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Adam Smith was born on June 5, 1723, in the “lang toun” of Kirkcaldy. It was one of the “mony royal boroughs yoked on end to end like ropes of ingans, with their hie-streets and their booths, and their kraemes and houses of stane and lime and forestairs,” which led Andrew Fairservice to contrast “the kingdom of Fife” with the inferior county of Northumberland; nay, it furnished him with a special boast, “Kirkcaldy, the sell o’t, is langer than ony toun in England.” It had been a royal borough from the time of Charles I., and had declined, like many other Scotch towns, in the religious wars of the seventeenth century. Many of its citizens who had fought for the Covenant had fallen on the fatal field of Tippermuir. But it still contained about 1500 inhabitants, who were variously employed as colliers, fishermen, salters, nailmakers, and smugglers. From the harbour you might walk a mile or more westward along the High Street, enjoying from time to time a glimpse of the sea and shelving beach, where the line of shops opened for a narrow “wynd,” or a still narrower “close” threaded the high-walled gardens of a few substantial houses. In one of these Adam Smith wrote the Wealth of Nations, and probably in one of these he was born. The father, who died a few weeks before the birth of his only child, had been a leading townsman. Adam Smith the elder was a man of note in his own day. From 1707 to his death he was a Writer,[1] i.e. solicitor, and Judge Advocate for Scotland. He had acted as private secretary to Lord Loudon, then Minister for Scotland; and Loudon, on leaving office in 1713, obtained for his secretary the Comptrollership of Customs at Kirkcaldy—a post worth about £100 a year.

His widow lived to a great age, and saw her boy rise step by step to the fulness of fame. She is said to have been an over-indulgent mother; but her devotion was repaid by the life-long love of a most tender son. Mrs. Smith’s maiden name was Margaret Douglas, and she was the daughter of the Laird of Strathendry, in the county of Fife. At Strathendry the future economist had a narrow escape; for one day as he played at the door he was picked up and carried off by a party of vagrant tinkers. Luckily he was soon missed, pursued and overtaken in Leslie Wood; and thus, in the grandiose dialect of Dugald Stewart, there was preserved to the world “a genius, which was destined, not only to extend the boundaries of science, but to enlighten and reform the commercial policy of Europe.”

The next landmark in the boy’s history is a copy of Eutropius, on the fly-leaf of which is inscribed in a childish hand, “Adam Smith, his book, May 4th, 1733.” Before his tenth birthday, therefore, he had already made some progress in Latin. The Burgh School of Kirkcaldy, which he attended, was a good grammar school of the kind that already abounded in Scotland. It was patronised by the Oswalds of Dunnikier, the principal people of the neighbourhood. James Oswald, who soon made a mark in politics, was Smith’s senior by some years, but they became life-long friends. Robert Adams, the architect who planned Edinburgh University, was another friend and schoolfellow; and so was John Drysdale, who twice held the helm of the Scotch Church as Moderator of its General Assembly. In 1734 the schoolboys played a moral piece written for the purpose by the head master, David Millar. As a teacher he had a considerable reputation, but as a dramatist he will be judged by the title of his play, “A Royal Counsel for Advice; or Regular Education for Boys the Foundation of all other Improvements.” Adam Smith soon attracted notice at school “by his passion for books and by the extraordinary powers of his memory.” Too weak and delicate to join in active games, he was yet popular with his schoolfellows; for his temper, “though warm, was to an uncommon degree friendly and generous.” In company his absentmindedness was often noticed, and this habit, with a trick of talking to himself, clung to him to the end.

In his fourteenth year Smith left the Grammar School of Kirkcaldy for the University of Glasgow, where he was to remain until the spring of 1740. He entered, probably, in October 1737, at the beginning of the session. As the full course extended over four sessions and Smith only attended three, he did not take his degree; but he had the good fortune to study Greek under Dunlop, mathematics under Simson, the editor of Euclid, and morals under Hutcheson, perhaps the greatest philosopher of his generation, and certainly the most eloquent.

