The Contract which stands next in historical succession， the Real Contract， shows a great advance in ethical conceptions. Whenever any agreement had for its object the deliver of a specific thing —— and this is the case with the large majority of simple engagements —— the Obligation was drawn down as soon as the delivery had actually taken place. Such a result must have involved a serious innovation on the oldest ideas of Contract； for doubtless， in the primitive times， when a Contracting party had neglected to clothe his agreement in a stipulation， nothing done in pursuance of the agreement would be recognised by the law A person who had paid over money on loan would be unable to sue for its repayment unless he had formally stipulated for it. But， in the Real Contract， performance on one side is allowed to impose a legal duty on the other —— evidently on ethical grounds. For the first time then moral considerations appear as an ingredient in Contract-law， and the Real Contract differs from its two predecessors in being rounded on these， rather than on respect for technical forms or on deference to Roman domestic habits.

　　We now reach the fourth class， or Consensual Contracts， the most interesting and important of all. Four specified Contracts were distinguished by this name： Mandatum， i.e. Commission or Agency； Societas or Partnership； Emtio Venditio or Sale； and Locatio Conductio or Letting and Hiring. A few pages ago， after stating that a Contract consisted of a Pact or Convention to which an Obligation had been superadded， I spoke of certain acts or formalities by which the law permitted the Obligation to be attracted to the Pact. I used this language on account of the advantage of a general expression， but it is not strictly correct unless it be understood to include the negative as well as the positive. For， in truth， the peculiarity of these Consensual Contracts is that no formalities are required to create them out of the Pact. Much that is indefensible， and much more that is obscure， has been written about the Consensual Contracts， and it has even been asserted that in them the consent of the Parties is more emphatically given than in any other species of agreement. But the term Consensual merely indicates that the Obligation is here annexed at once to the Consensus. The Consensus， or mutual assent of the parties， is the final and crowning ingredient in the Convention， and it is the special characteristic of agreements falling under one of the four heads of Sale， Partnership， Agency， and Hiring， that， as soon as the assent of the parties has supplied this ingredient， there is at once a Contract. The Consensus draws with it the Obligation， performing， in transactions of the sort specified， the exact functions which are discharged， in the other contracts， by the Res or Thing， by the Verba stipulationis， and by the Literae or written entry in a ledger. Consensual is therefore a term which does not involve the slightest anomaly， but is exactly analogous to Real， Verbal， and Literal.

　　In the intercourse of life the commonest and most important of all the contracts are unquestionably the four styled Consensual. The larger part of the collective existence of every community is consumed in transactions of buying and selling， of letting and hiring， of alliances between men for purposes of business， of delegation of business from one man to another； and this is no doubt the consideration which led the Romans， as it has led most societies， to relieve these transactions from technical incumbrance， to abstain as much as possible from clogging the most efficient springs of social movement. Such motives were not of course confined to Rome， and the commerce of the Romans with their neighbours must have given them abundant opportunities for observing that the contracts before us tended everywhere to become Consensual， obligatory on the mere signification of mutual assent. Hence， following their usual practice， they distinguished these contracts as contracts Juris Gentium. Yet I do not think that they were so named at a very early period. The first notions of a Jus Gentium may have been deposited in the minds of the Roman lawyers long before the appointment of a Praetor Peregrinus， but it would only be through extensive and regular trade that they would be familiarised with the contractual system of other Italian communities， and such a trade would scarcely attain considerable proportions before Italy had been thoroughly pacified， and the supremacy of Rome conclusively assured. Although， however， there is strong probability that the Consensual Contracts were the latest-born into the Roman system， and though it is likely that the qualification， Juris Gentium， stamps the recency of their origin， yet this very expression， which attributes them to the “Law of Nations，” has in modern times produced the notion of their extreme antiquity. For， when the “Law of Nations” had been converted into the “Law of Nature，” it seemed to be implied that the Consensual Contracts were the type of the agreements most congenial to the natural state； and hence arose the singular belief that the younger the civilisation， the simpler must be its forms of contract.

