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Title: The Works of the Right Honourable Edmund Burke, Vol. I. (of 12)

Author: Edmund Burke

Release Date: March 27, 2005 [EBook #15043]
[Date last updated: May 5, 2006]

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BURKE'S WRITINGS AND SPEECHES




VOLUME THE FIRST


[Illustration: EDMUND BURKE.]




THE WORKS

OF

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

EDMUND BURKE


IN TWELVE VOLUMES


VOLUME THE FIRST


[Illustration: Burke Coat of Arms.]


London
JOHN C. NIMMO
14, KING WILLIAM STREET, STRAND, W.C.
MDCCCLXXXVII




CONTENTS OF VOL. I.


ADVERTISEMENT TO THE READER, PREFIXED TO THE FIRST OCTAVO EDITION      v

ADVERTISEMENT TO THE SECOND OCTAVO EDITION                          xvii

A VINDICATION OF NATURAL SOCIETY: OR, A VIEW OF THE MISERIES AND
  EVILS ARISING TO MANKIND FROM EVERY SPECIES OF ARTIFICIAL SOCIETY    1

A PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO THE ORIGIN OF OUR IDEAS OF THE SUBLIME
  AND BEAUTIFUL; WITH AN INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE CONCERNING TASTE      67

A SHORT ACCOUNT OF A LATE SHORT ADMINISTRATION                       263

OBSERVATIONS ON A LATE PUBLICATION, INTITULED,
  "THE PRESENT STATE OF THE NATION"                                  269

THOUGHTS ON THE CAUSE OF THE PRESENT DISCONTENTS                     433




ADVERTISEMENT

TO THE READER.[1]


The late Mr. Burke, from a principle of unaffected humility, which they
who were the most intimately acquainted with his character best know to
have been in his estimation one of the most important moral duties,
never himself made any collection of the various publications with
which, during a period of forty years, he adorned and enriched the
literature of this country. When, however, the rapid and unexampled
demand for his "Reflections on the Revolution in France" had
unequivocally testified his celebrity as a writer, some of his friends
so far prevailed upon him, that he permitted them to put forth a regular
edition of his works. Accordingly, three volumes in quarto appeared
under that title in 1792, printed for the late Mr. Dodsley. That
edition, therefore, has been made the foundation of the present, for
which a form has been chosen better adapted to public convenience. Such
errors of the press as have been discovered in it are here rectified: in
other respects it is faithfully followed, except that in one instance
an accident of little moment has occasioned a slight deviation from the
strict chronological arrangement, and that, on the other hand, a speech
of conspicuous excellence, on his declining the poll at Bristol, in
1780, is here, for the first time, inserted in its proper place.

As the activity of the author's mind, and the lively interest which he
took in the welfare of his country, ceased only with his life, many
subsequent productions issued from his pen, which were received in a
manner corresponding with his distinguished reputation. He wrote also
various tracts, of a less popular description, which he designed for
private circulation in quarters where he supposed they might produce
most benefit to the community, but which, with some other papers, have
been printed since his death, from copies which he left behind him
fairly transcribed, and most of them corrected as for the press. All
these, now first collected together, form the contents of the last two
volumes.[2] They are disposed in chronological order, with the exception
of the "Preface to Brissot's Address," which having appeared in the
author's lifetime, and from delicacy not being avowed by him, did not
come within the plan of this edition, but has been placed at the end of
the last volume, on its being found deficient in its just bulk.

The several posthumous publications, as they from time to time made
their appearance, were accompanied by appropriate prefaces. These,
however, as they were principally intended for temporary purposes, have
been omitted. Some few explanations only, which they contained, seem
here to be necessary.

The "Observations on the Conduct of the Minority" in the Session of 1793
had been written and sent by Mr. Burke as a paper entirely and strictly
confidential; but it crept surreptitiously into the world, through the
fraud and treachery of the man whom he had employed to transcribe it,
and, as usually happens in such cases, came forth in a very mangled
state, under a false title, and without the introductory letter. The
friends of the author, without waiting to consult him, instantly
obtained an injunction from the Court of Chancery to stop the sale. What
he himself felt, on receiving intelligence of the injury done him by one
from whom his kindness deserved a very different return, will be best
conveyed in his own words. The following is an extract of a letter to a
friend, which he dictated on this subject from a sick-bed.

BATH, 15th Feb., 1797.

"My Dear Laurence,--

"On the appearance of the advertisement, all newspapers and all letters
have been kept back from me till this time. Mrs. Burke opened yours,
and finding that all the measures in the power of Dr. King, yourself,
and Mr. Woodford, had been taken to suppress the publication, she
ventured to deliver me the letters to-day, which were read to me in my
bed, about two o'clock.

"This affair does vex me; but I am not in a state of health at present
to be deeply vexed at anything. Whenever this matter comes into
discussion, I authorize you to contradict the infamous reports which (I
am informed) have been given out, that this paper had been circulated
through the ministry, and was intended gradually to slide into the
press. To the best of my recollection I never had a clean copy of it but
one, which is now in my possession; I never communicated that, but to
the Duke of Portland, from whom I had it back again. But the Duke will
set this matter to rights, if in reality there were two copies, and he
has one. I never showed it, as they know, to any one of the ministry. If
the Duke has really a copy, I believe his and mine are the only ones
that exist, except what was taken by fraud from loose and incorrect
papers by S----, to whom I gave the letter to copy. As soon as I began
to suspect him capable of any such scandalous breach of trust, you know
with what anxiety I got the loose papers out of his hands, not having
reason to think that he kept any other. Neither do I believe in fact
(unless he meditated this villany long ago) that he did or does now
possess any clean copy. I never communicated that paper to any one out
of the very small circle of those private friends from whom I concealed
nothing.

"But I beg you and my friends to be cautious how you let it be
understood that I disclaim anything but the mere act and intention of
publication. I do not retract any one of the sentiments contained in
that memorial, which was and is my justification, addressed to the
friends for whose use alone I intended it. Had I designed it for the
public, I should have been more exact and full. It was written in a tone
of indignation, in consequence of the resolutions of the Whig Club,
which were directly pointed against myself and others, and occasioned
our secession from that club; which is the last act of my life that I
shall under any circumstances repent. Many temperaments and explanations
there would have been, if I had ever had a notion that it should meet
the public eye."


In the mean time a large impression, amounting, it is believed, to three
thousand copies, had been dispersed over the country. To recall these
was impossible; to have expected that any acknowledged production of Mr.
Burke, full of matter likely to interest the future historian, could
remain forever in obscurity, would have been folly; and to have passed
it over in silent neglect, on the one hand, or, on the other, to have
then made any considerable changes in it, might have seemed an
abandonment of the principles which it contained. The author, therefore,
discovering, that, with the exception of the introductory letter, he had
not in fact kept any clean copy, as he had supposed, corrected one of
the pamphlets with his own hand. From this, which was found preserved
with his other papers, his friends afterwards thought it their duty to
give an authentic edition.

The "Thoughts and Details on Scarcity" were originally presented in the
form of a memorial to Mr. Pitt. The author proposed afterwards to recast
the same matter in a new shape. He even advertised the intended work
under the title of "Letters on Rural Economics, addressed to Mr. Arthur
Young"; but he seems to have finished only two or three detached
fragments of the first letter. These being too imperfect to be printed
alone, his friends inserted them in the memorial, where they seemed best
to cohere. The memorial had been fairly copied, but did not appear to
have been examined or corrected, as some trifling errors of the
transcriber were perceptible in it. The manuscript of the fragments was
a rough draft from the author's own hand, much blotted and very
confused.

The Third Letter on the Proposals for Peace was in its progress through
the press when the author died. About one half of it was actually
revised in print by himself, though not in the exact order of the pages
as they now stand. He enlarged his first draft, and separated one great
member of his subject, for the purpose of introducing some other matter
between. The different parcels of manuscript designed to intervene were
discovered. One of them he seemed to have gone over himself, and to have
improved and augmented. The other (fortunately the smaller) was much
more imperfect, just as it was taken from his mouth by dictation. The
former reaches from the two hundred and forty-sixth to near the end of
the two hundred and sixty-second page; the latter nearly occupies the
twelve pages which follow.[3] No important change, none at all affecting
the meaning of any passage, has been made in either, though in the more
imperfect parcel some latitude of discretion in subordinate points was
necessarily used.

There is, however, a considerable member for the greater part of which
Mr. Burke's reputation is not responsible: this is the inquiry into the
condition of the higher classes, which commences in the two hundred and
ninety-fifth page.[4] The summary of the whole topic, indeed, nearly as
it stands in the three hundred and seventy-third and fourth pages,[5]
was found, together with a marginal reference to the Bankrupt List, in
his own handwriting; and the actual conclusion of the Letter was
dictated by him, but never received his subsequent correction. He had
also preserved, as materials for this branch of his subject, some
scattered hints, documents, and parts of a correspondence on the state
of the country. He was, however, prevented from working on them by the
want of some authentic and official information, for which he had been
long anxiously waiting, in order to ascertain, to the satisfaction of
the public, what, with his usual sagacity, he had fully anticipated from
his own personal observation, to his own private conviction. At length
the reports of the different committees which had been appointed by the
two Houses of Parliament amply furnished him with evidence for this
purpose. Accordingly he read and considered them with attention: but for
anything beyond this the season was now past. The Supreme Disposer of
All, against whose inscrutable counsels it is vain as well as impious to
murmur, did not permit him to enter on the execution of the task which
he meditated. It was resolved, therefore, by one of his friends, after
much hesitation, and under a very painful responsibility, to make such
an attempt as he could at supplying the void; especially because the
insufficiency of our resources for the continuance of the war was
understood to have been the principal objection urged against the two
former Letters on the Proposals for Peace. In performing with
reverential diffidence this duty of friendship, care has been taken not
to attribute to Mr. Burke any sentiment which is not most explicitly
known, from repeated conversations, and from much correspondence, to
have been decidedly entertained by that illustrious man. One passage of
nearly three pages, containing a censure of our defensive system, is
borrowed from a private letter, which he began to dictate with an
intention of comprising in it the short result of his opinions, but
which he afterwards abandoned, when, a little time before his death, his
health appeared in some degree to amend, and he hoped that Providence
might have spared him at least to complete the larger public letter,
which he then proposed to resume.

