even admit that these rules, so far as they respect the outward conduct, are identical with those furnished in the scriptures, or in any other moral code. What we object to here is the spirit of the system-the motive on which it makes virtue dependent. We contend, that in resolving all duty or virtue into self-love, it strips it of its dignitydebases our moral sentiments, and offers violence to fundamental notions of the human mind. And it might also be shown, that the system has never prevailed in any country or at any age without tending to the subversion of morality and order. Man is sufficiently sordid from the impulse of his passions. He needs no aid from philosophy to render him sordid on principle and selfish by rule.

Our first remark on this system is, that it confounds virtue with prudence. This is virtually acknowledged by Paley, who states that the only difference between an act of prudence and an act of virtue is, that in the one case we have respect to the happiness of this life alone, whereas in the other, we consider also what we shall gain or lose in the world to come-a difference, be it observed, for which there is no place in the minds of those who do not admit that there is a world to come; and which disappears in practice, we apprehend, from the minds of most, if not of all, who adopt the system. In truth, it is simply a verbal difference. If the mere fact, that an action is useful to the agent, be sufficient to constitute it a virtuous action, it can matter little whether the benefit be of shorter or of longer duration. It follows then, in effect, that prudence is virtue, and that the highest virtue is but the highest prudence. If a capitalist makes a wise investment, or a merchant projects a judicious and successful voyage, we may term these respectively a virtuous voyage, and a virtuous investment; just as Bentham was wont when he spoke of good mutton, to call it virtuous mutton, and when he petted his favourite animal (a deer) to style it his virtuous deer. If on the other hand, the same man performs some noble deed of patriotism or philanthropy-some act in which, seeming to forget himself, he toils and sacrifices only for the benefit of otherswhy, he is merely a prudent man, who uses the means of happiness

intrusted to him.

For example, Sir Thomas More, after a year's imprisonment, and when enfeebled by suffering, is offered permission to return to his wife and children whom he loved so tenderly to the intellectual pursuits in which he took such delight-to the summit of greatness from which he had been plucked down, if he will but sacrifice a scruple of conscience. He indignantly refuses and prefers rather to perish on a scaffold; and he, on this system, is but a prudent man, who has a proper understanding of his interest! Lafayette, a husband and a father-with every thing in certain prospect or in actual possession that the highest ambition could crave or the warmest sympathies desire, surrenders allhurries to the aid of a distant and almost hopeless cause, and offers, not only without regret, but with exultation, the endearments of domestic life and the favours of his prince in exchange for toil and danger in behalf of suffering strangers-and he too is but a prudent man! The great Washington tears himself from the peaceful and honoured shades of Mount Vernon, assumes reluctantly a command more fearful perhaps than was ever before intrusted to man-a command which puts at peril his fame, his fortune, and his head. Campaign after campaign he toils

almost without resources, loaded down with responsibility, the object of machinations at home, and of deadly hostility abroad;-and at length, when victory is achieved-his country independent-his name on every tongue, hastening to lay down his command, he escapes from the thanksgivings and honours of his grateful country to the silence of his home; and this is but prudence! and through all this career of seeming glory there has been but the shrewd calculations of an exclusive self-love!

It would be easy to multiply such examples. What shall we say of Howard, leaving a home of opulence and ease that he might dwell “in the depths of dungeons and amidst the infection of hospitals." What of the soldier of the cross as bidding farewell to the scenes of his childhood and the land of his fathers-rupturing the ties of affection— counting not his life dear unto himself, he goes out to gather amidst malignant gales and in savage wildernesses a harvest for his Lord? What of that Lord himself, as he comes forth from the glory of universal empire, and clothes himself in human form, and becomes a man of sorrows, and consents at last to die in agony for the rescue of the guilty and the vile? Is there nothing here but prudence? Is it all selfseeking? Has there been no principle, no patriotism, no philanthropy, no love of liberty, no disinterested zeal for God and man? Then we say, let history be rewritten, that it may strip these pretenders of their factitious greatness. Let the Evangelists and the Acts of the Apostles, too, be revised, that they may no longer tell of benevolence and zealthat they may record of Peter and James and John,-when they appear before us rejoicing that they are reckoned worthy to suffer for the name of Jesus-when they resolve that, in spite of the decrees of councils and the madness of mobs, they will still publish the things that they have seen and heard-when they go from city to city smiling on the rage of persecutors, lifting their warning voice in the presence of rulers, and making the very prison-house vocal with their songs;-let the historian, amended and corrected by the Utilitarian, tell us that, after all, these were but men who had a keen eye to their own interest and were in quest of honour and reward! In quest of honour and reward they doubtless were. That they had no thought of these, or that they were not, in truth, advancing their highest happiness by this very self-devotion, is not pretended. But was this all? Their happiness they had a right to think of! To neglect or madly trifle with it is alike folly and guilt. But did they think of nothing else? Was it by dwelling exclusively and intently on their own interest, that they were moved to tears and sympathy-that they were nerved to deeds of self-sacrifice that their hearts were made to bleed for the sins and sufferings of distant strangers and benighted heathen? Or is it in man, when engrossed with himself and thinking not of others, to rise to the stature of such deeds, and write his name high and bright among the benefactors of his race. Surely this life must be delusion-history a romance the holy Evangelists but a tissue of fables, or else the philosophy in question is false.