　　The Consensual Contracts， it will be observed， were extremely limited in number. But it cannot be doubted that they constituted the stage in the history of Contract-law from which all modern conceptions of contract took their start. The motion of the will which constitutes agreement was now completely insulated， and became the subject of separate contemplation； forms were entirely eliminated from the notion of contract， and external acts were only regarded as symbols of the internal act of volition. The Consensual Contracts had， moreover， been classed in the Jus Gentium， and it was not long before this classification drew with it the inference that they were the species of agreement which represented the engagements approved of by Nature and included in her code. This point once reached， we are prepared for several celebrated doctrines and distinctions of the Roman lawyers. One of them is the distinction between Natural and Civil Obligations. When a person of full intellectual maturity had deliberately bound himself by an engagement， he was said to be under a natural obligation， even though he had omitted some necessary formality， and even though through some technical impediment he was devoid of the formal capacity for making a valid contract. The law （and this is what the distinction implies） would not enforce the obligation， but it did not absolutely refuse to recognise it； and natural obligations differed in many respects from obligations which were merely null and void， more particularly in the circumstance that they could be civilly confirmed， if the capacity for contract were subsequently acquired. Another very peculiar doctrine of the jurisconsults could not have had its origin earlier than the period at which the Convention was severed from the technical ingredients of Contract. They taught that though nothing but a Contract could be the foundation of an action， a mere Pact or Convention could be the basis of a plea. It followed from this， that though nobody could sue upon an agreement which he had not taken the precaution to mature into a Contract by complying with the proper forms， nevertheless a claim arising out of a valid contract could be rebutted by proving a counter agreement which had never got beyond the state of a simple convention. An action for the recovery of a debt could be met by showing a mere informal agreement to waive or postpone the payment.

　　The doctrine just stated indicates the hesitation of the Praetors in making their advances towards the greatest of their innovations. Their theory of Natural law must have led them to look with especial favour on the Consensual Contracts and on those Pacts or Conventions of which the Consensual Contracts were only particular instances； but they did not at once venture on extending to all Conventions the liberty of the Consensual Contracts. They took advantage of that special superintendence over procedure which had been confided to them since the first beginnings of Roman law， and， while they still declined to permit a suit to be launched which was not based on a formal contract， they gave full play to their new theory of agreement in directing the ulterior stages of the proceeding. But， when they had proceeded thus far， it was inevitable that they should proceed farther. The revolution of the ancient law of Contract was consummated when the Praetor of some one year announced in his Edict that he would grant equitable actions upon Pacts which had never been matured at all into Contracts， provided only that the Pacts in question had been founded on a consideration （causa）。 Pacts of this sort are always enforced under the advanced Roman jurisprudence. The principle is merely the principle of the Consensual. Contract carried to its proper consequence； and， in fact， if the technical language of the Romans had been as plastic as their legal theories， these Pacts enforced by the Praetor would have been styled new Contracts， new Consensual Contracts. Legal phraseology is， however， the part of the law which is the last to alter， and the Pacts equitably enforced continued to be designated simply Praetorian Pacts. It will be remarked that unless there were consideration for the Pact， it would continue nude so far as the new jurisprudence was concerned； in order to give it effect， it would be necessary to convert it by a stipulation into a Verbal Contract.

　　The extreme importance of this history of Contract， as a safeguard against almost innumerable delusions， must be my justification for discussing it at so considerable a length. It gives a complete account of the march of ideas from one great landmark of jurisprudence to another. We begin with Nexum， in which a Contract and a Conveyance are blended， and in which the formalities which accompany the agreement are even more important than the agreement itself. from the Nexum we pass to the Stipulation， which is a simplified form of the older ceremonial. The Literal Contract comes next， and here all formalities are waived， if proof of the agreement can be supplied from the rigid observances of a Roman household. In the Real Contract a moral duty is for the first time recognised， and persons who have joined or acquiesced in the partial performance of an engagement are forbidden to repudiate it on account of defects in form. Lastly， the Consensual Contracts emerge， in which the mental attitude of the contractors is solely regarded， and external circumstances have no title to notice except as evidence of the inward undertaking. It is of course uncertain how far this progress of Roman ideas from a gross to a refined conception exemplifies the necessary progress of human thought on the subject of Contract. The Contract-law of all other ancient societies but the Roman is either too scanty to furnish information， or else is entirely lost； and modern jurisprudence is so thoroughly leavened with the Roman notions that it furnishes us with no contrasts or parallels from which instruction can be gleaned. from the absence， however，。 the of everything violent， marvellous， or unintelligible in changes I have described， it may be reasonably believed that the history of ancient Roman Contracts is， up to a certain point， typical of the history of this class of legal conceptions in other ancient societies. But it is only up to a certain point that the progress of Roman law can be taken to represent the progress of other systems of jurisprudence. The theory of Natural law is exclusively Roman. The notion of the vinculum juris， so far as my knowledge extends， is exclusively Roman. The many peculiarities of the mature Roman law of Contract and Delict which are traceable to these two ideas， whether singly or in combination， are therefore among the exclusive products of one particular society. These later legal conceptions are important， not because they typify the necessary results of advancing thought under all conditions， but because they have exercised perfectly enormous influence on the intellectual diathesis of the modern world.

