t s generality and i n i t s abstract diffuseness: one can love an i n d i v i d u a l or one can love an object, but notwithstanding one's readiness i n sympathy, one cannot love mankind. Neither can one love happiness. Northrop Frye, i n a recent a r t i c l e , has summed up this s i t u a t i o n : 86 One cannot pursue happiness, because happi-ness i s not a possible goal of a c t i v i t y : i t i s rather an emotional reaction to ac-t i v i t y , a f e e l i n g we get from pursuing? something else. The more genuine that something else i s , the greater the chance of happiness: the more energetically we pursue happiness, the sooner we a r r i v e at f r u s t r a t i o n . 9 0 M i l l was aware of the nature of his problem: A l l those to whom I looked up, were of the opinion that the pleasure of sympathy with human beings, and the feelings which made the good of others, and especially of man-kind on a large scale, the object of e x i s t -ence, were the greatest and surest sources of happiness. Of the truth of this I was convinced, but to know that a fe e l i n g would make me happy i f I had i t , did not give me the f e e l i n g . 9 1 M i l l was i n need of a wider and a more concrete ex-perience than his education had provided, an experience that would include the sharing of the personal sym-pathies he had spoken about and had found i n Marmontel. Thus, while seeking to hold firmly to what his father had given him, John M i l l now looked for the means to nourish his neglected feelings. In a l e t t e r written to his fri e n d , John S t e r l i n g , i n 1829, M i l l revealed some of the thoughts that had come to him at this time and subsequently. The occasion of the l e t t e r was M i l l ' s move toward a recon-c i l i a t i o n between S t e r l i n g and himself after a par-t i c u l a r l y sharp exchange of views i n the Debating Society. 8 7 I am now c h i e f l y anxious to explain to you, more c l e a r l y than I fear I did, what I meant when I spoke to you of the compar-ative loneliness of my probable future l o t . Do not suppose me to mean that I am conscious at present of any tendency to misanthropy—although among the very various states of mind, some of them ex-tremely p a i n f u l ones, through which I have passed during the l a s t three years, something approximating to misanthropy was one. At present I believe that my sympathies with society, which were never strong, are, on the whole, stronger than they ever were. By loneliness I mean the absence of that f e e l i n g which has accompanied me through the greater part of my l i f e , that which one fellow t r a v e l l e r , or one fellow soldier has towards another—the f e e l i n g of being engaged i n the pursuit of a common object, and of mutually cheering one another on, and helping one another, i n an arduous undertaking. This, which after a l l , i s one of the strongest t i e s of i n d i v i d u a l sympathy, i s at present, so far as I am concerned, suspended at least, i f not en t i r e l y broken o f f . There i s now no human being (with whom I can associate on terms of equality) who acknowledges a common object with me, or with whom I can co-operate even i n any p r a c t i c a l undertaking without the f e e l i n g , that I am only using a man whose purposes are di f f e r e n t , as an instrument for the furtherance of my own. Impl i c i t i n this l e t t e r , with the admission of lone-line s s and the desire for a fellow soldier who could share his burdens, i s the reference to M i l l ' s d i f f i c u l t y i n finding anyonedwho could meet him on an equal footing, and his re f u s a l to use people who could not. It i s paradoxical that his mental c r i s i s should be the r e s u l t of the very success of his education: there were, i n 88 f a c t , very few people anywhere capable of sharing his views on a basis of equality. That M i l l was not impervious to fee l i n g no one who knew him well could possibly doubt. An incident i n 1823 bears ample testimony to that. At that time, when he was seventeen, he risked ruin i n order to bring the i n i q u i t i e s of i n f a n t i c i d e before the public, and to suggest b i r t h control measures to prevent i t . It does bear out the fact that John Stuart M i l l was capable of a hot indignation so strong that there could be no doubt about his s u s c e p t i b i l i t y to f e e l i n g . 9 3 Before his v i s i t to France i n 1820, M i l l ' s imag-ination and feelings found th e i r p r i n c i p a l expression i n his studies. His father's plans saw to that. During his year i n France, however, he experienced a new kind of l i v i n g . Freed from his father's constant supervision, he was at l i b e r t y to engage i n a far greater range of mental and physical a c t i v i t y : he studied and read i n s p i t e of the many obstacles placed i n his way, he walked, he studied music, he swam, he began his l i f e l o n g study of botany, he hunted butter-f l i e s , and he delighted i n the beauty and peace of nature i n stream, forest, and mountain. Most impor-tant of a l l , he shared the company of congenial com-panions and the co n v i v i a l h o s p i t a l i t y of French country 89 f o l k . While there he brought to his l i f e a degree of spontaneity that he had never known before. M i l l had always derived great pleasure from music; i t was, as he t e l l s us, the only one of the imaginative arts i n which from childhood he had taken delight. During his period of gloom he sought repeatedly for r e l i e f i n music, but he found none. After his s p i r i t s began.to recover he found what he described as extreme pleasure i n Weber's Oberon. However, a shadow remained: he r e f l e c t e d on the tendency of music to f a i l as a source of pleasure, enjoyment fading with f a m i l i a r i t y : he f e l t that i t was too dependent on novelty. Added to t h i s shadow was another: he was tormented by the e x h a u s t i b i l i t y of musical combinations; the f i v e tones and two semi-tones of the octave could be put together only i n a l i m i t e d number of ways, and of these ways, he believed that only a few would be b e a u t i f u l . Thus his delight in music was v i t i a t e d by questions and doubts; i t was too transi t o r y and intermittent to provide him with the i n s p i r a t i o n and emotional r e l i e f that he needed. He was very much i n the same s i t u a t i o n as an insomniac whose mind i s too constantly active and who must become absorbed i n some in t e r e s t that w i l l require passive 90 reception and unconscious involvement. Now he turned to poetry. Herbert Grierson has remarked that poetry i s concerned with "the spontaneous expression of man's sense of values, the record of his joys, his loves and hates, his need of beauty, of pleasure, the demand of the s p i r i t of man that he s h a l l 94 not only l i v e but l i v e well." I f poetry was to have anything for M i l l i t would have to provide some spon-taneous expression of his i n t e r e s t s , and i t would have to restore his f a l t e r i n g sense of meaning i n his own l i f e . In his boyhood he had obtained much enjoyment from poetry, but i t was a boyish enjoyment derived from the simple enjoyment of good narrative, heroic deeds, n a t i o n a l i s t pride, and descriptive scenes from nature. Such poetry, f u l l of e x c i t i n g adventure i n a schoolboy world of secure values, was not s u f f i c i e n t for the gnawing emptiness of his e x i s t i n g condition. One of the f i r s t poets M i l l turned to was Byron: In the worst period of my depression, I had read through the whole of Byron (then new to me), to try whether a poet, whose pecul-i a r department was supposed to be that of the intenser feelings, could rouse any f e e l i n g i n me. As might be expected, I got no good from the reading, but the reverse. The poet's state of mind was too l i k e my own. His was the lament of a man who had worn out a l l pleasures, and who seemed to think that l i f e , to a l l who possess the good things of i t , must necessarily be the vapid, un-i n t e r e s t i n g thing which I found i t . His 91 Harold and Manfred had the same burden on them which I had; and I was not i n a frame of mind to desire any comfort from the vehement sensual passion of his Giaours, or the sullenness of his Laras.95 M i l l ' s reaction to Byron on this occasion was not that of a l i t e r a r y c r i t i c ; there was l i t t l e objective assess-ment; there was a very personal evaluation i n which the poet's state of mind with his turbulence, mockery, and constant and moody self-concern held out very l i t t l e for M i l l . It was u n l i k e l y that Byron would bring meaning to a man whose heroes were his father, Bentham, and the great men of philosophy, a ;-man who could think at the moment of his despair: I f e l t , too, that mine was not an i n t e r e s t i n g , ' or i n any way respectable d i s t r e s s . There was nothing i n i t to a t t r a c t sympathy.^6 M i l l ' s view of Byron at this time was not much d i f f e r e n t from the one he voiced l a t e r i n a quarrel with his f r i e n d , Roebuck,^7 i n 1828, or even l a t e r i n 1837 i n an essay he wrote on Armand Carrel: Just as Byron, and the cast-off boyish extravagances of Goethe and S c h i l l e r which Byron did but follow, have been the o r i g i n of a l l the sentimental r u f -f i a n s , the Lacenaires i n imagination and i n action, with which the Conti-nent swarms, but have produced l i t t l e f r u i t of that description, comparatively speaking, i n these islands; so, to compare good influences with bad, did Scott's romances, and especially 'Ivan-hoe', which i n England were only the 92 amusement of an i d l e hour, give b i r t h (or at least nourishment) to one of the p r i n c i p a l i n t e l l e c t u a l products of our time, the modern French school of h i s -tory. y 8 In casting around for mental and emotional support M i l l often thought of the words of Macbeth to the physician: Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas'd; Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow; Raze out the written troubles of the brain; And with some sweet oblivious antidote Cleanse the s t u f f ' d bosom of that perilous s t u f f Which weighs upon the heart? (Macbeth, V, i i i , 40-45) Byron could not provide M i l l with any "oblivious antidote". M i l l was not burdened with a sense of si n , c o n f l i c t , and sat i e t y as was Childe Harold. He had not abandoned a l l of his positions on truth, knowledge, and the improvement of mankind. Actually he wanted to be more involved i n the l i f e of mankind; his r e a l fear was that he was only a reasoning machine. The mood of Childe Harold, for example, was far removed from any'that M i l l could share: But soon he knew himself the most u n f i t Of men to herd with Man: with whom he held L i t t l e i n common; untaught to submit His thoughts to others, though his soul was quell'd In youth by his own thoughts; s t i l l uncompell'd, He would not y i e l d dominion of his mind To s p i r i t s against whom his own re b e l l ' d ; Proud enough i n desolation; which could f i n d A l i f e with i t s e l f , to breathe without mankind. ("Childe Harold's Pilgrimage," I I I , x i i , 100) 93 James M i l l had never permitted his son to develop any overweening pride. Instead, he had given him a l i v e l y sense of humility and an acute sense of his own short-comings. M i l l ' s concern was for "the pleasure of sym-pathy with human beings, and the feelings which made the good of others," the object of existence. If Byron's v i s i o n of the world held l i t t l e for M i l l , Wordsworth's v i s i o n was exactly what he needed. He found what he was seeking i n the miscellaneous poems of the two-volume ed i t i o n of 1815. His lengthy statement about his impressions constitutes a key passage i n his autobiography: In the f i r s t place, these poems addressed themselves powerfully to one of the strongest of my pleasurable s u s c e p t i b i l i t i e s , the love of r u r a l objects and natural scenery; to which I had been indebted not only for much of the pleasure of my l i f e , but quite recently for r e l i e f from one of my longest relapses into depression. In t h i s power of r u r a l beauty over me, there was a foun-dation l a i d for taking pleasure i n Words-worth's poetry; the more so, as his scenery l i e s mostly among mountains, which, owing to my early Pyrenean excursion, were my i d e a l of natural beauty. But Wordsworth would never have had any great e f f e c t on me, i f he had merely placed before me be a u t i f u l pictures of natural scenery. Scott does t h i s s t i l l better than Wordsworth, and a very second-rate landscape does i t more e f f i c i e n t l y than any poet. What made Wordsworth's poems a medicine for my state of mind, was that they expressed, not mere 94 outward beauty, but states of f e e l i n g , and of thought coloured by f e e l i n g , under the excitement of beauty. They seemed to be the very culture of the feelings, which I was i n quest of. In them I seemed to draw from a source of inward joy, of sympathetic and imaginative pleasure, which could be shared i n by a l l human beings; which had no connexion with a struggle or imperfection, but would be made ri c h e r by every improvement i n the physical or s o c i a l condition of mankind. M i l l ' s response to Wordsworth was governed, he t e l l s us, by his love of r u r a l objects and natural scenery, with mountains being of s p e c i a l importance since they had become his i d e a l of natural beauty from the days of his early Pyrenean travels. In the kind of natural beauty which i s so i n t e g r a l a part of Wordsworth's poetry, were l a i d the foundations for the deep enjoyment he experienced i n reading Wordsworth, an enjoyment that M i l l emphasizes could not have occurred i f Wordsworth's poems had not expressed something more than a mere description. M i l l evidently became deeply absorbed i n what he terms the 'states of f e e l i n g , and of thought coloured by f e e l i n g , under the excitement of beauty', so deeply absorbed that his mind was captured by Wordsworth to the point where the poem became for him his own i n -t e r i o r monologue. M i l l gives testimony here to the power of Wordsworth's poetry and to i t s a b i l i t y to 95 capture and hold his attention; to permit him to read well i n the sense that I. A. Richards has suggested i s absolutely necessary for good reading: It i s better to say that the question of b e l i e f or d i s b e l i e f , i n the i n t e l l e c t u a l sense, never arises when we are reading well. If unfortunately i t does a r i s e , either through the poet's f a u l t or our own, we have for the moment ceased to be reading and have become astronomers, or theologians, or moralists, persons engaged i n quite a d i f f e r e n t type of a c t i v i t y . 1 0 0 M i l l ' s supreme tr i b u t e to Wordsworth's poetic power comes i n the passage i n which he dismisses his p h i l o s -ophy but eulogizes his poetry; to accept Wordsworth i n t h i s s p i r i t , M i l l must indeed have read as Richards suggests we must read. At the conclusion of the Poems came the famous Ode, f a l s e l y c a l l e d Platonic, 'Intimations of Immortality:' i n which, along with more than his usual sweetness of melody and rhythm, and along with the two passages of grand imagery but bad philosophy so often quoted, I found that he too had had s i m i l a r experience to mine; that he also had f e l t that the f i r s t freshness of youthful enjoyment of l i f e was not l a s t i n g ; but that he had sought for compensation and found i t , i n the way i n which he was now teaching me to f i n d i t . The r e s u l t was that I gradually, but completely, emerged from my habitual depression, and was never again subject to i t . 1 0 1 In reading Wordsworth M i l l had found a mind with which he could share experiences without v i o l a t i n g his 96 fundamental b e l i e f s . Not only could M i l l share Words-worth's absorption i n nature, but equally important he could f i n d sustenance for his intere s t i n and sympathy with his fellow-men: I needed to be made to f e e l that there was r e a l , permanent happiness i n tranquil contemplation. Wordsworth taught me t h i s , not only without turning away from, but with a greatly increased inte r e s t i n the common feelings and common destiny of human beings. And the delight which these poems gave me, proved that with culture of this sort, there was nothing to dread from the most confirmed habit of a n a l y s i s . 1 0 2 The greatest d i f f i c u l t y i n assessing M i l l ' s precise reaction to Wordsworth's poetry i s that M i l l invariably expresses himself i n generalizations when r e f e r r i n g to his reading of poetry. Apart from one or two quotations, he does not give the de t a i l s that would permit a f u l l expansion of his thoughts. In other f i e l d s of in t e r e s t he gives many precise d e t a i l s , but i n the realm of poetry he nearly always writes i n general terms. Yet so l a s t i n g was his response to Wordsworth's poetry, so c r i t i c a l was the experience of this reading i n his l i f e , ;so formative was thi s i n his l a t e r thinking that one i s compelled to return again and again to the poems themselves, seeking for the expansion of meaning that they must have held for him. M i l l t e l l s us that the miscellaneous poems i n the 97 two-volume ed i t i o n of 1815 were the poems that appealed so strongly to him. The f i r s t poems in the 1815 e d i t i o n are, "My Heart Leaps Up When I Behold", "To A B u t t e r f l y " , "The Idle Shepherd-boys"; these would have had an appeal but there i s more serious matter at hand. M i l l ' s response to Wordsworth was something more than the dreamy response to flowers and b u t t e r f l i e s that Roebuck thought i t . I t was a r e c o l l e c t i o n of past pleasures presented i n a context of s o c i a l and natural r e a l i t y , much as the leech-gatherer i s presented i n "Resolution and Independence", with the 'certain colouring of imagination' thrown over i t . This poem-contrasting the fresh joys of nature with the harshness and wretchedness of the old leech-gatherer's l o t , offers deeper layers of meaning. Wordsworth presents the sheer unpremeditated delight of r u r a l l i f e : A l l things that love the sun are out of doors; The sky rejoices i n the morning's b i r t h ; The grass i s bright with rain-drops;- on the moors The hare i s running races i n her mirth; And with her feet she from the plashy earth Raises a mist; that, g l i t t e r i n g i n the sun, Runs with her a l l the way, wherever she doth run. ("Resolution And Independence," II) Contrasting with this fresh delight Wordsworth presents the intervening cares of man: Even as these b l i s s f u l creatures do I fare;... But there may come another day to me— Solitude, pain of heart, d i s t r e s s , and poverty. ("Resolution And Independence," V, 32) 98 To the poet's question, "How i s i t that you l i v e , and what i s i t you do?", the old leechgatherer answers, r e l a t i n g the problems inherent i n his way of gaining a l i v e l i h o o d . This he does so cheerfully and un-complainingly that Wordsworth gives his own response: I could have laughed myself to scorn to f i n d In that decrepit Man so firm a mind. ("Resolution And Independence," XX, 137) One may reasonably suppose that M i l l would f i n d him-s e l f contrasting his l o t with that of the leechgatherer, and l i k e Wordsworth laughing himself to scorn. 103 In a l e t t e r written to John S t e r l i n g i n 1842 M i l l remarked on his admiration for the poem "Michael". Here again there are overtones of the s o c i a l problems of M i l l ' s day, the s i m p l i c i t i e s of r u r a l l i f e con-t r a s t i n g with the problems faced by the young country-man who has betaken himself to the c i t y . Wordsworth presents the old shepherd, Michael, making a covenant with his son to b u i l d a sheep-fold a f t e r the son's departure. Wordsworth's s k i l l i n presenting with masterful understatement the pathetic loss of hope and courage would not be l o s t on M i l l : and ' t i s believed by a l l That many and many a day he thither went, And never l i f t e d up a single stone. ("Michael," 464) As i n the other poems there was much that linked up 99 close l y with M i l l ' s interests and experiences. Such l i n e s as the following seem to speak d i r e c t l y to M i l l ' s p e r p l e x i t i e s , and i n doing so to a r t i c u l a t e and ex-p l a i n the very core of his d i f f i c u l t i e s : But for those f i r s t a f f e c t i o n s , Those shadowy r e c o l l e c t i o n s , Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain-light of a l l our day. Are yet a master-light of a l l our seeing; Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments i n the being Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake, To perish never: ("Intimations of Immortality," 148) And farther on: Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour i n the grass, of glory i n the flower, We w i l l grieve not, rather f i n d Strength i n what remains behind; In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be; In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering; In the f a i t h that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind. ("Intimations," 177) On many l a t e r occasions M i l l paid further t r i b u t e to poetry and p a r t i c u l a r l y to Wordsworth's poetry. In a l e t t e r written i n 1841 to Robert Barclay Fox, he commented on the power of poetry to make one f e e l r e a l i t y , and i n giving his testimony to the importance of poetry i n his own l i f e he presents further evidence of what Wordsworth did for him: ...the great simple elemental powers and constituents of the universe have however inexhaustible c a p a b i l i t i e s when any one 100 i s s u f f i c i e n t l y f i t t e d by nature and c u l t i v a t i o n for poetry to have f e l t them as r e a l i t i e s , that which a poet alone does h a b i t u a l l y or frequently, which the majority of mankind never do at a l l and which we of the middle rank perhaps have the amazement of being able to do at some rare instants when a l l f a m i l i a r things stand before us l i k e spectres from another w o r l d — not however l i k e phantoms but l i k e the r e a l things of which the phantoms alone are present to us or appear so i n our common everyday state. That i s t r u l y a revelation of the seen, not of the unseen—and f i l l s one with what Words-worth must have been f e e l i n g when he wrote the l i n e " f i l l e d with the joy of troubled thoughts." 