And yet further.-This philosophy not only confounds virtue with prudence, it goes so far as to confound it even with vice, to abolish all intelligible distinction between right and wrong, and place them before us on the same moral level. For what, according to the Utili

tarian, is virtue? It is a wise forecast and calculation respecting our own happiness. And what is vice? It is an unwise calculation and forecast in regard to the very same thing. To both the virtuous and vicious man is presented the same object to be pursued from the same motive, and the only conceivable difference is one of degree, not of kind. The one looking for happiness rises to justice and beneficence— the other in quest of the same end descends to deeds of infamy and guilt. Where is there room for that vast and radical distinction which we are accustomed to make, for that deep and heartfelt reverence on the one hand, or for that intense disapprobation and displeasure on the other? Is a mere "error in arithmetic"-a mere mistake in the computation of gain and loss such an enormous crime that it ought to kindle indignation; or is simple "expertness in posting and balancing the moral ledger," in anticipating the chances of a given adventure, an achievement so lofty, that it ought to bow down our souls in admiration? On the supposition that this system is true, where is there room for the exercise of moral esteem and reverence, or for those sentiments of contempt and reprobation which we feel at the sight of the seducer and oppressor? And the guilty man himself, when he takes a review of his life and finds that he has been an extortioner, a sensualist, a blasphemer, what occasion has he for that remorse with which he is wont to goad himself? At the worst he has but calculated badly-made an unwise speculation for which he may well feel regret-but should suffer no remorse. Once admit the principle that man acts and ought to act only from a regard to his own happiness, be it in this or in a future world, and it must be followed out till there remains no place for moral distinctions. Duty sinks till it becomes synonymous with prudence, virtue with skill, vice with error, remorse with regret, and indignation with pity.

There is yet another objection. Dr Paley admits the divine will to be our rule of duty, and inculcates implicit obedience. But on what ground does he do so? Is it on the ground that God has a moral right to our obedience—that as our Creator and best benefactor-as the source and centre of all excellence, he merits and should receive the deepest homage of our gratitude and esteem? Far from it. We are not obliged, on his principles, to cherish one sentiment of gratitude or of reverence. "Love the Lord thy God with all thy heart," merely means, in this school, "be very careful not to incur his displeasure! He has at his disposal your eternal well-being-be extremely cautious. lest you provoke him to make it a sacrifice!" Such caution is doubtless proper. It is enjoined in one sense by all the sacred writers and by Christ himself. It shows the expediency of consulting the divine will. But is it the ground on which they rest the duty of obedience? Is it the great informing principle of their morality-the source whence they deduce the authority and the obligations of religion? In other words, is the government of God built on the mere basis of power, and not of right, so that we are called to submit, not because we ought, but because we must? Such is indeed the view which these speculations seem to take; and it may assist us in forming a proper estimate of the system, when we thus find it blotting from the divine character all moral attributes, such as justice and holiness-holding up bis om

nipotence as the only proper object of regard-representing his commands as merely arbitrary decrees, and our own moral notions as little better than fictions of law.

Hannah More

BORN A. D. 1745.-died a. D. 1834.