　　I know nothing more wonderful than the variety of sciences to which Roman law， Roman Contract-law more particularly， has contributed modes of thought， courses of reasoning， and a technical language. Of the subjects which have whetted the intellectual appetite of the moderns， there is scarcely one， except Physic， which has not been Altered through Roman jurisprudence. The science of pure Metaphysics had， indeed， rather a Greek than a Roman parentage， but Politics， Moral Philosophy， and even Theology found in Roman law not only a vehicle of expression， but a nidus in which some of their profoundest inquiries were nourished into maturity. For the purpose of accounting for this phenomenon， it is not absolutely necessary to discuss the mysterious relation between words and ideas， or to explain how it is that the human mind has never grappled with any subject of thought， unless it has been provided beforehand with a proper store of language and with an apparatus of appropriate logical methods. It is enough to remark， that， when the philosophical interests of the Eastern and Western worlds were separated， the founders of Western thought belonged to a society which spoke Latin and reflected in Latin. But in the Western provinces the only language which retained sufficient precision for philosophical purposes was the language of Roman law， which by a singular fortune had preserved nearly all the purity of the Augustan age， while vernacular Latin was degenerating into a dialect of portentous barbarism. And if Roman jurisprudence supplied the only means of exactness in speech， still more emphatically did it furnish the only means of exactness， subtlety， or depth in thought. For at least three centuries， philosophy and science were without a home in the West； and though metaphysic and metaphysical theology were engrossing the mental energies of multitudes of Roman subjects， the phraseology employed in these ardent inquiries was exclusively Greek， and their theatre was the Eastern half of the Empire. Sometimes， indeed， the conclusions of the Eastern disputants became so important that every man''s assent to them， or dissent from them， had to be recorded， and then the West was introduced to the results of Eastern controversy， which it generally acquiesced in without interest and without resistance. Meanwhile， one department of inquiry， difficult enough for the most laborious， deep enough for the most subtle， delicate enough for the most refined， had never lost its attractions for the educated classes of the Western provinces. To the cultivated citizen of Africa， of Spain， of Gaul and of Northern Italy it was jurisprudence， and jurisprudence only， which stood in the place of poetry and history， of philosophy and science. So far then from there being anything mysterious in the palpably legal complexion of the earliest efforts of Western thought it would rather be astonishing if it had assumed any other hue. I can only express my surprise at the scantiness of the attention which has been given to the difference between Western ideas and Eastern， between Western theology and Eastern， caused by the presence of a new ingredient. It is precisely because the influence of jurisprudence begins to be powerful that the foundation of Constantinople and the subsequent separation of the Western Empire from the Eastern， are epochs in philosophical history. But continental thinkers are doubtless less capable of appreciating the importance of this crisis by the very intimacy with which notions derived from Roman Law are mingled up with every day ideas. Englishmen， on the other hand， are blind to it through the monstrous ignorance to which they condemn themselves of the most plentiful source of the stream of modern knowledge， of the one intellectual result of the Roman civilisation. At the same time， an Englishman， who will be at the pains to familiarise himself with the classical Roman law is perhaps， from the very slightness of the interest which his countrymen have hitherto taken in the subject， a better judge than a Frenchman or a German of the value of the assertions I have ventured to make. Anybody who knows what Roman jurisprudence is， as actually practised by the Romans， and who will observe in what characteristic the earliest Western theology and philosophy differ from the phases of thought which preceded them， may be safely left to pronounce what was the new element which had begun to pervade and govern speculation.

　　The part of Roman law which has had most extensive influence on foreign subjects of inquiry has been the law of Obligation， or what comes nearly to the same thing， of Contract and Delict. The Romans themselves were not unaware of the offices which the copious and malleable terminology belonging to this part of their system might be made to discharge， and this is proved by their employment of the peculiar adjunct quasi in such expressions as Quasi-Contract and Quasi-Delict. “Quasi，” so used， is exclusively a term of classification. It has been usual with English critics to identify the Quasi-contracts with implied contracts， but this is an error， for implied contracts are true contracts， which quasi-contracts are not. In implied contracts， acts and circumstances are the symbols of the same ingredients which are symbolised， in express contracts， by words； and whether a man employs one set of symbols or the other must be a matter of indifference so far as concerns the theory of agreement. But a Quasi-Contract is not a contract at all. The commonest sample of the class is the relation subsisting between two persons one of whom has paid money to the other through mistake. The law， consulting the interests of morality， imposes an obligation on the receiver to refund， but the very nature of the transaction indicates that it is not a contract， inasmuch as the Convention， the most essential ingredient of Contract， is wanting. This word “quasi，” prefixed to a term of Roman law， implies that the conception to which it serves as an index is connected with the conception with which the comparison is instituted by a strong superficial analogy or resemblance. It does not denote that the two conceptions are the same or that they belong to the same genus. On the contrary， it negatives the notion of an identity between them； but it points out that they are sufficiently similar for one to be classed as the sequel to the other， and that the phraseology taken from one department of law may be transferred to the other and employed without violent straining in the statement of rules which would otherwise be imperfectly expressed.