In the preface to the former edition of this Letter a fourth was
mentioned as being in possession of Mr. Burke's friends. It was in fact
announced by the author himself, in the conclusion of the second, which
it was then designed to follow. He intended, he said, to proceed next on
the question of the facilities possessed by the French Republic, _from
the internal state of other nations, and particularly of this_, for
obtaining her ends,--and as his notions were controverted, to take
notice of what, in that way, had been recommended to him. The vehicle
which he had chosen for this part of his plan was an answer to a
pamphlet which was supposed to come from high authority, and was
circulated by ministers with great industry, at the time of its
appearance, in October, 1795, immediately previous to that session of
Parliament when his Majesty for the first time declared that the
appearance of any disposition in the enemy to negotiate for general
peace should not fail to be met with an earnest desire to give it the
fullest and speediest effect. In truth, the answer, which is full of
spirit and vivacity, was written the latter end of the same year, but
was laid aside when the question assumed a more serious aspect, from the
commencement of an actual negotiation, which gave rise to the series of
printed letters. Afterwards, he began to rewrite it, with a view of
accommodating it to his new purpose. The greater part, however, still
remained in its original state; and several heroes of the Revolution,
who are there celebrated, having in the interval passed off the public
stage, a greater liberty of insertion and alteration than his friends on
consideration have thought allowable would be necessary to adapt it to
that place in the series for which it was ultimately designed by the
author. This piece, therefore, addressed, as the title originally stood,
to his noble friend, Earl Fitzwilliam, will be given the first in the
supplemental volumes which will be hereafter added to complete this
edition of the author's works.

The tracts, most of them in manuscript, which have been already selected
as fit for this purpose, will probably furnish four or five volumes
more, to be printed uniformly with this edition. The principal piece is
an Essay on the History of England, from the earliest period to the
conclusion of the reign of King John. It is written with much depth of
antiquarian research, directed by the mind of an intelligent statesman.
This alone, as far as can be conjectured, will form more than one
volume. Another entire volume also, at least, will be filled with his
letters to public men on public affairs, especially those of France.
This supplement will be sent to the press without delay.

Mr. Burke's more familiar correspondence will be reserved as authorities
to accompany a narrative of his life, which will conclude the whole. The
period during which he flourished was one of the most memorable of our
annals. It comprehended the acquisition of one empire in the East, the
loss of another in the West, and the total subversion of the ancient
system of Europe by the French Revolution, with all which events the
history of his life is necessarily and intimately connected,--as indeed
it also is, much more than is generally known, with the state of
literature and the elegant arts. Such a subject of biography cannot be
dismissed with a slight and rapid touch; nor can it be treated in a
manner worthy of it, from the information, however authentic and
extensive, which the industry of any one man may have accumulated. Many
important communications have been received; but some materials, which
relate to the pursuits of his early years, and which are known to be in
existence, have been hitherto kept back, notwithstanding repeated
inquiries and applications. It is, therefore, once more earnestly
requested, that all persons who call themselves the friends or admirers
of the late Edmund Burke will have the goodness to transmit, without
delay, any notices of that or of any other kind which may happen to be
in their possession or within their reach, to Messrs. Rivingtons,--a
respect and kindness to his memory which will be thankfully acknowledged
by those friends to whom, in dying, he committed the sacred trust of his
reputation.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Prefixed to the first octavo edition: London, F. and C. Rivington,
1801: comprising Vols. I.-VIII. of the edition in sixteen volumes issued
by these publishers at intervals between the years 1801 and 1827.

[2] Comprising the last four papers of the fourth volume, and the whole
of the fifth volume, of the present edition.

[3] The former comprising the matter included between the paragraph
commencing, "I hear it has been said," &c., and that ending with the
words, "there were little or no materials"; and the latter extending
through the paragraph concluding with the words, "disgraced and plagued
mankind."

[4] At the paragraph commencing with the words, "In turning our view
from the lower to the higher classes," &c.

[5] In the first half of the paragraph commencing, "If, then, the real
state of this nation," &c.




ADVERTISEMENT

TO THE SECOND OCTAVO EDITION.[6]


A new edition of the works of Mr. Burke having been called for by the
public, the opportunity has been taken to make some slight changes, it
is hoped for the better.

A different distribution of the contents, while it has made the volumes,
with the exception of the first and sixth, more nearly equal in their
respective bulk, has, at the same time, been fortunately found to
produce a more methodical arrangement of the whole. The first and second
volumes, as before, severally contain those literary and philosophical
works by which Mr. Burke was known previous to the commencement of his
public life as a statesman, and the political pieces which were written
by him between the time of his first becoming connected with the Marquis
of Rockingham and his being chosen member for Bristol. In the third are
comprehended all his speeches and pamphlets from his first arrival at
Bristol, as a candidate, in the year 1774, to his farewell address from
the hustings of that city, in the year 1780. What he himself published
relative to the affairs of India occupies the fourth volume. The
remaining four comprise his works since the French Revolution, with the
exception of the Letter to Lord Kenmare on the Penal Laws against Irish
Catholics, which was probably inserted where it stands from its relation
to the subject of the Letter addressed by him, at a later period, to Sir
Hercules Langrishe. With the same exception, too, strict regard has been
paid to chronological order, which, in the last edition, was in some
instances broken, to insert pieces that wore not discovered till it was
too late to introduce them in their proper places.

In the Appendix to the Speech on the Nabob of Arcot's Debts the
references were found to be confused, and, in many places, erroneous.
This probably had arisen from the circumstance that a larger and
differently constructed appendix seems to have been originally designed
by Mr. Burke, which, however, he afterwards abridged and altered, while
the speech and the notes upon it remained as they were. The text and the
documents that support it have throughout been accommodated to each
other.

The orthography has been in many cases altered, and an attempt made to
reduce it to some certain standard. The rule laid down for the discharge
of this task was, that, whenever Mr. Burke could be perceived to have
been uniform in his mode of spelling, that was considered as decisive;
but where he varied, (and as he was in the habit of writing by
dictation, and leaving to others the superintendence of the press, he
was peculiarly liable to variations of this sort) the best received
authorities were directed to be followed. The reader, it is trusted,
will find this object, too much disregarded in modern books, has here
been kept in view throughout. The quotations which are interspersed
through the works of Mr Burke, and which were frequently made by him
from memory, have been generally compared with the original authors.
Several mistakes in printing, of one word for another, by which the
sense was either perverted or obscured, are now rectified. Two or three
small insertions have also been made from a quarto copy corrected by Mr.
Burke himself. From the same source something more has been drawn in the
shape of notes, to which are subscribed his initials. Of this number is
the explanation of that celebrated phrase, "the swinish multitude": an
explanation which was uniformly given by him to his friends, in
conversation on the subject. But another note will probably interest the
reader still more, as being strongly expressive of that parental
affection which formed so amiable a feature in the character of Mr.
Burke. It is in page 203 of Vol. V., where he points out a considerable
passage as having been supplied by his "lost son".[7] Several other
parts, possibly amounting altogether to a page or thereabout, were
indicated in the same manner; but, as they in general consist of single
sentences, and as the meaning of the mark by which they were
distinguished was not actually expressed, it has not been thought
necessary to notice them particularly.

FOOTNOTES:

[6] London, F. and C. Rivington, 1803. 8 vols.

[7] In "Reflections on the Revolution in France,"--indicated by
foot-note _in loco_.




A

VINDICATION OF NATURAL SOCIETY:

OR,

A VIEW OF THE MISERIES AND EVILS ARISING TO MANKIND
FROM EVERY SPECIES OF ARTIFICIAL SOCIETY.

IN A LETTER TO LORD ****,

BY A LATE NOBLE WRITER.

1756.




PREFACE.


Before the philosophical works of Lord Bolingbroke had appeared, great
things were expected from the leisure of a man, who, from the splendid
scene of action in which his talents had enabled him to make so
conspicuous a figure, had retired to employ those talents in the
investigation of truth. Philosophy began to congratulate herself upon
such a proselyte from the world of business, and hoped to have extended
her power under the auspices of such a leader. In the midst of these
pleasing expectations, the works themselves at last appeared in _full
body_, and with great pomp. Those who searched in them for new
discoveries in the mysteries of nature; those who expected something
which might explain or direct the operations of the mind; those who
hoped to see morality illustrated and enforced; those who looked for new
helps to society and government; those who desired to see the characters
and passions of mankind delineated; in short, all who consider such
things as philosophy, and require some of them at least in every
philosophical work, all these were certainly disappointed; they found
the landmarks of science precisely in their former places: and they
thought they received but a poor recompense for this disappointment, in
seeing every mode of religion attacked in a lively manner, and the
foundation of every virtue, and of all government, sapped with great art
and much ingenuity. What advantage do we derive from such writings? What
delight can a man find in employing a capacity which might be usefully
exerted for the noblest purposes, in a sort of sullen labor, in which,
if the author could succeed, he is obliged to own, that nothing could be
more fatal to mankind than his success?

I cannot conceive how this sort of writers propose to compass the
designs they pretend to have in view, by the instruments which they
employ. Do they pretend to exalt the mind of man, by proving him no
better than a beast? Do they think to enforce the practice of virtue, by
denying that vice and virtue are distinguished by good or ill fortune
here, or by happiness or misery hereafter? Do they imagine they shall
increase our piety, and our reliance on God, by exploding his
providence, and insisting that he is neither just nor good? Such are the
doctrines which, sometimes concealed, sometimes openly and fully avowed,
are found to prevail throughout the writings of Lord Bolingbroke; and
such are the reasonings which this noble writer and several others have
been pleased to dignify with the name of philosophy. If these are
delivered in a specious manner, and in a style above the common, they
cannot want a number of admirers of as much docility as can be wished
for in disciples. To these the editor of the following little piece has
addressed it: there is no reason to conceal the design of it any longer.