Glasgow, though still but a small place, was already the most prosperous and progressive of Scotch towns. After a century of decay it had found salvation in the Act of Union, which gave it free trade with England and a share in the colonial monopoly. Readers of Rob Roy will remember how the inimitable Jarvie enlarged upon these advantages and on the facilities Glasgow possessed “of making up sortable cargoes for the American market.” It was very loyal, therefore, to the House of Hanover. In the rising of 1745, Charles Edward got considerable support from Edinburgh, and even from Manchester, but none from Glasgow, which, indeed, soon afterwards obtained a parliamentary vote of £10,000 in recognition of its exertions and as compensation for its losses. Glasgow was the only town in Scotland, as a learned writer has observed, to exhibit the same kind of visible progress in the first half of the eighteenth century which the rest of the country developed in the second. Its shipping, sadly cramped by the Navigation Act, began to expand after the Union. In 1716 the “first honest vessel in the West India trade” sailed from the Clyde, and in 1735, two years before Smith’s arrival, Glasgow owned sixty-seven vessels with a total burden of 5600 tons, nearly half of the total Scotch, though only one-eightieth of the total English tonnage.

In this rising mart Smith learned to value the English connection, and as he trod its busy streets and watched the merchandise of the West pouring into its warehouses, the boy saw that a new world had been called in to enrich the old. With the new sights and sounds came new ideas that had not yet penetrated the gloom of Holyrood or the rusty pride of the Canongate. From the lips of his master, Hutcheson, he heard that fruitful formula which his own philosophy was to interpret and develop, “the greatest happiness of the greatest number.” His mind was opened at once to the wisdom of the ancients and to the discoveries of the moderns. He learned from Bacon, and Grotius, and Locke, and Newton to discern through the obscuring mists of mediæval philosophy the splendid dawn of science. To the end of his life he loved to recall “the abilities and virtues of the never-to-be-forgotten Dr. Hutcheson.” Unorthodox yet not irreligious, radical yet not revolutionary, receptive yet inspiring, erudite yet original, Hutcheson was one of those rare reformers whose zeal is fertilised by knowledge and enforced by practical devotion. In early manhood he had refused to seek an easy advancement by subscribing to the tenets of the Church of England in Ireland, and while Smith was at Glasgow he braved the resentment of the Presbytery by teaching moral principles which were supposed to contravene the Westminster Confession. He was also the first in the University to abandon the practice of lecturing in Latin; and Dugald Stewart tells us that his old pupils were all agreed about his extraordinary talent as a public speaker. His pen was so unequal to his tongue that Stewart applies to Hutcheson what Quintilian said of Hortensius: “apparet placuisse aliquid eo dicente quod legentes non invenimus.”—“He gave a pleasure to his hearers which his readers miss.”

Hutcheson’s work in Glasgow (1730-1746) was of the utmost importance to Scotland. “I am called the New Light here,” he said. He stood for reform of the universities, for the criticism of abuses and privileges, for free thought, free speech, and the spirit of inquiry. He took a lively interest in his pupils, and tried to keep them abreast of the times. He set Adam Smith to write an analysis of Hume’s Treatise of Human Nature as soon as it appeared, and the lad of seventeen did his exercise so well that Hume got it printed in London and had a copy of the Treatise sent him by way of reward. Hutcheson has been called an eclectic. Certainly he had read widely and thought deeply upon the difficulties and perplexities of a new age, an age of scientific discovery and philosophic doubt, an age tired of the syllogism, disdainful of divine right, eager to find natural principles of morality, law, and government. From the System of Moral Philosophy, published after his death, we get a clear notion of the range of his lectures. He considered man as a social animal, and accordingly refused to divorce the science of individual ethics from the science of politics. He followed Aristotle in including chapters on jurisprudence and economics in his scheme of moral philosophy. It has been well said that the same natural liberty and optimism which served Smith as assumptions were the theses of Hutcheson, who himself learned much from Shaftesbury. Hutcheson and Smith were both reformers, and were more hopeful, if less cheerful, than Hume. Hume was a genial cynic without any zeal for reform, who found repose in Butler’s doctrine that things are what they are, and that their consequences will be what they will be.