　　It has been shrewdly remarked， that the confusion between Implied Contracts， which are true contracts， and Quasi Contracts， which are not contracts at all， has much in common with the famous error which attributed political rights and duties to an Original Compact between the governed and the governor. Long before this theory had clothed itself in definite shape， the phraseology of Roman contract-law had been largely drawn upon to describe that reciprocity of rights and duties which men had always conceived as existing between sovereigns and subjects. While the world was full of maxims setting forth with the utmost positiveness the claims of kings to implicit obedience —— maxims which pretended to have had their origin in the New Testament， but which were really derived from indelible recollections of the Cesarian despotism —— the consciousness of correlative rights possessed by the governed would have been entirely without the means of expression if the Roman law of Obligation had not supplied a language capable of shadowing forth an idea which was as yet imperfectly developed. The antagonism between the privileges of kings and their duties to their subjects was never， I believe， lost sight of since Western history began， but it had interest for few except speculative writers so long as feudalism continued in vigour， for feudalism effectually controlled by express customs the exorbitant theoretical pretensions of most European sovereigns. It is notorious， however， that as soon as the decay of the Feudal System had thrown the medieval constitutions out of working order， and when the Reformation had discredited the authority of the Pope， the doctrine of the divine right of Kings rose immediately into an importance which had never before attended it. The vogue which it obtained entailed still more constant resort to the phraseology of Roman law， and a controversy which had originally worn a theological aspect assumed more and more the air of a legal disputation. A phenomenon then appeared which has repeatedly shown itself in the history of opinion. Just when the argument for monarchical authority rounded itself into the definite doctrine of Filmer， the phraseology， borrowed from the Law of Contract， which had been used in defence of the rights of subjects， crystallised into the theory of an actual original compact between king and people， a theory which， first in English and afterwards， and more particularly， in French hands， expanded into a comprehensive explanation of all the phenomena of society and law. But the only real connection between political and legal science had consisted in the last giving to the first the benefit of its peculiarly plastic terminology. The Roman jurisprudence of Contract had performed for the relation of sovereign and subject precisely the same service which， in a humbler sphere， it rendered to the relation of person bound together by an obligation of “quasi-contract.” It had furnished a body of words and phrases which approximated with sufficient accuracy to the ideas which then were from time to time forming on the subject of political obligation. The doctrine of an Original Compact can never be put higher than it is placed by Dr. Whewell， when he suggests that， though unsound， “it may be a convenient form for the expression of moral truths.”