1 0 4 Other l i n e s taken from the same poem, "Lines Composed A Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey", bring echoes of thoughts occurring elsewhere i n Wordsworth's poetry and p a r t i c u l a r l y appropriate to M i l l ' s s i t u a t i o n : These beauteous forms, Through a long absence, have not been to me As i s a landscape to a b l i n d man's eye: But o f t , i n lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and c i t i e s , I have owed to them, In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, F e l t i n the blood, and f e l t along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind, With tr a n q u i l r e s t o r a t i o n : - feelings too Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps, As have no s l i g h t or t r i v i a l influence On that best portion of a good man's l i f e , His l i t t l e , nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness and of love. Nor le s s , I trust, To them I may have owed another g i f t , Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood, In which the burthen of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of a l l this u n i n t e l l i g i b l e world, 101 Is lightened:- that serene and blessed mood, In which the affections gently lead us on,-U n t i l , the breath of t h i s corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are l a i d asleep In body, and become a l i v i n g soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the l i f e of things. ("Tintern Abbey," 23) The reference to the affections that "gently lead us on" finds echoes i n M i l l ' s philosophy. He must have approved the following l i n e s e s p e c i a l l y with t h e i r emphasis on the world of the senses and the suggestion i m p l i c i t i n them that we must base our philosophy on a sensuous approach to the world about us: Therefore am I s t i l l A lover of the meadows and the woods, And mountains; and of a l l that we behold From th i s green earth; of a l l the mighty world Of eye, and ear,--both what they half create, And what perceive; well pleased to recognize In nature and the language of the sense The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of a l l my moral being. ("Tintern Abbey," 102) Wordsworth's reliance on 'nature and the language of the sense 1 as the foundation, the anchor of his thought would have a sp e c i a l appeal to M i l l who r e l i e d on the experience of the senses as the ultimate t e s t of truth. Professor Geoffrey Durrant i n his recent book on William Wordsworth has summed up much that i s important i n Wordsworth: 1 0 2 The problem for Wordsworth was to come to terms with what seemed to him to be the facts of the universe, without accepting a bleakly mechanistic view of the world and of man's place i n i t . Solitude i s a recurrent theme i n Wordsworth's poetry; the task of the poet was to transform the desolation of mere loneliness into the 'bl i s s of s o l i -t u d e ' — t h a t 'blessed mood' i n which the human mind i r r a d i a t e s and transforms the world which i t perceives, giving l i f e and meaning to what otherwise would be e s s e n t i a l l y dead. It i s the poet who most often achieves this trans-formation. Many of Wordsworth's poems are about the poet, either e x p l i c i t l y or by implication, because for Wordsworth the poetic power was the saving grace through which a l l men could i n varying degrees be rescued from the 'visionary dreariness' of a l i f e without joy. Since men could no longer look to the gods or angels to work miracles for them, they must work their own miracles of the mind. The poet, as 'a man speaking to men', was one who had devoted his whole l i f e to this task; he was able to be the guide and leader of his fellow-men i n the i r search for a mode of experience that would transform the world without f a l s i f y i n g i t . This task involved a courageous c l e a r -sightedness, and a thorough-going overhaul of the language of poetry as the instrument of a new mode of p e r c e p t i o n . 1 0 5 The implications of Wordsworth's view of human l i f e i n i t s r e l a t i o n to nature would not be l o s t on John M i l l who had said of himself that he was one of the very few examples of young men who had not thrown o f f 106 r e l i g i o u s opinions because he had never had any. He would be well aware that Wordsworth had made an advance i n his views of nature and of l i f e , notwith-103 standing the q u a l i f i c a t i o n s that he might add i n the way of r e l i g i o u s views and unacceptable philosophy, and that he l i k e M i l l , and even more than M i l l , had seen some of what T. S. E l i o t has c a l l e d the horror and the glory of human l i f e . Professor Durrant has spelled out the f u l l implication of the advance that Wordsworth had made. John M i l l ' s c r i s i s was very l i k e l y linked to a fe e l i n g of ultimate f u t i l i t y ; i f so, h is debt to Wordsworth i s even deeper than he has suggested. Professor Durrant has given his sum-mation of Wordsworth's contribution on this issue: If every event i n the world and even i n the mind of man can ultimately be explained by natural laws i t seems that man himself i s a f l e e t i n g consciousness imprisoned i n the body, and doomed to extinction when the body dissolves. Modern man has perhaps come to terms with this view; i f so, i t i s p a r t l y because such imaginative minds as Words-worth's have ventured boldly into a new and unfamiliar world of thought. Wordsworth had the courage to follow i n the footsteps of the man of science, and to imagine a world i n which man i s f i n a l l y alone, and i n which he faces certa i n extinction. There i s , however, nothing depressing or morbid i n t h i s v i s i o n ; on the contrary, the challenge i s invigorating, the delight i n unclouded perception i s keen, and the dominant mood i s of a calm suffused with joy. 1-°7 Thus M i l l found i n Wordsworth a realism that he could respect, linked to his love of nature and his own expressed desire for the sympathy and companionship 104 of his fellow-creatures. In the calm, quiet moods of poems such as "Tintern Abbey" he could f i n d his own happy re c o l l e c t i o n s of the morning walks he took with his father along the green lanes toward Hornsey that he spoke about, and some of his own i d y l l i c days at Ford Abbey which he r e c a l l e d i n affectionate terms: The sojourn was, I think, an important circumstance i n my education. Nothing contributes more to nourish elevation of sentiments i n a people, than the large and free character of th e i r habitations. The middle-age architecture, the baronial h a l l , and the spacious and l o f t y rooms, of t h i s fine o l d place, so unlike the mean and cramped externals of English middle class l i f e , gave the sentiment of a larger and freer existence, and were to me a sort of poetic c u l t i v a t i o n , aided also by the character of the grounds i n which the Abbey stood; which were r i a n t and secluded, umbrageous, and f u l l of the sound of f a l l i n g w a t e r s . 1 0 8 The immediate e f f e c t on M i l l of his response to Wordsworth was a lightening of his s p i r i t s , and with t h i s lightening of s p i r i t s came a renewal of his in t e r e s t i n the matters at hand. M i l l declared his new views at a meeting of the Debating Society and i n doing so astounded everybody, antagonized o ld friends, and won new ones. In p a r t i c u l a r he clashed with Roebuck who appears to have been impatient over the views advanced on Wordsworth's merits. Roebuck and M i l l had been close companions, but M i l l was unable to persuade 105 him to see any merit i n Wordsworth, whom he dismissed as a poet of b u t t e r f l i e s and flowers, preferring Byron, whose poems he regarded as poems of action and human l i f e . M i l l t r i e d p e r s i s t e n t l y to persuade Roebuck, whom he never ceased to admire, to appreciate what Wordsworth's poetry had to of f e r , but Roebuck, the man of action, was contemptuous. He saw l i t t l e good i n any c u l t i v a t i o n of the feelings, and none at a l l i n c u l t i v a t i n g them through the imagination, which he thought was only c u l t i v a t i n g i l l u s i o n s . It was i n vain I urged on him that the imaginative emotion which an idea, when v i v i d l y conceived, excites i n us, i s not an i l l u s i o n , but a fact, as r e a l as any of the other q u a l i t i e s of objects; and far from implying anything erroneous and delusive i n our mental apprehension of the object, i s quite consistent with the most accurate knowledge and most perfect p r a c t i c a l rec-ognition of a l l i t s physical and i n t e l l e c t u a l laws and re l a t i o n s . The intensest f e e l i n g of the beauty of a cloud lighted by the setting sun, i s no hindrance to my knowing that the cloud i s vapour of water, subject to a l l the laws of vapours i n a state of suspension; and I am just as l i k e l y to allow f o r , and act on, these physical laws whenever there i s occasion to do so, as i f I had been incapable of perceiving any d i s -t i n c t i o n between beauty and ugliness. °^ Whatever his d i f f i c u l t i e s with old friends, M i l l now incorporated his new views into his whole outlook. He and Roebuck, formerly such close companions, began to d r i f t away from each other, although each retained a great respect mixed with incomprehension for his former 106 colleague. There was compensation for M i l l , however; he made new acquaintances of Frederick Maurice and John S t e r l i n g . In S t e r l i n g M i l l found one of the most valued friends of his l i f e , a young man whose outlook and personality were such that M i l l l a t e r paid him the t r i b u t e of saying that he was one of those few men i n the world who, quite apart from t h e i r work, benefit the world immeasurably by t h e i r mere existence. The fundamental importance of Wordsworth i n deter-mining the future d i r e c t i o n of much of M i l l ' s thinking can scarcely be exaggerated. M i l l ' s response to Word-sworth's poetry constituted a water-shed i n his l i f e . Thereafter, his interests took turnings and his thoughts acquired emphases and overtones that James M i l l had not envisioned or provided for i n his closely controlled education. John M i l l was now doing his own thinking and i n doing i t he was s t r i k i n g out i n new and strange di r e c t i o n s . The most l o g i c a l outcome of his new way of thinking appeared i n the form of a theory of poetry. How t h i s was to f i t into M i l l ' s philosophical outlook posed a number of challenging questions. Writing to C a r l y l e i n January of 1834, M i l l said that his state of mind before the change i n his thinking had been one of l o g i c a l U t i l i t a r i a n narrowness of the most r e s t r i c t e d kind, 107 and that reacting against t h i s he had gone to the very opposite extreme. He forsook h i s former intense philosophic intolerance, but he s t i l l t r i e d to hold on to h i s former views, never e n t i r e l y abandoning them, but s t r i v i n g to reset his old ideas into the new con-text of his thinking. In his own words, "I found the fa b r i c of my old and taught opinions giving way i n many fresh places, and I never allowed i t to f a l l to pieces, but was incessantly occupied i n weaving i t anew. 1 , 1 x 0 i n thi s constant reweaving of both the old and the new i s to be found an important feature of M i l l ' s developing philosophy and poetic theory. In 1834 i n some notes that he wrote for his tr a n s l a t i o n of Plato's Gorgias, John M i l l wrote an esp e c i a l l y s i g n i f i c a n t statement of the new emphasis i n his thinking. His father had always assumed that knowledge would automatically lead to v i r t u e and i t s consequent action. John M i l l now takes an e n t i r e l y d i f f e r e n t viewpoint: A l l v a l i d arguments in' favor of virtue, presuppose that we already desire v i r t u e , or desire some of i t s ends and objects. You may prove to us that v i r t u e tends to the happiness of mankind, or of our country; but that supposes that we already care for mankind, or for our country. You may t e l l us that virtue w i l l gain us the approbation of the wise and the good; but this supposes 10 8 that the wise and good are already more to us than other people are.... The love of v i r t u e , and every other noble f e e l i n g , i s not communicated by reasoning, but caught by i n s p i r a t i o n or sympathy from those who already have i t ; and i t s nurse and foster-mother i s Admira-t i o n . We acquire i t from those we love and reverence, e s p e c i a l l y from those whom we e a r l i e s t love and reverence; from our i d e a l of those, whether i n past or i n present times, whose l i v e s and characters have been the mirrors of a l l noble q u a l i t i e s ; and l a s t l y , from those who, as poets or a r t i s t s , can clothe those feelings i n the most be a u t i f u l forms, and breathe them into us through our imagination and our sensations. It i s thus that Plato has deserved the t i t l e of a great moral writer. Christ did not argue about v i r t u e , but commanded i t ; Plato, when he argues about i t , argues for the most part inconclusively, but he resembles Christ i n the love which he inspires for i t , and i n the stern resolution never to swerve from i t , which those who can r e l i s h his. writings naturally f e e l when perusing them. And the present writer regrets that his imperfect abstract i s so i l l f i t t e d to convey any idea of the degree i n which t h i s dialogue makes the feelings and course of l i f e which i t inculcates commend themselves to our inmost nature, by associating them with our most impressive conceptions of beauty and power. 1 x 1 CHAPTER III 109 The years between the autumn of 1826, the time of his mental c r i s i s , and the summer of 1840 were the years i n which John Stuart M i l l came to mental maturity. These were among his most productive years, for during them he wrote many of his most important essays, developed his poetic theory, and brought his book on l o g i c almost to completion. Referring to 1840 he wrote i n the Auto-biography : From th i s time, what i s worth r e l a t i n g of my l i f e w i l l come into a very small com-pass; for I have no further mental changes to t e l l of, but only, as I hope, a contin-ued mental progress; which does not admit of a consecutive history, and the re s u l t s of which, i f r e a l , w i l l be best found i n my w r i t i n g s . ± ± 2 The years from 1840 onward might not admit of a con-secutive history, but those approaching 1840 demanded i t . In the opening phase of t h i s new period of his l i f e , M i l l was aware of the need to re-examine and re-assess his older, taught ideas p r i o r to s t r i k i n g out i n new directions of his own choosing. His way of c u l -t i v a t i n g his own mental growth, already noted, was, i n his own metaphor, to weave the f a b r i c of his old and taught opinions into a whole with his newly acquired ideas. He t e l l s us that he was never content to re-113 main, for even a short time, confused and unsettled. 1 1 0 His immediate task was to arrange and integrate the new ideas a r i s i n g from his recent experience with Words-worth's poetry, and then to bring them into some sort of harmony with his former outlook. I t i s s t i l l customary, as i t was i n M i l l ' s time, for many people to view poetry lar g e l y as a form of relaxation and entertainment. Wordsworth t r i e d to counter this view, making p l a i n i n "The Preface To The Second Ed i t i o n Of L y r i c a l Ballads" that poetry, not-withstanding any entertainment i t might provide, i s a serious matter, concerned with truth and values: Further, i t i s the language of men who speak of what they do not understand; who talk of Poetry, as of a matter of amusement and i d l e pleasure; who w i l l converse with us as gravely about a taste for Poetry, as they express i t , as i f i t were a thing as i n d i f f e r e n t as a taste for rope-dancing, or Frontiniac or Sherry. A r i s t o t l e , I have been told, has said, that Poetry i s the most p h i l o -sophic of a l l w r i t i n g : i t i s so: i t s object i s truth, not i n d i v i d u a l and l o c a l , but general, and operative; not standing upon external testimony, but c a r r i e d into the heart by passion; truth which i s i t s own testimony, which gives competence and confidence to the t r i b u n a l to which i t appeals, and receives them from the same t r i b u n a l . Poetry i s the image of man and nature. 1 4 By claiming for poetry something other than amusement and i d l e pleasure, and asserting i t to be a form of I l l w r i t i n g having general truth as i t s object, Wordsworth was demanding that i t should be taken seriously; by saying that i t possessed the a b i l i t y to carry truth into the heart by passion without depending on exter-nal testimony or evidence alone, he was claiming for i t the a b i l i t y to convey i n t u i t i v e , as d i s t i n c t from l o g i c a l l y known truths. M i l l f u l l y supported Wordsworth's claim that poetry i s , i n fact, a serious form of writing meriting c a r e f u l attention. He could vouch for thi s from h i s own experience, but the claims for i n t u i t i v e ways of acquiring truth raised deeper problems. He had to accommodate these concepts i n h i s philosophy i f he was to atta i n to the coherence and i n t e g r i t y i n h i s thinking that he sought. The orientation of his educa-tion required him to follow the dictates of lo g i c as c a r e f u l l y as possible and to s t r i v e to reach the truth, however unpalatable i t might be. M i l l , as he t e l l s us, never repudiated h i s i n t e l l e c t u a l culture, although he did, of course, modify i t s forms and emphasis. His father's opinion that people attached more impor-tance to verse, and by implication to a l l poetry, than i t deserved, had created a mental obstacle to his acceptance of poetry, leading him to subordinate i t 112 in h i s mental l i f e . His response to various forms of poetry had always been sensitive, but there are i n d i -cations i n his autobiography that his response to poetry during h i s childhood would have been much more l i v e l y i f he had followed h i s natural i n c l i n a t i o n s ; his response to Dryden, Pope, and Campbell has already been noted. He learned from his mental c r i s i s , as he t e l l s us i n the Autobiography, that the passive s u s c e p t i b i l i t i e s needed to be c u l t i v a t e d as well as the active capacities, and that they needed to be 115 nourished and enriched as well as guided. In keeping with h i s desire to weave the fa b r i c of h i s changing opinions ever anew, M i l l attempted within the range of h i s philosophy to integrate, as far as he was able, the methods of l o g i c and poetry. Writing to John S t e r l i n g on October 20th, 1831, M i l l stated what he considered to be the s p e c i a l function he was most suited for at that time: The only thing which I can u s e f u l l y do at present, and which I am doing more and. more every day, i s to work out p r i n -c i p l e s : which are of use for a l l times, though to be applied cautiously and circumspectly to any: p r i n c i p l e s of morals, government, law, education, above a l l self-education. I am here much more in my element: the only thing that I be-l i e v e I am r e a l l y f i t for, i s the inves-t i g a t i o n of abstract truth, and the more 113 abstract the better. I f there i s any science which I am capable of promoting, I think i t i s the science of science i t s e l f , the science of investigation of method. ± x^ M i l l thus considered himself best suited to advancing the study of lo g i c , and a considerable portion of h i s time during the years leading up to 1841 was devoted to w r i t i n g his book, A System Of Logic. In the l a t t e r work he established the framework within which h i s investigation of the laws or p r i n c i p l e s governing the discovery of truth could be carr i e d out: Truths are known to us i n two ways: some are known d i r e c t l y , and of themselves; some through the medium of other truths. The former are the subject of In t u i t i o n , or Consciousness; the l a t t e r , of inference. The truths known by i n t u i t i o n are the o r i g i n a l premises from which a l l others are inferr e d .... Whatever i s known to us by consciousness, i s known beyond p o s s i b i l i t y of question. What one sees or feels, whether bodily or mentally, one cannot but be sure that one sees or f e e l s . No science i s required for the purpose of establishing such truths; no rules of art can render our knowledge of them more certa i n than i t i s in i t s e l f . There i s no lo g i c for this por-tion of our knowledge. 1 1 7 M i l l therefore defines truths i n general by the methods of their discovery, the methods of lo g i c and i n t u i t i o n . That M i l l was giving much attention to the con-t r a s t i n g ways of a r r i v i n g at truth i s borne out by hi s l e t t e r s . In a l e t t e r written on August 2nd, 1833, to Thomas Carlyle, he has the following to say about 114 his developing views on truth and a r t : Of l o g i c , as the theory of the processes of i n t e l l e c t , I think not wholly as you, yet nearly: he who has legs can walk without knowledge of anatomy, yet you w i l l allow that such knowledge may be made subst a n t i a l l y available for the cure of lameness• By l o g i c however I meant the antithesis of Poetry or Art: i n which d i s t i n c t i o n I am learning to per-ceive a twofold contrast: the l i t e r a l as opposed to the symbolical, and rea-soning as opposed to i n t u i t i o n . Not the theory of reasoning but the prac t i c e. In reasoning I include a l l processes of thought which are processes at a l l , that i s , which proceed by a series of steps or l i n k s . What I would say i s that my vocation i s , I think, c h i e f l y for t h i s l a s t ; a more extended and higher one than for any branch of mere "Philosophy of Mind" though far i n f e r i o r to that of the a r t i s t . 1 1 8 I t i s i n t e r e s t i n g to note that at t h i s point i n his career, M i l l had not yet worked out his system of l o g i c f u l l y ; his views on poetry were also s t i l l incomplete. He seems to have been groping for a s a t i s f a c t o r y con-ception of the rel a t i o n s h i p between poetry and l o g i c , and he suggests that t h i s r e l a t i o n s h i p i s of the kind found i n the unity that one observes i n opposites: he thinks of reasoning as being opposed to i n t u i t i o n and the l i t e r a l as opposed to the symbolical. There i s an implied unity i n the devotion to truth, but his neat oppositions are mechanical and unsatisfactory. He does not e s t a b l i s h why l o g i c should be the antithesis of 115 poetry or a r t . The d i s t i n c t i o n he draws between theory and practice i s likewise unconvincing. This l e t t e r i s useful not for h i s casual and informal statements about the r e l a t i o n s h i p between lo g i c and poetry, but rather for the uncertainty he conveys with such tentative statements as 11 am learning to perceive a twofold contrast. 