But with Hutcheson and Smith it was a real religion to see that society should be better governed; they made it the supreme object of their lives to increase the happiness of mankind by diffusing useful truths and exposing mischievous errors. In the scope of his philosophy, in temper and practical aim, Smith may be called the spiritual descendant of Hutcheson. There are also marked resemblances in their subject matter and even in some minor points of doctrine, as a careful comparison recently instituted by a very competent writer abundantly shows.[2] We find Smith using the same authorities as his predecessor and quoting them to much the same purpose. Even Hutcheson’s crude and fragmentary economics offered many suggestions that were afterwards developed and harmonised by Smith in his lectures. The Sunday lectures on Natural Theology, by which Hutcheson sought to reduce the intolerance and soften the harshness of Scottish orthodoxy, made a lasting impression upon the mind of his great pupil.

Besides his work with Hutcheson, Smith laid at Glasgow the foundation of an early mastery of the classics, and prepared himself for a wide course of reading in the literature and wisdom of the ancients. But mathematics and natural philosophy are said to have been his favourite pursuits at this time—indeed he seems to have attained in both a considerable proficiency, which never escaped the tenacious grip of his memory. Matthew Stewart, Dugald’s father, was one of his fellow-students. Long afterwards, when Professor of Mathematics in Edinburgh, he was heard discussing with Smith “a geometrical problem of considerable difficulty,” which had been set them as an exercise by Simson. Matthew Stewart, who died in 1785, is commemorated with Simson in the sixth edition of Smith’s Theory of Moral Sentiments, published fifty years after this time. After observing that “mathematicians who may have the most perfect assurance of the truth and of the importance of their discoveries, are frequently very indifferent about the reception which they may meet with from the public,” Adam Smith cites Dr. Robert Simson of Glasgow, and Dr. Matthew Stewart of Edinburgh, “the two greatest mathematicians that I ever had the honour to be known to, and I believe, the two greatest that have lived in my time,” as men who never seemed to feel the slightest uneasiness from the neglect with which some of their most valuable works were received. For several years, he adds, even Sir Isaac Newton’s Principia fell flat, but his tranquillity did not suffer for a single quarter of an hour. Newton always stood at the very top of Smith’s calendar.

Smith left Glasgow at the early age of seventeen. His mother, acting on the advice of her relatives, had destined the boy for the Church of England, which then opened the door to so many lucrative positions. Perhaps they hoped from his talents for a career like that of his famous countryman, Bishop Burnet, who indeed had himself been a Professor of Divinity at Glasgow. The intention went so far that in his third year Smith sought and obtained one of those exhibitions which have taken so many distinguished Scots from the University of Glasgow to Balliol College, Oxford. The Snell Exhibitions, as they are called, were founded by an old Glasgow student of that name in 1679, with a view to educating Scots for the service of the Episcopalian Church. It chanced, however, that during his residence at Oxford, an application made by the Oxford authorities to compel the Snell Exhibitioners “to submit and conform to the doctrines of the Church of England and to enter into holy orders” was refused by the Court of Chancery; so that when the time came Smith was able to choose his own career and to strike off from the easier road which took his Fifeshire friend Douglas in due time to a bishopric. The change from Glasgow to Oxford was immense. It was more than exile; it was transmigration from a living to a dead society, from the thrill of a rising and thriving community, where men lived and moved and thought, to a city of dreaming spires and droning dons. In June 1740 he rode on horseback to Oxford and matriculated on the 17th of July, entering himself in a round schoolboy hand as “Adamus Smith, e Coll. Ball. Gen. Fil. Jul. 7mo. 1740.”