　　The extensive employment of legal language on political subjects previously to the invention of the Original Compact， and the powerful influence which that assumption has exercised subsequently， amply account for the plentifulness in political science of words and conceptions， which were the exclusive creation of Roman jurisprudence. Of their plentifulness in Moral Philosophy a rather different explanation must be given， inasmuch as ethical writings have laid Roman law under contribution much more directly than political speculations， and their authors have been much more conscious of the extent of their obligation. In speaking of moral philosophy as extraordinarily indebted to Roman jurisprudence， I must be understood to intend moral philosophy as understood previously to the break in its history effected by Kant， that is， as the science of the rules governing human conduct， of their proper interpretation and of the limitations to which they are subject. Since the rise of the Critical Philosophy， moral science has almost wholly lost its older meaning， and， except where it is preserved under a debased form in the casuistry still cultivated by Roman Catholic theologians， it seems to be regarded nearly universally as a branch of ontological inquiry. I do not know that there is a single contemporary English writer， with the exception of Dr. Whewell， who understands moral philosophy as it was understood before it was absorbed by metaphysics and before the groundwork of its rules came to be a more important consideration than the rules themselves. So long， however， as ethical science had to do with the practical regimen of conduct， it was more or less saturated with Roman law. Like all the great subjects of modern thought， it was originally incorporated with theology. The science of Moral Theology， as it was at first called， and as it is still designated by the Roman Catholic divines， was undoubtedly constructed， to the full knowledge of its authors， by takin principles of conduct from the system of the Church， and by using the language and methods of jurisprudence for their expression and expansion. While this process went on， it was inevitable that jurisprudence， though merely intended to be the vehicle of thought， should communicate its colour to the thought itself. The tinge received through contact with legal conceptions is perfectly perceptible in the earliest ethical literature of the modern world， and it is evident， I think， that the Law of Contract， based as it is on the complete reciprocity and indissoluble connection of rights and duties， has acted as a wholesome corrective to the predispositions of writers who， if left to themselves， might have exclusively viewed a moral obligation as the public duty of a citizen in the Civitas Dei. But the amount of Roman Law in moral theology becomes sensibly smaller at the time of its cultivation by the great Spanish moralists. Moral theology， developed by the juridical method of doctor commenting on doctor， provided itself with a phraseology of its own， and Aristotelian peculiarities of reasoning and expression， imbibed doubtless in great part from the Disputations on Morals in the academical schools， take the place of that special turn of thought and speech which can never be mistaken by any person conversant with the Roman law. If the credit of the Spanish school of moral theologians had continued， the juridical ingredient in ethical science would have been insignificant， but the use made of their conclusions by the next generation of Roman Catholic writers on these subjects almost entirely destroyed their influence. Moral Theology， degraded into Casuistry， lost all interest for the leaders of European speculation； and the new science of Moral Philosophy， which was entirely in the hands of the Protestants， swerved greatly aside from the path which the moral theologians had followed. The effect was vastly to increase the influence of Roman law on ethical inquiry.

　　“Shortly（1*） after the Reformation， we find two great schools of thought dividing this class of subjects between them. The most influential of the two was at first the sect of school known to us as the Casuists， all of them in spiritual communion with the Roman Catholic Church， and nearly all of them affiliated to one or other of her religious orders. On the other side were a body of writer connected with each other by a common intellectual descent from the great author of the treatise De Jure Belli et Pacis， Hugo Grotius. Almost all of the latter were adherents of the Reformation， and though it cannot be said that they were formally and avowedly at conflict with the Casuists， the origin and object of their system were nevertheless essentially different from those of Casuistry. It is necessary to call attention to this difference， because it involves the question of the influence of Roman law on that department of thought with which both systems are concerned. The book of Grotius， though it touches questions of pure Ethics in every page， and though it is the parent immediate or remote of innumerable volumes of formal morality， is not， as is well known， a professed treatise on Moral Philosophy； it is an attempt to determine the Law of Nature， or Natural Law. Now， without entering upon the question， whether the conception of a Law Natural be not exclusively a creation of the Roman jurisconsults， we may lay down that， even on the admission of Grotius himself， the dicta of the Roman jurisprudence as to what parts of known positive law must be taken to be parts of the Law of Nature， are， if not infallible， to be received at all events with the profoundest respect. Hence the system of Grotius is implicated with Roman law at its very foundation， and this connection rendered inevitable —— what the legal training of the writer would perhaps have entailed without it —— the free employment in every paragraph of technical phraseology， and of modes of reasoning， defining， and illustrating， which must sometimes conceal the sense， and almost always the force and cogency， of the argument from the reader who is unfamiliar with the sources whence they have been derived. On the other hand， Casuistry borrows little from Roman law， and the views of morality contended for have nothing whatever in common with the undertaking of Grotius. All that philosophy of right and wrong which has become famous， or infamous， under the name of Casuistry， had its origin in the distinction between Mortal and Venial Sin. A natural anxiety to escape the awful consequences of determining a particular act to be mortally sinful， and a desire， equally intelligible， to assist the Roman Catholic Church in its conflict with Protestantism by disburthening it of an inconvenient theory， were the motives which impelled the authors of the Casuistical philosophy to the invention of an elaborate system of criteria， intended to remove immoral actions， in as many cases as possible， out of the category of mortal offences， and to stamp them as venial sins. The fate of this experiment is matter of ordinary history. We know that the distinctions of Casuistry， by enabling the priesthood to adjust spiritual control to all the varieties of human character， did really confer on it an influence with princes， statesmen， and generals， unheard of in the ages before the Reformation， and did really contribute largely to that great reaction which checked and narrowed the first successes of Protestantism. But beginning in the attempt， not to establish， but to evade —— not to discover a principle， but to escape a postulate —— not to settle the nature of right and wrong， but to determine what was not wrong of a particular nature， —— Casuistry went on with its dexterous refinements till it ended in so attenuating the moral features of actions， and so belying the moral instincts of Our being， that at length the conscience of mankind rose suddenly in revolt against it， and consigned to one common ruin the system and its doctors. The blow， long pending， was finally struck in the Provincial Letters of Pascal， and since the appearance of those memorable Papers， no moralist of the smallest influence or credit has ever avowedly conducted his speculations in the footsteps of the Casuists. The whole field of ethical science was thus left at the exclusive command of the writers who followed Grotius； and it still exhibits in an extraordinary degree the traces of that entanglement with Roman law which is sometimes imputed as a fault， and sometimes the highest of its recommendations， to the Grotian theory Many inquirers since Grotius''s day have modified his principles， and many， of course， since the rise of the Critical Philosophy， have quite deserted them； but even those who have departed most widely from his fundamental assumptions have inherited much of his method of statement， of his train of thought， and of his mode of illustration； and these have little meaning and no point to the person ignorant of Roman jurisprudence.”