1 He does state his b e l i e f that the i n t u i t i v e method of the a r t i s t i s superior to the method of the l o g i c i a n . With honesty and humility he adds that he considers himself p r i n c i p a l l y f i t t e d for the vocation of the l o g i c i a n . One leaves a reading of this l e t t e r with the impression that M i l l was i l l at ease i n dealing with art and that h i s uneasiness found i t s source i n h i s i n a b i l i t y to move f r e e l y outside the l o g i c a l categories i n which hi s mind had been cast. John Stuart M i l l ' s experience with Wordsworth's poetry had taught him that his education was incomplete. I t also taught him that the truths derived from poetry do not always follow neat l o g i c a l sequences. He seemed to recognize that just as d i f f e r e n t people formulate t h e i r concepts of truth i n d i f f e r e n t ways, even so, each of these various ways must be imperfect i n some measure however small. Hence a l l truth formulations are p a r t i a l and incomplete i n some degree. He had learned t h i s lesson from the St. Simonians, and i n a 116 l e t t e r to Gustave d'Eichthal on November 7th, 1829, he gave hi s own summation of the lesson he had learned: As the great danger to mankind i s not from seeing what i s not, but from overlooking what i s ; since clever and i n t e l l i g e n t men hardly ever err from the former cause, but no powers of mind are any protection against the e v i l s a r i s i n g from imperfect and par-t i a l views of what i s r e a l ; since not er-rors but h a l f truths are the bane of human improvement, i t seems to follow that the proper mode of philosophizing and discussing for a person who pursues the good of mankind and not the g r a t i f i c a t i o n of his own vanity, should be the, .direct opposite of the p h i l o -sophie c r i t i q u e of the l a s t century: i t should consist, not i n attacking men's wrong opinions, but i n giving them that knowledge which w i l l enable them to form r i g h t ones that w i l l push o f f the wrong ones, as the new leaves push o f f the withered ones of the l a s t year. The great instrument of improvement i n men, i s to supply them with the other h a l f of the truth, one side of which only they have ever seen: to turn round to them the white side of the shield, of which they seeing only the black side, have cut other men's throats and risked t h e i r o^^ to prove that the shie l d i s black o Aware of the enrichment i n his mental l i f e that he had experienced by reading Wordsworth's poetry, M i l l sought consciously to promote his own further mental growth. Some time i n 1830, James M i l l and Lord Macaulay clashed i n written debate, Macaulay d e l i v e r i n g a slashing attack on the reasoning i n the elder M i l l ' s Essay on Government. This event was of far-reaching 117 consequence to John M i l l , for to his dismay he found himself agreeing with a number of the points scored by Macaulay, and he detected weaknesses i n h i s father's reasoning method, the one on which he had been nur-tured. The defects and inadequacies which he f e l t that he had detected i n h i s father's reasoning, f a u l t s l a r g e l y derivative from the deductive method, impelled him to reconsider his own methods and led him to apply himself to a consideration of the inductive method of reasoning and to a study which l a t e r contributed to his book on l o g i c . The immediate e f f e c t of h i s new speculations and experiences was that he became less sure of his own knowledge and much less dogmatic. He wrote to Carlyle on January 12th, 1834, r e c a l l i n g his state of reaction from what he termed h i s l o g i c a l -u t i l i t a r i a n narrowness: Now when I had got out of this state, and saw that my premisses were mere generaliza-tions of one of the unnumerable aspects of Reality, and that far from being the most important one; and when I had t r i e d to go a l l round every object which I surveyed, and to place myself at a l l points of view, so to have the best chance of seeing a l l sides; I think i t i s scarcely surprising that for a time I became ca t h o l i c and tolerant i n an extreme degree, and thought one-sidedness almost the one great e v i l i n 118 human a f f a i r s , seeing i t was the e v i l which had been the bane of my own teachers, and was also that of those who were war-r i n g against my teachers. I never was tolerant of aught but earnest B e l i e f ; but I saw, or seemed to see, so much of good and of truth i n the po s i t i v e part of the most opposite opinions and prac-t i c e s could they but be divested of thei r exclusive pretensions, that I sc.ar.eely f e l t myself c a l l e d upon to deny anything but Denial i t s e l f . I never made strongly prominent my d i f -ferences with any sincere, truth-loving person; but held communion with him through our points of agreement, en-deavoured i n the f i r s t place to appro-priate to myself whatever was po s i t i v e i n him, and i f he gave me any encourage-ment, brought before him also whatever of p o s i t i v e might be i n me, which he t i l l then had not. A character most unlike yours; of a quite lower kind, and which i f I had not outgrown, and speedily too, there could have been l i t t l e worth i n me. ^ u In t h i s l e t t e r M i l l revealed some of the disarming generosity and humility of s p i r i t which only his close friends knew lay behind his reserved manner. I t was a s p i r i t reminiscent of the one guiding his behaviour on that memorable occasion when, on the eve of h i s departure for France, h i s father had to l d him that he would l i k e l y discover he knew more than other youths of his own age, but that i t was no c r e d i t to him that he did and indeed would be a matter of d i s -grace i f he d i d n ' t . 1 2 1 M i l l ' s mind was as open to in s t r u c t i o n then as i t had been before, but with the 119 difference that now there was a new, underlying caution which experience had taught him. Now, i n his new mood of open tole r a t i o n , he sought from Carlyle, as from others such as Wordsworth and Coleridge, that spe c i a l imaginative insight that he had become con-vinced great a r t i s t s possessed. Nevertheless, h i s new caution warned him that a l l methods and a l l sys-tems ca r r i e d some dangers with them. At the time he had clashed with Roebuck i n the Debating Society he had made the acquaintance of John S t e r l i n g who became over the years one of h i s closest friends. In him he found some of the f r i e n d -ship he had been seeking at the time of his mental c r i s i s . In the Autobi ography he wrote of him i n the warmest terms: With S t e r l i n g I soon became very intimate, and was more attached to him than I have ever been to any other man. He was i n -deed one of the most loveable of men. His frank, c o r d i a l , affectionate, and expansive character; a love of truth a l i k e conspicuous i n the highest things and the humblest; a generous and ardent nature which threw i t s e l f with impetuosity into the opinions i t adop-ted, but was as eager to do j u s t i c e to the doctrines and the men i t was opposed to, as to make war on what i t thought t h e i r errors; and an equal devotion to the two cardinal points of L i b e r t y and Duty, formed a combination of q u a l i t i e s as a t t r a c t i v e to me, as to a l l others who knew him as w e l l as 120 I did. With his open mind and heart, he found no d i f f i c u l t y i n joi n i n g hands with me across the gulf which as yet divided our opinions.122 In 1829 a further sharp debate took place i n the De-bating Society; this time i t was S t e r l i n g with whom M i l l clashed. S t e r l i n g resigned shortly after from the Debating Society and M i l l wrote him a more per-sonal l e t t e r than was h i s custom. He wrote th i s l e t t e r on A p r i l 15, 1829: There i s now no human being (with whom I can associate on terms of equality) who acknowledges a common object with me, or with whom I can co-operate even in any p r a c t i c a l undertaking without the feeling, that I am only using a man whose purposes are di f f e r e n t , as an instrument for the furtherance of my own. Idem sentire de republica, was thought by one of the best men who ever l i v e d to be the strongest bond of friendship: for republica I would read " a l l the great objects of l i f e , " where the parties concerned have at heart any great objects at a l l . I do not see. how there .can be other-wise that idem v e l l e , idem nolle, which i s necessary to perfect friendship. Being excluded therefore from t h i s , I am resolved hereafter to avoid a l l occasions for debate, since they can-not now strengthen my sympathies with those who agree with me, and are sure to weaken them with those who d i f f e r . 1 2 3 M i l l , whose whole l i f e had been directed towards the mental whetting of debate now abandoned i t for a time; 121 he attached greater importance to his friendship with S t e r l i n g than he did to the promulgation of his views i n public argument. He was prepared to avoid argument rather than antagonize the people he respected and l i k e d . Shortly a f t e r writing this l e t t e r M i l l withdrew from the Debating Society: After 1829 I withdrew from attendance on the Debating Society. I had had enough of speechmaking, and was glad to carry on my private studies and meditations without any immediate c a l l for outward assertion of t h e i r results.124 M i l l has l e f t further evidence of the new trend i n his thinking i n a l e t t e r he wrote to Carlyle on the 18th of May, 1833, i n which he set fort h some of the differences between them and sought to understand how misunderstandings on fundamental issues a r i s e : F i r s t , then, I have read your paper on Diderot. Of the man, and of his works and of his contemporaries, so far as I think at a l l , I think very much as you do: yet I have found more to d i f -f e r from i n that a r t i c l e of yours than i n anything of your writing I common-ly do. The subject seems to have car-r i e d you, and me as your reader, over a range of topics on which there has always been a considerable extent of undiscussed and unsifted divergence of opinion (pardon t h i s galimatias of mixed metaphors) between us two; on some of which too I sometimes think 122 that the distance has rather widened than narrowed of l a t e . That may be my loss, and my f a u l t ; at a l l events i t seems to me that there has been on my part something l i k e a want of courage i n avoiding, or touching only perfunc-t o r i l y , with you, points on which I thought i t l i k e l y that we should d i f f e r . That was a kind of reaction from the dogmatic disputatiousness of my former narrow and mechanical state. I have not any great notion of the advantage of what the "free discussion" men, c a l l the " c o l l i s i o n of opinions," i t being my creed that Truth i s sown and ger-minates i n the mind i t s e l f , and i s not to be struck out suddenly l i k e f i r e from a f l i n t by knocking another hard body against i t : so I accustomed my-s e l f to learn by inducing others to de l i v e r t h e i r thoughts, and to teach by scattering my own, and I eschewed occasions of controversy (except oc-ca s i o n a l l y with some of my old U t i l -i t a r i a n associates). I s t i l l think I was r i g h t i n the main, but I have car r i e d both my doctrine and my prac-t i c e much too f a r : and t h i s I know by one of i t s consequences which I suppose would be an agreeable one to most men, v i z . that most of those whom I at a l l esteem and respect, though they may know that I do not agree with them wholly, yet, I am afraid, think, each i n th e i r several ways, that I am considerably nearer to agreeing with them than I a c t u a l l y am.125 M i l l had discovered that there were serious dangers i n h i s deliberate avoidance of debate and controversy. Nevertheless, Wordsworth had taught him that there were other ways of presenting truth than by debate, and 123 he was aware that h i s education had ignored c e r t a i n essentials of human well-being. Fundamentally, M i l l never wavered i n his conviction that reason was the key to new truths, but he was also aware that great a r t i s t s seemed to arrive at important truths i n a fl a s h of genius that he could neither emulate nor understand. He continued to seek means of under-standing the ways of the poet. In the summer of 1831, M i l l went on a walking tour i n the Lake D i s t r i c t , and while there v i s i t e d William Wordsworth. M i l l has l e f t a disappointingly laconic journal of his tour, but that autumn, on the 20th of October 1831, he wrote a long l e t t e r to John S t e r l i n g , to whom he gave an expanded version of h i s v i s i t and of his very favourable impressions of Wordsworth, the man. F i r s t of a l l , I went this summer to the Lakes, where I saw such splendid scenery, and also saw a great deal both of Words-worth and Southey; and I must t e l l you what I think of them both. In the case of Wordsworth, I was p a r t i c u l a r l y struck by several things. One was, the exten-sive range of his thoughts and the large-ness and expansiveness of his feelings. This does not appear i n his writings, e s p e c i a l l y his poetry, where the con-templative part of his mind i s the only part of i t that appears: and one would be tempted to i n f e r from the peculiar 124 character of h i s poetry, that r e a l l i f e and the active pursuits of men (except of farmers and other country people) did not i n t e r e s t him. The f a c t however is that these very subjects occupy the greater part of h i s thoughts, and he talks on no subject more i n s t r u c t i v e l y than on states of society and forms of government. Those who best know him, seem to be most impressed with the ca t h o l i c character of his a b i l i t y . I have been t o l d that Lockhart has said of him that he would have been an ad-mirable country attorney. Now a man who could have been either Wordsworth or a country attorney, could c e r t a i n l y have been anything else which circumstances had led him to desire to be. The next thing that struck me was the extreme comprehensive-ness and philosophic s p i r i t which i s i n him. By these expressions I mean the d i r e c t antithesis cb'fi what the Germans most expressively c a l l onesidedness. Wordsworth seems always to know the pros and cons of every question; and when you think he strikes the balance wrong, i t i s only because you think he estimates erroneously some matter of f a c t . Hence a l l my differences with him, or with any other philosophic Tory, would be d i f -ferences of matter-of-fact or d e t a i l , while my differences with the r a d i c a l s and u t i l i t a r i a n s . ,ar.e.. .differences of p r i n c i p l e : for these see generally only one side of the subject, and i n order to convince them, you must put some e n t i r e l y new idea into their heads, whereas Wordsworth has a l l the ideas there already, and you have only to d i s -cuss with him concerning the "how much,11 the more or less of weight which i s to be attached to a c e r t a i n cause or e f f e c t , as compared with others: thus the difference with him turns upon a question of vary-ing, or .fluctuating quantities, where, what i s plus i n one age or country i s minus i n 125 a n o t h e r and t h e w h o l e q u e s t i o n i s one o f o b s e r v a t i o n and t e s t i m o n y and o f t h e v a l u e o f p a r t i c u l a r a r t i c l e s o f e v i d e n c e . I n e e d h a r d l y s a y t o y o u t h a t i f one's own c o n c l u s i o n s and h i s were a t v a r i a n c e on e v e r y q u e s t i o n w h i c h a m i n i s t e r o f a P a r l i a m e n t c o u l d to-morrow be c a l l e d upon t o s o l v e , h i s i s n e v e r t h e l e s s t h e m i n d w i t h w h i c h one w o u l d be r e a l l y i n communion: Our p r i n c i p l e s w o u l d be t h e same, "and we s h o u l d be l i k e two t r a v e l l e r s p u r s u i n g t h e same c o u r s e on t h e o p p o s i t e b a n k s o f a r i v e r . 1 2 * 5 T h i s l e t t e r i s a t e s t i m o n y t o t h e v e r y f a v o u r a b l e o p i n i o n t h a t M i l l f o r m e d o f W o r d s w o r t h ; M i l l was e s p e c i a l l y i m p r e s s e d b y t h e b r e a d t h o f W o r d s w o r t h ' s i n t e r e s t s , h i s i n t e r e s t i n c u r r e n t p o l i t i c a l p r o b l e m s , t h e c a t h o l i c i t y o f h i s a b i l i t y , and h i s g r e a t com-p r e h e n s i v e n e s s and p h i l o s o p h y o f mind. M i l l ' s a d m i r a t i o n f o r W o r d s w o r t h r e c e i v e d f u r t h e r a t t e n t i o n and e m p h a s i s i n an a r t i c l e he w r o t e f o r T a i t ' s M a g a z i n e . T h i s e s s a y , e n t i t l e d , cUse And Abuse Of P o l i t i c a l Terms," s t r o n g l y s u p p o r t e d t h e m e n t a l c u l t i v a t i o n t h a t M i l l c o n s i d e r e d t o be a n e c e s s a r y c o n d i t i o n f o r m e n t a l a c t i v i t y : Men who, f o r want o f c u l t i v a t i o n , h a v e t h e i n t e l l e c t s o f d w a r f s , a r e o f c o u r s e t h e s l a v e s o f t h e i r i m a g i n a t i o n , i f t h e y h a v e any, as t h e y a r e t h e s l a v e s o f t h e i r s e n -s a t i o n s , i f t h e y h a v e n o t ; and i t i s p a r t l y , p e r h a p s , b e c a u s e t h e s y s t e m a t i c c u l t u r e o f t h e t h i n k i n g f a c u l t y i s i n l i t t l e r e p u t e , 126 that imagination also i s i n such bad odour; there being no s o l i d i t y and vigour of i n -t e l l e c t to r e s i s t i t where i t tends to mislead. The sublimest of English poets composed an elementary book of l o g i c for the schools; but our puny rhymsters think l o g i c , forsooth, too dry for them; and our logic i a n s , from that and other causes, very commonly say with M. Casimir Perier, A quoi un poete e s t - i l bon?127 For M i l l , the necessary conditions for good poetry had to include wide interests and a wide and deep c u l t i v a -t i o n of the i n t e l l e c t ; by a s i m i l a r process of reasoning, the l o g i c i a n requires poetic culture. M i l l i s not here stressing the differences between l o g i c and poetry; he i s stressing t h e i r complementary nature and the i r inter-dependence. In the l e t t e r to St e r l i n g already quoted, M i l l added some s p e c i f i c remarks about Wordsworth's views on poetry i t s e l f : Then when you get Wordsworth on the subjects which are p e c u l i a r l y h i s , such as the theory of his own a r t — i f i t be proper to c a l l poetry art, (that i s , i f art i s to be de-fined the expression or embodying i n words or forms, of the highest and most refined parts of nature) no one can converse with him without fe e l i n g that he has advanced that great subject beyond any other man, being probably the f i r s t person who ever combined, with such eminent success i n the practice of the art, such high powers of generalization and habits of meditation on i t s p r i n c i p l e s . Besides a l l t h i s , he seems to me the best talker I ever heard ( (and I have heard several f i r s t - r a t e ones); 127 and there i s a benignity and kindliness about his whole demeanour which confirms what his poetry would lead one to expect, along with a perfect s i m p l i c i t y of char-acter which i s d e l i g h t f u l i n any one, but most of a l l i n a person of f i r s t - r a t e i n t e l l e c t . You see I am somewhat enthu-s i a s t i c on the subject of Wordsworth, having found him s t i l l more admirable and d e l i g h t f u l a person on a nearer view than I had figured to myself from his writings; which i s so seldom the case that i t i s impossible, to see i t without having one's f a i t h in.man greatly increased and being made greatly happier i n consequence. 1 2 8 M i l l ' s enthusiasm for Wordsworth was, as he indicated, something much more than a purely l i t e r a r y response: he admired Wordsworth's i n t e l l e c t , and his character, finding them both of eminently high q u a l i t y . He was greatly impressed also by Wordsworth's theory of poetry, and i n the a r t i c l e i n Tait's Magazine already quoted, he lamented that Wordsworth should have written so l i t t l e on his theory, p a r t i c u l a r l y i n view of his many stimulating thoughts on t h i s subject and t h e i r notable merit. M i l l makes a p a r t i c u l a r l y i n t e r e s t i n g observation when he remarks that Wordsworth's benignity and kindliness confirmed what his poetry would lead one to expect. He had assumed that Wordsworth's character and personality would be marked by i n t e g r i t y , and he was pleased to f i n d that they were. 128 In the same very long l e t t e r t o S t e r l i n g , M i l l comments on h i s acquaintance w i t h Robert Southey: I a l s o saw a g r e a t d e a l of Southey, who i s a very d i f f e r e n t k i n d of man, very i n f e r i o r to Wordsworth i n the h i g h e r powers of i n t e l l e c t , and e n t i r e l y d e s t i t u t e of h i s p h i l o s o p h i c s p i r i t , but a remarkably p l e a s i n g and l i k e a b l e man. I never c o u l d understand him t i l l l a t e l y ; t h a t i s , I never c o u l d r e c o n c i l e the tone of such of h i s w r i t i n g s as I had read, w i t h what h i s f r i e n d s s a i d of him: I c o u l d o n l y get r i d of the n o t i o n of h i s being i n s i n c e r e , by supposing him to be extremely f r e t f u l and i r r i t a b l e : but when I came to read h i s C o l l o q u i e s , i n which he has put f o r t h much more than i n any other work, of the n a t u r a l man, as d i s t i n g u i s h e d from the w r i t e r aiming at a p a r t i c u l a r e f f e c t , I found t h e r e a k i n d of connecting l i n k between the two p a r t s of h i s c h a r a c t e r , and formed very much the same n o t i o n of him which I now have a f t e r seeing and c o n v e r s i n g w i t h him. He seems to me to be a man of g e n t l e f e e l i n g s and b i t t e r o p i n i o n s . His o p i n i o n s make him t h i n k a g r e a t many t h i n g s abominable which are not so; a g a i n s t which a c c o r d i n g l y he t h i n k s i t would be r i g h t , and s u i t a b l e to the f i t n e s s of t h i n g s , to express g r e a t i n d i g n a t i o n : but i f he r e a l l y f e e l s t h i s i n d i g n a t i o n , i t i s o n l y by a v o l u n t a r y a c t of the imag-i n a t i o n t h a t he conjures i t up, by r e p r e -s e n t i n g the t h i n g to h i s own mind i n c o l o u r s s u i t e d to t h a t p a s s i o n : now, when he knows an i n d i v i d u a l and f e e l s disposed to l i k e him, although t h a t i n d i v i d u a l may be p l a c e d i n one of the condemned c a t e g o r i e s , he does not conjure up t h i s phantom and f e e l s t h e r e -f o r e no p r i n c i p l e of repugnance, nor e x c i t e s a ny. 1 29 M i l l ' s comments on Southey are of s p e c i a l i n t e r e s t ; they i n d i c a t e c e r t a i n c r i t i c a l d e f i c i e n c i e s i n Southey t h a t 129 t r o u b l e d him. M i l l was l o o k i n g f o r i n t e g r i t y and had g r e a t d i f f i c u l t y i n r e c o n c i l i n g t h e tone o f Southey's w r i t i n g s w i t h what he had l e a r n e d o f him as a man. M i l l a r r i v e d a t what seems t o be a r a t h e r shrewd con-c l u s i o n about Southey: he was not a l l o f one p i e c e ; he l a c k e d t h e u n i t y t h a t Wordsworth p o s s e s s e d . The same l o n g l e t t e r t o S t e r l i n g w h i c h c o n t a i n e d M i l l ' s o b s e r v a t i o n s on h i s v i s i t t o Wordsworth i n t h e Lake D i s t r i c t a l s o c o n t a i n e d some e x t e n s i v e comments on an o t h