The design was to show that, without the exertion of any considerable
forces, the same engines which were employed for the destruction of
religion, might be employed with equal success for the subversion of
government; and that specious arguments might be used against those
things which they, who doubt of everything else, will never permit to be
questioned. It is an observation which I think Isocrates makes in one of
his orations against the sophists, that it is far more easy to maintain
a wrong cause, and to support paradoxical opinions to the satisfaction
of a common auditory, than to establish a doubtful truth by solid and
conclusive arguments. When men find that something can be said in favor
of what, on the very proposal, they have thought utterly indefensible,
they grow doubtful of their own reason; they are thrown into a sort of
pleasing surprise; they run along with the speaker, charmed and
captivated to find such a plentiful harvest of reasoning, where all
seemed barren and unpromising. This is the fairy land of philosophy. And
it very frequently happens, that those pleasing impressions on the
imagination subsist and produce their effect, even after the
understanding has been satisfied of their unsubstantial nature. There is
a sort of gloss upon ingenious falsehoods that dazzles the imagination,
but which neither belongs to, nor becomes the sober aspect of truth. I
have met with a quotation in Lord Coke's Reports that pleased me very
much, though I do not know from whence he has taken it: "_Interdum
fucata falsitas_ (says he), _in multis est probabilior, at saepe
rationibus vincit nudam veritatem_." In such cases the writer has a
certain fire and alacrity inspired into him by a consciousness, that,
let it fare how it will with the subject, his ingenuity will be sure of
applause; and this alacrity becomes much greater if he acts upon the
offensive, by the impetuosity that always accompanies an attack, and
the unfortunate propensity which mankind have to the finding and
exaggerating faults. The editor is satisfied that a mind which has no
restraint from a sense of its own weakness, of its subordinate rank in
the creation, and of the extreme danger of letting the imagination loose
upon some subjects, may very plausibly attack everything the most
excellent and venerable; that it would not be difficult to criticise the
creation itself; and that if we were to examine the divine fabrics by
our ideas of reason and fitness, and to use the same method of attack by
which some men have assaulted revealed religion, we might with as good
color, and with the same success, make the wisdom and power of God in
his creation appear to many no better than foolishness. There is an air
of plausibility which accompanies vulgar reasonings and notions, taken
from the beaten circle of ordinary experience, that is admirably suited
to the narrow capacities of some, and to the laziness of others. But
this advantage is in a great measure lost, when a painful, comprehensive
survey of a very complicated matter, and which requires a great variety
of considerations, is to be made; when we must seek in a profound
subject, not only for arguments, but for new materials of argument,
their measures and their method of arrangement; when we must go out of
the sphere of our ordinary ideas, and when we can never walk surely, but
by being sensible of our blindness. And this we must do, or we do
nothing, whenever we examine the result of a reason which is not our
own. Even in matters which are, as it were, just within our reach, what
would become of the world, if the practice of all moral duties, and the
foundations of society, rested upon having their reasons made clear and
demonstrative to every individual?

The editor knows that the subject of this letter is not so fully handled
as obviously it might; it was not his design to say all that could
possibly be said. It had been inexcusable to fill a large volume with
the abuse of reason; nor would such an abuse have been tolerable, even
for a few pages, if some under-plot, of more consequence than the
apparent design, had not been carried on.

Some persons have thought that the advantages of the state of nature
ought to have been more fully displayed. This had undoubtedly been a
very ample subject for declamation; but they do not consider the
character of the piece. The writers against religion, whilst they oppose
every system, are wisely careful never to set up any of their own. If
some inaccuracies in calculation, in reasoning, or in method, be found,
perhaps these will not be looked upon as faults by the admirers of Lord
Bolingbroke; who will, the editor is afraid, observe much more of his
lordship's character in such particulars of the following letter, than
they are likely to find of that rapid torrent of an impetuous and
overbearing eloquence, and the variety of rich imagery for which that
writer is justly admired.




A LETTER TO LORD ****.


Shall I venture to say, my lord, that in our late conversation, you were
inclined to the party which you adopted rather by the feelings of your
good nature, than by the conviction of your judgment? We laid open the
foundations of society; and you feared that the curiosity of this search
might endanger the ruin of the whole fabric. You would readily have
allowed my principle, but you dreaded the consequences; you thought,
that having once entered upon these reasonings, we might be carried
insensibly and irresistibly farther than at first we could either have
imagined or wished. But for my part, my lord, I then thought, and am
still of the same opinion, that error, and not truth of any kind, is
dangerous; that ill conclusions can only flow from false propositions;
and that, to know whether any proposition be true or false, it is a
preposterous method to examine it by its apparent consequences.

These were the reasons which induced me to go so far into that inquiry;
and they are the reasons which direct me in all my inquiries. I had
indeed often reflected on that subject before I could prevail on myself
to communicate my reflections to anybody. They were generally melancholy
enough; as those usually are which carry us beyond the mere surface of
things; and which would undoubtedly make the lives of all thinking men
extremely miserable, if the same philosophy which caused the grief, did
not at the same time administer the comfort.

On considering political societies, their origin, their constitution,
and their effects, I have sometimes been in a good deal more than doubt,
whether the Creator did ever really intend man for a state of happiness.
He has mixed in his cup a number of natural evils, (in spite of the
boasts of stoicism they are evils,) and every endeavor which the art and
policy of mankind has used from the beginning of the world to this day,
in order to alleviate or cure them, has only served to introduce new
mischiefs, or to aggravate and inflame the old. Besides this, the mind
of man itself is too active and restless a principle ever to settle on
the true point of quiet. It discovers every day some craving want in a
body, which really wants but little. It every day invents some new
artificial rule to guide that nature which, if left to itself, were the
best and surest guide. It finds out imaginary beings prescribing
imaginary laws; and then, it raises imaginary terrors to support a
belief in the beings, and an obedience to the laws.--Many things have
been said, and very well undoubtedly, on the subjection in which we
should preserve our bodies to the government of our understanding; but
enough has not been said upon the restraint which our bodily necessities
ought to lay on the extravagant sublimities and eccentric rovings of our
minds. The body, or as some love to call it, our inferior nature, is
wiser in its own plain way, and attends its own business more directly
than the mind with all its boasted subtlety.

In the state of nature, without question, mankind was subjected to many
and great inconveniences. Want of union, want of mutual assistance, want
of a common arbitrator to resort to in their differences. These were
evils which they could not but have felt pretty severely on many
occasions. The original children of the earth lived with their brethren
of the other kinds in much equality. Their diet must have been confined
almost wholly to the vegetable kind; and the same tree, which in its
flourishing state produced them berries, in its decay gave them an
habitation. The mutual desires of the sexes uniting their bodies and
affections, and the children which are the results of these
intercourses, introduced first the notion of society, and taught its
conveniences. This society, founded in natural appetites and instincts,
and not in any positive institution, I shall call _natural society_.
Thus far nature went and succeeded: but man would go farther. The great
error of our nature is, not to know where to stop, not to be satisfied
with any reasonable acquirement; not to compound with our condition; but
to lose all we have gained by an insatiable pursuit after more. Man
found a considerable advantage by this union of many persons to form one
family; he therefore judged that he would find his account
proportionably in an union of many families into one body politic. And
as nature has formed no bond of union to hold them together, he supplied
this defect by _laws_.

This is _political society_. And hence the sources of what are usually
called states, civil societies, or governments; into some form of which,
more extended or restrained, all mankind have gradually fallen. And
since it has so happened, and that we owe an implicit reverence to all
the institutions of our ancestors, we shall consider these institutions
with all that modesty with which we ought to conduct ourselves in
examining a received opinion; but with all that freedom and candor which
we owe to truth wherever we find it, or however it may contradict our
own notions, or oppose our own interests. There is a most absurd and
audacious method of reasoning avowed by some bigots and enthusiasts, and
through fear assented to by some wiser and better men; it is this: they
argue against a fair discussion of popular prejudices, because, say
they, though they would be found without any reasonable support, yet the
discovery might be productive of the most dangerous consequences. Absurd
and blasphemous notion! as if all happiness was not connected with the
practice of virtue, which necessarily depends upon the knowledge of
truth; that is, upon the knowledge of those unalterable relations which
Providence has ordained that every thing should bear to every other.
These relations, which are truth itself, the foundation of virtue, and
consequently the only measures of happiness, should be likewise the only
measures by which we should direct our reasoning. To these we should
conform in good earnest; and not think to force nature, and the whole
order of her system, by a compliance with our pride and folly, to
conform to our artificial regulations. It is by a conformity to this
method we owe the discovery of the few truths we know, and the little
liberty and rational happiness we enjoy. We have something fairer play
than a reasoner could have expected formerly; and we derive advantages
from it which are very visible.

The fabric of superstition has in this our age and nation received much
ruder shocks than it had ever felt before; and through the chinks and
breaches of our prison, we see such glimmerings of light, and feel such
refreshing airs of liberty, as daily raise our ardor for more. The
miseries derived to mankind from superstition under the name of
religion, and of ecclesiastical tyranny under the name of church
government, have been clearly and usefully exposed. We begin to think
and to act from reason and from nature alone. This is true of several,
but by far the majority is still in the same old state of blindness and
slavery; and much is it to be feared that we shall perpetually relapse,
whilst the real productive cause of all this superstitious folly,
enthusiastical nonsense, and holy tyranny, holds a reverend place in the
estimation even of those who are otherwise enlightened.