HANNAH MORE was the daughter of a schoolmaster, and his five daughters were bred to the same profession. The worthy man is said to have had a great dread of female pedantry, but probably communicated unconsciously to his daughter a taste for such pursuits as interested his own mind. There was, however, no cause for apprehension; for, remarkable as she was for the variety and extent of her attainments, she never took her place in society simply as a literary lady; and this is one proof of her ability, since there are but few persons so situated, in whom the consciousness of having a reputation to sustain would not interfere with the lightness and grace of their motions and appearance in society. Her mother was the daughter of a farmer, whose education had been plain and suitable to her station. Mr More was himself a tory and high-churchman, the rest of the family were presbyterians, and the daughters had frequently heard their father say that he had two greatuncles captains in Cromwell's army. Hannah was distinguished, even from an early age, by great quickness of apprehension, retentiveness of memory, and a thirst for knowledge; when she was between three and four years old, she had taught herself to read, and repeated the catechism in the church in a manner which excited the admiration of the minister of the parish. That there was some fascination in her manners, and intelligence in her conversation, even while a mere girl, we may presume from a curious anecdote that is related by her biographer, Mr Roberts. When she was about sixteen, a dangerous illness brought her under the care of Dr Woodward, a physician of eminence in that day, and distinguished by his correct taste. On one of his visits, being led into conversation with his patient on subjects of literature, he forgot the purpose of his visit in the fascination of her talk; till suddenly recollecting himself, when he was half way down stairs, he cried out, "Bless me! I forgot to ask the girl how she was;" and returned to the room, exclaiming, "How are you to-day, my poor child?" Among her early acquaintance, she was indebted for the improvement of her taste, and for the acquisition of just critical knowledge, to none more than to a linen-draper of the name of Peach, at Bristol, with whom the following curious story is connected: He had been the friend of Hume the historian, who had shown his confidence in his judgment by intrusting to him the correction of his 'History,' in which he used to say he had discovered more than two hundred Scotticisms; but for him it appears that two years of the historian's life might have passed into oblivion, which were spent in a merchant's counting-house at Bristol, whence he was dismissed, on account of his being too apt to correct the letters he was commanded to copy. More than twenty years after the death of Mr Peach, Hannah More being in company with Dr Percy, Gibbon,

and others, who were conjecturing what might have been the cause of this chasm in the life of Hume, of two years, was enabled to solve the mystery by relating the above anecdote.

The place of her residence in youth was Bristol, where her sisters kept a boarding-school. The first on the long list of her distinguished acquaintance was the elder Sheridan, who came to deliver lectures on eloquence in that city. He was struck with her prematurity of talent, and was doubtless a good judge of real ability, though his life was too roving and unsettled for him to accomplish much, even in his chosen pursuit. At the time when her intellectual gifts led him to cultivate her acquaintance, she was only in her sixteenth year. Ferguson also, who was delivering astronomical lectures in Bristol, was one of these admirers. To have her acquaintance sought by such men of note, was exceedingly flattering to one so young; but the only effect of it seems to have been to encourage to a literary effort. She wrote a pastoral drama, called the Search after Happiness;' whether it succeeded or not, we are wholly unable to tell; her biographer merely says, in the Delphic style, "The attempt succeeded as it deserved."

At this period she became acquainted with Dean Tucker, the well known political writer, and Dr Langhorne, a person of some distinction in his day. But the friend to whom she appears to have felt most indebted was Sir James Stonehouse, who had relinquished a large practice as a physician to take holy orders, and was then residing in Bristol. Besides encouraging her to cultivate her talents, he did much to draw out and cherish those religious feelings, which grew constantly stronger as she advanced in years. She was also the object of a more tender attachment; a rich old bachelor fell violently in love with her, and she accepted his offers; but some caprice on his part induced him to defer the marriage from day to day, till she resolved to be trifled with no longer. The engagement was dissolved by mutual consent, and the discarded lover became her friend. Without the fear of a suit for breach of promise before his eyes, he was desirous to settle an annuity upon her, and by the persuasions of her friends she was induced to accept it, though with long hesitation. At his death he left her a legacy of a thousand pounds. All her affairs of the heart seem to have been disposed of in a summary manner in early life. Her hand was again solicited and refused; but by whom, history does not say.

This is all the biographer has been able to gather of her early life, from 1745, when she was born, till 1774, when she went to London; we presume this was the year, but her neglect to date her letters on many occasions, leaves us uncertain at times when we wish to be sure. This he says, brings her "to that stage in the progress of ardent inexperience, when the blooming speculations of hope and fancy are to be exchanged for vulgar verities." Very fortunate was she if her ardent inexperience lasted to the age of twenty-nine, and if her blooming speculations could then be exchanged for such vulgar verities as the acquaintance of Johnson and Garrick, in one sex, and Mrs Montague and Mrs Carter, in the other. We are not informed what conducted her to London, nor to what good fortune it was owing that she became at once an object of flattering attentions. A provincial reputation for talent, be it ever so great, is not often a passport to London society, and as for her works,