　　I have already said that， with the exception of the physical sciences， there is no walk of knowledge which has been so slightly affected by Roman law as Metaphysics. The reason is that discussion on metaphysical subjects has always been conducted in Greek， first in pure Greek， and afterwards in a dialect of Latin expressly constructed to give expression to Greek conceptions. The modern languages have only been fitted to metaphysical inquiries by adopting this Latin dialect， or by imitating the process which was originally followed in its formation. The source of the phraseology which has been always employed for metaphysical discussion in modern times was the Latin translations of Aristotle， in which， whether derived or not from Arabic versions， the plan of the translator was not to seek for analogous expressions in any part of Latin literature， but to construct anew from Latin roots a set of phrases equal to the expression of Greek philosophical ideas. Over such a process the terminology of Roman law can have exercised little influence； at most， a few Latin law terms in a transmuted shape have made their way into metaphysical language. At the same time it is worthy of remark that whenever the problems of metaphysics are those which have been most strongly agitated in Western Europe， the thought， if not the language， betrays a legal parentage. Few things in the history of speculation are more impressive than the fact that no Greek-speaking people has ever felt itself seriously perplexed by the great question of Free-will and Necessity： I do not pretend to offer any summary explanation of this， but it does not seem an irrelevant suggestion that neither the Greeks， nor any society speaking and thinking in their language， ever showed the smallest capacity for producing a philosophy of law. Legal science is a Roman creation， and the problem of Free-will arises when we contemplate a metaphysical conception under a legal aspect. How came it to be a question whether invariable sequence was identical with necessary connection？ I can only say that the tendency of Roman law， which became stronger as it advanced， was to look upon legal consequences as united to legal causes by an inexorable necessity， a tendency most markedly exemplified in the definition of Obligation which I have repeatedly cited， “Juris vinculum quo necessitate adstringimur alicujus solvendae rei.”