It will be remembered that when Captain Waverley crossed the border, five years later, on his way to join the Young Pretender, the houses of Tully Veolan seemed miserable in the extreme, “especially to an eye accustomed to the smiling neatness of English cottages.” Smith rode through Carlisle, and he told Samuel Rogers in 1789 that he recollected being much struck as he approached that town by the richness of England and by the superiority of English agriculture. England indeed was then remarkably prosperous, thanks to a long peace, low taxes, and good harvests. Food was generally cheap and plentiful. Trade was good; and better means of transit by road and canal were being developed. But the land of the Scots, “during fifty generations the rudest perhaps of all European nations, the most necessitous, the most turbulent, and the most unsettled,” was still unimproved. The roads were almost impassable for wheeled vehicles. Coaches were unknown.[3] Many of the most fertile tracts were waste, and there is respectable authority for the opinion that some parts of the Lowlands were worse cultivated than in the thirteenth century. Under such conditions, rude beyond conception, poverty was universal. Even the gentry could seldom afford such bare comforts as half a century later their own farmers possessed. As for the common people, clothed in the coarsest garb and starving on the meanest fare, they dwelt in despicable huts with their cattle. It is significant that in those days Scotland had no fatted kine. There was no market for good meat, and the taste only grew with the means for gratifying it. Adam Smith was fond of telling at his own table in after years, how on the first day he dined in the hall of Balliol, having fallen into one of his fits of absent-mindedness, he was roused by the servitor who told him to “fall to, for he had never seen such a piece of beef in Scotland.”

Of the hundred undergraduates then at Balliol about eight came from Scotland, and four of these were Snell Exhibitioners. Their peculiarities of manner and dialect marked them off from the rest of the college, and they were treated as foreigners. Their relations with the authorities were unpleasant. In 1744, Smith and the other Exhibitioners stated their grievances to the Senate of Glasgow University, and explained how their residence might be made “more easy and commodious.” A few years afterwards, one of them told the Master that what the Exhibitioners wanted was to be transferred to some other college on account of their “total dislike of Balliol.” The friction between Balliol and Glasgow lasted long, and it was no doubt his own unsatisfactory experience that drew from Adam Smith thirty years afterwards a strong condemnation of close scholarships.[4]

The University of Oxford was at that time and for the rest of the century sunk deep in intellectual apathy, a muddy reservoir of sloth, ignorance, and luxury from which men sank as by a law of gravitation into the still lower level of civil and ecclesiastical sinecures. In the colleges there were only degrees of badness; but the charity of Snell had been rather unkind to Smith, for Balliol being Jacobite was particularly rowdy and intolerant. It has been mentioned that in his last year at Glasgow, Smith wrote for Hutcheson an abstract of David Hume’s Treatise of Human Nature which brought him a presentation copy from the author. This copy he seems to have carried south with him; for the Balliol authorities, it is recorded, caught Smith in the act of reading the godless work, censured him severely, and confiscated a book which more than a century afterwards was to be sumptuously edited by two honoured alumni of the same college.

The narrow spirit which this incident illustrates seems to have made a painful impression upon the student’s memory. In the Wealth of Nations he complains bitterly of the compulsory “sham-lecture,” and visits with severe censure the casuistry and sophistry by which the ancient course of philosophy had been corrupted. This completed course, he says, was meant to train ecclesiastics, and “certainly did not render it more proper for the education of gentlemen or men of the world, or more likely either to improve the understanding or to mend the heart.” At Oxford “the greater part of the public professors have for many years given up altogether even the pretence of teaching.” College discipline was in general contrived “not for the benefit of the students, but for the interests, or more properly speaking, for the ease of the masters.”

In England the public schools were “much less corrupted than the universities; for in the schools a boy was taught, or at least might be taught Greek and Latin,” whereas “in the universities the youth neither are taught, nor always can find any proper means of being taught, the sciences which it is the business of those incorporated bodies to teach.” It is only fair to add that Gibbon’s experiences of Magdalen, Bishop Butler’s of Christ Church, and Bentham’s of Queen’s, were equally adverse. And Balliol could at least offer its undergraduates the advantage of an excellent library. When such a cloud lay heavy upon that ancient seat of learning, it is no wonder if Smith with his sedentary disposition and frugal habits—he probably lived on his exhibition of £40—should have spent his six years at Balliol in the society of its books rather than of its tipsy undergraduates. Oxford, it has been observed by the most diligent of his biographers, is the only place he lived in which failed to furnish him with friends. But he never displayed towards it the lively antipathy of Gibbon; far from regretting his residence there, he mentioned it with gratitude many years afterwards. In Oxford he certainly gained the liberal knowledge of ancient and modern literature that enriches and adorns all his writings. The bookshops must have introduced him to his favourite Pope, to Swift and Addison, and the fashionable writers of the day. He employed himself frequently, he used to say, in the practice of translations, especially of French authors, in order to improve his style.

