also is, that he has carried this single view of his subject too far, and not made sufficient allowance for the varieties of human nature, and the caprices and irregularities of the human will.  “He has not allowed for the wind.”  It is not that you can be said to see his favourite doctrine of Utility glittering everywhere through his system, like a vein of rich, shining ore (that is not the nature of the material)—­but it might be plausibly objected that he had struck the whole mass of fancy, prejudice, passion, sense, whim, with his petrific, leaden mace, that he had “bound volatile Hermes,” and reduced the theory and practice of human life to a caput mortuum of reason, and dull, plodding, technical calculation.  The gentleman is himself a capital logician; and he has been led by this circumstance to consider man as a logical animal.  We fear this view of the matter will hardly hold water.  If we attend to the moral man, the constitution of his mind will scarcely be found to be built up of pure reason and a regard to consequences:  if we consider the criminal man (with whom the legislator has chiefly to do) it will be found to be still less so.

Every pleasure, says Mr. Bentham, is equally a good, and is to be taken into the account as such in a moral estimate, whether it be the pleasure of sense or of conscience, whether it arise from the exercise of virtue or the perpetration of crime.  We are afraid the human mind does not readily come into this doctrine, this ultima ratio philosophorum, interpreted according to the letter.  Our moral sentiments are made up of sympathies and antipathies, of sense and imagination, of understanding and prejudice.  The soul, by reason of its weakness, is an aggregating and an exclusive principle; it clings obstinately to some things, and violently rejects others.  And it must do so, in a great measure, or it would act contrary to its own nature.  It needs helps and stages in its progress, and “all appliances and means to boot,” which can raise it to a partial conformity to truth and good (the utmost it is capable of) and bring it into a tolerable harmony with the universe.  By aiming at too much, by dismissing collateral aids, by extending itself to the farthest verge of the conceivable and possible, it loses its elasticity and vigour, its impulse and its direction.  The moralist can no more do without the intermediate use of rules and principles, without the ’vantage ground of habit, without the levers of the understanding, than the mechanist can discard the use of wheels and pulleys, and perform every thing by simple motion.  If the mind of man were competent to comprehend the whole of truth and good, and act upon it at once, and independently of all other considerations, Mr. Bentham’s plan would be a feasible one, and the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth would be the best possible ground to place morality upon.  But it is not so.  In ascertaining the rules of moral conduct, we must have