Civil government borrows a strength from ecclesiastical; and artificial
laws receive a sanction from artificial revelations. The ideas of
religion and government are closely connected; and whilst we receive
government as a thing necessary, or even useful to our well-being, we
shall in spite of us draw in, as a necessary, though undesirable
consequence, an artificial religion of some kind or other. To this the
vulgar will always be voluntary slaves; and even those of a rank of
understanding superior, will now and then involuntarily feel its
influence. It is therefore of the deepest concernment to us to be set
right in this point; and to be well satisfied whether civil government
be such a protector from natural evils, and such a nurse and increaser
of blessings, as those of warm imaginations promise. In such a
discussion, far am I from proposing in the least to reflect on our most
wise form of government; no more than I would, in the freer parts of my
philosophical writings, mean to object to the piety, truth, and
perfection of our most excellent Church. Both, I am sensible, have their
foundations on a rock. No discovery of truth can prejudice them. On the
contrary, the more closely the origin of religion and government is
examined, the more clearly their excellences must appear. They come
purified from the fire. My business is not with them. Having entered a
protest against all objections from these quarters, I may the more
freely inquire, from history and experience, how far policy has
contributed in all times to alleviate those evils which Providence, that
perhaps has designed us for a state of imperfection, has imposed; how
far our physical skill has cured our constitutional disorders; and
whether it may not have introduced new ones, curable perhaps by no
skill.

In looking over any state to form a judgment on it, it presents itself
in two lights; the external, and the internal. The first, that relation
which it bears in point of friendship or enmity to other states. The
second, that relation which its component parts, the governing and the
governed, bear to each other. The first part of the external view of all
states, their relation as friends, makes so trifling a figure in
history, that I am very sorry to say, it affords me but little matter on
which to expatiate. The good offices done by one nation to its
neighbor;[8] the support given in public distress; the relief afforded
in general calamity; the protection granted in emergent danger; the
mutual return of kindness and civility, would afford a very ample and
very pleasing subject for history. But, alas! all the history of all
times, concerning all nations, does not afford matter enough to fill ten
pages, though it should be spun out by the wire-drawing amplification of
a Guicciardini himself. The glaring side is that of enmity. War is the
matter which fills all history, and consequently the only or almost the
only view in which we can see the external of political society is in a
hostile shape; and the only actions to which we have always seen, and
still see all of them intent, are such as tend to the destruction of one
another. "War," says Machiavel, "ought to be the only study of a
prince"; and by a prince, he means every sort of state, however
constituted. "He ought," says this great political doctor, "to consider
peace only as a breathing-time, which gives him leisure to contrive, and
furnishes ability to execute military plans." A meditation on the
conduct of political societies made old Hobbes imagine, that war was the
state of nature; and truly, if a man judged of the individuals of our
race by their conduct when united and packed into nations and kingdoms,
he might imagine that every sort of virtue was unnatural and foreign to
the mind of man.

The first accounts we have of mankind are but so many accounts of their
butcheries. All empires have been cemented in blood; and, in those early
periods, when the race of mankind began first to form themselves into
parties and combinations, the first effect of the combination, and
indeed the end for which it seems purposely formed, and best calculated,
was their mutual destruction. All ancient history is dark and
uncertain. One thing, however, is clear,--there were conquerors, and
conquests in those days; and, consequently, all that devastation by
which they are formed, and all that oppression by which they are
maintained. We know little of Sesostris, but that he led out of Egypt an
army of above 700,000 men; that he overran the Mediterranean coast as
far as Colchis; that in some places he met but little resistance, and of
course shed not a great deal of blood; but that he found in others a
people who knew the value of their liberties, and sold them dear.
Whoever considers the army this conqueror headed, the space he
traversed, and the opposition he frequently met, with the natural
accidents of sickness, and the dearth and badness of provision to which
he must have been subject in the variety of climates and countries his
march lay through, if he knows anything, he must know that even the
conqueror's army must have suffered greatly; and that of this immense
number but a very small part could have returned to enjoy the plunder
accumulated by the loss of so many of their companions, and the
devastation of so considerable a part of the world. Considering, I say,
the vast army headed by this conqueror, whose unwieldy weight was almost
alone sufficient to wear down its strength, it will be far from excess
to suppose that one half was lost in the expedition. If this was the
state of the victorious, and from the circumstances it must have been
this at the least; the vanquished must have had a much heavier loss, as
the greatest slaughter is always in the flight, and great carnage did in
those times and countries ever attend the first rage of conquest. It
will, therefore, be very reasonable to allow on their account as much
as, added to the losses of the conqueror, may amount to a million of
deaths, and then we shall see this conqueror, the oldest we have on the
records of history, (though, as we have observed before, the chronology
of these remote times is extremely uncertain), opening the scene by a
destruction of at least one million of his species, unprovoked but by
his ambition, without any motives but pride, cruelty, and madness, and
without any benefit to himself (for Justin expressly tells us he did not
maintain his conquests), but solely to make so many people, in so
distant countries, feel experimentally how severe a scourge Providence
intends for the human race, when he gives one man the power over many,
and arms his naturally impotent and feeble rage with the hands of
millions, who know no common principle of action, but a blind obedience
to the passions of their ruler.

The next personage who figures in the tragedies of this ancient theatre
is Semiramis; for we have no particulars of Ninus, but that he made
immense and rapid conquests, which doubtless were not compassed without
the usual carnage. We see an army of about three millions employed by
this martial queen in a war against the Indians. We see the Indians
arming a yet greater; and we behold a war continued with much fury, and
with various success. This ends in the retreat of the queen, with scarce
a third of the troops employed in the expedition; an expedition which,
at this rate, must have cost two millions of souls on her part; and it
is not unreasonable to judge that the country which was the seat of war
must have been an equal sufferer. But I am content to detract from this,
and to suppose that the Indians lost only half so much, and then the
account stands thus: in this war alone (for Semiramis had other wars) in
this single reign, and in this one spot of the globe, did three millions
of souls expire, with all the horrid and shocking circumstances which
attend all wars, and in a quarrel, in which none of the sufferers could
have the least rational concern.

The Babylonian, Assyrian, Median, and Persian monarchies must have
poured out seas of blood in their formation, and in their destruction.
The armies and fleets of Xerxes, their numbers, the glorious stand made
against them, and the unfortunate event of all his mighty preparations,
are known to everybody. In this expedition, draining half Asia of its
inhabitants, he led an army of about two millions to be slaughtered, and
wasted by a thousand fatal accidents, in the same place where his
predecessors had before by a similar madness consumed the flower of so
many kingdoms, and wasted the force of so extensive an empire. It is a
cheap calculation to say, that the Persian empire, in its wars against
the Greeks and Scythians, threw away at least four millions of its
subjects; to say nothing of its other wars, and the losses sustained in
them. These were their losses abroad; but the war was brought home to
them, first by Agesilaus, and afterwards by Alexander. I have not, in
this retreat, the books necessary to make very exact calculations; nor
is it necessary to give more than hints to one of your lordship's
erudition. You will recollect his uninterrupted series of success. You
will run over his battles. You will call to mind the carnage which was
made. You will give a glance at the whole, and you will agree with me,
that to form this hero no less than twelve hundred thousand lives must
have been sacrificed; but no sooner had he fallen himself a sacrifice to
his vices, than a thousand breaches were made for ruin to enter, and
give the last hand to this scene of misery and destruction. His kingdom
was rent and divided; which served to employ the more distinct parts to
tear each other to pieces, and bury the whole in blood and slaughter.
The kings of Syria and of Egypt, the kings of Pergamus and Macedon,
without intermission worried each other for above two hundred years;
until at last a strong power, arising in the west, rushed in upon them
and silenced their tumults, by involving all the contending parties in
the same destruction. It is little to say, that the contentions between
the successors of Alexander depopulated that part of the world of at
least two millions.

The struggle between the Macedonians and Greeks, and, before that, the
disputes of the Greek commonwealths among themselves, for an
unprofitable superiority, form one of the bloodiest scenes in history.
One is astonished how such a small spot could furnish men sufficient to
sacrifice to the pitiful ambition of possessing five or six thousand
more acres, or two or three more villages; yet to see the acrimony and
bitterness with which this was disputed between the Athenians and
Lacedemonians; what armies cut off; what fleets sunk and burnt; what a
number of cities sacked, and their inhabitants slaughtered and captived;
one would be induced to believe the decision of the fate of mankind, at
least, depended upon it! But those disputes ended as all such ever have
done, and ever will do; in a real weakness of all parties; a momentary
shadow, and dream of power in some one; and the subjection of all to the
yoke of a stranger, who knows how to profit of their divisions. This,
at least, was the case of the Greeks; and surely, from the earliest
accounts of them, to their absorption into the Roman empire, we cannot
judge that their intestine divisions, and their foreign wars, consumed
less than three millions of their inhabitants.

What an Aceldama, what a field of blood Sicily has been in ancient
times, whilst the mode of its government was controverted between the
republican and tyrannical parties, and the possession struggled for by
the natives, the Greeks, the Carthaginians, and the Romans, your
lordship will easily recollect. You will remember the total destruction
of such bodies as an army of 300,000 men. You will find every page of
its history dyed in blood, and blotted and confounded by tumults,
rebellions, massacres, assassinations, proscriptions, and a series of
horror beyond the histories perhaps of any other nation in the world;
though the histories of all nations are made up of similar matter. I
once more excuse myself in point of exactness for want of books. But I
shall estimate the slaughters in this island but at two millions; which
your lordship will find much short of the reality.