“How intimately,” writes Dugald Stewart, “he had once been conversant with more ornamental branches of learning, in particular with the works of the Roman, Greek, French, and Italian poets, appeared sufficiently from the hold they kept of his memory after all the different occupations and inquiries in which his maturer faculties had been employed.” He had an extraordinary knowledge of English poetry, and could quote from memory with a correctness which, says the same grave Scot, “appeared surprising even to those whose attention had never been directed to more important acquisitions.” What little intellectual activity outside politics still lingered on at Oxford was probably connected with philological speculations such as those of James Harris, the learned, if somewhat priggish, author of Hermes. At any rate, Smith went deeply into every branch of grammar. Andrew Dalzel, who was Professor of Greek at Edinburgh in Adam Smith’s old age, often remarked on “the uncommon degree in which Mr. Smith retained possession even to the close of his life of different branches of knowledge which he had long ceased to cultivate,” and particularly mentioned to his colleague Dugald Stewart, “the readiness and correctness” of his memory on philological subjects and his acuteness in discussing the minutiæ of Greek grammar.

Dugald Stewart failed to collect any information about Smith’s Oxford days, but a few relics have been preserved by Lord Brougham in the appendix to the discursive and rather disappointing essay upon Adam Smith that appears in his Lives of the Philosophers. “I have now before me,” says Brougham, “a number of Dr. Smith’s letters written when at Oxford between the years 1740 and 1746 to his mother: they are almost all upon mere family and personal matters; most of them indeed upon his linen and other such necessaries, but all show his strong affection for his parent.” The few quotations Brougham gives are barely worth recording. On November 29, 1743, Adam Smith writes: “I am just recovered of a violent fit of laziness, which has confined me to my elbow chair these three months.” Again on July 2, 1744: “I am quite inexcusable for not writing to you oftener. I think of you every day, but always defer writing till the post is just going, and then sometimes business or company, but oftener laziness, hinders me.” He speaks of “an inveterate scurvy and shaking of the head” which have been perfectly cured by tar water, “a remedy very much in vogue here for all diseases.”

His college contemporaries, says Mr. Rae, “were a singularly undistinguished body,” with the exception of a Fifeshire man, John Douglas, who had gone direct to Oxford from the Grammar School at Dunbar. Douglas at first had a small exhibition at St. Mary’s Hall, but after fighting at Fontenoy, he obtained a Snell Exhibition. He distinguished himself later as a pamphleteer and was rewarded with the Bishopric of Salisbury. With this exception, Adam Smith seems to have made no friends at Oxford. Besides his books he must have enjoyed from time to time walks and excursions into the surrounding country. In the Wealth of Nations he was able to make close comparisons of the condition of the labouring classes in England and Scotland, and there is a passage, about the use of coal and wood by the common people in Oxfordshire, to show that he had certainly acquired as an undergraduate the faculty of minute and picturesque observation which he afterwards turned to such account.[5] What Smith did in the vacations we do not know. He could not have had much money to spare, and there is no indication that he ever returned home or even visited London.

At last, in August 1746, after taking his degree as a Bachelor of Arts, he retraced his steps to Scotland, and gave up all thought of a clerical career. In the words of his biographer, “he chose to consult in this instance his own inclinations in preference to the wishes of his friends; and abandoning at once all the schemes which their prudence had formed for him, he resolved to return to his own country and to limit his ambition to the uncertain prospect of obtaining, in time, some one of those moderate preferments to which literary attainments lead in Scotland.” He was now in 1746 again in his mother’s house at Kirkcaldy, “engaged in study, but without any fixed plan for his future life.” So far as I am aware, none of Adam Smith’s biographers has definitely assigned to this period any of the writings which he either published or left to his executors. In the latter class, however, there is a group of fragments dealing with the history of Astronomy, of Ancient Physics, and of Ancient Logic and Metaphysics, and an elaborate essay on The Imitative Arts, which are collectively described by his executors in an advertisement as “parts of a plan he once had formed for giving a connected history of the liberal sciences and elegant arts.”[6]

