AT MARISCHAL COLLEGE
1722-1737
At the age of twelve Reid emerges out of the obscurity in which his
boyhood lies concealed from us. In one of his letters to his cousin,
Dr. James Gregory, written in his old age, he mentions ‘April 1722’
as the date of his first visit to Aberdeen, then a town of some eight
thousand inhabitants, and twenty miles distant from the moorland valley
in which he was born. He tells how he was taken to see his grandmother,
who was living in Aberdeen, the second wife and widow of David Gregory
of Kinairdy. ‘I found her,’ he says, ‘old and bedridden, but I never
saw a more ladylike woman. I was now and then called into her room,
when she sat upon her bed, or entertained me with sweetmeats and grave
advices. Her daughters that assisted her often, as well as one who lived
with her, treated her as if she had been of a superior rank; and indeed
her appearance and manner commanded respect. She and all her children
were zealous Presbyterians: the first wife’s children were Tories and
Episcopalians.’ This picture of the boy in Aberdeen we owe to his
movement from the country school in the valley of the Dee to the higher
sphere of the Aberdeen Grammar School, which he seems to have entered
in that April, encouraged perhaps by the prognostic of the Kincardine
schoolmaster. The Grammar School Register tells that in ‘October 1722’
Thomas Reid left it to enter Marischal College, where his name appears
in the list of those matriculated that autumn. It was an early age for
University life according to later ideas, but not at variance with the
custom of Scotland in those days. Burnet, afterwards Bishop of Salisbury,
another eminent Aberdonian, entered Marischal College when he was only
nine, and graduated when he was thirteen; and Burnet’s contemporary,
Reid’s granduncle, James Gregory, graduated when he was not older than
Burnet.
The uncouth and dilapidated structure in which the University of the
Earls Marischal was housed when young Reid was spending his undergraduate
years in it, bore no resemblance to the stately College on the same site
which now adorns the prosperous city of Bon Accord. The process of decay
was so rapid, and the case was so urgent, that a few years later the
regents suspended their official claim to a part of the scanty funds of
the College, and also asked help from the community, ‘to preserve from
ruin an university from whence so many accomplished men have gone forth
as ornaments of their country in every age since its foundation.’ The
troubles of 1715 had further reduced its resources. Its Chancellor, the
tenth Earl Marischal, concerned in the rising of Mar, then forfeited
his title and the official connection of his family with the academical
foundation of his ancestor. The Principal and most of the authorities had
been removed or suspended by a commission of visitation in 1717. During
the two years which followed the adventure of Mar the doors of Marischal
College were closed, so that, when public instruction was resumed in
1717, a new race of teachers was in possession, and, as it happened, an
era of intellectual activity was inaugurated.
Notwithstanding the humble accommodation which it offered, and the
social revolution through which it had lately passed, Marischal College
could then boast of at least three eminent teachers, imbued with the
spirit of the ‘new philosophy,’ and of the reviving literary taste in
Scotland. The Professor of Mathematics was Colin M’Laurin, brother of the
eloquent Presbyterian preacher, himself among the foremost of British
mathematicians, a friend and correspondent of the aged Newton, who,
along with Reid’s inherited disposition, attracted the young student to
the study in which the teacher was a master. And about the time when
Reid entered College, Thomas Blackwell, a critic of Homer, and author of
_Memoirs of the Court of Augustus_, prominent among his countrymen who
were anxious to write good English, became Professor of Greek, and for a
generation encouraged classical taste and love of literature in the north
of Scotland. But the teacher who chiefly influenced Reid’s undergraduate
life was George Turnbull, a copious author, though his books are little
remembered now. He was Reid’s guide for three years; for the College was
then under a system of ‘regents’ which intrusted the student to the same
teacher in all the three years given to ‘philosophy’—natural as well as
moral.
Reid was fortunate in entering Marischal College when it was inspired by
M’Laurin, Blackwell, and Turnbull, each a leader in the scientific and
literary awakening of the time. The Aberdeen of 1725 was no longer the
Aberdeen of the ministers of whom Gordon in his _Scots Affairs_ tells
that they shrieked, ‘downe with learning and up with Christ.’ Their
religion was in alliance with culture and progressive intelligence,
anticipating in the North the intellectual enlargement associated in the
West with the University of Glasgow under Hutcheson, Leechman, and Adam
Smith.