　　But the problem of Free-will was theological before it became philosophical， and， if its terms have been affected by jurisprudence， it will be because Jurisprudence had made itself felt in Theology. The great point of inquiry which is here suggested has never been satisfactorily elucidated. What has to be determined， is whether jurisprudence has ever served as the medium through which theological principles have been viewed； whether， by supplying a peculiar language， a peculiar mode of reasoning， and a peculiar solution of many of the problems of life， it has ever opened new channels in which theological speculation could flow out and expand itself. For the purpose of giving an answer it is necessary to recollect what is already agreed upon by the best writers as to the intellectual food which theology first assimilated. It is conceded on all sides that the earliest language of the Christian Church was Greek， and that the problems to which it first addressed itself were those for which Greek philosophy in its later forms had prepared the way. Greek metaphysical literature contained the sole stock of words and ideas out of which the human mind could provide itself with the means of engaging in the profound controversies as to the Divine Persons， the Divine Substance， and the Divine Natures. The Latin language and the meagre Latin philosophy were quite unequal to the undertaking， and accordingly the Western or Latin-speaking provinces of the Empire adopted the conclusions of the East without disputing or reviewing them. “Latin Christianity，” says Dean Milman， “accepted the creed which its narrow and barren vocabulary could hardly express in adequate terms. Yet， throughout， the adhesion of Rome and the West was a passive acquiescence in the dogmatic system which had been wrought out by the profounder theology of the Eastern divines， rather than a vigorous and original examination on her part of those mysteries. The Latin Church was the scholar as well as the loyal partizan of Athanasius.” But when the separation of East and West became wider， and the Latin-speaking Western Empire began to live with an intellectual life of its own， its deference to the East was all at once exchanged for the agitation of a number of questions entirely foreign to Eastern speculation. “While Greek theology （Milman， Latin Christianity， Preface， 5） went on defining with still more exquisite subtlety the Godhead and the nature of Christ” —— “while the interminable controversy still lengthened out and cast forth sect after sect from the enfeebled community” —— the Western Church threw itself with passionate ardour into a new order of disputes， the same which from those days to this have never lost their interest for any family of mankind at any time included in the Latin communion. The nature of Sin and its transmission by inheritance —— the debt owed by man and its vicarious satisfaction —— the necessity and sufficiency of the Atonement —— above all the apparent antagonism between Free-will and the Divine Providence —— these were the points which the West began to debate as ardently as ever the East had discussed the articles of its more special creed. Why is it then that on the two sides of the line which divides the Greek-speaking from the Latin-speaking provinces there lie two classes of theological problems so strikingly different from one another？ The historians of the Church have come close upon the solution when they remark that the new problems were more “practical，” less absolutely speculative， than those which had torn Eastern Christianity asunder， but none of them， so far as I am aware， has quite reached it. I affirm without hesitation that the difference between the two theological systems is accounted for by the fact that， in passing from the East to the West， theological speculation had passed from a climate of Greek metaphysics to a climate of Roman law. For some centuries before these controversies rose into overwhelming importance， all the intellectual activity of the Western Romans had been expended on jurisprudence exclusively. They had been occupied in applying a peculiar set of principles to all the combinations in which the circumstances of life are capable of being arranged. No foreign pursuit or taste called off their attention from this engrossing occupation， and for carrying it on they possessed a vocabulary as accurate as it was copious， a strict method of reasoning， a stock of general propositions on conduct more or less verified by experience， and a rigid moral philosophy. It was impossible that they should not select from the questions indicated by the Christian records those which had some affinity with the order of speculations to which they were accustomed， and that their manner of dealing with them should borrow something from their forensic habits. Almost everybody who has knowledge enough of Roman law to appreciate the Roman penal system， the Roman theory of the obligations established by Contract or Delict， the Roman view of Debts and of the modes of incurring， extinguishing， and transmitting them， the Roman notion of the continuance of individual existence by Universal Succession， may be trusted to say whence arose the frame of mind to which the problems of Western theology proved so congenial， whence came the phraseology in which these problems were stated， and whence the description of reasoning employed in their solution. It must only be recollected that Roman law which had worked itself into Western thought was neither the archaic system of the ancient city， nor the pruned and curtailed jurisprudence of the Byzantine Emperors； still less， of course， was it the mass of rules， nearly buried in a parasitical overgrowth of modern speculative doctrine， which passes by the name of Modern Civil Law. I speak only of that philosophy of jurisprudence， wrought out by the great juridical thinkers of the Antonine age， which may. still be partially reproduced from the Pandects of Justinian， a system to which few faults can be attributed except it perhaps aimed at a higher degree of elegance， certainty， and precision， than human affairs will permit to the limits within which human laws seek to confine them.