e r o f M i l l ' s new a c q u a i n t a n c e s , Thomas C a r l y l e , w i t h whom M i l l was now b e g i n n i n g a l o n g and p r o d u c t i v e c o r r e s p o n d e n c e . M i l l ' s a c q u a i n t a n c e w i t h C a r l y l e i s of s p e c i a l i m p o r t a n c e as i t too had an i m p o r t a n t i n -f l u e n c e on M i l l ' s i n t e l l e c t u a l development; i t s s p e c i a l i n t e r e s t l i e s i n i t s v e r y d i f f e r e n c e and c o n t r a s t w i t h t h e i n f l u e n c e o f Wordsworth. Where the growth o f M i l l ' s a c q u a i n t a n c e w i t h Wordsworth l e d t o an i n c r e a s e i n h i s a p p r e c i a t i o n o f him as b o t h a man and a po e t , the growth o f h i s r e l a t i o n s h i p w i t h C a r l y l e l e d t o t h e exposure o f an i n c r e a s i n g number o f p o i n t s o f disagreement. N e v e r t h e l e s s , C a r l y l e e x e r t e d a c o n s i d e r a b l e i n f l u e n c e on M i l l ' s m a t u r i n g views o f l i f e , p o l i t i c s , and a r t . A n o t h e r a c q u a i n t a n c e w h i c h I have r e c e n t l y made i s t h a t o f Mr. C a r l y l e , whom I b e l i e v e 130 you are also acquainted with. I have long had a very keen r e l i s h for his a r t i c l e s i n the Edinburgh and Foreign Reviews, which I formerly thought to be such consummate non-sense; and I think he improves upon a nearer acquaintance. He does not seem to me so e n t i r e l y the r e f l e x i o n or shadow of the great German writers as I was i n c l i n e d to consider him; although undoubtedly h i s mind has derived from th e i r i n s p i r a t i o n whatever breath of l i f e i s i n i t . He seems to me as a man who has had h i s eyes unsealed, and who now looks round him and sees the aspects of things with his own eyes, but by the l i g h t supplied by others; not the pure l i g h t of day, but another l i g h t compounded of the same simple rays but i n d i f f e r e n t proportions. He has by far the largest and widest l i b e r a l i t y and tolerance (not i n the sense which Coleridge j u s t l y disavows, but i n the good sense) that I have met with i n any one; and he d i f f e r s from most men who see as much as he does into the defects of the age, by a circumstance gr e a t l y to his advantage i n my estimation, that he looks for a safe landing before and not behind: he sees that i f we could replace things as they once were, we should only retard the f i n a l issue, as we should i n a l l human p r o b a b i l i t y go on just as we then did*, and a r r i v e again at the very place where we now stand. M i l l says that his impression of Carlyle has improved on nearer acquaintance. He finds i n him the widest l i b e r a l i t y and tolerance, but he sees a lack, too. M i l l ' s comment about C a r l y l e that he sees with his own eyes, but by the l i g h t supplied by others i s an i n t e r e s t i n g use of metaphor; usually when using meta-phors, M i l l i s careful to make their application quite clear. There could be some obscurity here, 131 although the general meaning seems clear enough: M i l l seems to believe that Carlyle does not see things objectively enough with his own unprejudiced eye; on the contrary his eye would seem to be prejudiced by the l i g h t . o r emphasis of others. Once again, a famous wri-ter f a l l s short of the high standard that for M i l l marked the i n t e l l e c t and character of Wordsworth. M i l l ' s keen i n t e r e s t i n the inner, emotional l i f e of man appeared not only i n h i s . l e t t e r s but also i n his more formal writings. In October, 1832, the Monthly  Repository published his essay, "On Genius." At the very beginning of t h i s essay he sets the tone that pre v a i l s throughout: You have shown that, without being i n d i f f e r e n t to p o l i t i c s , you can see a deeper problem i n the e x i s t i n g aspect of human a f f a i r s , than the adjustment of a ten-pound franchise; and that with no i n c l i n a t i o n to undervalue the i n t e l l e c t of these " l a t t e r days," you do not write i t down transcendent because steam carriages can run twenty-five miles an hour on an iron railway; because l i t t l e children are taught to march round a room and sing psalms, or because mechanics can read the Penny Magazine. You do not look upon man as having attained the perfection of his nature, when he attains the perfection of a wheel's or a pulley's nature, to go well as a part of some vast machine, being him-s e l f nothing. You do not esteem the higher endowments of the i n t e l l e c t and heart to be given by God, or valuable to man, c h i e f l y as means to his obtaining f i r s t , bread; next, beef to his bread; and, as the l a s t f e l i c i t o u s consummation, wine and fine l i n e n . Rather, you seem to consider ...the wants which point to these bodily necessaries or indulgences, as having for t h e i r chief use that they c a l l into 132 existence and into exercise those l o f t i e r q u a l i t i e s . You judge of man, not by what he does, but by what he i s . For, though man i s formed for action, and i s of no worth further than by virt u e of the work he does; yet (as has been often said, by one of the noblest s p i r i t s of our time) the works which most of us are appointed to do on this earth are i n themselves l i t t l e better than t r i v i a l and contemp-t i b l e : the sole thing which i s indeed valuable i n them i s the s p i r i t i n which they are done. Nor i s this mere mysticism; the most absolute u t i l i t a r i a n i s m must come to the same c o n c l u s i o n . i 3 x M i l l has emphasized the view that a l l of the mechanical and material achievements notwithstanding, that man must be judged by what he i s , by the s p i r i t , by the inwardness with which he has entered into his work,, and which has supported him u n t i l he has completed i t . Writing to Thomas Carlyle on the 5th of July, 1833, M i l l returned again to the importance of the poet and poetry. He wrote this with the view that the l o g i c i a n constitutes a complement to the poet: The same person may be poet and l o g i c i a n , but he cannot be both i n the same composition: and as heroes have been frustrated of glory "carent quia vate sacro," so I think the vates himself has often been misunderstood and successfully cried down for want of a Logician i n Ordinary, to supply a l o g i c a l commentary on his i n t u i t i v e truths. The a r t i s t ' s is the highest part, for by him alone i s r e a l knowledge of such truths con-veyed: but i t i s possible to convince him who never could know the i n t u i t i v e truths, that they are not inconsistent with any-thing he does know; that they are even very probable, and that he may have f a i t h i n them when higher natures than his own a f f i r m 133 that they are truths. He may b u i l d on them and act on them, or at least act nothing contradictory to them. Now this humbler part i s , I think, that which i s most suitable to my f a c u l t i e s , as a man of speculation. I am not i n the least a poet, i n any sense; but I can do homage to poetry. I can to a very considerable ex-tent f e e l i t and understand i t , and can mkae others who are my i n f e r i o r s under-stand i t i n proportion to the measure of the i r capacity. I believe that such a person i s more wanted than even the poet himself; that there are more persons l i v -ing who approximate to the l a t t e r charac-ter than to the former. I do not think myself at a l l f i t for the one; I do for the other; your walk I conceive to be the higher. Now one thing not useless to do would be to exemplify this difference by enlarging i n my l o g i c a l fashion upon the difference i t s e l f : to make those who are not poets, understand that poetry i s higher than Logic, and the union of the two i s Philosophy. x^2 In this l e t t e r , with obvious humility, M i l l says that he conceives of himself as a l o g i c i a n , and because the a r t i s t knows the i n t u i t i v e truths, the very premises of l o g i c , the l o g i c i a n i s necessarily i n a dependent and i n f e r i o r position. He suggests, very s i g n i f i c a n t l y for one trained as a reasoner, that these i n t u i t i v e truths, i f they are not inconsis-tent with what the l o g i c i a n knows, may be taken on f a i t h , for these are truths that he, the l o g i c i a n , may never know, and i s indeed incapable of knowing. This i s the extreme po s i t i o n that M i l l takes on i n t u i t i v e truths, 134 for a f t e r he had passed the time of his maximum reaction to his o r i g i n a l t r a i n i n g , he retreated from t h i s new 133 p o s i t i o n he had taken up. Accordingly, M i l l affirms once again the importance of the poet: by him alone are i n t u i t i v e truths conveyed. Here, M i l l entertains the same idea as he expressed i n his notes on Plato: the love of vi r t u e , and every other noble f e e l i n g , i s not communicated by reasoning, but caught by i n s p i r a -t i o n or sympathy from those who already have i t . During the years immediately following his men-t a l c r i s i s , and the awakening experience of Words-worth's poetry, M i l l was u n t i r i n g l y active and assid-uous i n c u l t i v a t i n g his deepening i n t e r e s t i n poetry. His v i s i t to William Wordsworth i n the Lake D i s t r i c t , a r i s i n g from his desire to know the man as well as the poetry, and his subsequent comments about his meeting with Wordsworth provide evidence of his conviction that the poetry was a r e f l e c t i o n of the inner man. M i l l also gave evidence i n his writings that he f e l t that poetry was too serious to be dismissed as enter-tainment, and that, i n fact, poetry i s i n t e g r a l with i t s complement, l o g i c , i n the formation of philosophy. There was a steady movement towards integrating poetry f u l l y into his philosophy. 13 5 In January and November of 1833, M i l l published i n the Monthly Repository, two essays e n t i t l e d "What Is Poetry?" and "The Two Kinds Of Poetry." These two essays contain some of M i l l ' s most e x p l i c i t statements of his views on the nature of poetry, and because of th e i r sequence and r e l a t i v e formality they must be considered important i n the formation of his poetic theory. However, they must be viewed with an element of caution as they must take th e i r place i n the sequential and developing growth of M i l l ' s thought. As with his other ideas, they are a part, and an important part of his mental biography, but they must be seen i n t h e i r context. There were no subsequent dramatic s h i f t s away from the positions he took up i n these essays, but there was a steady growth and development. In the f i r s t of these essays, "What Is Poetry?". M i l l seeks to examine the nature of poetry without confining the idea of poetry to a marrow d e f i n i t i o n . He follows the time-honoured method of stating at f i r s t what poetry i s not. It i s not to be confounded, he says, with metrical composition. He then adds that poetry refers to the essence of a l l art, and here he employs the word i n i t s widest possible sense: 136 That, however, the word "poetry" does im-port something quite peculiar i n i t s nature, something which may exist i n what i s c a l l e d prose as well as i n verse, something which does not even require the instrument of words, but can speak through those other audible symbols c a l l e d musical sounds, and even through the v i s i b l e ones, which are the language of sculpture, painting, and architecture; a l l t h i s , as we believe, i s and must be f e l t , though perhaps i n d i s t i n c t l y , by a l l upon whom poetry i n any of i t s shapes produces any impression beyond that of t i c k l i n g the ear. To the mind, poetry is either nothing, or i t i s the better part of a l l art whatever, and of r e a l l i f e too; and the d i s t i n c t i o n between poetry and what i s not poetry, whether explained or not, i s f e l t to be fundamental. 1 3 4 M i l l then gives his intention of trying to f i n d the boundaries which poetry i t s e l f has set, rather than forcing the idea of poetry within the bounds of an a r b i t r a r y d e f i n i t i o n . This i s M i l l , the l o g i c i a n , speaking as he wisely and cautiously attempts to f i n d the l i m i t s of his problem rather than attempting to define i t . He gives his purpose as that of seeking to clear up the conception already attached to poetry by bringing before the minds of his readers as a d i s t i n c t p r i n c i p l e that which they had previously known as a vague f e e l i n g . M i l l then turns to the purpose of poetry: The object of poetry i s confessedly to act upon the emotions; and therein i s poetry 137 s u f f i c i e n t l y distinguished from what Wordsworth affirms to be i t s l o g i c a l opposite, namely, not prose, but matter of fact or science.135 By contrasting science, which does i t s work by inference, with poetry, which does i t s work by moving, M i l l has suggested a complementary rela t i o n s h i p between the two. Again there i s an echo of what he wrote about poetry and reason i n his comments on Plato's Gorgias. After distinguishing poetry from i t s l o g i c a l opposite, matter of fact or science, M i l l reduces his f i e l d of discussion s t i l l further by examining another d i s t i n c t i o n , this time between poetry and the novel: To present thoughts or images to the mind for the purpose of acting upon the emotions, does not belong to poetry alone. I t i s equally the province (for example) of the novelist: and yet the faculty of the poet and the f a c u l t y of the novelist are as d i s -t i n c t as any other two f a c u l t i e s ; as the faculty of the n o v e l i s t and of the orator, or of the poet and the metaphysician. The two characters may be united, as characters the most disparate may; but they have no natural connection. Many of the f i n e s t poems are i n the form of novels, and i n almost a l l good novels there i s true poetry. But there i s a r a d i c a l d i s t i n c t i o n between the i n t e r e s t f e l t i n a novel as such, and the inte r e s t excited by poetry; for the one i s derived from incident, the other from the representation of f e e l i n g . In one, the source of the emotion excited i s the exhibition of a state or states of human s e n s i b i l i t y ; i n the other, of a series of states of mere outward circumstances. x'36 138 M i l l notes that many poems are i n the form of f i c t i -tious narratives and that many of these contain good poetry, but that an important d i s t i n c t i o n exists be-tweent.the two forms of l i t e r a t u r e , and that t h i s d i s t i n c t i o n arises because one of them i s derived from incident while the other i s a representation of f e e l i n g . To emphasize his point about the e s s e n t i a l l y d i s s i m i l a r natures of poetry and f i c t i t i o u s narrative, M i l l suggests that a r e a l l y strong passion for eit h e r of the two seems to pre-suppose a comparative indifference to 137 the other. M i l l seeks to d i f f e r e n t i a t e further between f i c t i o n and poetry by reviewing the appeal that narrative has made at various ages and various times: In what stage of the progress' of society, again, i s s t o r y t e l l i n g most valued, and the s t o r y t e l l e r i n greatest request and honor? — i n a rude state; l i k e that of the Tartars and Arabs at thi s day, and of almost a l l nations i n the e a r l i e s t ages. But i n t h i s state of society there i s l i t t l e poetry except ballads, which are mostly narrative, that i s , e s s e n t i a l l y s t o r i e s , and derive t h e i r p r i n c i p a l i n t e r e s t from the incidents. Considered as poetry, they are of the lowest and most elementary kind: the feelings de-picted, or rather indicated, are the simplest our nature has; such joys and g r i e f s as the immediate pressure of some outward event excites i n rude minds, which l i v e wholly immersed i n outward things, and have never, eith e r from choice or a force they could not r e s i s t , turned themselves to the contemplation of the world w i t h i n . x 3 8 139 M i l l considers ballads to be the lowest and most elementary kind of poetry depicting the simplest of feelings that are occasioned by outward events. He suggests that the ballads f a i l as poetry because the feelings they convey aris e from the immediate pressure of some outward event; they do not ari s e from within as, i n M i l l ' s view, poetry must. I t i s possible that M i l l was influenced i n this context by Wordsworth's idea of emotion re c o l l e c t e d i n t r a n q u i l l i t y . It seems apparent that M i l l associates the various forms of narrative such as the b a l l a d and the novel with immaturity and lack of depth i n both man and society. He then turns to poetry and i d e n t i f i e s an appre-c i a t i o n of i t with more mature q u a l i t i e s than those required and displayed by the b a l l a d and the novel. But poetry, which i s the delineation of the deeper and more secret workings of the human heart, i s inte r e s t i n g only to those to uwhom i t r e c a l l s what they have f e l t , or whose imagination i t s t i r s up to conceive what they f e e l , or what they might have been able to f e e l , had t h e i r outward circumstances been d i f f e r e n t . Poetry, when i t i s r e a l l y such, i s truth; and f i c t i o n also, i f i t i s good for anything, i s truth: but they are d i f f e r e n t truths. The truth of poetry i s to paint the human soul t r u l y : the truth of f i c t i o n i s to give a true picture of l i f e . The two kinds of knowledge are d i f f e r e n t , and come by d i f f e r e n t 140 ways, come mostly to d i f f e r e n t persons. Great poets are often proverbially i g -norant of l i f e . What they know has come by observation of themselves; they have found there one highly delicate, and sens i t i v e , and refined specimen of human nature, on which the laws of human emotion are written i n large characters, such as can be read o f f without much study: and other knowledge of mankind such as comes to men of the world by outward experience, i s not indispensable to them as poets: but to the no v e l i s t such knowledge i s a l l i n a l l ; he has to describe outward things, not the inward man; actions and events, not feelings; and i t w i l l not do for him to be numbered among those who, as Madame Roland said of Brissot, know man but not men. Poetry i s concerned with the human heart, with the most inward aspect of man. I t requires a self-consciousness that f i c t i o n , for example, does not require. The truth of poetry i s d i f f e r e n t from the truth of f i c t i o n : the truth of poetry reveals the soul, the very heart of a man's inner being; the truth of f i c t i o n r e f l e c t s the outer circumstances of l i f e . M i l l then reminds us that the differences between poetry and f i c t i o n do not bar t h e i r being combined i n the same work; such a work might be c a l l e d e i t h e r a novel or a poem. The union of poetry and incident, i f effected with each i n i t s highest kind, produces the dramatic. There may be a great imbalance between the two c l e a r l y defined areas of poetry and incident or there may be an almost perfect balance between them. 141 M i l l suggests that i t i s the combination of the two excellences, that of the story and that of poetry, which makes Shakespeare so generally acceptable. For some he i s a great s t o r y - t e l l e r , but for others, a few, he i s a poet. M i l l ' s e f f o r t s had been directed to l i m i t i n g poetry to states of fee l i n g and excluding i t from the delineation of external objects. He then proceeds to refute the claim that there i s descriptive poetry. But an object which admits of being described, or a truth which may f i l l a place i n a sci e n -t i f i c t r e a t i s e , may also furnish an occasion for the generation of poetry, which we there-upon choose to c a l l descriptive or d i d a c t i c . The poetry i s not i n the object i t s e l f , nor i n the s c i e n t i f i c truth i t s e l f , but i n the state of mind i n which-the one and the other may cbe contemplated. 4 0 M i l l returns again and again to the point that poetry i s not i n the object i t s e l f , but i n the state of mind i n which the object or s c i e n t i f i c truth i s contemplated. He then gives an example of the central problem ex-perienced by the poet i n dealing with descriptive poetry: Descriptive poetry consists, no doubt, i n description, but i n description of things as they appear, not as they are; and i t paints them not i n their bare and natural lineaments, but arranged i n the colors and seen through the medium of the imagination set i n action by the feelings. If a poet i s to describe a l i o n , he w i l l not set about describing him as a n a t u r a l i s t would, who was intent upon stating the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. 142 He w i l l describe him by imagery, that i s by suggesting the most s t r i k i n g l i k e -nesses and contrasts which might occur to a mind contemplating the l i o n , i n the state of awe, wonder, or terror, which the spectacle n a t u r a l l y excites, or i s , on the occasion, supposed to excite. Now this i s describing the l i o n professedly, but the state of excitement of the spectator r e a l l y . The l i o n may be described f a l s e l y or i n exaggerated colors, and the poetry be a l l the better; but i f the human emo-tion be not painted with the most scru-pulous truth, the poetry i s bad poetry, i . e . i s not poetry at a l l , but a f a i l u r e . M i l l makes a number of i n t e r e s t i n g statements here, some of which have come under attack. He says that description i n poetry consists i n description of things as they appear, not as they are. We are l e f t to i n f e r what he means here. M i l l does add that the poet paints things as they appear through the medium of imagination which has been made operative by the fee l i n g s . He then suggests that the poet w i l l not describe the l i o n as would a n a t u r a l i s t or a t r a v e l l e r who i s intent upon stati n g the truth. He says he w i l l describe him by imagery, by suggesting the most s t r i k i n g likenesses that might occur to a mind contemplating the l i o n i n one of a number of states of mind, and as a consequence the l i o n may be described f a l s e l y . On f i r s t examination, i t appears that M i l l i s granting poetic license to depart from the truth, and to deal in false colors. Abrams 143 says as much: But he indicates that poetry d i f f e r s from science i n being exempt from the c r i t e r i o n of truth; science asserts a proposition for assent or denial, but poetry merely presents an object for aesthetic contemplation. 