The essay on The Imitative Arts belongs to a different design and to a slightly later period. But it seems clear that the History of Astronomy was composed at this time.[7] There is no other period of his life in which he would have been so well able to collect the materials for an examination of the systems of the Greek, the Arabian, and the mediæval astronomers as in the six years of Oxford study, or so likely to shape them into a finished treatise as in the two quiet years spent at Kirkcaldy immediately after his return, when, we are told, he was “engaged in study, but without any fixed plan for his future life.” The History of Astronomy, which takes us from the schools of Thales and Pythagoras through the systems of Copernicus, Tycho Brahe, Galileo, Kepler, and Descartes to that of Sir Isaac Newton, is complete in itself, though from certain notes and memoranda which accompanied it Smith’s executors were led to believe that he contemplated some further extension.[8] It ends very appropriately with an enthusiastic description of Sir Isaac Newton’s discovery as the greatest ever made by man. He had acquired “the most universal empire that was ever established in philosophy,” and was the only natural philosopher whose system, instead of being a mere invention of the imagination to connect otherwise discordant phenomena, appeared to contain in itself “the real chains which nature makes use of to bind together her several operations.” In attributing the History of Astronomy to Oxford and Kirkcaldy I except the concluding pages, which must have been added in the last years of his life; for in a letter to Hume (1773) he spoke of it as a history of Astronomical Systems to the time (not of Newton but) of Descartes.

Although complete in itself, this masterly essay was plainly meant by its author to form only one book in a great history of philosophy. It begins with three short introductory sections, the first on surprise, the second on wonder, and the third on the origin of philosophy. It is the function of philosophy, he says, to discover the connecting principles of nature, and to explain those portents which astonish or affright mankind. He then shows that celestial appearances have always excited the greatest curiosity, and describes with extraordinary learning and vivacity the long series of attempts that had been made to account for “the ways of the sky and the stars”—

“How winter suns in ocean plunge so soon,

And what delays the timid nights of June.”

The History of Ancient Physics, a much shorter fragment, is placed in his collected works immediately after the History of Astronomy. It evidently belongs to the same early period, but is of little interest. Upon The History of Ancient Logics and Metaphysics we shall have something to say in our next chapter.

After two years of waiting, Adam Smith got his opportunity. His neighbour, James Oswald of Dunnikier, had become Kirkcaldy’s representative in Parliament, and was now a Commissioner of the Navy. Through Oswald Smith seems to have been introduced to Henry Home (Lord Kames), a leader of the Edinburgh Bar, and arbiter of Scottish elegancies. Home was a warm patron of English literature, and was busily importing it along with English ploughs and other Southern improvements into his native land. What a contrast between this typical Scotch patriot of 1750 and grim old Fletcher of Saltoun, the corresponding type of 1700, whose remedy for Scottish ills was to restore slavery, and place all labourers in the situation of salters and colliers! Finding that Smith had acquired the accent and was well read in the prose and poetry of England, Home encouraged him to give what we should now call extension lectures in Edinburgh. Accordingly the young Oxford graduate delivered a course of lectures on English literature in the winter of 1748-9, adding in the following year a course on political economy in which he preached the doctrines of natural liberty and free trade. The English lectures were attended by Henry Home, Alexander Wedderburn, and William Johnstone (Sir William Pulteney), and proved no mere success of esteem; for they brought in a clear £100, and were so popular that they were repeated in the two following winters. The manuscript of these lectures was burnt shortly before his death, and the world is probably not much the poorer. Smith shared the opinions of his age, and set up Dryden, Pope, and Gray on pedestals from which they were soon to be thrown down by the children of nature and romance. He gave these lectures afterwards at Glasgow, and Boswell, who attended them in 1759, told Johnson that Smith had condemned blank verse. Johnson was delighted, and cried out: “Sir, I was once in company with Smith, and we did not take to each other; but had I known that he loved rhyme as much as you tell me he does, I should have hugged him.” One cannot help wondering what would have been said if Boswell had repeated another of our author’s critical opinions, that Johnson was “of all writers ancient and modern the one who kept off the greatest distance from common sense.”