George Turnbull is little known now, but he is too important a factor in
the making of Thomas Reid to be lightly passed over. He was an Edinburgh
graduate, born in 1698, and like Reid a son of the manse. He became a
regent of philosophy in Marischal College at the age of twenty-three. The
College record informs us that on the 14th of April 1726 he presented
for graduation a band of thirty-nine students: the name of Thomas Reid
appears last in the list. Turnbull’s lectures when he was regent were
in 1740 embodied in his _Principles of Moral Philosophy_. His leading
arguments are illustrated and vindicated by quotations from Berkeley’s
_Theory of Vision_ and _Principles of Human Knowledge_, also by the
_Inquiry_ of Francis Hutcheson and the _Sermons_ of Bishop Butler. The
influence of Berkeley is evident.
The mottoes on the title-page of Turnbull’s book express his method
of inquiry. One of them is the precept of Pope—‘Account for moral as
for natural things’; the other expresses in the words of Newton the
consequence which may be expected to follow—‘If Natural Philosophy, in
all its parts, by pursuing this method, shall at length be perfected, the
bounds of Moral Philosophy will also be enlarged.’ Turnbull was among
the first in Scotland to substitute, in mental philosophy, tentative
study of the facts of human nature for logical deduction from abstract
dogmas. ‘If a fact be actually found, either in the outer world of
sensible things, or in the inner and invisible world of mind, there is
no room for reasoning against it. Every reasoning, however subtle, if
it be repugnant in its conclusion to the actual fact of the case, must
be sophistical.’ Turnbull is fond of repeating that facts presented to
the senses are not the only, nor yet the most important, facts which the
universe contains. The invisible facts which take the form of beliefs
and feelings and volitions are the deepest facts of all: spirit and not
matter at last regulates life. Then he refers to what he calls ‘common
sense’ as the final arbiter in all questions. ‘Common sense is sufficient
to teach those who think of the matter with seriousness and attention all
the duties of common life; all our obligations to God and our fellow-men;
all that is morally fit and binding.’ In a word, spiritual facts of mind
are not to be crushed out of existence by tangible and visible facts of
matter. That mind in the form of will is the only known active power is
another prominent lesson in Turnbull’s teaching. ‘It is will alone that
manifests power or productive energy. To speak of any other active power
in the universe is to speak without meaning; because experience, the
source of all the materials of our knowledge, does not lead us to any
other conception of power.’ Turnbull’s conception of the material world
is very like Berkeley’s. Matter is the established or natural order in
which sense ideas present themselves. ‘Properly speaking, what we call
matter and space are only sensible ideas, produced in us, according to an
established or natural order, by some external cause; for when we speak
of material things, we can only mean certain sensible perceptions that
arise in our minds, according to a fixed order, but which are experienced
to be absolutely inert or passive, having in themselves no productive
force.’ It was in this philosophy that Turnbull’s most famous pupil was
educated at Marischal College.
Turnbull’s official connection with the College lasted only six years.
After inaugurating moral philosophy in the modern spirit in Scotland, he
resigned in the spring of 1727, and, after some residence abroad, lived
in London, producing books in excess of the demand for them. He ended by
taking orders in the Irish branch of the Anglican Church, finding the
communion of Jeremy Taylor and Berkeley more suited to his temper than
the fervid Presbyterianism to which he was accustomed in his youth. In
search of health, he died at the Hague in 1749.
I have enlarged on Turnbull, because by him Reid was first attracted
to the study of the human mind. But Blackwell, the Professor of Greek,
must not be forgotten. Blackwell, as well as Turnbull, was connected
with Berkeley. It was when Reid was at Marischal College that Berkeley
was engaged in the most romantic missionary enterprise of that age, for
spreading Christian civilisation in America by a College in the Bermudas.
Curiously, Blackwell was one of those whom he asked to join the little
party of missionaries who embarked with him at Gravesend in September
1728, after he had surrendered high preferment in Ireland in order
to devote his life to a more cosmopolitan philanthropy. The Aberdeen
regent was not prepared for the sacrifice. He refers thus to Berkeley’s
adventure:—
‘In this respect I would with pleasure do justice to the
memory of a very great though singular sort of man, known as
a philosopher, and intended founder of a University in the
Bermudas or Summer Islands. An inclination to carry me out
with him on that expedition, as one of the young professors
on his new foundation, having brought us often together, I
scarce remember to have conversed with him on that art, liberal
or mechanic, of which he knew not more than the ordinary
practitioners. With the widest views, he descended to the most
minute detail, and begrudged neither pains nor expense for
the means of information. I enter not into his peculiarities,
either religious or personal, but admire the extensive genius
of the man, and think it a loss to the Western world that
his noble and exalted plan of an American University was not
carried into execution.’—_Memoirs of the Court of Augustus._
The fact that Berkeley was so much in evidence at Marischal College in
those days, through Turnbull and Blackwell, is significant of much in the
life of Reid.