Let us pass by the wars, and the consequences of them, which wasted
Grecia-Magna, before the Roman power prevailed in that part of Italy.
They are perhaps exaggerated; therefore I shall only rate them at one
million. Let us hasten to open that great scene which establishes the
Roman empire, and forms the grand catastrophe of the ancient drama. This
empire, whilst in its infancy, began by an effusion of human blood
scarcely credible. The neighboring little states teemed for new
destruction: the Sabines, the Samnites, the AEqui, the Volsci, the
Hetrurians, were broken by a series of slaughters which had no
interruption, for some hundreds of years; slaughters which upon all
sides consumed more than two millions of the wretched people. The Gauls,
rushing into Italy about this time, added the total destruction of their
own armies to those of the ancient inhabitants. In short, it were hardly
possible to conceive a more horrid and bloody picture, if that the Punic
wars that ensued soon after did not present one that far exceeds it.
Here we find that climax of devastation, and ruin, which seemed to shake
the whole earth. The extent of this war, which vexed so many nations,
and both elements, and the havoc of the human species caused in both,
really astonishes beyond expression, when it is nakedly considered, and
those matters which are apt to divert our attention from it, the
characters, actions, and designs of the persons concerned, are not taken
into the account. These wars, I mean those called the Punic wars, could
not have stood the human race in less than three millions of the
species. And yet this forms but a part only, and a very small part, of
the havoc caused by the Roman ambition. The war with Mithridates was
very little less bloody; that prince cut off at one stroke 150,000
Romans by a massacre. In that war Sylla destroyed 300,000 men at
Cheronea. He defeated Mithridates' army under Dorilaus, and slew
300,000. This great and unfortunate prince lost another 300,000 before
Cyzicum. In the course of the war he had innumerable other losses; and
having many intervals of success, he revenged them severely. He was at
last totally overthrown; and he crushed to pieces the king of Armenia,
his ally, by the greatness of his ruin. All who had connections with him
shared the same fate. The merciless genius of Sylla had its full scope;
and the streets of Athens were not the only ones which ran with blood.
At this period, the sword, glutted with foreign slaughter, turned its
edge upon the bowels of the Roman republic itself; and presented a scene
of cruelties and treasons enough almost to obliterate the memory of all
the external devastations. I intended, my lord, to have proceeded in a
sort of method in estimating the numbers of mankind cut off in these
wars which we have on record. But I am obliged to alter my design. Such
a tragical uniformity of havoc and murder would disgust your lordship as
much as it would me; and I confess I already feel my eyes ache by
keeping them so long intent on so bloody a prospect. I shall observe
little on the Servile, the Social, the Gallic, and Spanish wars; nor
upon those with Jugurtha, nor Antiochus, nor many others equally
important, and carried on with equal fury. The butcheries of Julius
Caesar alone are calculated by somebody else; the numbers he has been the
means of destroying have been reckoned at 1,200,000. But to give your
lordship an idea that may serve as a standard, by which to measure, in
some degree, the others; you will turn your eyes on Judea; a very
inconsiderable spot of the earth in itself, though ennobled by the
singular events which had their rise in that country.

This spot happened, it matters not here by what means, to become at
several times extremely populous, and to supply men for slaughters
scarcely credible, if other well-known and well-attested ones had not
given them a color. The first settling of the Jews here was attended by
an almost entire extirpation of all the former inhabitants. Their own
civil wars, and those with their petty neighbors, consumed vast
multitudes almost every year for several centuries; and the irruptions
of the kings of Babylon and Assyria made immense ravages. Yet we have
their history but partially, in an indistinct, confused manner; so that
I shall only throw the strong point of light upon that part which
coincides with Roman history, and of that part only on the point of time
when they received the great and final stroke which made them, no more a
nation; a stroke which is allowed to have cut off little less than two
millions of that people. I say nothing of the loppings made from that
stock whilst it stood; nor from the suckers that grew out of the old
root ever since. But if, in this inconsiderable part of the globe, such
a carnage has been made in two or three short reigns, and that this
great carnage, great as it is, makes but a minute part of what the
histories of that people inform us they suffered; what shall we judge of
countries more extended, and which have waged wars by far more
considerable?

Instances of this sort compose the uniform of history. But there have
been periods when no less than universal destruction to the race of
mankind seems to have been threatened. Such was that when the Goths, the
Vandals, and the Huns, poured into Gaul, Italy, Spain, Greece, and
Africa, carrying destruction before them as they advanced, and leaving
horrid deserts every way behind them. _Vastum ubique silentium, secreti
colles; fumantia procul tecta; nemo exploratoribus obvius_, is what
Tacitus calls _facies victoriae_. It is always so; but was here
emphatically so. From the north proceeded the swarms of Goths, Vandals,
Huns, Ostrogoths, who ran towards the south, into Africa itself, which
suffered as all to the north had done. About this time, another torrent
of barbarians, animated by the same fury, and encouraged by the same
success, poured out of the south, and ravaged all to the northeast and
west, to the remotest parts of Persia on one hand, and to the banks of
the Loire or farther on the other; destroying all the proud and curious
monuments of human art, that not even the memory might seem to survive
of the former inhabitants. What has been done since, and what will
continue to be done while the same inducements to war continue, I shall
not dwell upon. I shall only in one word mention the horrid effects of
bigotry and avarice, in the conquest of Spanish America; a conquest, on
a low estimation, effected by the murder of ten millions of the species.
I shall draw to a conclusion of this part, by making a general
calculation of the whole. I think I have actually mentioned above
thirty-six millions. I have not particularized any more. I don't pretend
to exactness; therefore, for the sake of a general view, I shall lay
together all those actually slain in battles, or who have perished in a
no less miserable manner by the other destructive consequences of war
from the beginning of the world to this day, in the four parts of it, at
a thousand times as much; no exaggerated calculation, allowing for time
and extent. We have not perhaps spoke of the five-hundredth part; I am
sure I have not of what is actually ascertained in history; but how much
of these butcheries are only expressed in generals, what part of time
history has never reached, and what vast spaces of the habitable globe
it has not embraced, I need not mention to your lordship. I need not
enlarge on those torrents of silent and inglorious blood which have
glutted the thirsty sands of Afric, or discolored the polar snow, or
fed the savage forests of America for so many ages of continual war.
Shall I, to justify my calculations from the charge of extravagance, add
to the account those skirmishes which happen in all wars, without being
singly of sufficient dignity in mischief, to merit a place in history,
but which by their frequency compensate for this comparative innocence?
shall I inflame the account by those general massacres which have
devoured whole cities and nations; those wasting pestilences, those
consuming famines, and all those furies that follow in the train of war?
I have no need to exaggerate; and I have purposely avoided a parade of
eloquence on this occasion. I should despise it upon any occasion; else
in mentioning these slaughters, it is obvious how much the whole might
be heightened, by an affecting description of the horrors that attend
the wasting of kingdoms, and sacking of cities. But I do not write to
the vulgar, nor to that which only governs the vulgar, their passions. I
go upon a naked and moderate calculation, just enough, without a
pedantical exactness, to give your lordship some feeling of the effects
of political society. I charge the whole of these effects on political
society. I avow the charge, and I shall presently make it good to your
lordship's satisfaction. The numbers I particularized are about
thirty-six millions. Besides those killed in battles I have said
something, not half what the matter would have justified, but something
I have said concerning the consequences of war even more dreadful than
that monstrous carnage itself which shocks our humanity, and almost
staggers our belief. So that, allowing me in my exuberance one way for
my deficiencies in the other, you will find me not unreasonable. I
think the numbers of men now upon earth are computed at five hundred
millions at the most. Here the slaughter of mankind, on what you will
call a small calculation, amounts to upwards of seventy times the number
of souls this day on the globe: a point which may furnish matter of
reflection to one less inclined to draw consequences than your lordship.

I now come to show that political society is justly chargeable with much
the greatest part of this destruction of the species. To give the
fairest play to every side of the question, I will own that there is a
haughtiness and fierceness in human nature, which will cause innumerable
broils, place men in what situation you please; but owning this, I still
insist in charging it to political regulations, that these broils are so
frequent, so cruel, and attended with consequences so deplorable. In a
state of nature, it had been impossible to find a number of men,
sufficient for such slaughters, agreed in the same bloody purpose; or
allowing that they might have come to such an agreement (an impossible
supposition), yet the means that simple nature has supplied them with,
are by no means adequate to such an end; many scratches, many bruises
undoubtedly would be received upon all hands; but only a few, a very few
deaths. Society and politics, which have given us these destructive
views, have given us also the means of satisfying them. From the
earliest dawnings of policy to this day, the invention of men has been
sharpening and improving the mystery of murder, from the first rude
essays of clubs and stones, to the present perfection of gunnery,
cannoneering, bombarding, mining, and all those species of artificial,
learned, and refined cruelty, in which we are now so expert, and which
make a principal part of what politicians have taught us to believe is
our principal glory.

How far mere nature would have carried us, we may judge by the example
of those animals who still follow her laws, and even of those to whom
she has given dispositions more fierce, and arms more terrible than ever
she intended we should use. It is an incontestable truth that there is
more havoc made in one year by men of men, than has been made by all the
lions, tigers, panthers, ounces, leopards, hyenas, rhinoceroses,
elephants, bears and wolves, upon their several species, since the
beginning of the world; though these agree ill enough with each other,
and have a much greater proportion of rage and fury in their composition
than we have. But with respect to you, ye legislators, ye civilizers of
mankind! ye Orpheuses, Moseses, Minoses, Solons, Theseuses, Lycurguses,
Numas! with respect to you be it spoken, your regulations have done more
mischief in cold blood, than all the rage of the fiercest animals in
their greatest terrors, or furies, has ever done, or ever could do!

These evils are not accidental. Whoever will take the pains to consider
the nature of society will find that they result directly from its
constitution. For as _subordination_, or, in other words, the
reciprocation of tyranny and slavery, is requisite to support these
societies; the interest, the ambition, the malice, or the revenge, nay,
even the whim and caprice of one ruling man among them, is enough to arm
all the rest, without any private views of their own, to the worst and
blackest purposes: and what is at once lamentable, and ridiculous, these
wretches engage under those banners with a fury greater than if they
were animated by revenge for their own proper wrongs.

