Mr. Bentham’s method of reasoning, though comprehensive and exact, labours under the defect of most systems—­it is too topical.  It includes every thing; but it includes every thing alike.  It is rather like an inventory, than a valuation of different arguments.  Every possible suggestion finds a place, so that the mind is distracted as much as enlightened by this perplexing accuracy.  The exceptions seem as important as the rule.  By attending to the minute, we overlook the great; and in summing up an account, it will not do merely to insist on the number of items without considering their amount.  Our author’s page presents a very nicely dove-tailed mosaic pavement of legal common-places.  We slip and slide over its even surface without being arrested any where.  Or his view of the human mind resembles a map, rather than a picture:  the outline, the disposition is correct, but it wants colouring and relief.  There is a technicality of manner, which renders his writings of more value to the professional inquirer than to the general reader.  Again, his style is unpopular, not to say unintelligible.  He writes a language of his own, that darkens knowledge.  His works have been translated into French—­they ought to be translated into English.  People wonder that Mr. Bentham has not been prosecuted for the boldness and severity of some of his invectives.  He might wrap up high treason in one of his inextricable periods, and it would never find its way into Westminster-Hall.  He is a kind of Manuscript author—­he writes a cypher-hand, which the vulgar have no key to.  The construction of his sentences is a curious framework with pegs and hooks to hang his thoughts upon, for his own use and guidance, but almost out of the reach of every body else.  It is a barbarous philosophical jargon, with all the repetitions, parentheses, formalities, uncouth nomenclature and verbiage of law-Latin; and what makes it worse, it is not mere verbiage, but has a great deal of acuteness and meaning in it, which you would be glad to pick out if you could.  In short, Mr. Bentham writes as if he was allowed but a single sentence to express his whole view of a subject in, and as if, should he omit a single circumstance or step of the argument, it would be lost to the world for ever, like an estate by a flaw in the title-deeds.  This is over-rating the importance of our own discoveries, and mistaking the nature and object of language altogether.  Mr. Bentham has acquired this disability—­it is not natural to him.  His admirable little work On Usury, published forty years ago, is clear, easy, and vigorous.  But Mr. Bentham has shut himself up since then “in nook monastic,” conversing only with followers of his own, or with “men of Ind,” and has endeavoured to overlay his natural humour, sense, spirit, and style with the dust and cobwebs of an obscure solitude.  The best of it is, he thinks his present mode of expressing himself perfect, and that whatever may be objected to his law or logic, no one can find the least fault with the purity, simplicity, and perspicuity of his style.