If Reid recorded his thoughts when he was a student at Marischal College,
the record has been lost. A commonplace book like Berkeley’s, when
Berkeley was an undergraduate in Dublin, would have cast welcome light on
this part of his mental history. The only extant revelation of his inner
life in these years is contained in a letter written half a century after
to his kinsman William Gregory at Oxford. It relates to the period when
his year was divided between town and country—the winters at Aberdeen and
the long summer days at the manse of Strachan:—
‘About the age of fourteen I was,’ he says, ‘almost every
night unhappy in my sleep from frightful dreams: sometimes
hanging over a dreadful precipice, and just ready to drop down;
sometimes pursued for my life and stopped by a wall, or by a
sudden loss of strength; sometimes ready to be devoured by a
wild beast. How long I was plagued with such dreams I do not
recollect. I believe it was for a year or two at least; and I
think they had left me before I was fifteen. In those days I
was much given to what Mr. Addison in one of his “Spectators”
calls _castle-building_; and in my evening solitary walk (which
was generally all the exercise I took), my thoughts would hurry
me into some active scene, where I generally acquitted myself
much to my own satisfaction, and in those scenes of imagination
I performed many a gallant exploit. At the same time, in my
dreams I found myself the most arrant coward. Not only my
courage but my strength failed me in every danger; and I often
rose from my bed in the morning in such a panic that it took
some time to get the better of it. I wished much to get free of
these uneasy dreams, which not only made me unhappy in sleep,
but left a disagreeable impression on my mind for some part of
the following day. I thought it was worth trying whether it
was possible to recollect while I was dreaming that it _was_
all a dream, and that I was in no danger. Accordingly, I often
went to sleep with my mind as strongly impressed as I could
with this thought—that I never in my lifetime had been in any
real danger, and that every fright I had was a dream. After
many fruitless endeavours to recollect this when the danger
appeared, I effected it at last, and have often, when I was
sliding down a precipice into the abyss, recollected that it
was all a dream, and boldly jumped down. The effect of this
commonly was that I immediately awoke; but I awoke calm and
intrepid, which I thought a great acquisition. After this my
dreams were never very uneasy; and in a short time I dreamed
not at all. During all this time I was in perfect health; but
whether my ceasing to dream was the effect of the recollection
above mentioned, or of any change in the habit of my body,
which is usual about that period of life, I cannot tell. I
think it may more probably be imputed to the last. However, the
fact was that for at least forty years after I dreamt none,
to the best of my remembrance; and finding from the testimony
of others that this is somewhat uncommon, I have often as I
awoke endeavoured to recollect, without being able to recollect
anything that passed in my sleep. The only distinct dream I
ever had since I was about sixteen, as far as I remember, was
about two years ago (1777). I had got my head blistered for a
fall. A plaster which was put upon it after the blister pained
me excessively for a whole night. In the morning I slept a
little, and dreamed very distinctly that I had fallen into the
hands of a party of Indians and was scalped. I am apt to think
that, as there is a state of sleep and a state wherein we are
awake, so there is an intermediate state which partakes of the
other two. I have slept on horseback, but so as to preserve my
balance; and if the horse stumbled, I could make the exertion
necessary to save me from a fall, as if I was awake.’
In all this one detects the disposition to sober introspection, which
ripened as life advanced.
* * * * *
During the ten years that followed the graduation in April 1726 we have
only faint traces of Reid. In the following winter he began to study
theology, and in 1731 he had completed the course required by the Church,
under the direction of Professor James Chalmers, father of the founder of
the _Aberdeen Journal_. This is another parallel between Reid and Kant:
both, it seems, were theologically trained.