It is no less worth observing, that this artificial division of mankind
into separate societies is a perpetual source in itself of hatred and
dissension among them. The names which distinguish them are enough to
blow up hatred and rage. Examine history; consult present experience;
and you will find that far the greater part of the quarrels between
several nations had scarce any other occasion than that these nations
were different combinations of people, and called by different names: to
an Englishman, the name of a Frenchman, a Spaniard, an Italian, much
more a Turk, or a Tartar, raises of course ideas of hatred and contempt.
If you would inspire this compatriot of ours with pity or regard for one
of these, would you not hide that distinction? You would not pray him to
compassionate the poor Frenchman, or the unhappy German. Far from it;
you would speak of him as a _foreigner_; an accident to which all are
liable. You would represent him as a _man_; one partaking with us of the
same common nature, and subject to the same law. There is something so
averse from our nature in these artificial political distinctions, that
we need no other trumpet to kindle us to war and destruction. But there
is something so benign and healing in the general voice of humanity
that, maugre all our regulations to prevent it, the simple name of man
applied properly, never fails to work a salutary effect.

This natural unpremeditated effect of policy on the unpossessed passions
of mankind appears on other occasions. The very name of a politician, a
statesman, is sure to cause terror and hatred; it has always connected
with it the ideas of treachery, cruelty, fraud, and tyranny; and those
writers who have faithfully unveiled the mysteries of state-freemasonry,
have ever been held in general detestation, for even knowing so
perfectly a theory so detestable. The case of Machiavel seems at first
sight something hard in that respect. He is obliged to bear the
iniquities of those whose maxims and rules of government he published.
His speculation is more abhorred than their practice.

But if there were no other arguments against artificial society than
this I am going to mention, methinks it ought to fall by this one only.
All writers on the science of policy are agreed, and they agree with
experience, that, all governments must frequently infringe the rules of
justice to support themselves; that truth must give way to
dissimulation; honesty to convenience; and humanity itself to the
reigning interest. The whole of this mystery of iniquity is called the
reason of state. It is a reason which I own I cannot penetrate. What
sort of a protection is this of the general right, that is maintained by
infringing the rights of particulars? What sort of justice is this,
which is enforced by breaches of its own laws? These paradoxes I leave
to be solved by the able heads of legislators and politicians. For my
part, I say what a plain man would say on such an occasion. I can never
believe that any institution, agreeable to nature, and proper for
mankind, could find it necessary, or even expedient, in any case
whatsoever, to do what the best and worthiest instincts of mankind warn
us to avoid. But no wonder, that what is set up in opposition to the
state of nature should preserve itself by trampling upon the law of
nature.

To prove that these sorts of policed societies are a violation offered
to nature, and a constraint upon the human mind, it needs only to look
upon the sanguinary measures, and instruments of violence, which are
everywhere used to support them. Let us take a review of the dungeons,
whips, chains, racks, gibbets, with which every society is abundantly
stored; by which hundreds of victims are annually offered up to support
a dozen or two in pride and madness, and millions in an abject servitude
and dependence. There was a time when I looked with a reverential awe on
these mysteries of policy; but age, experience, and philosophy, have
rent the veil; and I view this _sanctum sanctorum_, at least, without
any enthusiastic admiration. I acknowledge, indeed, the necessity of
such a proceeding in such institutions; but I must have a very mean
opinion of institutions where such proceedings are necessary.

It is a misfortune that in no part of the globe natural liberty and
natural religion are to be found pure, and free from the mixture of
political adulterations. Yet we have implanted in us by Providence,
ideas, axioms, rules, of what is pious, just, fair, honest, which no
political craft, nor learned sophistry can entirely expel from our
breasts. By these we judge, and we cannot otherwise judge, of the
several artificial modes of religion and society, and determine of them
as they approach to or recede from this standard.

The simplest form of government is _despotism_, where all the inferior
orbs of power are moved merely by the will of the Supreme, and all that
are subjected to them directed in the same manner, merely by the
occasional will of the magistrate. This form, as it is the most simple,
so it is infinitely the most general. Scarcely any part of the world is
exempted from its power. And in those few places where men enjoy what
they call liberty, it is continually in a tottering situation, and makes
greater and greater strides to that gulf of despotism which at last
swallows up every species of government. The manner of ruling being
directed merely by the will of the weakest, and generally the worst man
in the society, becomes the most foolish and capricious thing, at the
same time that it is the most terrible and destructive that well can be
conceived. In a despotism, the principal person finds that, let the
want, misery, and indigence of his subjects be what they will, he can
yet possess abundantly of everything to gratify his most insatiable
wishes. He does more. He finds that these gratifications increase in
proportion to the wretchedness and slavery of his subjects. Thus
encouraged both by passion and interest to trample on the public
welfare, and by his station placed above both shame and fear, he
proceeds to the most horrid and shocking outrages upon mankind. Their
persons become victims of his suspicions. The slightest displeasure is
death; and a disagreeable aspect is often as great a crime as high
treason. In the court of Nero, a person of learning, of unquestioned
merit, and of unsuspected loyalty, was put to death for no other reason,
than that he had a pedantic countenance which displeased the emperor.
This very monster of mankind appeared in the beginning of his reign to
be a person of virtue. Many of the greatest tyrants on the records of
history have begun their reigns in the fairest manner. But the truth
is, this unnatural power corrupts both the heart and the understanding.
And to prevent the least hope of amendment, a king is ever surrounded by
a crowd of infamous flatterers, who find their account in keeping him
from the least light of reason, till all ideas of rectitude and justice
are utterly erased from his mind. When Alexander had in his fury
inhumanly butchered one of his best friends and bravest captains; on the
return of reason he began to conceive an horror suitable to the guilt of
such a murder. In this juncture his council came to his assistance. But
what did his council? They found him out a philosopher who gave him
comfort. And in what manner did this philosopher comfort him for the
loss of such a man, and heal his conscience, flagrant with the smart of
such a crime? You have the matter at length in Plutarch. He told him,
"_that let a sovereign do what he wilt, all his actions are just and
lawful, because they are his_." The palaces of all princes abound with
such courtly philosophers. The consequence was such as might be
expected. He grew every day a monster more abandoned to unnatural lust,
to debauchery, to drunkenness, and to murder. And yet this was
originally a great man, of uncommon capacity, and a strong propensity to
virtue. But unbounded power proceeds step by step, until it has
eradicated every laudable principle. It has been remarked, that there is
no prince so bad, whose favorites and ministers are not worse. There is
hardly any prince without a favorite, by whom he is governed in as
arbitrary a manner as he governs the wretches subjected to him. Here the
tyranny is doubled. There are two courts, and two interests; both very
different from the interests of the people. The favorite knows that the
regard of a tyrant is as unconstant and capricious as that of a woman;
and concluding his time to be short, he makes haste to fill up the
measure of his iniquity, in rapine, in luxury, and in revenge. Every
avenue to the throne is shut up. He oppresses and ruins the people,
whilst he persuades the prince that those murmurs raised by his own
oppression are the effects of disaffection to the prince's government.
Then is the natural violence of despotism inflamed and aggravated by
hatred and revenge. To deserve well of the state is a crime against the
prince. To be popular, and to be a traitor, are considered as synonymous
terms. Even virtue is dangerous, as an aspiring quality, that claims an
esteem by itself, and independent of the countenance of the court. What
has been said of the chief, is true of the inferior officers of this
species of government; each in his province exercising the same tyranny,
and grinding the people by an oppression, the more severely felt, as it
is near them, and exercised by base and subordinate persons. For the
gross of the people, they are considered as a mere herd of cattle; and
really in a little time become no better; all principle of honest pride,
all sense of the dignity of their nature, is lost in their slavery. The
day, says Homer, which makes a man a slave, takes away half his worth;
and, in fact, he loses every impulse to action, but that low and base
one of fear. In this kind of government human nature is not only abused
and insulted, but it is actually degraded and sunk into a species of
brutality. The consideration of this made Mr. Locke say, with great
justice, that a government of this kind was worse than anarchy: indeed
it is so abhorred and detested by all who live under forms that have a
milder appearance, that there is scarcely a rational man in Europe that
would not prefer death to Asiatic despotism. Here then we have the
acknowledgment of a great philosopher, that an irregular state of nature
is preferable to such a government; we have the consent of all sensible
and generous men, who carry it yet further, and avow that death itself
is preferable; and yet this species of government, so justly condemned,
and so generally detested, is what infinitely the greater part of
mankind groan under, and have groaned under from the beginning. So that,
by sure and uncontested principles, the greatest part of the governments
on earth must be concluded tyrannies, impostures, violations of the
natural rights of mankind, and worse than the most disorderly anarchies.
How much other forms exceed this we shall consider immediately.