1 4 2 Abrams goes on to suggest that at the root of the d i f f i c u l t y i s M i l l ' s use of the word, describe. Quoting Alexander Smith he suggests that poetry expresses rather than describes the poet's emotion. Actually, there appears to be a good deal of confusion here a l l round. M i l l ' s use of the word, describe, does not appear to be a happy one, but there are other problems. I t i s suggested here that M i l l does not indicate, as Abrams seems to imply, that poetry-.differs from science i n being exempt from the c r i t e r i o n of truth. I t i s true that M i l l says that "The l i o n may be described f a l s e l y or i n exaggerated colours, and the poetry be a l l the better; but i f the human emotion be not painted with the most scrupulous truth, the poetry i s bad poetry." Unless M i l l i s very confused he seems to be suggesting a p r i o r i t y i n truths: external truths opposed to i n -t e r n a l emotional truths, with the l a t t e r having the p r i o r i t y . Truth i s not an absolute, nor does M i l l seem to suggest that i t i s . The truth i n poetry, as M i l l always indicates, i s the inner truth, the truth 144 of f e e l i n g , the truth of a state of mind. Consequently, i t would seem that i f there are two truths to be dealt with, an inner truth and an external truth, that so far as poetry i s concerned, the inner truth must take precedence over the external truth, even i f the l a t t e r must then appear i n false colors. M i l l has said that the "object of poetry i s confessedly to act upon the emotions; and therein i s poetry s u f f i c i e n t l y d i s t i n -guished from what Wordsworth affirms to be i t s l o g i c a l opposite, namely not prose, but matter of fact or 143 science." M i l l seems to be. defining poetry i n terms of i t s function, and assuming that we w i l l do the same. A possible source of d i s s a t i s f a c t i o n i s here in M i l l ' s use of the word, "truth", and i n his making assumptions that do not appear to be f u l l y j u s t i f i e d . M i l l then proceeds to further l i m i t the application of the word, poetry. He refers to Ebenezer E l l i o t t as saying that poetry i s impassioned truth, and he com-pares this with the comment of a writer i n Blackwood's Magazine as r e f e r r i n g to poetry as "man's thoughts 14 4 tinged by his feelings." He then concludes: There i s i n either d e f i n i t i o n a near approximation to what we are i n search of. Every truth which man can announce, every thought, even every outward im-145 pression, which can enter into his con-sciousness, may become poetry when shown through any impassioned medium, when invested.with the coloring of joy, or g r i e f , or p i t y , or a f f e c t i o n , or admiration, or reverence, or awe, or even hatred or terror; and, unless so colored, nothing, be i t , a s interesting as i t may, i s p o e t r y . 1 4 5 M i l l now draws a further d i s t i n c t i o n , that between poetry and eloquence. He observes that eloquence, as well as poetry, i s impassioned truth; eloquence as well as poetry i s thoughts colored by the feelings. The assumption that eloquence should always be truth seems to need a q u a l i f i c a t i o n . M i l l adds that the d i s t i n c t i o n between poetry and eloquence i s equally fundamental with the d i s t i n c t i o n s already drawn between poetry and narrative, and poetry and description. He continues: Poetry and eloquence are both a l i k e the expression or uttering forth of f e e l i n g . But i f we may be excused the seeming af f e c t a t i o n of the a n t i t h e s i s , we should say that eloquence i s heard, poetry i s overheard. Eloquence supposes an audience; the p e c u l i a r i t y of poetry appears to us to l i e i n the poet's utter unconsciousness of a l i s t e n e r . Poetry i s f e e l i n g , confessing i t s e l f to i t s e l f , i n moments of solitude, and bodying i t s e l f forth i n symbols which are the nearest possible representations of the f e e l i n g i n the exact shape i n which i t exists i n the poet's mind. Eloquence i s fe e l i n g pour-ing i t s e l f forth to other minds, courting their sympathy, or endeavouring to influence t h e i r b e l i e f , or move them to passion or to a c t i o n . 1 4 5 He then adds emphasis to his point about the d i f -ference between poetry and eloquence. He does this by 146 r e f e r r i n g to a l l poetry as being of the nature of soliloquy: Poetry, accordingly, i s the natural f r u i t of solitude and meditation; eloquence, of intercourse with the world. The persons who have most f e e l i n g of the i r own, i f i n t e l l e c t u a l culture have given them a language i n which to express i t , have the highest faculty of poetry; those who best understand the feelings of others are the most e l o q u e n t . A 4 7 In r e f e r r i n g to the arts, M i l l said that one finds i n music two p e r f e c t l y d i s t i n c t s t y l e s : one the poetry of music and the other, the oratory of music. The same d i s t i n c t i o n holds true for the arts 14 8 of painting and sculpture. M i l l ' s extension of the word, poetry,, to the f i e l d s of music, acting, painting, and r e l i g i o n , while i l l u s -t r a t i v e of hi s points and therefore interesting, must be viewed i n the present context as peripheral to the main l i t e r a r y emphasis. This wider use of the word does rais e a problem, however, as one must read with close attention to be sure of M i l l ' s p a r t i c u l a r mean-ing. Throughout his discussion of the various forms of art he returns time and again to the basic oppo-s i t i o n that he has established between poetry and eloquence. After extending h i s opposition between poetry and 147 eloquence to the various fine arts, M i l l then turns his attention to the question of beauty i n art. The d i r e c t aim of art as such, i s the pro-duction of the b e a u t i f u l ; and as there are other things b e a u t i f u l besides states of mind, there i s much of art which may seem to have nothing to do with eit h e r poetry or eloquence as we have defined them. Take for instance a composition of Claude, or Salvator Rosa. There i s here creation of new beauty; by the grouping of natural scenery, conformably indeed to the law of outward nature, but not a f t e r any actual model; the r e s u l t being a beauty more perfect and f a u l t l e s s than i s perhaps to be found i n any actual landscape. Yet there i s a character of poetry even i n these, without which they could not be so beau-t i f u l . The unity, the wholeness, and aesthetic congruity of the picture s t i l l l i e s i n s i n g l e -ness of expression; but i t i s expression i n a d i f f e r e n t sense from that i n which we have hitherto employed the term. The objects i n an imaginary landscape cannot be said, l i k e the words of a poem or the notes of a melody, to be the actual utterance of a fe e l i n g ; but there must be some f e e l i n g with which they harmonize, and which they have a tendency to rais e up i n the spectator's mind. 4 In accepting the view that the d i r e c t aim of art i s the production of the b e a u t i f u l , M i l l i s adopting a scale of values i n his conception of art. The foregoing passage just quoted i s i n t e r e s t i n g for a number of reasons. In i t M i l l recognizes that an a r t i s t can create t r u l y creative art that i s not conformable to anything i n the actual world. He then suggests that there must be some f e e l i n g with which th i s creation w i l l harmonize. Disappointingly, M i l l has nothing to 148 say about the new experiences that art may bring, nor does he say anything about the role of imagination i n the act of new creation. M i l l f i n a l l y closes the essay with the following statement: There i s no generic d i s t i n c t i o n between the imagery which i s the expression of f e e l i n g , and the imagery, which i s f e l t to harmonize with f e e l i n g . They are i d e n t i c a l . The imagery i n which f e e l i n g utters i t s e l f forth from within, i s also that i n which i t delights when presented to i t from without. A l l art, therefore, i n proportion as i t produces i t s e f f e c t s by an appeal to the emotions par-takes of poetry, unless i t partakes of oratory or of narrative. And the d i s t i n c t i o n which these three words indicate, runs through the whole f i e l d of the fine arts. x 5° M i l l ' s l a s t sentence here gives an i n d i c a t i o n of his method: by esta b l i s h i n g certain fundamental s i m i l a r -i t i e s and differences he has been able to generalize about the whole f i e l d of a r t . His method i s essen-t i a l l y that of the l o g i c i a n . In the second of his two famous essays on poetry, the one e n t i t l e d "The Two Kinds of Poetry," M i l l sets the context of his thought by the expression Nascitur  poeta: the poet i s born, or as we should say more idi o m a t i c a l l y , poets are born. While acknowledging many misapplications of the foregoing aphorism, M i l l says-.that i t i s l i k e l y as true as any such saying i s : 149 i . e . truth which has been 'compressed and bent out 151 of shape' and therefore truth which needs an ex-planation. After i n s i s t i n g that poets are subject to the same demands as any of the other s p i r i t u a l benefactors 152 of mankind M i l l concludes that there are d e f i n i t e poetic natures. He says that a poetic temperament w i l l not of i t s e l f make a poet, but that the poetry of one who i s a poet by nature w i l l be c l e a r l y d i s -tinguishable from that of one who i s not. He adds: One may write genuine poetry, and not be a poet; for whosoever writes out t r u l y any one human f e e l i n g , writes poetry. A l l persons, even the most unimaginative, i n moments of strong emotion, speak poetry; and hence the drama i s poetry, which else were prose, except when a poet i s one of the characters. What i s poetry, but the thoughts and words i n which emotion spon-taneously embodies i t s e l f ? l 5 3 The point of view that M i l l i s suggesting here i s that a l l people who write out t r u l y any human f e e l i n g write poetry. In other words, he i s once again emphasizing that poetry i s spontaneous, involuntary, and devoid of cal c u l a t i o n for u l t e r i o r ends. He then asks: Whom, then s h a l l we c a l l poets? Those who are so constituted, that emotions are the lin k s of association by which t h e i r ideas, both sensuous and s p i r i t u a l , are connected together. This constitution belongs (within 150 certain limits) to a l l i n whom poetry i s a pervading p r i n c i p l e . In a l l others, poetry i s something extraneous and superinduced: something out of themselves, foreign to the habitual course of their everyday l i v e s and characters; a quite other world, to which they may make occasional v i s i t s , but where they are sojourners, not dwellers, and which, when out of i t , or even when i n i t , they think of, peradventur.e, but as a phan-tom world, a place of ignes f a t u i and spec-t r a l i l l u s i o n s . Those only who have the p e c u l i a r i t y of association which we have mentioned, and which i s one of the natural consequences of intense s e n s i b i l i t y , i n -stead of seeming not themselves when they are uttering poetry, scarcely seem them-selves when uttering anything to which poetry i s foreign. whatever be the thing which they are contemplating, the aspect under which i t f i r s t and most natu r a l l y paints i t s e l f to them, i s i t s poetic aspect. The poet of culture sees his object i n prose, and describes •; i t i n poetry; the poet of nature a c t u a l l y sees i t i n p o e t r y . 1 5 4 M i l l ' s use of language here leaves something to be desired when he says that 'the poet of culture sees his object i n prose' and the poet of nature 'sees i t in poetry'. This explanation does not seem to be very h e l p f u l . His main argument here that poets are those whose emotions are the links of association, for th e i r ideas, finds i t s basis i n Hartley's Associationism. John M i l l was holding to the teaching of his father on this topic. James M i l l , i n his Analysis Of The Human Mind set out the Ass o c i a t i o n i s t view of the operations of the human mind i n the act of learning or 'forming 151 associations': under t h i s doctrine the poet was as sub-j e c t to the laws governing the association of ideas as anyone else, and his imagination consisted of "trains 155 of ideas." In his essay reviewing Tennyson's poems he wrote, "In both, there i s what i s commonly c a l l e d 156 imagination—namely, fancy:" and i n a special foot-note he gave i t very b r i e f attention: It may be thought, perhaps, that among the g i f t s of nature to a poet, ought also to be included a v i v i d and exuberant imagination. We believe, however, that vividness of imagination i s no further a g i f t of nature, than i n so far as i t i s a natural consequence of v i v i d sensations. A l l besides t h i s , we i n c l i n e to think, depends on habit and cultivation.157 I t i s disappointing that M i l l should rest his theory of the imagination on the A s s o c i a t i o n i s t theory without a more searching investigation. As Abrams has pointed out i n his discussion of Coleridge's theory of the imagination, "Mechanism i s f a l s e , not because i t does not t e l l the truth, but because i t does not t e l l the 158 whole truth." That M i l l should not have ventured into Coleridge's t e r r i t o r y on t h i s theory i s not only disappointing, but i t i s also puzzling, e s p e c i a l l y since M i l l was greatly impressed by Coleridge's thought. At any rate t h i s indicates the l i m i t of M i l l ' s i n t e r e s t and thought i n the study of poetry and the problems of 152 creative a r t . For Coleridge, i n his Biographia L i t -ter a r i a raised objections to Associationism that M i l l , had he read i t , would have had to answer.1^9 M i l l sums up the A s s o c i a t i o n i s t view of the natural poet: Thoughts and images w i l l be linked together, according to the s i m i l a r i t y of the feelings which c l i n g to them. A thought w i l l i n t r o -duce a thought by f i r s t introducing a f e e l i n g which is. a l l i e d with i t . At the centre of each group of thoughts or images w i l l be found a f e e l i n g : and the thoughts or images are only there because the f e e l i n g was there. A l l the combinations which the mind puts together, a l l the pictures which i t paints, a l l the wholes which Imagination constructs out of the materials supplied by Fancy, w i l l be indebted to some dominant f e e l i n g , not as i n other natures to a dominant thought, for t h e i r unity and consistency of character, for what distinguishes them from incoherencies.!60 M i l l ' s comment that at the centre of each group of thoughts or images w i l l be found a f e e l i n g finds support not only in the A s s o c i a t i o n i s t theory but also i n Wordsworth's dictum that "the f e e l i n g therein developed gives im-portance to the action and s i t u a t i o n , and not the action and s i t u a t i o n to the feeling."161 M i l l concludes t h i s part of his discussion: The difference, then, between the poetry of a poet, and the poetry of a cu l t i v a t e d but not natura l l y p o e t i c a l mind, i s that i n the l a t t e r , with however bright a halo of f e e l i n g the thought may be surrounded and g l o r i f i e d , the thought i t s e l f i s s t i l l the conspicuous object; while the poetry of a poet i s Feeling i t s e l f , em-ploying Thought only as the medium of i t s utterance. In the one f e e l i n g waits upon thought; i n the other, thought upon feeling.162 153 In the poetry of the cu l t i v a t e d mind that i s not na t u r a l l y poetic, the thought w i l l be dominant; i n the poetry of the naturally poetic mind, the f e e l i n g i s dominant. I t i s inte r e s t i n g to note that M i l l found emphasis on the element of thought i n Words-worth's poetry and concluded that i t was th i s element that was primary i n Wordsworth's mind. Accordingly, he concludes that Wordsworth was a poet of culture. M i l l now proceeds to a discussion of the charac-t e r i s t i c s of Wordsworth's poetry, seeking thereby to i l l u s t r a t e the view he has developed of Wordsworth: On the other hand, Wordsworth's poetry i s never bounding, never ebul l i e n t ; has l i t t l e even of the appearance of spontaneousness; the well i s never so f u l l that i t overflows. There i s an a i r of calm deliberateness about a l l he writes, which i s not c h a r a c t e r i s t i c of the poetic temperament; his poetry seems one thing, himself another; he seems to be poe t i c a l because he w i l l s to be so, not because he cannot help i t : . did he w i l l to dismiss poetry, he need never again, i t might almost seem, have a p o e t i c a l thought. He never seems possessed by a f e e l i n g ; no emotion seems ever so strong as to have entire sway, for the time being, over the current of h i s thoughts. He never, even for the space of a few stanzas, appears en-t i r e l y given up to exultation, or g r i e f , or p i t y , or love, or admiration, or devotion, or even animal s p i r i t s . x 5 3 When M i l l says "he seems to be po e t i c a l because he w i l l s to be so, not because he cannot help i t , " he i s assuming that the poet writes under a compulsion. 154 He passes judgment on Wordsworth's 'ai r of calm d e l i b -erateness,' considering i t as not being c h a r a c t e r i s t i c of the poetic temperament. He says that Wordsworth never seems 'possessed' by a f e e l i n g ; this i s not e n t i r e l y clear. Once again M i l l seems to be looking for spontaneity and i n t e n s i t y rather than deliberate c a l c u l a t i o n , and he i s apparently i n c l i n e d to judge by these limited c r i t e r i a . One of his f i n a l comments on Wordsworth i s that "the genius of Wordsworth i s e s s e n t i a l l y u n l y r i c a l . " x ^ 4 M i l l now narrows his consideration of poetry by giving his attention to l y r i c poetry: L y r i c poetry, as i t was the e a r l i e s t kind, i s also, i f the view we are now taking of poetry be correct, more eminently and p e c u l i a r l y poetry than any other: i t i s the poetry most natural to a r e a l l y poetic temperament, and least capable of being successfully imitated by one not so endowed by nature. x° 5 Having i n mind his s t r i c t u r e s on narrative, description, and eloquence, one can see why M i l l shied away from any l i t e r a r y form that seemed to involve imitation or c a l c u l a t i o n i n speech or purpose. Abrams c l a r i f i e s this problem posed by ^Mill's view of the l y r i c : The l y r i c form—used here to include elegy, song, sonnet, and ode—had long been p a r t i c -u l a r l y connected by c r i t i c s to the state of 155 mind of i t s author. Unlike the narrative and dramatic forms, most l y r i c s do not include such elements as characters and plot, which can be r e a d i l y explained (according to the common mirr o r - i n t e r -pretation of mimesis) as imitations of external people and events. The majority of l y r i c s consist of thoughts and feelings uttered i n the f i r s t person, and the one re a d i l y available character to whom these sentiments may be referred i s the poet himself. 1' 6 6 By i d e n t i f y i n g poetry with the l y r i c form, M i l l was r e s t r i c t i n g poetry to a form that was a d i r e c t r e f l e c -t i o n of the author's mood and feelings. M i l l considered Shelley to be the natural poet; comparing him to Wordsworth, he has the following judgment: Shelley i s the very reverse of a l l t h i s . Where Wordsworth i s strong, he i s weak; where Wordsworth i s weak, he i s strong. Culture, that culture by which Wordsworth has reared from his own inward nature the ric h e s t harvest ever brought forth by a s o i l of so l i t t l e depth, i s p r e c i s e l y what was wanting to Shelley: or l e t us rather say, he had not, at the period of his deplorably early death, reached s u f f i c i e n t l y far i n that i n t e l l e c t u a l progression of which he was capable, and which, i f i t has done so much for far i n -f e r i o r natures, might have made of him the greatest of our poets. For him, int e n t i o n a l mental d i s c i p l i n e had done l i t t l e ; the vividness of his emotions and of his sen-sations had done a l l . He seldom follows up an idea; i t starts into l i f e , summons from the f a i r y l a n d of his inexhaustible fancy some three or four bold images, then vanishes, and s t r a i g h t he i s off on the wings of some casual association into quite another s p h e r e . 1 6 7 156 Shelley lacks the mental d i s c i p l i n e and the mental culture to complement his natural a b i l i t y . M i l l then begins to sum up his p o s i t i o n i n t h i s important essay: What constitutes the poet i s not the imagery nor the thoughts, nor even the fe e l i n g s , but the law according to which they are c a l l e d up. He i s a poet, not because he has ideas of any p a r t i c u l a r kind, but because the succession of his ideas i s subordinate to the course of his emotions.16 8 M i l l gives his f i n a l consideration to the com-parison of the l o g i c i a n and the poet: Whether the superiority w i l l naturally be on the side of the logician-poet or of the mere poet—whether the writings of the one nought, as a whole to be truer, and t h e i r influence more beneficent, than those of the o t h e r — i s too ob-vious i n p r i n c i p l e to need statement: i t would be absurd to doubt whether two endowments are better than one: whether truth i s more c e r t a i n l y a r r i v e d at by two processes v e r i f y i n g and cor-recting each other, than by one alone.169 In his essay on the "Writings Of A l f r e d de Vigny," published A p r i l 1838, M i l l gives his thoughts on the nature and function of verse: In regard to verse writing, we would even exceed the severity of Horace's precept against mediocrity; we hold that nothing should be written i n verse which i s not exquisite. In prose, anything may be said which i s worth saying at a l l ; i n verse, only what i s worth saying better than prose can say i t . The gems alone of thought and fancy, are worth set t i n g with so f i n i s h e d 157 and elaborate a workmanship; and even of them, those only whose eff e c t i s heightened by i t : which takes place under two con-d i t i o n s ; and i n one or other of these two, i f we are not mistaken, must be found the o r i g i n and j u s t i f i c a t i o n of a l l composition i n verse. A thought or feeling requires verse for i t s adequate expression, when i n order that i t may dart into the soul with the speed of a lightning f l a s h , the ideas or images that are to convey i t require to be pressed closer together than i s compatible with the r i g i d grammatical construction of the prose sentence. One recommendation of verse, therefore, i s , that i t affords a language more condensed than prose. The other i s derived from one of the natural laws of the human mind, i n the utterance of i t s thoughts impregnated with i t s feelings. A l l emotion which has taken possession of the whole being—which flows unresistedly, and there-fore e q u a b l y — i n s t i n c t i v e l y seeks a language that flows equably l i k e i t s e l f ; and must either f i n d i t , or be conscious of an un-s a t i s f i e d want, which even impedes and prematurely stops the flow of the f e e l i n g . Hence, ever since man has been man, a l l deep and sustained fe e l i n g has tended to express i t s e l f i n rhythmical language; and the deeper the f e e l i n g , the more c h a r a c t e r i s t i c and decided the rhythm; provided always the fee l i n g be sustained as well as deep; for a f i t of passion has no natural connection with verse or music, a mood of passion has the s t r o n g e s t . 