Reid’s name first appears in the books of the Presbytery of Kincardine
O’Neil when he was in his nineteenth year. Extracts from the minutes with
which I have been favoured record his progress with a quaint simplicity
not without interest, as part of the history of a philosopher:—
‘On the 17th of July, 1728, James Lumsden, John Beaton, Thomas
Reid, and David Ross, students in divinity, residing within the
bounds of the presbytery, being now present, the presbytery
thought fit to appoint each of them to be in readiness to
deliver a homily against the next meeting, and accordingly
appointed Mr. Reid to deliver a homily on John i. 29.—18
September 1728. This day Mr. Thomas Reid delivered his homily,
with which the presbytery being satisfied, the moderator
encouraged him to go on with his studies.—8th June 1731. The
presbytery considering that Mr. Thomas Reid had been allowed by
the Synod to enter upon tryal, and he, being upon the place,
did undergo questioning tryal, wherein he was approved, and
the presbytery appointed him to be in readyness to deliver a
lecture on Ps. ii., and an exegesis on that common head. _Num
detur peccatum originale inherens._—22nd September 1731. This
day Mr. Thomas Reid underwent a questioning tryal and was
approved. And the presbytery taking into consideration that he,
having passed his course in Arts at the College, and thereafter
having studied Divinity for the space of [3] years, as also
having resided for the whole of this time within the bounds
of this presbytery; and they looking upon him as a person fit
to be entered upon tryals, and also having had sufficient
testimonials from the professors of divinity with whom he
studied as to his proficiency in his studys and good behaviour,
he was admitted to the usual tryals appointed by the Acts of
the General Assembly of this Church, and having passed through
all the parts thereof, he was licensed by the said presbytery
to preach the Gospel of Christ, and exercise his gifts as a
probationer for the holy ministry.’
On the 2nd of August 1732, ‘the Presbytery chose Mr. Thomas Reid to be
their Clerk.’ On the 5th of October in the same year, ‘the Presbytery
appointed Mr. Thomas Reid to supply at Lumphanan the second Sabbath after
Mr. Gordon’s removal.’ On the 8th of November, ‘Mr. Thomas Reid was
continued Clerk till the next meeting of the provincial Synod,’ in April
1733.
In July 1733 Reid re-appears, this time not engaged in ecclesiastical
ministration, but as the librarian of Marischal College. It was an office
with which he had a family connection. ‘The most outstanding name in
the history of Marischal College Library,’ says Mr. Rait, ‘is that of
Thomas Reid, Latin secretary to James vi., son of James Reid, minister of
Banchory-Ternan. In 1624 he left to Marischal College his own library,
6000 merks to be invested in land, and a sum of money to provide a salary
for a librarian.’ The secretary’s brother, Alexander, also bequeathed
books of philosophy and divinity. And David Gregory of Kinairdy was for
some time librarian. It was an acceptable retreat for research, and a
mark of esteem from the College. Mr. Rose, Reid’s brother-in-law, says
that he then studied Newton’s _Principia_ and Locke’s _Essay_.[4] Again
a parallel between Reid and Kant. Some time after Kant had taken his
degree he was made librarian in the Schloss Library, with a yearly
stipend of about £10. This was nominally in excess of Reid’s modest
honorarium of £9 at Aberdeen, a pittance which was for a time suspended
by threatened litigation. He was in active service as librarian till
1736, and for two years more in possession, ‘on leave of absence, with a
substitute.’
The need for a ‘substitute’ in 1736 can be explained. In that year, for
the first time, Reid is found outside Scotland. He is making a tour
in England, with Stewart, the friend of his undergraduate years, and
now Professor of Mathematics in Marischal College. The record of their
movements in the South is scanty. Reid’s uncle, Dr. George Reid, then a
physician in London, provided a home for them in the metropolis; and as
David Gregory, Reid’s cousin, was Professor of History at Oxford, they
found another home on the Isis, with an easy introduction to the colleges
and social life of the great English University. The Gregory connection
also opened the way to interesting things and persons at Cambridge as
well as at Oxford and London. Reid, it seems, saw Bentley at Cambridge,
‘who delighted him with his learning and amused him with his vanity’:
here, too, he enjoyed the conversation of the blind mathematician
Saunderson, whose experience he afterwards turned to good account in
his inquiries regarding the sense of seeing. One would like to have had
Reid’s first impressions of England, its metropolis, its social and
church life, and its ancient colleges. It does not appear that the scenes
through which he moved awakened in him much historic sentiment; that,
like his contemporary Berkeley, Oxford would be the ideal home of his old
age; or that he was greatly moved by its academic splendour, associated
with what is noblest in English history, and by the soft repose of the
surrounding rural scenes. In one of his letters to Dr. James Gregory,
he speaks of the first time he was in ‘Dean Gregory’s house at Oxford,’
when the Dean told ‘the story of the watch very well to a large company
of Oxonians’; so we may infer that other visits followed in later life.
And the Oxford of his first visit was the degenerate Oxford described
by Adam Smith and Gibbon, who were in residence a few years after. Reid
is seldom again found out of Scotland. There is no sign that he ever
visited Ireland or the Continent in his retired, sedate, and methodical
life. In this, too, he was like Kant, who in all his eighty years is said
never to have travelled more than forty miles from his native Königsberg.
The stay-at-home disposition common to both is not unlike the character
reflected in their books.