The most valuable part of Adam Smith’s critical lectures has been preserved in an essay on the Imitative Arts, which I should judge from internal evidence to have been drafted at this time, but to have been revised and improved in later years. Considering that neither Burke’s essay on the Sublime and Beautiful nor Lessing’s Laocoon had then appeared, we cannot but admire the originality he displayed in analysing the different effects produced by sculpture, painting, music, and dancing, and in distinguishing the different pleasures that attend the various kinds and degrees of imitation. He works out with much ingenuity the theory of the difficulté surmontée by which Voltaire accounted for the effect of verse and rhyme. Smith extends this principle to other arts, and seeks, always cleverly, often successfully, to show that much of our delight in art arises from our admiration for the artist’s skill in overcoming difficulties. He declares that a disparity between the imitating and the imitated object is the foundation of the beauty of imitation. The great masters of statuary and painting never produce their effects by deception. To prove this, he refers to the rather unpleasing effect produced by painted statues and by the reflections of a mirror. Photography would have supplied him with another illustration.

It may here be said that, though judged by modern standards of criticism Smith’s taste was faulty, yet all his favourite authors are in the first rank, and there is no instance recorded of his having bestowed praise on anything bad either in prose or poetry. “You will learn more as to poetry,” he once said, “by reading one good poem than by a thousand volumes of criticism.” Wordsworth in one of his prefaces calls him most unjustly “the worst critic, David Hume excepted, that Scotland, a soil to which this sort of weed seems natural, has produced.” The Lake Poet, who did not distinguish between the quality of the “Ode on the Intimations” and “Peter Bell,” was probably thinking of some literary anecdotes that appeared in The Bee in 1791 after Smith’s death. The writer, who may or may not be trustworthy, is only repeating table talk. He mentions that Smith depreciated Percy’s Reliques and some of Milton’s minor poems. With regard to blank verse, Smith said: “they do well to call it blank, for blank it is. I myself, even I, who never could find a single rhyme in my life, could make blank verse as fast as I could speak.” From this censure he always excepted Milton; but he thought the English dramatists should have used rhyme like the French. Racine’s Phèdre appealed to him as the finest of all tragedies. Voltaire was his literary pope. Oddly enough, his first publisher’s commission was to collect and edit (anonymously, of course) for the Foulis Press an edition of the poems of a well-known Jacobite, Hamilton of Bangour. The book was published in 1748, and contained the “Braes of Yarrow,” which Wordsworth called an exquisite ballad. Hamilton had played poet laureate to the Young Pretender in 1745, and was still an exile in France. In 1750, when the poet was pardoned, he struck up a warm friendship with his anonymous editor, and (according to Sir John Dalrymple) Smith spent with him “many happy and flattering hours.”

It has been said that in addition to his lectures on English literature Smith also delivered a course on Economics. This we know from a manuscript by which Dugald Stewart vindicates Adam Smith’s claim to have been the original discoverer of the leading principles of political economy. This manuscript, a paper read by Smith to a learned society some years later, proves that he wrote, or rather dictated, his economic lectures in 1749, and delivered them in the following winter.

At this time David Hume and James Oswald were corresponding on commercial topics. In 1750 Hume, who was then abroad, sent Oswald his famous essay on the Balance of Trade, and asked for criticism. Oswald replied in a long letter which shows that he too held very enlightened views on public finance, and we may be pretty certain that Smith as well as Hume derived at this time much benefit from intercourse with Oswald. In fact, in his preface to Oswald’s correspondence, Oswald’s grandson boasts that he has heard Adam Smith, then the renowned author of the Wealth of Nations, “dilate with a generous and enthusiastic pleasure on the qualifications and merits of Mr. Oswald, candidly avowing at the same time how much information he had received on many points from the enlarged views and profound knowledge of that accomplished statesman.” Some allowance should be made for the natural exaggeration of a Scotch kinsman; but Smith certainly rated Oswald high, describing him in the paper above mentioned as one who combined a taste for general principles with the detailed information of a statesman. Stewart adds that “he was one of Mr. Smith’s earliest and most confidential friends.” They must have seen a great deal of one another both in Kirkcaldy and Edinburgh in the five years between his return from Oxford and the appointment we have now to record.