1 7 0 B r i e f l y , M i l l t a k e s t h e view that verse should be re-served for the exquisite, the best, the gems of thought and fancy, and that i t should be condensed and flow smoothly, equably, and rhythmically. He fi n i s h e s by saying that "the one unpardonable s i n i n a v e r s i f i e d composition, next to the absence of meaning, and of true meaning, i s diffuseness."171 158 M i l l ' s essays on l i t e r a t u r e give formal, sequential statements of his views on poetry, but they do not give a complete picture of the development of his thought and theory. For this one must turn to his l e t t e r s , his "System of Logic," and his other essays on p o l i t i c a l economy, ethics, r e l i g i o n , and society. In ef f e c t , when tracing the growth of h i s ideas, one must always look to relevant biographical d e t a i l s , for as M i l l himself said, he was always occupied i n weaving the fa b r i c of his opinions anew. One of the ideas which recurs again and again i n M i l l ' s correspondence i s that of i n t u i t i o n . For a long time i t quite b a f f l e d him, and even towards the end of his l i f e his l e t t e r s revealed a constantly questioning attitude about this idea and the word that seeks to contain i t . I t was a word that the Romantics were fond of. Coleridge, i n the Biographia L i t e r a r i a , wrote a s p e c i a l note on i t : I take t h i s occasion to observe that here and elsewhere Kant uses the term i n t u i t i o n , and the verb active ( i n t u e r i , germanice anschauen) for which we have unfortunately no correspon-dent word, exclusively for that which can be represented i n space and time. He therefore consistently and r i g h t l y denies the p o s s i b i l i t y of i n t e l l e c t u a l i n t u i t i o n s . But as I see no adequate reason for this exclusive sense of the term, I have reverted to i t s wider s i g n i f i c a t i o n authorized by our elder theologians and metaphysicians, according to 159 whom the term comprehends-all truths known to us without a medium. M i l l had become persuaded that some a r t i s t s arrived at important truths i n t u i t i v e l y ; however, he evidently had some fe e l i n g of c o n f l i c t about the term, as his correspondence reveals, for under his father's tutelage he had learned to suspect such words as fee l i n g and i n t u i t i o n . In a l e t t e r to Carlyle, written on the f i f t h of July, 1833, M i l l expresses himself on thi s and related topics. This brings to my mind that I have never explained what I meant when writing once before i n th i s s t r a i n I c a l l e d you a Poet and A r t i s t . I conceive that most of the highest truths are, to persons en-dowed by nature i n certain ways, which I think I could state, i n t u i t i v e ; that i s , they need neither explanation nor proof, but i f not known before, are assented to as soon as stated. Now i t appears to me that the poet or a r t i s t i s conversant c h i e f l y with such truths and that his o f f i c e i n respect to truth i s to declare them, and to make them impressive. This, however, supposes that the reader, hearer, or spectator i s a person of the kind to whom those truths are i n t u i t i v e . Such w i l l of course receive them at once, and w i l l lay them to heart i n proportion to the im-pressiveness with which the a r t i s t delivers and embodies them. But the other and more numerous kind of people w i l l consider them as nothing but dreaming or madness: and the more so, c e r t a i n l y , the more powerful the a r t i s t , as an a r t i s t : because the means which are good for rendering the truth impressive to those who know i t , are not the same and are often absolutely i n -compatible with those which render i t i n -t e l l i g i b l e to those who know i t not. Now 160 t h i s l a s t I think i s the proper o f f i c e of the l o g i c i a n or I might say the metaphysician, i n truth he must be both. The same person may be poet and l o g i c i a n , but he cannot be both i n the same composition: and as heroes have been frustrated of glory "parent quia  vate saero," so I think the vates himself has often been misunderstood and successfully c r i e d down for want of a Logician i n Ordinary, to supply a l o g i c a l commentary on his i n -t u i t i v e truths. The a r t i s t ' s i s the highest part, for by him alone i s r e a l knowledge of such truths conveyed: but i t i s possible to convince him who never could know the i n -t u i t i v e truths, that they are not inconsis-tent with anything he does know; that they are even very probable, and that he may have f a i t h i n them when higher natures than his own af f i r m that they are truths. 7 3 M i l l believed that the highest truths are i n t u i t i v e l y known by the a r t i s t or poet, and he concluded that the a b i l i t y to know these truths i n t h i s i n t u i t i v e manner i s a natural g i f t which enables such persons to d i s -pense with explanation or proof. I t was i n fac t a way of going d i r e c t to the heart of a matter and of d i s -cerning i t s e s s e n t i a l truth. He adds that i t i s the duty of the a r t i s t or poet to make such truths im-pressive so that the i n t u i t i v e l y sensitive reader can lay them to heart. M i l l ' s writing i n thi s part of his l e t t e r i s not clear, l i k e l y for the reason that he was not yet clear i n his own mind about the whole mysterious i n t u i t i v e process. He adds that the majority of people w i l l be incapable of responding to thi s i n t u i t i v e l y gathered knowledge, and w i l l even consider the poet's 161 i n t u i t i o n s as madness, but that i t i s possible to convince the person who i s incapable of i n t u i t i v e truths, and he adds the key words about the truths that must not be inconsistent with anything he knows and that he may accept them on f a i t h as coming from people with higher natures than h i s . M i l l ' s father would have been astonished by this admission. How did M i l l come to such a p o s i t i o n verging on the g u l l i b l e ? He reached this point by assuming that there were two v a l i d ways of a r r i v i n g at truth: the i n t u i t i v e for certain g i f t e d people and the l o g i c a l for the majority of persons, among whom he unassumingly placed himself. About his own meagre capacities he had the following to say i n concluding this famous letter:* Now this humbler part i s , I think, that which i s most suitable to my f a c u l t i e s , as a man of speculation. I am not i n the least a poet, i n any sense; but I can do homage to poetry. I can to a very considerable extent f e e l i t and understand i t , and can make others who are my i n f e r i o r s under-stand i t i n proportion to the measure of the i r capacity. I believe that such a person i s more wanted than even the poet himself; that there are more persons l i v i n g who approximate to the l a t t e r character than to the former. I do not think myself at a l l f i t for the one; I do for the other; your walk I conceive to be the higher. Now one thing not useless to do would be to exemplify this difference by enlarging i n my l o g i c a l fashion upon the difference i t s e l f : to make those who are not poets, understand that poetry i s higher than Logic, and that the union of the two i s P h i l o s o p h y . i 7 4 162 M i l l cast himself i n the role of l o g i c i a n and i n so doing returned to firmer ground. In his new more uncommitted approach to knowledge ( i t was 1833) with i t s attendant avoidance of debate and argument, the only way M i l l could deal with C a r l y l e was the tentative way i n which he did; he simply sus-pended judgment i n many of h i s dealings with C a r l y l e . John Holloway has indicated the source of major d i f -f i c u l t y i n Carlyle for anyone seeking h i s answers by means of reason: One of the things that most disturbs a modern reader of his work i s constant dogmatism. Through Carlyle's prose the nerve of p r o o f — i n the r e a d i l y understood and f a m i l i a r sense of straight-forward argument—simply cannot be traced; and the succession of a r b i t r a r y and unproved assertions tends to f o r f e i t our attention. Yet this i s only a subordinate d i f f i c u l t y , because although proof i s c l e a r l y missing, i t i s by no means clear what would supply t h i s lack, as i t i s by no means clear what needs proof. The general p r i n c i p l e s which would summarize Carlyle's 'system' are broad sweeping gestures, hints thrown out, suggestions which leave us quite uncertain about t h e i r detailed i m p o r t . 1 7 5 M i l l made repeated comments on Carlyle's style and on the d i f f i c u l t i e s i t created. On one occasion, Sep-tember 5, 1833, i n a l e t t e r to Carlyle, he commented: —About that Cagliostro and that Teufels-dreck, by the way, i t has frequently occurred to me of late to ask of myself and also of \ - i you, whether that mode of w r i t i n g between sarcasm or irony and earnest, be r e a l l y de-163 serving of so much honour as you give to i t by making use of i t so frequently. I do not say that i t i s not good: a l l modes of writing, i n the hands of a sincere man, are good, provided they are i n t e l l i g i b l e . But are there many things, worth saying, and capable of being said i n that manner which cannot be as we l l or better said i n a more d i r e c t way. The same doubt has occasionally occurred to me respecting much of your phraseology, which f a i l s to bring home your meaning to the compre-hension of most readers so we l l as would perhaps be done by commoner and more f a -m i l i a r phrases: however th i s l a s t I say with the most perfect submission because I am sure that every one speaks and writes best i n h i s own mother tongue, the l a n -guage i n which he t h i n k s . x ' 6 This protest against Carlyle's s t y l e gave evidence of deeper d i f f i c u l t i e s . M i l l ' s approval of a l l modes of writ i n g was subject to the condition of i n t e l l i g i b i l i t y . However, he ends his remarks d e f e r e n t i a l l y , i n d i c a t i n g his readiness to accept Carlyle's judgment on the matter even though i t was causing him d i f f i c u l t y i n compre-hension. M i l l preferred c l a r i t y and sense to the dramatic features of Carlyle's i d i o s y n c r a t i c s t y l e . M i l l wrote to Car l y l e on March 2, 1834, revealing h i s continued perplexity over the c o n f l i c t between the claims of lo g i c and i n t u i t i o n . This time he referred to mysticism instead of i n t u i t i o n , but again the em-phasis was on the non-logical, d i r e c t means of appre-hending truths, whatever they might be. He was s t i l l 164 puzzled and mystified. I would say something i n acknowledgment of your so kind answer to. my. .letter of "revela-tions" but I r e a l l y cannot, just now, say anything, of what I would say. I would rather ask of you, to speak more and more fr e e l y to me on those subjects and unfold to me more and more your whole mind i n r e -gard to them. I w i l l also ask one or two questions more: Is not the d i s t i n c t i o n between Mysticism, the mysticism which i s of Truth, and mere dreaming, or the sub-s t i t u t i o n of imaginations for r e a l i t i e s , exactly t h i s , that mysticism may be II translated into logic?" I mean in the only sense i n which I ever endeavour so to translate i t . You w i l l understand what I mean. Logic proves nothing, yet points out c l e a r l y whether and how a l l things are proved. This being my creed, of course none, of my mysticism, i f mysticism i t be, rests on l o g i c as i t s basis; yet I require to see how i t looks i n the l o g i c a l d i a l e c t before. I f e e l sure of i t . And i f I have any vocation I think i t i s exactly t h i s , to translate the mysticism of others into the language of Argument. Have not a l l things two aspects, an A r t i s t i c and a S c i e n t i f i c ; to the former of which the language of mys-ti c i s m i s the most appropriate, to the l a t t e r that of Logic? The mechanical people, whether theorists or men of the world, f i n d the f o r -mer u n i n t e l l i g i b l e , and despise i t . Through the l a t t e r one has a chance of forcing them to respect even what they cannot understand--and that once done, they may be made to believe what to many of them must always be i n the utmost extent of the term "things unseen." This i s the service I should not despair of a s s i s t i n g to render, and I think i t i s even more needed now than works of art, because i t i s t h e i r most useful precursor, and one might a?lmost say, i n these days th e i r necessary conditions.177 M i l l ' s e f f o r t to understand Carlyle's point of view i s 165 evident i n t h i s l e t t e r . Also evident i s his need to follow the l o g i c a l way of thinking for which he had been so c a r e f u l l y trained. He was t r y i n g to accept the superior i n t u i t i v e i n s ight of the a r t i s t ; at least that i s how he f e l t about Carlyle at t h i s stage i n his development. Again he was questioning i f truth does not have two aspects, the a r t i s t i c and the s c i e n t i f i c , with the a r t i s t i c having the language of mysticism or i n -t u i t i o n , and the s c i e n t i f i c , the language of l o g i c . In t h i s dualism M i l l was seeking his answer to the oppo-s i t i o n that was troubling him. M i l l was seeking to bridge the gap between the poet and the l o g i c a l scien-t i s t , but i t i s not l i k e l y that he f u l l y appreciated yet that the d i f f i c u l t i e s he was experiencing were those that would occur to any formally trained mind when surrounded by people whose minds did not operate i n l o g i c a l sequences. Later, i n his essay "Aphorisms", published i n 1837, he expressed t h i s point of v i e w . 1 7 8 If he had read Shakespeare at t h i s time, he might have found his burdens lightened by the speech of Theseus i n A Midsummer Ni ght's Dream: Theseus: I never may believe These antique fables, nor these f a i r y toys. Lovers and madmen have such seething brains, Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend More than cool reason ever comprehends. 166 The l u n a t i c , the lover, and the poet Are of imagination a l l compact. One sees more de v i l s than vast H e l l can hold, That i s the madman. The lover, a l l as f r a n t i c , Sees Helen's beauty i n a brow of Egypt. The poet's eye, i n a fine frenzy r o l l i n g , Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven, And, as imagination bodies forth The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen Turns them to shapes, and gives to a i r y nothing A l o c a l habitation and a name. Such t r i c k s hath strong imagination, That i f i t would but apprehend some joy, I t comprehends some bringer of that joy; Or i n the night, imagining some fear, How easy i s a bush supposed to bear! Hippolyta; But a l l the story of the night t o l d over, And a l l t h e i r minds transfigured so together, More witnesseth than fancy's images, And grows to something of great constancy; But, howsoever, strange and admirable. (A Midsummer Night's Dream, V, i , 2-27) The long and i n t e r e s t i n g correspondence between Carlyle and M i l l stressed t h e i r points of agreement i n i t s early stages, but gradually the fundamental differences were uncovered, and M i l l found himself forced once again into a polemical s i t u a t i o n . At f i r s t , following his determination to avoid argument and to seek the p a r t i a l truths that he f e l t that he had previously missed, he avoided reference to t h e i r differences, and Carlyle f e l t that i n M i l l he had found a d i s c i p l e . Gradually, however, t h e i r profound differences were exposed. Carlyle , writing on October 16, 1832, had the following to say to M i l l : 167 Your l e t t e r gave me insight into many very pleasant things i n your own f a i t h f u l way. I beg you w i l l by no means l e t me lose sight of London; least of a l l , of your c i r c l e therein; many things of value for me, l i e i n i t , which may yet become of more value. In London alone of a l l places i n this country have I found some men (belonging to this century and not to a past one) who believed that Truth was Truth: of such men, how obstructed otherwise soever, a l l may be hoped, for they have attained the source of a l l . Considered as European Thinkers, our poor U t i l i t a r i a n s make the mournfullest figure: yet i n this one fact, that they were the re-originators of any B e l i e f among us, they stand far above a l l other Sects. Young minds too w i l l not end where they began; under this point of view, you and certa i n of yours are of great interest, for. me; indeed, I may say, form the chief v i s i b l e encouragement I have to proceed i n t h i s rather hazardous course of mine.-"-79 Carlyle's disparaging remarks about the poor U t i l i t a r i a n s , his reference to Truth as Truth, as i f he were discussing an absolute might have drawn some questions from M i l l , but i n his reply to this l e t t e r , written on October 22, 1832, he made a rather mild defence, observing that there were scarcely any l e f t of the old narrow school of U t i l i t a r i a n s , and adding that he had been enabled to remake a l l of his own o p i n i o n s . 1 8 0 Later, i n a l e t t e r to Carlyle on January 12, 1834, M i l l rather stoutly declared that he was a U t i l i t a r i a n and l i k e l y to remain one. M i l l made many v a l i a n t attempts to understand Car-l y l e ' s point of view, but he had too much to contend with. Not only did he have to submit to Carlyle's dog-168 m a t i s m and d r a m a t i c i d i o s y n c r a s i e s , b u t he a l s o h a d t o d e a l w i t h C a r l y l e ' s i d e a s , many o f w h i c h r a n s t r o n g l y c o u n t e r t o h i s own b e l i e f s . A s H o l l o w a y h a s a l r e a d y o b s e r v e d , t h e n e r v e o f p r o o f c o u l d n o t be t r a c e d i n C a r l y l e ' s p r o s e , and M i l l was t o o c a r e f u l l y t r a i n e d a r e a s o n e r t o s u b m i t t o any i d e a s f o r l o n g w i t h o u t t e s t i n g them. M i l l a c k n o w l e d g e d C a r l y l e t o be an a r t i s t . However, W o r d s w o r t h was a l s o an a r t i s t , one who c o u l d w r i t e i n a s i m p l e s t r a i g h t f o r w a r d s t y l e t h a t s u b m i t t e d t o t h e t e s t s o f r e a l i t y and r e a s o n . M i l l c o u l d d i s a g r e e w i t h much o f W o r d s w o r t h ' s p h i l o s o p h y , b u t s t i l l f i n d much t o command h i s c o m p l e t e a t t e n t i o n ; p h r a s e s and f e e l i n g s t o w h i c h M i l l c o u l d u n h e s i t a t i n g l y a s s e n t ; words and p h r a s e s t h a t c o n v e y e d t h e i r t h o u g h t s and f e e l i n g s i n t h e c o n t e m p l a t i v e manner t h a t he h a d c o n s c i o u s l y s o u g h t . M i l l ' s r e l a t i o n s h i p w i t h C a r l y l e was o f a d i f f e r e n t o r d e r ; he s h a r e d many v i e w s w i t h him, b u t he a l s o d i f f e r e d w i t h h i m o v e r many i d e a s , and no m a t t e r how much he t r i e d t o a v o i d i t o r c o n c e a l i t , c o n f l i c t was j u s t b e l o w t h e s u r f a c e . He p a i d t r i b u t e t o C a r l y l e ' s a b i l i t y , b u t f o u n d i n h i s f r i e n d s h i p w i t h h i m n e i t h e r t h e e m o t i o n a l s a t i s f a c t i o n o f Wo r d s w o r t h ' s p o e t r y n o r y e t t h e f u l l s a t i s f a c t i o n f r o m i d e a s . The r e l a t i o n s h i p was u n s a t i s -f a c t o r y and f i n a l l y l e d t o t h e s o r t o f summation h e h a s 169 given i n the Autobiography: I have already mentioned C a r l y l e 1 s e a r l i e r writings as one of the channels through which I received the influences which en-larged my early narrow creed; but I do not think that those writings, by themselves, would ever have had any e f f e c t on my opinions. What truths they contained, though of the very kind which I was already receiving from other quarters, were presented i n a form and vesture less suited than any other to give them access to a mind trained as mine had been. They seemed a haze of poetry and German metaphysics, i n which almost the only clear thing was a strong animosity to most of the opinions which were the basis of my mode of thought; r e l i g i o u s scepticism, u t i l i t a r i a n i s m , the doctrine of circumstances, and the attaching any importance to democ-racy, l o g i c , or p o l i t i c a l economy. Instead of my having been taught anything, i n the f i r s t instance, by C a r l y l e , i t was only i n proportion as I came to see the same truths through media more suited to my mental con-s t i t u t i o n , that I recognized them i n h i s writings. Then, indeed, the wonderful power with which he put them forth made a deep impression upon me, and I was during a long period one of h i s most fervent admirers; but the good h i s writings did me, was not as philosophy to i n s t r u c t , but as poetry to animate. ...I did not, however, deem myself a competent judge of C a r l y l e . I f e l t that he was a poet, and that I was not; that he was a man of i n t u i t i o n , which I was not; and that as such, he not only saw many things long before me, which I could only when they were pointed out to me, hobble after and prove, but that i t was highly probable he could see many things which were not v i s i b l e to me even after they were pointed out. I knew that I could not see round him; and I never presumed to judge him with any definiteness, u n t i l he was interpreted to me by one greatly superior of us both—who was more a poet than he, and more a thinker than I—whose own mind and nature included h i s , and i n f i n i t e l y more. 170 The one who interpreted him to John M i l l was, of course h i s wife, Harriet Taylor M i l l . For Carlyle's s u p e r i o r i of a b i l i t y and i n t e l l i g e n c e over M i l l , as for H a r r i e t Taylor M i l l ' s alleged s u p e r i o r i t y over both, one would have to assume on M i l l ' s part a great generosity of s p i r i t , or somewhat i r o n i c a l l y , hero-worship. M i l l ' s acknowledged f a i l u r e to understand the workings of Carlyle's mind induced a renewed caution i n h i s dealings with what he conceived to be Carlyle's methods. Writing to John S t e r l i n g on September 28, 1839, M i l l asserted: Whether I have any better vocation for being a philosopher, or whether you w i l l think so when you see what I am capable of performing i n that l i n e , remains for the future to de-cide. I hope to give materials for the decision before long, as I can hardly f a i l to f i n i s h my Logic i n the course of next year. I have endeavoured to keep clear so far as possible of the controversy respecting the perception of the highest R e a l i t i e s by d i r e c t i n t u i t i o n , confining Logic to the laws of the investigation of truth by means of e x t r i n s i c evidence whether r a t i o c i n a t i v e or inductive. S t i l l , I could not avoid c o n f l i c t with some of the subordinate parts of the supersensual philosophy, which for aught I know may be as necessary to i t as what may appear to me i t s fundamental p r i n c i p l e s and i t s only important r e s u l t s . 