In all parts of the world, mankind, however debased, retains still the
sense of _feeling_; the weight of tyranny at last becomes insupportable;
but the remedy is not so easy: in general, the only remedy by which they
attempt to cure the tyranny is to change the tyrant. This is, and always
was, the case for the greater part. In some countries, however, were
found men of more penetration, who discovered "_that to live by one
man's will was the cause of all men's misery_." They therefore changed
their former method, and assembling the men in their several societies
the most respectable for their understanding and fortunes, they confided
to them the charge of the public welfare. This originally formed what is
called an _aristocracy_. They hoped it would be impossible that such a
number could ever join in any design against the general good; and they
promised themselves a great deal of security and happiness from the
united counsels of so many able and experienced persons. But it is now
found by abundant experience, that an _aristocracy_, and a _despotism_,
differ but in name; and that a people who are in general excluded from
any share of the legislative, are, to all intents and purposes, as much
slaves, when twenty, independent of them, govern, as when but one
domineers. The tyranny is even more felt, as every individual of the
nobles has the haughtiness of a sultan; the people are more miserable,
as they seem on the verge of liberty, from which they are forever
debarred; this fallacious idea of liberty, whilst it presents a vain
shadow of happiness to the subject, binds faster the chains of his
subjection. What is left undone by the natural avarice and pride of
those who are raised above the others, is completed by their suspicions,
and their dread of losing an authority, which has no support in the
common utility of the nation. A Genoese or a Venetian republic is a
concealed _despotism_; where you find the same pride of the rulers, the
same base subjection of the people, the same bloody maxims of a
suspicious policy. In one respect the _aristocracy_ is worse than the
_despotism_. A body politic, whilst it retains its authority, never
changes its maxims; a _despotism_, which is this day horrible to a
supreme degree, by the caprice natural to the heart of man, may, by the
same caprice otherwise exerted, be as lovely the next; in a succession,
it is possible to meet with some good princes. If there have been
Tiberiuses, Caligulas, Neros, there have been likewise the serener days
of Vespasians, Tituses, Trajans, and Antonines; but a body politic is
not influenced by caprice or whim, it proceeds in a regular manner, its
succession is insensible; and every man as he enters it, either has, or
soon attains, the spirit of the whole body. Never was it known that an
_aristocracy_, which was haughty and tyrannical in one century, became
easy and mild in the next. In effect, the yoke of this species of
government is so galling, that whenever the people have got the least
power, they have shaken it off with the utmost indignation, and
established a popular form. And when they have not had strength enough
to support themselves, they have thrown themselves into the arms of
_despotism_, as the more eligible of the two evils. This latter was the
case of Denmark, who sought a refuge from the oppression of its
nobility, in the strong hold of arbitrary power. Poland has at present
the name of republic, and it is one of the _aristocratic_ form; but it
is well known that the little finger of this government is heavier than
the loins of arbitrary power in most nations. The people are not only
politically, but personally slaves, and treated with the utmost
indignity. The republic of Venice is somewhat more moderate; yet even
here, so heavy is the _aristocratic_ yoke, that the nobles have been
obliged to enervate the spirit of their subjects by every sort of
debauchery; they have denied them the liberty of reason, and they have
made them amends by what a base soul will think a more valuable liberty,
by not only allowing, but encouraging them to corrupt themselves in the
most scandalous manner. They consider their subjects as the farmer does
the hog he keeps to feast upon. He holds him fast in his sty, but allows
him to wallow as much as he pleases in his beloved filth and gluttony.
So scandalously debauched a people as that of Venice is to be met with
nowhere else. High, low, men, women, clergy, and laity, are all alike.
The ruling nobility are no less afraid of one another than they are of
the people; and, for that reason, politically enervate their own body by
the same effeminate luxury by which they corrupt their subjects. They
are impoverished by every means which can be invented; and they are kept
in a perpetual terror by the horrors of a state inquisition. Here you
see a people deprived of all rational freedom, and tyrannized over by
about two thousand men; and yet this body of two thousand are so far
from enjoying any liberty by the subjection of the rest, that they are
in an infinitely severer state of slavery; they make themselves the most
degenerate and unhappy of mankind, for no other purpose than that they
may the more effectually contribute to the misery of a whole nation. In
short, the regular and methodical proceedings of an _aristocracy_ are
more intolerable than the very excesses of a _despotism_, and, in
general, much further from any remedy.

Thus, my lord, we have pursued _aristocracy_ through its whole progress;
we have seen the seeds, the growth, and the fruit. It could boast none
of the advantages of a _despotism_, miserable as those advantages were,
and it was overloaded with an exuberance of mischiefs, unknown even to
_despotism_ itself. In effect, it is no more than a disorderly tyranny.
This form, therefore, could be little approved, even in speculation, by
those who were capable of thinking, and could be less borne in practice
by any who were capable of feeling. However, the fruitful policy of man
was not yet exhausted. He had yet another farthing candle to supply the
deficiencies of the sun. This was the third form, known by political
writers under the name of _democracy_. Here the people transacted all
public business, or the greater part of it, in their own persons; their
laws were made by themselves, and, upon any failure of duty, their
officers were accountable to themselves, and to them only. In all
appearance, they had secured by this method the advantages of order and
good government, without paying their liberty for the purchase. Now, my
lord, we are come to the masterpiece of Grecian refinement, and Roman
solidity,--a popular government. The earliest and most celebrated
republic of this model was that of Athens. It was constructed by no less
an artist than the celebrated poet and philosopher, Solon. But no sooner
was this political vessel launched from the stocks, than it overset,
even in the lifetime of the builder. A tyranny immediately supervened;
not by a foreign conquest, not by accident, but by the very nature and
constitution of a _democracy_. An artful man became popular, the people
had power in their hands, and they devolved a considerable share of
their power upon their favorite; and the only use he made of this power
was, to plunge those who gave it into slavery. Accident restored their
liberty, and the same good fortune produced men of uncommon abilities
and uncommon virtues amongst them. But these abilities were suffered to
be of little service either to their possessors or to the state. Some of
these men, for whose sakes alone we read their history, they banished;
others they imprisoned, and all they treated with various circumstances
of the most shameful ingratitude. Republics have many things in the
spirit of absolute monarchy, but none more than this. A shining merit
is ever hated or suspected in a popular assembly, as well as in a court;
and all services done the state are looked upon as dangerous to the
rulers, whether sultans or senators. The _ostracism_ at Athens was built
upon this principle. The giddy people whom we have now under
consideration, being elated with some flashes of success, which they
owed to nothing less than any merit of their own, began to tyrannize
over their equals, who had associated with them for their common
defence. With their prudence they renounced all appearance of justice.
They entered into wars rashly and wantonly. If they were unsuccessful,
instead of growing wiser by their misfortune, they threw the whole blame
of their own misconduct on the ministers who had advised, and the
generals who had conducted, those wars; until by degrees they had cut
off all who could serve them in their councils or their battles. If at
any time these wars had a happier issue, it was no less difficult to
deal with them on account of their pride and insolence. Furious in their
adversity, tyrannical in their successes, a commander had more trouble
to concert his defence before the people, than to plan the operations of
the campaign. It was not uncommon for a general, under the horrid
_despotism_ of the Roman emperors, to be ill received in proportion to
the greatness of his services. Agricola is a strong instance of this. No
man had done greater things, nor with more honest ambition. Yet, on his
return to court, he was obliged to enter Rome with all the secrecy of a
criminal. He went to the palace, not like a victorious commander who had
merited and might demand the greatest rewards, but like an offender who
had come to supplicate a pardon for his crimes. His reception was
answerable; "_Exceptusque brevi osculo et nullo sermone, turbae
servientium immixtus est_." Yet in that worst season of this worst of
monarchical[9] tyrannies, modesty, discretion, and a coolness of temper,
formed some kind of security, even for the highest merit. But at Athens,
the nicest and best studied behavior was not a sufficient guard for a
man of great capacity. Some of their bravest commanders were obliged to
fly their country, some to enter into the service of its enemies, rather
than abide a popular determination on their conduct, lest, as one of
them said, their giddiness might make the people condemn where they
meant to acquit; to throw in a black bean even when they intended a
white one.

The Athenians made a very rapid progress to the most enormous excesses.
The people, under no restraint, soon grew dissolute, luxurious, and
idle. They renounced all labor, and began to subsist themselves from the
public revenues. They lost all concern for their common honor or safety,
and could bear no advice that tended to reform them. At this time truth
became offensive to those lords the people, and most highly dangerous to
the speaker. The orators no longer ascended the _rostrum_, but to
corrupt them further with the most fulsome adulation. These orators were
all bribed by foreign princes on the one side or the other. And besides
its own parties, in this city there were parties, and avowed ones too,
for the Persians, Spartans, and Macedonians, supported each of them by
one or more demagogues pensioned and bribed to this iniquitous service.
The people, forgetful of all virtue and public spirit, and intoxicated
with the flatteries of their orators (these courtiers of republics, and
endowed with the distinguishing characteristics of all other courtiers),
this people, I say, at last arrived at that pitch of madness, that they
coolly and deliberately, by an express law, made it capital for any man
to propose an application of the immense sums squandered in public
shows, even to the most necessary purposes of the state. When you see
the people of this republic banishing and murdering their best and
ablest citizens, dissipating the public treasure with the most senseless
extravagance, and spending their whole time, as spectators or actors, in
playing, fiddling, dancing, and singing, does it not, my lord, strike
your imagination with the image of a sort of complex Nero? And does it
not strike you with the greater horror, when you observe, not one man
only, but a whole city, grown drunk with pride and power, running with a
rage of folly into the same mean and senseless debauchery and
extravagance? But if this people resembled Nero in their extravagance,
much more did they resemble and even exceed him in cruelty and
injustice. In the time of Pericles, one of the most celebrated times in
the history of that commonwealth, a king of Egypt sent them a donation
of corn. This they were mean enough to accept. And had the Egyptian
prince intended the ruin of this city of wicked Bedlamites, he could not
have taken a more effectual method to do it than by such an ensnaring
largess. The distribution of this bounty caused a quarrel; the majority
set on foot an inquiry into the title of the citizens; and upon a vain
pretence of illegitimacy, newly and occasionally set up, they deprived
of their share of the royal donation no less than five thousand of
their own body. They went further; they disfranchised them; and, having
once begun with an act of injustice, they could set no bounds to it. Not
content with cutting them off from the rights of citizens, they
plundered these unfortunate wretches of all their substance; and, to
crown this masterpiece of violence and tyranny, they actually sold every
man of the five thousand as slaves in the public market. Observe, my
lord, that the five thousand we here speak of were cut off from a body
of no more than nineteen thousand; for the entire number of citizens was
no greater at that time. Could the tyrant who wished the Roman people
but one neck; could the tyrant Caligula himself have done, nay, he could
scarcely wish for, a greater mischief than to have cut off, at one
stroke, a fourth of his people? Or has the cruelty of that series of
sanguine tyrants, the Caesars, ever presented such a piece of flagrant
and extensive wickedness? The whole history of this celebrated republic
is but one tissue of rashness, folly, ingratitude, injustice, tumult,
violence, and tyranny, and, indeed, of every species of wickedness that
can well be imagined. This was a city of wise men, in which a minister
could not exercise his functions; a warlike people, amongst whom a
general did not dare either to gain or lose a battle; a learned nation,
in which a philosopher could not venture on a free inquiry. This was the
city which banished Themistocles, starved Aristides, forced into exile
Miltiades, drove out Anaxagoras, and poisoned Socrates. This was a city
which changed the form of its government with the moon; eternal
conspiracies, revolutions daily, nothing fixed and established. A
republic, as an ancient philosopher has observed, is no one species of
government, but a magazine of every species; here you find every sort of
it, and that in the worst form. As there is a perpetual change, one
rising and the other falling, you have all the violence and wicked
policy by which a beginning power must always acquire its strength, and
all the weakness by which falling states are brought to a complete
destruction.