　　It is a singular result of that ignorance of Roman law which Englishmen readily confess， and of which they are sometimes not ashamed to boast， that many English writers of note and credit have been led by it to put forward the most untenable of paradoxes concerning the condition of human intellect during the Roman Empire. It has been constantly asserted， As unhesitatingly as if there were no temerity in advancing the proposition， that from the close of the Augustan era to the general awakening of interest on the points of the Christian faith， the mental energies of the civilised world were smitten with a paralysis. Now there are two subjects of thought —— the only two perhaps with the exception of physical science —— which are able to give employment to all the Powers and capacities which the mind possesses. One of them is Metaphysical inquiry， which knows no limits so long as the mind is satisfied to work on itself； the other is law， which is as extensive as the concerns of mankind. It happens that， during the very period indicated， the Greek-speaking provinces were devoted to one， the Latin Speaking provinces to the other， of these studies. I say nothing of the fruits of speculation in Alexandria and the East， but I confidently affirm that Rome and the West had an occupation in hand fully capable of compensating them for the absence of every other mental exercise， and I add that the results achieved， so far as we know them， were not unworthy of the continuous and exclusive labour bestowed on producing them. Nobody except a professional lawyer is perhaps in a position completely to understand how much of the intellectual strength of individuals Law is capable of absorbing， but a layman has no difficulty in comprehending why it was that an unusual share of the collective intellect of Rome was engrossed by jurisprudence. “The proficiency （2*） of a given community in jurisprudence depends in the long run on the same conditions as its progress in any other line of inquiry； and the chief of these are the proportion of the national intellect devoted to it， and the length of time during which it is so devoted. Now， a combination of all the causes， direct and indirect， which contribute to the advancing and perfecting of a science continued to operate on the jurisprudence of Rome through the entire space between the Twelve Tables and the severance of the two Empires， —— and that not irregularly or at intervals， but in steadily increasing force and constantly augmenting number. We should reflect that the earliest intellectual exercise to which a young nation devotes itself is the study of its laws. As soon as the mind makes its first conscious efforts towards generalisation， the concerns of every-day life are the first to press for inclusion within general rules and comprehensive formulas. The popularity of the pursuit on which all the energies of the young commonwealth are bent is at the outset unbounded； but it ceases in time. The monopoly of mind by law is broken down. The crowd at the morning audience of the great Roman jurisconsult lessens. The students are counted by hundreds instead of thousands in the English Inns of Court. Art， Literature， Science， and Politics， claim their share of the national intellect； and the practice of jurisprudence is confined within the circle of a profession， never indeed limited or insignificant， but attracted as much by the rewards as by the intrinsic recommendations of their science. This succession of changes exhibited itself even more strikingly at Rome than in England. To the close of the Republic the law was the sole field for all ability except the special talent of a capacity for generalship. But a new stage of intellectual progress began with the Augustan age， as it did with our own Elizabethan era. We all know what were its achievements in poetry and prose； but there are some indications， it should be remarked， that， besides its efflorescence in ornamental literature， it was on the eve of throwing out new aptitude for conquest in physical science. Here， however， is the point at which the history of mind in the Roman State ceases to be parallel to the routes which mental progress had since then pursued. The brief span of Roman literature， strictly so called， was suddenly closed under a variety of influences， which though they may partially be traced it would be improper in this place to analyse. Ancient intellect was forcibly thrust back into its old courses， and law again became no less exclusively the proper sphere for talent than it had been in the days when the Romans despised philosophy and poetry as the toys of a childish race. Of what nature were the external inducements which， during the Imperial period， tended to draw a man of inherent capacity to the pursuits of the jurisconsult may best be understood by considering the option which was practically before him in his choice of a profession. He might become a teacher of rhetoric， a commander of frontier-posts， or a professional writer of panegyrics. The only other walk of active life which was open to him was the practice of the law. Through that lay the approach to wealth， to fame， to office， to the council-chamber of the monarch —— it may be to the very throne itself.”

　　The premium on the study of jurisprudence was so enormous that there were schools of law in every part of the Empire， even in the very domain of Metaphysics. But， though the transfer of the seat of empire to Byzantium gave a perceptible impetus to its cultivation in the East， jurisprudence never dethroned the pursuits which there competed with it. Its language was Latin， an exotic dialect in the Eastern half of the Empire. It is only of the West that we can lay down that law was not only the mental food of the ambitious and aspiring， but the sole aliment of all intellectual activity. Greek philosophy had never been more than a transient fashionable taste with the educated class of Rome itself， and when the new Eastern capital had been created， and the Empire subsequently divided into two， the divorce of the Western provinces from Greek speculation， and their exclusive devotion to jurisprudence， became more decided than ever. As soon then as they ceased to sit at the feet of the Greeks and began to ponder out a theology of their own， the theology proved to be permeated with forensic ideas and couched in a forensic phraseology. It is certain that this substratum of law in Western theology lies exceedingly deep. A new set of Greek theories， the Aristotelian philosophy， made their way afterwards into the West and almost entirely buried its indigenous doctrines. But when at the Reformation it partially shook itself free from their influence， it instantly supplied their place with Law. It is difficult to say whether the religious system of Calvin or the religious system of the Arminians has the more markedly legal character.

　　The vast influence of the specific jurisprudence of Contract produced by the Romans upon the corresponding department of modern Law belongs rather to the history of mature juris prudence than to a treatise like the present. It did not make itself felt till the school of Bologna founded the legal science of modern Europe. But the fact that the Romans， before their Empire fell， had so fully developed the conception of Contract becomes of importance at a much earlier period than this. Feudalism， I have repeatedly asserted， was a compound of archaic barbarian usage with Roman law； no other explanation of it is tenable， or even intelligible. The earliest social forms of the feudal period differ in little from the ordinary associations in which the men of primitive civilisations are everywhere seen united. A Fief was an organically complete brotherhood of associates whose proprietary and personal rights were inextricably blended together. It had much in common with an Indian Village Community and much in common with a Highland clan. But still it presents some phenomena which we never find in the associations which are spontaneously formed by beginners in civilisation. True archaic communities are held together not by express rules， but by sentiment， or， we should perhaps say， by instinct； and new comers into the brotherhood are brought within the