1 8 2 M i l l declared that he was avoiding the controversy be-tween the method of l o g i c and the method of i n t u i t i o n . His decision and experiences i n h i s l e t t e r s to C a r l y l e 171 now came to bear d i r e c t l y on how he viewed the r e -lat i o n s h i p between science and a r t . During the years 1829 and 1830, M i l l wrote f i v e essays which have been published under the heading Essays On Some Unsettled Questions Of P o l i t i c a l Economy. In the f i f t h of these essays, the one e n t i t l e d "On The D e f i n i t i o n Of P o l i t i c a l Economy," M i l l made some com-ments which l a t e r served to guide him i n formulating the r e l a t i o n s h i p between science and art i n h i s book on l o g i c . M i l l , w r i t i n g about what he c a l l s "the essen-t i a l l y d i s t i n c t , though c l o s e l y connected ideas of science and art" states: These two ideas d i f f e r from one another as the understanding d i f f e r s from the w i l l , or as the i n d i c a t i v e mood i n gram-mar d i f f e r s from the imperative. The one deals i n facts, the other i n pre-cepts. Science i s a c o l l e c t i o n of truths; art, a body of rules, or directions for conduct. The language of science i s , This i s , or, This i s not; This does, or does not, happen. The language of art i s , Do t h i s ; Avoid that. Science takes cognizance of a phenomenon, and endeavours to discover i t s law; art proposes to i t -s e l f an end, and looks out for means to e f f e c t i t . 1 8 3 In 1843 M i l l published h i s System Of Logic i n which he elaborated on his previous speculations on the r e -l a t i o n s h i p between art and science. In his work on l o g i c he establishes h i s view of a science as an i n -172 quiry into the course of n a t u r e . i y 4 He then proceeds, after i n d i c a t i n g that he i s using the word art i n the a l l i n c l u s i v e sense as applied to p r a c t i c e : The r e l a t i o n i n which rules of art stand to doctrines of science may be thus charac-t e r i z e d . The art proposes to i t s e l f an end to be attained, defines the end, and hands i t over to the science. The science receives i t , considers i t as a phenomenon or e f f e c t to be studied and having investigated i t s causes and conditions, sends i t back to art with a theorem of the combinations of circumstances and according as any of them are or are not i n human power, pronounces the end attainable or not. The only one of the premises, therefore, which A r t supplies i s the o r i g i n a l major premise, which asserts that the attainment of the given end i s desirable. Science then lends to A r t the proposition (obtained by a series of inductions or of deductions) that the performance of c e r t a i n actions w i l l a t t a i n the end. From these premises A r t concludes that the performance of these actions i s desirable and, finding i t also practicable, converts the theorem into a rule or precept. x ^5 In t h i s statement, M i l l has set up the conditions for the acceptable r e l a t i o n s h i p between art and science. In e f f e c t , i t states that the a r t i s t i s free to s e l e c t his own ends and objectives, but that he must submit hi s statements and, presumably acts, to the scrutiny of the s c i e n t i s t and l o g i c i a n , who w i l l then be free to submit them to the rigorous tests of l o g i c . A r t has the advantage of supplying the f i r s t premise, but l o g i c or science then has the p r i v i l e g e of submitting the premise to the tests of reason. 173 M i l l continues with a further expansion of this theory: The grounds, then, of every rule of art are to be found i n the theorems of science. An art, or a body of art, consists of the rules, together with as much of the specula-t i v e propositions as comprises the j u s t i f i c a -t i on of those rules. The complete a r t of any matter includes a selection of such a portion from the science as i s necessary to show on what conditions the effects which the a r t aims at producing depend. And A r t in general consists of the truths of Science, arranged i n the most convenient order for practice, instead of the order which i s the most convenient for thought. Science groups and arranges i t s truths so as to enable us to take i n at one view as much as possible of the general order of the universe. Art, though i t must assume the same general laws, follows them only into such of their detailed consequences as have led to the formation of rules of conduct, and brings together from parts of the f i e l d of science most remote from one another the truths r e l a t i n g to the produc-tion of the d i f f e r e n t and heterogeneous con-di t i o n s necessary to each e f f e c t which the exigencies of p r a c t i c a l l i f e require to be produced.1 86 He thus establishes the very important point that a l -though A r t consists of the truths of science, i t i s free to rearrange these truths as i t sees f i t for i t s purpose. M i l l continues: But although the reasonings which connect the end or purpose of every art with i t s means belong; to the domain of Science, the d e f i n i -t i o n of the end i t s e l f belongs exclusively to Art, and forms i t s peculiar province. Every art has one f i r s t p r i n c i p l e , or general major premise, not borrowed from science; that which enunciates the object aimed at, and 174 affirms i t to be a desirable object. The builder's a r t assumes that i t i s desirable to have buildings; architecture (as one of the fine a r t s ) , that i t i s desirable to have them b e a u t i f u l or imposing.! 8 7 Consequently, i t may be assumed that poetry, l i k e architecture as one of the fine arts, may desire to convey or express feeling, and that science w i l l de-termine the conditions governing that expression. The poet's freedom consists i n choosing what he wishes to express, but thereafter his work must submit to the tests of reason o r l l o g i c . Although M i l l did not publish h i s System Of Logic u n t i l 1843, he had begun the work much e a r l i e r , at the very beginning of 1830, when he t e l l s us he had begun 1 p p. to put on paper some of hxs early thoughts on l o g i c . ° His Five Essays On Some Unsettled Questions Of P o l i t i c a l  Economy had been written, he t e l l s us, i n 1829 and 1830. In the f i f t h of these essays he set forth h i s outline which he l a t e r expanded into h i s f u l l statement on the rela t i o n s h i p between science and a r t . His theory of th i s r e l a t i o n s h i p was that science and art both deal with truth but i n d i f f e r e n t ways, and for d i f f e r e n t purposes: And A r t i n general consists of the truths of Science arranged i n the most convenient order for practice, instead of the order which i s most convenient for thought. Science groups and arranges i t s truths so as to enable us to 175 take i n at one view as much as possible of the general order of the u n i v e r s e . 1 8 9 Science and art deal with the same truths but i n d i f -ferent orders and d i f f e r e n t ways for d i f f e r e n t purposes. A r t motivates to an end; science provides the required information or knowledge for the end that art e l e c t s . Accordingly, M i l l finds the truth of science and art to be a union i n the devotion to truth, and t h e i r difference a difference i n method and p r i o r i t y . In h i s essay on Bentham, so highly praised with i t s counterpart on Coleridge by F. R. Leavis, M i l l refers to one of Bentham's reputed animadversions on poetry: Another aphorism i s attributed to him, which i s much more c h a r a c t e r i s t i c of his view of this subject: " A l l poetry i s misrepresentation." Poetry, he thought, consisted e s s e n t i a l l y i n exaggeration for e f f e c t : i n proclaiming some one view of a thing very emphatically, and suppressing a l l the l i m i t a t i o n s and q u a l i f i c a -tions. This t r a i t of character seems to us a curious example of what Mr. C a r l y l e s t r i k i n g l y c a l l s "the completeness of limited men." Here i s a philosopher who i s happy within h i s nar-row boundary as no man of i n d e f i n i t e range ever was; who f l a t t e r s himself that he i s so com-p l e t e l y emancipated from the e s s e n t i a l law of poor human i n t e l l e c t , by which i t can only see one thing at a time well, that he can even turn round upon the imperfection and lay a solemn i n t e r d i c t upon i t . Did Bentham r e a l l y suppose that i t i s i n poetry only that pro-positions cannot be exactly true, cannot con-ta i n i n themselves a l l the l i m i t a t i o n s and q u a l i f i c a t i o n s with which they require to be 176 taken when applied to practice? We have seen how fa r his own prose propositions are from r e a l i z i n g t h i s Utopia: and even the attempt to approach i t would be i n -compatible not with poetry merely, but with oratory, and popular writing of every kind. Bentham1s charge i s true to the f u l l e s t extent; a l l w r i t i n g which under-takes to make men f e e l truths as well as see them, does take up one point at a time, does seek to impress that, to drive that home, to make i t sink into and colour the whole mind of the reader or hearer. It i s j u s t i f i e d i n doing so, i f the por-t i o n of truth which i t thus enforces be that which i s c a l l e d f o r by the occasion. A l l writing addressed to the feelings has a natural tendency to exaggeration; but Bentham should have remembered that i n t h i s , as i n many things, we must aim at too much, to be assured of doing enough. 1 9 0 Here i s M i l l ' s answer not only to Bentham's c r i t i c i s m of poetry but also to his own doubts and questions about poetry and i t s methods. Here also i n one of his most important writings was a s i g n i f i c a n t statement that was consistent with his theory of poetry. M i l l acknow-ledges that poetry i s se l e c t i v e i n i t s presentation and displays a tendency toward exaggeration, but he points out that the r e a l j u s t i f i c a t i o n for the method of poetry i s found i f 'the portion of truth which i t thus enforces be that which i s c a l l e d for by the occasion.' He then gives a very p r a c t i c a l answer to the objections raised by Bentham and his followers, against the methods of poetry: he reminds his readers that Bentham, i n order to avoid the charge of exaggera-ti o n and d i s t o r t i o n of the truth, went to such absurd 177 lengths as to become incomprehensible. But i n his l a t e r years and more advanced studies, he f e l l into a L a t i n or German structure of sentence, foreign to the genius of the English language. He could not bear, for the sake of clearness and the reader's ease, to say, as ordinary men are content to do, a l i t t l e more than the truth i n one sentence, and correct i t in the next. The whole of the qu a l i f y i n g remarks which he intended to make, he i n -s i s t e d upon imbedding as parentheses i n the very middle of the sentence i t s e l f . And thus the sense being so long suspended, and attention being required to the acces-sory ideas before the p r i n c i p a l idea had been properly seized, i t became d i f f i c u l t , without some practice, to make out the t r a i n of thought. I t i s fortunate that so many of the most important parts of h i s writings are free from this defect. We regard i t as a reductio ad absurdum of his objection to poetry. In t r y i n g to write i n a manner against which the same objection should not l i e , he could stop nowhere short of utter unreadableness, and after a l l a t -tained no.T more accuracy than i s compatible with opinions as imperfect and one-sided as those of any poet or sentimentalist breathing. Judge then i n what state l i t e r a t u r e and p h i l o -sophy would be, and what chance they would have of influencing the multitude, i f his objection were allowed, and a l l styles of w r i t i n g banished which would not stand h i s test.191 Here M i l l has subjected the c r i t i c i s m raised by Ben-tham to the tests of i n t e l l i g i b i l i t y and p r a c t i c a l i t y . His reminder about opinions that are imperfect and one-sided echoes the import of h i s remarks to Gustave d'Eichthal about the imperfect nature of statements 1 7 8 <pn truth. The implication i s that there i s a p r a c t i c a l l i m i t a t i o n to the statement or formulation of a truth; beyond a ce r t a i n point one's e f f o r t s to be completely accurate become themselves an exaggeration and con-sequently lead to d i s t o r t i o n and incomprehensibility. At t h i s point one has reached the l i m i t of language. When M i l l had completed h i s System Of Logic he had l a i d down the framework within which he placed h i s theory of poetry. The poet or a r t i s t has one s i g n i -f i c a n t freedom: the freedom to choose the object at which he aims; this i s his f i r s t premise. Thereafter, science w i l l guide him i n achieving h i s aim and w i l l t e s t him by the rules of l o g i c . This theory has a strong l o g i c a l bias, as M i l l acknowledged. I t does not seem to be so s a t i s f a c t o r y from a poetic or a r t i s t i c point of view; i t i s too general and i t seems to sug-gest c e r t a i n l i m i t a t i o n s to the play of imagination. For example, would a l o g i c i a n be suitably prepared to c r i t i c i z e a poem which by a free play of imagination doesn't follow the sequences of l o g i c a l thought? To consider an extreme example, what would such a theory do for a poem such as The Waste Land? I t may be un-f a i r to ask such questions because The Waste Land had not been written when M i l l was forming h i s theory. 179 Nevertheless, logic i s supposed to be uni v e r s a l l y applicable. Perhaps the r e a l answer i s given by M i l l himself who while i n the process of wr i t i n g his System Of Logic wrote a l e t t e r to John S t e r l i n g on November 4, 1839: You may think i t presumptuous i n a man to be f i n i s h i n g a t r e a t i s e on lo g i c and not to have made up his mind f i n a l l y on these great matters... But. mine professes to be a lo g i c of experience only, and to throw no further l i g h t upon the existence of truths not experimental, than i s thrown by shewing to what extent reasoning from experience w i l l carry us. Above a l l mine i s a lo g i c of the ind i c a t i v e mood a l o n e — the l o g i c of the imperative, i n which the major premise says not is_ but ought--! do not meddle with. 1' 9 2 M i l l was admitting that as a l o g i c i a n he was not pre-pared to deal with the logic of the imperative, the log i c of the a r t i s t or poet. In saying t h i s , he was setting the l i m i t s of hi s theory of poetry. One of the chief sources of d i f f i c u l t y i n a study of M i l l ' s work i s h i s use of language. Abrams has already commented adversely on h i s use of the verb, describe. K a r l B r i t t o n writes that " M i l l ' s theory of language i s de f i c i e n t , and leads him to an incorrect view of mathematics and an inadequate view of science." He also comments: M i l l writes as i f words had the i r meanings 180 independently of each other and of t h e i r context of utterance: as i f discourse consisted i n putting words together i n a cert a i n order, very much as bricks are put together i n a w a l l . This of course w i l l not do. The meaning of a word is. the meaning that i t has i n i t s context. -M i l l ' s f i r s t biographer, Alexander Bain, seems to have been more preoccupied with the grammatical and syntac-t i c a l q u a l i t i e s of M i l l ' s w r i t i n g than with the mental q u a l i t i e s displayed. Bain, i n fact, was not very com-plimentary about M i l l ' s written expression. He writes: I have already expressed the opinion that the language faculty i n him was merely ordinary. Great c u l t i v a t i o n had given him a good command of expression for a l l his purposes, but nothing could have made him a Macaulay. . . . C r i t i c a l l y examined, h i s style i s wanting i n delicate attention to the placing of q u a l i f y i n g words generally. He had apparently never thought of t h i s matter farther than to s a t i s f y himself that h i s sentences were i n t e l l i g i b l e . Bain's remarks about M i l l ' s use of language carry the suggestion of a greater s e n s i t i v i t y to an audience than to language; he places his emphasis on the func-tioning of M i l l ' s personality i n the presence of an audience rather than through the medium of written l a n -guage . Not only could he shape arguments to the reason, properly so called,,-he..could also address .the fee l i n g s . The Liberty and the Subjection Of Women, as well as h i s p o l i -t i c a l w r iting generally, exemplify what might be c a l l e d impassioned oratory; they 1 8 1 leave nothing unsaid that could e n l i s t the strongest feelings of the readers. His best Parliamentary speeches appealed to the understanding and to the feelings a l i k e , and he seldom, so far as I can judge, l o s t ground for want of s u i t i n g himself to a most d i f f i c u l t assembly. Although he could not clothe h i s feelings with the richness of poetry, he could warm with h i s subject, and work by the force of sympathy. 1 9 6 In h i s essay, "Sedgwick's Discourse'" M i l l referred to the Ancients i n matters of s t y l e : The necessary e f f e c t of imitating "models" i s , to set manner above matter. The imita-tion of the c l a s s i c s has perverted the whole taste of modern Europe on the subject of composition: i t has made style a subject of c u l t i v a t i o n and of praise, independently of ideas; whereas, by the ancients, style was never thought of but i n complete subor-dination to matter. The ancients (in the good times of the i r l i t e r a t u r e ) would as soon have thought of a coat i n the abstract, as of st y l e i n the abstract: the merit of a styl e , i n the i r eyes, was that i t exactly f i t t e d the thought. Their f i r s t aim was, by the assiduous study of their subject, to secure to themselves thoughts worth expressing; t h e i r next was, to f i n d words which would con-vey those thoughts with the utmost degree of nicety; and only when thi s was made sure, did they think of ornament. Their style, there-fore, whether ornamented or pla i n , grows out of th e i r turn of thought; and may be admired, but cannot be imitated, by any one whose turn of thought i s d i f f e r e n t . 1 9 7 M i l l ' s admiration for the functional s t y l e of the An-cients was undoubtedly an affirmation of his own idea of s t y l e . 182 In his essay on Coleridge, M i l l ' s s t y l e appears i n a form that F. R. Leavis has described as c l a s s i -c a l . In thi s essay one can follow M i l l as he turns h i s attention f i r s t to one side and then to the other, c a r e f u l l y s c r u t i n i z i n g the topic under examination: Thus i t i s i n regard to every important p a r t i a l truth; there are always two con-f l i c t i n g modes of thought, one tending to give to that truth too large, the other to give i t too small a place: and the hi s t o r y of opinion i s generally an o s c i l l a t i o n between these extremes. From the imperfection of the human fac-u l t i e s , i t seldom happens that, even i n the minds of eminent thinkers, each par-t i a l view of the i r subject passes for i t s worth, and none for more than i t s worth. But even i f this just balance e x i s t i n the mind of the wiser teacher, i t w i l l not e x i s t i n hi s d i s c i p l e s , s t i l l less i n the general mind. He cannot prevent that which i s new i n h i s doctrine, and on which, being new, he i s forced to i n s i s t the most strongly, from making a disproportionate impres-sion. The impetus necessary to over-come the obstacles which r e s i s t a l l novelties of opinion, seldom f a i l s to carry the public mind almost as far on the contrary side of the perpendicular. Thus every excess i n either d i r e c t i o n determines a corresponding reaction; im-provement consisting only i n th i s , that the o s c i l l a t i o n , each time, departs rather less widely from the centre, and an ever* increasing tendency i s manifested to s e t t l e f i n a l l y i n i t . Now the Germano-Coleridgian doctrine i s , i n our view of the matter, the r e s u l t of such a reaction. I t expresses the rev o l t of the human mind against the philosophy of the 183 eighteenth century. I t i s on to-logical, because that was experimental; conser-vative, because that was innovative; r e l i g i o u s , because so much of that was i n f i d e l ; concrete and h i s t o r i c a l , because that was abstract and metaphysical; po-e t i c a l , because that was matter-of-fact and prosaic. In every respect i t f l i e s o f f i n the contrary d i r e c t i o n to i t s pre-decessor; yet f a i t h f u l to the general law of improvement l a s t noticed, i t i s less extreme i n i t s opposition, i t denies less of what i s true i n the doctrine i t wars against, than had been the case i n any previous philosophic reaction; and i n par-t i c u l a r , far less than when the philosophy of the eighteenth century triumphed, and so memorably abused i t s vi c t o r y , over that which preceded i t . 1 9 8 M i l l ' s s t y l e is. one that he derived from w r i t i n g his early argumentative essays for h i s father. I t i s f o r -mal, detached, straightforward, and c l e a r . I t i s marked by generalizations and a c a r e f u l development of ideas moving sequentially from point to point. The state-ments are usually very d i r e c t and seemingly unambiguous, although there are p a r t i c u l a r problems raised by h i s use of such words as the verb, describe; Karl Britton's remarks on thi s have already been noted. M i l l ' s w r i t i n g displays, i n b r i e f , a polished mature style marked by a careful, sequential movement from one idea to another. In his essay,"On Liberty", M i l l stressed the duty that one must bear toward himself: 184 The term duty to oneself, when i t means anything more than prudence, means s e l f -respect or self-development, and for none of these i s any one accountable to his fellow creatures, because for none of them i s i t for the good of mankind that he be held accountable to them. ^ Here M i l l was drawing the l i n e between the i n d i v i d u a l and society; he was s e t t i n g a l i m i t to the r i g h t that society should have i n exerting power over the i n -d i v i d u a l . He suggested the l i m i t to the power of so-c i e t y i n r e l a t i o n to the individuals that compose i t i n a l e t t e r to Gustave d'Eichthal, written on October 8, 1829: The united forces of society never were, nor can be, directed to one single end, nor i s there, so far as I can perceive, any reason for d e s iring that they should. Men do not come into the world to f u l f i l one single end, and there i s no single end which i f f u l f i l l e d even i n the most complete manner would make them happy.20.0. The subject of s e l f - c u l t u r e and i t s importance for the development of the i n d i v i d u a l recurs again and again i n M i l l ' s w r i t i n g . I t was c l o s e l y linked to h i s ideas on poetry, art, and r e l i g i o n , for i t was con-cerned with b e l i e f , motivation, and feeling, and the individual's concern with values i n l i f e . On January 12, 1834, i n a l e t t e r to Thomas Carlyle, M i l l wrote: Though I hold the good of the species (or rather, of i t s several units) to be the ultimate end (which i s the alpha and omega of my u t i l i t a r i a n i s m ) I believe 185 with the f u l l e s t B e l i e f that t h i s end can i n no other way be forwarded but by the means you speak of, namely by each taking for h i s exclusive aim.-.the development of what i s best i n himself. I q u a l i f y or explain t h i s doctrine no otherwise than as you yourself do, since you hold that every human creature has an appointed task to perform which task he i s to know and fin d out for himself; th i s can only be by discovering i n what manner such f a c u l t i e s as he possesses or can acquire may produce most good i n the world; meaning by the world a larger, or a smaller part of i t as may happen. 2 0 1' Throughout his l e t t e r s and essays M i l l shows a con-stant concern for the in d i v i d u a l , and this concern always brings him back to the love of truth and the love of v i r t u e and an examination of the means a v a i l -able for the c u l t i v a t i o n of these values. On February 1, 1867, M i l l , who had been elected Lord Rector of the University of St. Andrews, gave his Inaugural Address, i n which he repeated some views on poetry that he had given on other occasions: I f we wish man to practise v i r t u e , i t i s worth while trying to make them love virtue, and f e e l i t an object i n i t s e l f , and not a tax paid for leave to pursue other objects. ...Now of thi s elevated tone of mind the great source of i n s p i r a t i o n i s poetry, and a l l l i t e r a t u r e so far as i t i s p o e t i c a l and a r t i s t i c . We may imbibe exalted feelings from Plato, or Demosthenes, or Tacitus, but i t i s i n so far as those great men are not s o l e l y philosophers, or orators, or his t o r i a n s , but poets and a r t i s t s . Nor i s i t only l o f t i n e s s , only the heroic feelings, that are bred by poetic c u l t i v a t i o n . Its power i s as great i n calming the soul as i n elevating i t — i n f o s -186 tering the milder emotions, as the more exalted. I t brings home to us a l l those aspects of l i f e which take hold of our nature on i t s un s e l f i s h side, and lead us to i d e n t i f y our joy and g r i e f with the good or i l l of the system of which we form a part; and a l l those solemn or pen-sive feelings, which without having any d i r e c t application to conduct, i n c l i n e us to take l i f e seriously, and predispose us to the reception of anything which comes before us i n the shape of duty. Who does not f e e l a better man after a course of Dante, or of Wordsworth, or,. I w i l l add, of Lucretius or the Georgics, or after brooding over Gray's "Elegy 1 1, or Shelley's "Hymn to I n t e l l e c t u a l Beauty"? I have spoken of poetry, but a l l the other modes of a rt produce si m i l a r e ffects i n the i r d e g r e e . 2 0 2 Abrams wri t i n g of the l i t e r a r y methods and theories of the early nineteenth century makes the following observation: The romantic 'movement' i n England i s largel y a convenient f i c t i o n of the h i s -torian, but one document, Wordsworth's Preface to the L y r i c a l Ballads of 1800, written to j u s t i f y on universal grounds an 'experiment' i n poetic language, does have something of the aspect of a roman-t i c manifesto. In part the Preface (to-gether with the passages and appendix Wordworth added i n 1802) owes i t s s p e c i a l p o s i t i o n to the fact that i t presented a set of propositions about the nature and c r i t e r i a of poetry which were widely adopted by Wordsworth's contemporaries, including those who were least i n sympathy with what they supposed to be Wordsworth's own poetic aims. A l l these propositions r e l y upon the basic assertion, which usually serves as the d e f i n i t i o n of poetry, 187 that: (1) Poetry i s the expression or overflow of f e e l i n g , or emerges from a process of imag-ination i n which feelings play the c r u c i a l p a r t . 2 0 3 Abrams adds a r e c a p i t u l a t i o n of the more s a l i e n t fea-tures of Romantic theory as set out i n Wordsworth's statements and then adds i n summary: The most important function of poetry i s , by i t s pleasurable resources, to foster and s u b t i l i z e the s e n s i b i l i t y , emotions, and sympathies of the reader. Romantic poetry remains poetry with a purpose, but i n place of 'solas and doctryne', i t s aim becomes primarily to c u l t i v a t e the a f f e c t i v e elements of human nature. As Wordsworth put what became a commonplace of his age: 'The end of Poetry i s to produce excitement i n co-ex-istence with an overbalance of pleasure,' to widen t h e i r sympathies, and to produce or enlarge the c a p a b i l i t y 'of being excited without the application of gross and v i o l e n t s t i m u l a n t s . ' 2 u 4 The q u a l i t i e s of M i l l ' s poetic theory, with i t s emphasis on f e e l i n g , spontaneity, of utterance, and the born poet, echo Wordsworth's statements and place i t within the same Romantic purview. While M i l l was aware of theological bias of his thought and of some of the l i m i t s imposed by his mode of thinking, there were other l i m i t s of which he seemed unaware. Abrams, i n pointing out that for most theo-r i s t s of Wordsworth's generation the l y r i c became the 205 e s s e n t i a l l y poetic form, adds the following ob-servation: 188 The resort to the l y r i c as the paradigm for poetic theory—which f i r s t manifested i t s e l f at the time of the l y r i c r e v i v a l i n the generation of Gray, C o l l i n s , and the War-tons—was of course accompanied, i n the romantic period, by a c u l t i v a t i o n of t h i s form to a degree, and i n a variety of ex-cellence, which was without precedent i n l i t e r a r y h istory. I t was not only that romantic poets exploited the song, the elegy, and the ode. They also tended to l y r i c i z e those poems which A r i s t o t l e had characterized as 'possessing a certain mag-nitude, ' by substituting for character, p l o t , or exposition, other elements which had ear-l i e r constituted the materials only of the p e t t i e r forms. As A. C. Bradley said of 'The Long Poem i n Wordsworth's Age,' the centre of in t e r e s t i s inward. It i s an in t e r e s t i n emotion, thought, w i l l , rather than i n scenes, events, actions ....' 2°6 M i l l , by addressing his attention to the l y r i c and the inward state, was following i n the Romantic t r a d i t i o n , but by seeking to confine poetry to the l y r i c 2 0 7 was also adding a l i m i t a t i o n of his own to the idea - io f poetry. It has been noted already that M i l l said that the truth of poetry and the truth of f i c t i o n were d i f f e r e n t t r u t h s . 2 0 8 By excluding f i c t i o n per se from poetry, M i l l was adding the severest r e s t r i c t i o n of a l l : he was r e s t r i c t i n g the scope and freedom of the imagina-t i o n . His reasons for placing t h i s l i m i t a t i o n on poetry seem to derive largely from his undervaluing of the imagination. His;:".adherence to the a s s o c i a t i o n i s t theory that his father had derived from Hartley led naturally 189 to the sort of mechanical view of the imagination that Coleridge abhorred. I t has already been indicated that M i l l viewed the imagination as being no spe c i a l g i f t of n a t u r e . 2 0 9 He f e l t that i t had to be d i s -c i p l i n e d and controlled by Benthamic standards of l i t e r a l truth. He presented this view i n one of his essays on r e l i g i o n : To me i t seems that human l i f e , small and confined as i t i s , and as, considered merely i n the present, i t i s l i k e l y to remain even when the progress of material and moral improvement may have freed i t from the greater part of i t s present c a l a -mities, stands greatly i n need of any wider range and greater height of aspiration for i t s e l f and i t s destination, which the exer-cise of imagination can y i e l d to i t without running counter to the evidence, of fac t ; and that i t i s a part of wisdom to make the most of any, even small, p r o b a b i l i t i e s on this subject, which furnish imagination with any footing to support i t s e l f upon. And I am s a t i s f i e d that the c u l t i v a t i o n of such a tendency i n the imagination, provided i t goes on p a r i passu with the c u l t i v a t i o n of severe reason, has no necessary tendency to pervert the judgment; but that i t i s possible to form a p e r f e c t l y sober estimate of the evidences on both sides of a question and yet to l e t the imagination dwell by pref e r -ence on those p o s s i b i l i t i e s , which are at once the most comforting and the most im-proving, without i n the lea s t degree over-ra t i n g the s o l i d i t y of the grounds for ex-pecting that these rather than any others ^^g w i l l be the p o s s i b i l i t i e s a c t u a l l y r e a l i z e d . I t i s curious that M i l l ' s preoccupation with the ne-ces s i t y of adhering to the evidence of fact should 190 have prevented him from seeing that there are p r i o r -i t i e s i n the kinds of truth and that too close an adher-ence to fact i n h i b i t s the free play of the imagination. Rene Wellek and Austin Warren, i n t h e i r Theory Of  Literature suggest some of the outstanding features of imaginative l i t e r a t u r e : I f we recognize ' f i c t i o n a l i t y 1 , 'invention 1, or 'imagination' as the distinguishing t r a i t of l i t e r a t u r e , we think thus of l i t e r a t u r e i n terms of Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, Balzac, Keats rather: than of Cicero or Montaigne, Bossuet, or Emerson. Admittedly, there w i l l be 'boundary' cases, works l i k e Plato's Republic to which i t would be d i f f i c u l t to deny, at l e a s t i n the great myths, passages of 'invention' and ' f i c t i o n a l i t y ' , while they are at the same time primarily works of p h i l o -sophy, This conception of l i t e r a t u r e i s des-c r i p t i v e , not e v a l u a t i v e . 2 l 1 In the l i g h t of such a view of l i t e r a t u r e M i l l ' s ex-clusion of f i c t i o n a l i t y and invention from his poetic theory seems narrow indeed. M i l l ' s emphasis on f e e l i n g as the e s s e n t i a l charac-t e r i s t i c of poetry and his concomitant neglect of the imagination have a peculiar significance i n r e l a t i o n to his poetic theory, symbolizing the. c o n f l i c t i n g influences of the eighteenth century ideas that had governed his education and the Romanticism which had become so deeply i n f l u e n t i a l i n his l i f e . S i r Maurice Bowra, i n d i s -dussing the Romantic view of the imagination, helps to place M i l l ' s poetic theory i n clearer perspective. 191 Speaking of the Romantics he says: So far from thinking that the imagination deals with the non-existent, they i n s i s t that i t reveals an important kind of truth. They believe that when i t i s at work i t sees things to which the ordinary i n t e l l i -gence i s b l i n d and that i t i s intimately connected with a sp e c i a l insight or per-ception or i n t u i t i o n . Indeed, imagination and insight are i n fac t inseparable and form for a l l p r a c t i c a l purposes a single faculty. Insight both awakes the imagina-tion to work and i s i n turn sharpened by i t when i t i s at work. This i s the assump-tion on which the Romantics wrote poetry. I t means that, when th e i r creative g i f t s are engaged, they are inspired by t h e i r sense of the mystery of things to probe i t with a peculiar i n s i g h t and to shape t h e i r discoveries into imaginative forms. Nor i s t h i s process d i f f i c u l t to understand. Most of us, when we use our imaginations, are i n the f i r s t place s t i r r e d by some a l l u r i n g puzzle which c a l l s for a solution, and i n the second place enabled by our own creations i n the mind to see much that was "•. before dark or u n i n t e l l i g i b l e . As our fancies take coherent shape, we see more c l e a r l y what has puzzled and perplexed us. This i s what the Romantics do. They com-bine imagination and truth because their creations are inspired and controlled by a peculiar i n s i g h t . 2 1 2 With h i s a s s o c i a t i o n i s t view of the imagination and h i s reservations about the r o l e of f i c t i o n , M i l l set sharp l i m i t s to h i s poetic theory. Northrop Frye,with h i s theory of myths, provides us with a deeper insight of Romanticism and a clearer con-ception of the l i m i t s of M i l l ' s theory: The Romantic myth i s the form i n which the Romantic poet expresses the recovery, for man, of what he formerly ascribed to gods, 192 heroes, or the forces of nature. When man i s recognized to be a myth-making animal, mythical language i s also recognized to be the language, not for what i s true, but for what could be made true. Mythology, thus, with Romanticism, as we have seen, ceases to be fables about the actions of superior powers and becomes a structure of human concern. I t thereby takes over some as-pects of r e l i g i o n . This does not mean that poetry becomes a r e l i g i o n or a substitute for r e l i g i o n . I t means that what was f o r -merly a structure of b e l i e f understood r a -t i o n a l l y , through d o c t r i n a l and conceptual statement, i s now, from the Romantic move-ment onward, increasingly understood, and interpreted imaginatively, as a .structure of what might and could be t r u e . 2 1 ' 3 Viewed i n this l i g h t one might wonder i f there was not a f i n a l irony i n that M i l l , who consciously excluded f i c t i o n from poetry, placed his poetic theory within the context of the modern myth of progress. 193 FOOTNOTES CHAPTER I 1 XXXIX (1960), 251 f f . , reprinted i n M i l l . A  C o l l e c t i o n of C r i t i c a l Essays, ed. J. B. Schneewind (New York, 1968). 2 f Propos L i t t e r a i r e s (Paris, 1904), p. 154. 3 Ibid., p. 155. 4 Memories of Old Friends, being extracts from  the Journals and Letters of Caroline Fox, ed. Horace N. Pym (London, 1882), p. 69. 5 Ibid., p. 71. g John Morley, Recollections, I (New York, 1917), p. 54. 7 Ibid. p Michael St. John Packe, The L i f e of John Stuart  M i l l (London, 1954), p. 169. 9 Morley, Recollections, p. 55. A Correspondence between John S t e r l i n g and  Ralph Waldo Emerson (Boston, 1897), p. 71. ^ My L i f e and Friends. A Psychologist's Memories (London, 1918), p. 73. 12 John Stuart M i l l , Autobiography, ed. Harold J. Laski (London, 1924), p. 131. 13 E. M. W. T i l l y a r d and C. S. Lewis, The Personal  Heresy. A Controversy (Oxford, 1939), p. 1. 1 4 Ibid., p. 4. 1 5 Ibid., p. 12. 194 Ibid. 17 Selected Essays (London, 1932) , p. 17. 1 8 T i l l y a r d , p. 35. 19 J. S. M i l l , "The S p i r i t of the Age," Essays  on Literature and Society, ed. J. B. Schneewind (New York, 1965), p. 75. 20 Morley, Recollections, p. 59. Ibid. 22 Ibid., p. 15. 23 Ibid., p. 11. 24 T U • Ibid. 25 The Letters of John Stuart M i l l , ed. Hugh S. R. E l l i o t , I (London, 1910), p. xv. 2 6 The Works of Jeremy Bentham, ed. John Bowring (New York, 1962), X, 472. 27 The L i f e of Francis Place 1771-1854 (London, 1898), p. 70. 2 8 Ibid., p. 71. 29 Ibid., p. 73. 30 Jack S t i l l i n g e r , ed., The Early Draft of John  Stuart M i l l ' s "Autobiography" (University of I l l i n o i s Press, 1961) , p. 40. 31 Ibid., p.. 37. 32 Alexander Bain, John Stuart M i l l . A C r i t i c i s m  with Personal Recollections (London, 1882), p. 6. 33 Ibid., p. 10. 34 S t i l l i n g e r , ed., p. 39. 35 Ibid., p. 44. Ibid. 195 3 7 Ibid., p. 39. 3 8 The Amberley Papers, ed. Bertrand and P a t r i c i a Russell (London, 1937), p. 374. 39 Recollections, p. 56. 40 Memories of Old Friends, p. 79. 4 1 Bentham, X, 450. 4 2 Packe, p. 213. 43 London, 1873, p. 25. 44 S t i l l i n g e r , ed., p. 49. 4 5 Ibid., p. 52. Ibid., p. 55. 4 7 Ibid. 4 8 Ibid., p. 60. 49 Ibid., p. 57. 5 0 Ibid., p. 10. 51 Ibid., p. 13. 52 Ibid., p. 15. 5 3 Ibid., p. 183. Ibid. 55 John M i l l ' s Boyhood V i s i t to France, being a  Journal and Notebook written by John Stuart M i l l i n  France, 1820-21, ed. Anna Jean M i l l (Toronto, 1960), p. 69. 56 T, . , Ibid. 57 S t i l l i n g e r , ed., p. 64. 196 5 8 Ibid., p. 62. 59 Ibid., p. 63. Ibid. 6 1 Ibid. 6 2 Ibid., p. 66. 63 Memories of Old Friends, p. 85. 6 4 Ibid., p. 70. 65 John M i l l ' s Boyhood V i s i t to France, ed. Anna Jean M i l l , p. 57. 6 6 Ibid., p. 65. 6 7 The L i f e of John Stuart M i l l , p. 47. 6 8 Ibid., p. 48. 69 John Stuart M i l l , Autobiography, ed. Harold J. Laski (London, 1924), p. 53. CHAPTER II 70 M i l l , Autobiography, ed. Laski, p. 56. 7 1 Ibid., p. 100. 72 Michael St. John Packe, The L i f e of John Stuart  M i l l (London, 1954), p. 67. 7 3 Ibid., p. 70. 74 M i l l , Autobiography, p. 112. 75 Packe, p. 74. 76 M i l l , Autobiography, p. 112. 197 7 7 Ibid., p. 114. 7 ^ Packe, p. 77. 79 The E a r l i e r Letters of John Stuart M i l l . 1812-1848, ed. Francis E. Mineka (Toronto, 1963), XII, 29. 80 M. H. Abrams, The Mirror and the Lamp (New York, 1953), p. 162. 81 M i l l , Autobiography, p. 115. ^ 2 Ibid., p. 117. Men S t i l l i n g e r , ed., The Early Draft, p. 121. moires d'un Pere (Paris, 1827), I, 60-61. 84 Ibid., P- 89. Ibid., P. 92. Ibid., P- 93. 85 F. R. Leavis, New Bearings i n English Poetry (Harmondsworth, Eng., 1932), p. 80. 86 M i l l , Autobiography, ed. Harold J. Laski, p. 120. 87 88 89 90 "On Value Judgments," Contemporary Literature, IX (Summer 1968), p. 311. 91 M i l l , Autobiography, p. 117. 92 E a r l i e r Letters, ed. Mineka, XII, 29. 93 Packe, The L i f e of John Stuart M i l l , p. 57. 94 The Background of English Literature and Other  Essays (Harmondsworth, Eng., 1925), p. 75. 95 M i l l , Autobiography, p. 124. 96 Ibid., p. 114. 198 97 Packe, p. 82. 9 8 John Stuart M i l l , Dissertations and Discussions P o l i t i c a l , Philosophical, arid H i s t o r i c a l (London, 1867), I, 156. 9 9 Harold J. Laski, ed., p. 125. 1 0 0 P r a c t i c a l C r i t i c i s m (New York, 1929), p. 260.' M i l l , Autobiography, p. 126. 1 0 2 TV, Ibid. 103 E a r l i e r Letters, ed. Mineka, XIII, 556. 104 E a r l i e r Letters, ed. Mineka, XIII, 469. As Professor Mineka has pointed out, the quotation written by M i l l appears to be a misquotation of some words from the following quotation: "And I have f e l t A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts." 105 William Wordsworth (Cambridge, 1969), p. 2. 106 M i l l , Autobiography, p. 36. 107 Durrant, Wi1liam Wordsworth, p. 2. 108 M i l l , Autobiography, p. 47. 109 Ibid., p. 128. 1 1 0 Ibid., p. 132. i i X Four Dialogues of Plato, trans. J. S. M i l l , ed. Ruth Borchard (London, 1946), p. 170. CHAPTER III 112 Ed. Harold J. Laski (London, 1924), p. 187, 113 Ibid., p. 132. 114 Poems (London, 1815), I I , 300. 199 1 1 5 M i l l , p. 121. 1 1 6 The E a r l i e r Letters of John Stuart M i l l . 1815- 1848, ed. Francis E. Mineka (Toronto, 1963), XII, 78. 117 London, 1961, p. 3 et passim. 118 E a r l i e r Letters, ed. Mineka, XII, 173. 119 ± ± : y Ibid. , XII, 42. 1 2 0 Ibid., XII, 205. 121 M i l l , Autobiography, p. 29. 122 Ibid., p. 131. 123 E a r l i e r Letters, ed. Mineka, XII, 30. 1 2 4 M i l l , Autobiography, p. 132. 125 E a r l i e r Letters, ed. Mineka, XII, 153. 1 2 6 Ibid., XII, 80. 1 2 7 Tait's Edinburgh Magazine, I (May, 1832), 164. 128 E a r l i e r Letters, ed. Mineka, XII, 81. 129 Ibid., XII, 82. 130 Ibid., XII, 85. 1 3 1 John Stuart M i l l , "On Genius," M i l l ' s Essays  on Literature and Society, ed. J. B. Schneewind (New York, 1965), p. 87. 132 E a r l i e r Letters, ed. Mineka, XII, 163. 133 M i l l , Autobiography, p. 232. 1 3 4 John Stuart M i l l , "What i s Poetry," M i l l ' s  Essays on Literature and Society, ed. J. B. Schneewind (Macmillan, 1965), p. 103. 135 ., Ibid. 1 3 6 Ibid., p. 104. 200 137 T V . , Ibxd. 1 3 8 Ibid., p. 105. 139 Ibid. , p. 106. 1 4 0 Ibid., p. 107. 141 x v-,. Ibid. 142 M. H. Abrams, The Mirror and the Lamp (New York, 1953), p. 321. 1 4 3 Ibid. 1 4 4 Mill,"What i s Poetry," ed. Schneewind, p. 108. 145 ., Ibid. 1 4 6 Ibid., p. 109. 147 X * Ibid., p. 110. 148 ., Ibid. 149 1 3 Ibid., p. 115. 150 _i . , ., , Ibid., p. 116. 1 5 1 M i l l , "The Two Kinds of Poetry," M i l l ' s Essays, ed. Schneewind, p. 117. 152 Ibid., p. 118. 1 5 3 Ibid., p. 119. 154 T K . , Ibid. 1 5 5 London, 1869, I, 239. 1 5 6 M i l l , "Tennyson's Poems," M i l l ' s Essays, ed. Schneewind, p. 143. 1 5 7 Ibid., p. 140. 15 8 Abrams, The Mirror and the Lamp, p. 175. 159 Ed. George Watson (London, 1960), p. 54. 201 160 Essays, ed. Schneewind, p. 120. 161 The Po e t i c a l Works of Wordsworth, ed. Thomas Hutchinson, rev. Ernest de Selincourt (Oxford, 1950), p. 740. 1 6 2 M i l l , "The Two Kinds of Poetry," M i l l ' s  Essays, ed..Schneewind, p. 121. 1 6 3 Ibid., p. 122. 1 6 4 Ibid., p. 123. 165 T, . , Ibid. 166 Abrams, The Mirror and the Lamp, p. 85. M i l l , "The Two Kinds of Poetry," ed. Schneewind, p. 121. 1 6 8 Ibid., p. 126. 169 Ibid., p. 129. 170 x Ibid., p. 236. 1 7 1 Ibid., p. 2 37. 172 Coleridge, p. 157. 173 E a r l i e r Letters, ed. Mineka, XII, 163. 174 .• Ibid. 175 The V i c t o r i a n Sage (London, 1953), p. 3. 176 E a r l i e r Letters, ed. Mineka, I, 176. 1 7 7 Ibid., XII, 219. 178 Dissertations and •Discussions P o l i t i c a l , P h i l o -sophical, and H i s t o r i c a l (London, 1867), I, 206. 179 Letters of Thomas Carlyle to John Stuart M i l l , John S t e r l i n g and Robert Browning, ed. Alexander Car-l y l e (London, 1923), p. 17. 180 E a r l i e r Letters, ed. Mineka, XII, 12 8. 202 1 8 1 M i l l , p. 148. 182 E a r l i e r Letters, ed. Mineka, XIII, 406. J London, 1844, p. 124. 184 On the Logic of the Moral Sciences, ed. Henry M. Magid (New York, 1965), p. 616. 185 . , Ibid. 1 8 6 Ibid., p. 619. 1 8 7 Ibid. 188 M i l l , Autobiography,. p. 134. 189 M i l l , On the Logic of the Moral Sciences, p. 619. 190 Essays on Ethics, Religion and Society, ed. J. M. Robson (Toronto, 1969), p. 114. 191 TK', Ibid. 192 E a r l i e r Letters, ed. Mineka, XIII, 412. 19 3 John Stuart M i l l (Harmondsworth, Eng., 19 53), p. 114. 194 . , Ibid. 195 John Stuart M i l l . A C r i t i c i s m : with Per- sonal Recollections (London, 1882), p. 174. 1 9 6 Ibid., p. 184. 197 Essays on Ethics, ed. Robson, p. 43. 1 9 8 Ibid., p. 124. 19 9 London, 1910, p. 135. 2 ^ E a r l i e r Letters, ed. Mineka, XII, 36. 2 0 1 Ibid. , XII, 207. 202 M i l l , "Inaugural Address," Essays, ed. Schneewind, p. 405. 203 203 The Mirror and the Lamp, p. 100. 2 0 4 Ibid., p. 103. 2 0 5 Ibid., p. 97. 206 Ibid. 207 M i l l , "What i s Poetry?", Essays, ed. 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