Rome has a more venerable aspect than Athens; and she conducted her
affairs, so far as related to the ruin and oppression of the greatest
part of the world, with greater wisdom and more uniformity. But the
domestic economy of these two states was nearly or altogether the same.
An internal dissension constantly tore to pieces the bowels of the Roman
commonwealth. You find the same confusion, the same factions, which
subsisted at Athens, the same tumults, the same revolutions, and, in
fine, the same slavery; if, perhaps, their former condition did not
deserve that name altogether as well. All other republics were of the
same character. Florence was a transcript of Athens. And the modern
republics, as they approach more or less to the democratic form, partake
more or less of the nature of those which I have described.

We are now at the close of our review of the three simple forms of
artificial society; and we have shown them, however they may differ in
name, or in some slight circumstances, to be all alike in effect: in
effect, to be all tyrannies. But suppose we were inclined to make the
most ample concessions; let us concede Athens, Rome, Carthage, and two
or three more of the ancient, and as many of the modern, commonwealths,
to have been, or to be, free and happy, and to owe their freedom and
happiness to their political constitution. Yet, allowing all this, what
defence does this make for artificial society in general, that these
inconsiderable spots of the globe have for some short space of time
stood as exceptions to a charge so general? But when we call these
governments free, or concede that their citizens were happier than those
which lived under different forms, it is merely _ex abundanti_. For we
should be greatly mistaken, if we really thought that the majority of
the people which filled these cities enjoyed even that nominal political
freedom of which I have spoken so much already. In reality, they had no
part of it. In Athens there were usually from ten to thirty thousand
freemen; this was the utmost. But the slaves usually amounted to four
hundred thousand, and sometimes to a great many more. The freemen of
Sparta and Rome were not more numerous in proportion to those whom they
held in a slavery even more terrible than the Athenian. Therefore state
the matter fairly: the free states never formed, though they were taken
altogether, the thousandth part of the habitable globe; the freemen in
these states were never the twentieth part of the people, and the time
they subsisted is scarce anything in that immense ocean of duration in
which time and slavery are so nearly commensurate. Therefore call these
free states, or popular governments, or what you please; when we
consider the majority of their inhabitants, and regard the natural
rights of mankind, they must appear, in reality and truth, no better
than pitiful and oppressive oligarchies.

After so fair an examen, wherein nothing has been exaggerated; no fact
produced which cannot be proved, and none which has been produced in
any wise forced or strained, while thousands have, for brevity, been
omitted; after so candid a discussion in all respects; what slave so
passive, what bigot so blind, what enthusiast so headlong, what
politician so hardened, as to stand up in defence of a system calculated
for a curse to mankind? a curse under which they smart and groan to this
hour, without thoroughly knowing the nature of the disease, and wanting
understanding or courage to supply the remedy.

I need not excuse myself to your lordship, nor, I think, to any honest
man, for the zeal I have shown in this cause; for it is an honest zeal,
and in a good cause. I have defended natural religion against a
confederacy of atheists and divines. I now plead for natural society
against politicians, and for natural reason against all three. When the
world is in a fitter temper than it is at present to hear truth, or when
I shall be more indifferent about its temper, my thoughts may become
more public. In the mean time, let them repose in my own bosom, and in
the bosoms of such men as are fit to be initiated in the sober mysteries
of truth and reason. My antagonists have already done as much as I could
desire. Parties in religion and politics make sufficient discoveries
concerning each other, to give a sober man a proper caution against them
all. The monarchic, and aristocratical, and popular partisans, have been
jointly laying their axes to the root of all government, and have, in
their turns, proved each other absurd and inconvenient. In vain you tell
me that artificial government is good, but that I fall out only with the
abuse. The thing! the thing itself is the abuse! Observe, my lord, I
pray you, that grand error upon which all artificial legislative power
is founded. It was observed, that men had ungovernable passions, which
made it necessary to guard against the violence they might offer to each
other. They appointed governors over them for this reason. But a worse
and more perplexing difficulty arises, how to be defended against the
governors? _Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?_ In vain they change from a
single person to a few. These few have the passions of the one; and they
unite to strengthen themselves, and to secure the gratification of their
lawless passions at the expense of the general good. In vain do we fly
to the many. The case is worse; their passions are less under the
government of reason, they are augmented by the contagion, and defended
against all attacks by their multitude.

I have purposely avoided the mention of the mixed form of government,
for reasons that will be very obvious to your lordship. But my caution
can avail me but little. You will not fail to urge it against me in
favor of political society. You will not fail to show how the errors of
the several simple modes are corrected by a mixture of all of them, and
a proper balance of the several powers in such a state. I confess, my
lord, that this has been long a darling mistake of my own; and that of
all the sacrifices I have made to truth, this has been by far the
greatest. When I confess that I think this notion a mistake, I know to
whom I am speaking, for I am satisfied that reasons are like liquors,
and there are some of such a nature as none but strong heads can bear.
There are few with whom I can communicate so freely as with Pope. But
Pope cannot bear every truth. He has a timidity which hinders the full
exertion of his faculties, almost as effectually as bigotry cramps those
of the general herd of mankind. But whoever is a genuine follower of
truth keeps his eye steady upon his guide, indifferent whither he is
led, provided that she is the leader. And, my lord, if it be properly
considered, it were infinitely better to remain possessed by the whole
legion of vulgar mistakes, than to reject some, and at the same time to
retain a fondness for others altogether as absurd and irrational. The
first has at least a consistency, that makes a man, however erroneously,
uniform at least; but the latter way of proceeding is such an
inconsistent chimera and jumble of philosophy and vulgar prejudice, that
hardly anything more ridiculous can be conceived. Let us therefore
freely, and without fear or prejudice, examine this last contrivance of
policy. And, without considering how near the quick our instruments may
come, let us search it to the bottom.

First, then, all men are agreed that this junction of regal,
aristocratic, and popular power, must form a very complex, nice, and
intricate machine, which being composed of such a variety of parts, with
such opposite tendencies and movements, it must be liable on every
accident to be disordered. To speak without metaphor, such a government
must be liable to frequent cabals, tumults, and revolutions, from its
very constitution. These are undoubtedly as ill effects as can happen in
a society; for in such a case, the closeness acquired by community,
instead of serving for mutual defence, serves only to increase the
danger. Such a system is like a city, where trades that require constant
fires are much exercised, where the houses are built of combustible
materials, and where they stand extremely close.

In the second place, the several constituent parts having their distinct
rights, and these many of them so necessary to be determined with
exactness, are yet so indeterminate in their nature, that it becomes a
new and constant source of debate and confusion. Hence it is, that
whilst the business of government should be carrying on, the question
is, Who has a right to exercise this or that function of it, or what men
have power to keep their offices in any function? Whilst this contest
continues, and whilst the balance in any sort continues, it has never
any remission; all manner of abuses and villanies in officers remain
unpunished; the greatest frauds and robberies in the public revenues are
committed in defiance of justice; and abuses grow, by time and impunity,
into customs; until they prescribe against the laws, and grow too
inveterate often to admit a cure, unless such as may be as bad as the
disease.

Thirdly, the several parts of this species of government, though united,
preserve the spirit which each form has separately. Kings are ambitious;
the nobility haughty; and the populace tumultuous and ungovernable. Each
party, however in appearance peaceable, carries on a design upon the
others; and it is owing to this, that in all questions, whether
concerning foreign or domestic affairs, the whole generally turns more
upon some party-matter than upon the nature of the thing itself; whether
such a step will diminish or augment the power of the crown, or how far
the privileges of the subject are likely to be extended or restricted by
it. And these questions are constantly resolved, without any
consideration of the merits of the cause, merely as the parties who
uphold these jarring interests may chance to prevail; and as they
prevail, the balance is overset, now upon one side, now upon the other.
The government is, one day, arbitrary power in a single person; another,
a juggling confederacy of a few to cheat the prince and enslave the
people; and the third, a frantic and unmanageable democracy. The great
instrument of all these changes, and what infuses a peculiar venom into
all of them, is party. It is of no consequence what the principles of
any party, or what their pretensions are; the spirit which actuates all
parties is the same; the spirit of ambition, of self-interest, of
oppression and treachery. This spirit entirely reverses all the
principles which a benevolent nature has erected within us; all honesty,
all equal justice, and even the ties of natural society, the natural
affections. In a word, my lord, we have all _seen_, and, if any outward
considerations were worthy the lasting concern of a wise man, we have
some of us _felt_, such oppression from party government as no other
tyranny can parallel. We behold daily the most important rights, rights
upon which all the others depend, we behold these rights determined in
the last resort, without the least attention even to the appearance or
color of justice; we behold this without emotion, because we have grown
up in the constant view of such practices; and we are not surprised to
hear a man requested to be a knave and a traitor, with as much
indifference as if the most ordinary favor were asked; and we hear this
request refused, not because it is a most unjust and unreasonable
desire, but because this worthy has already engaged his injustice to
another. These and many more points I am for from spreading to their
full extent. You are sensible that I do not put forth half my strength;
and you cannot be at a loss for the reason. A man is allowed sufficient
freedom of thought, provided he knows how to choose his subject
properly. You may criticise freely upon the Chinese constitution, and
observe with as much severity as you please upon the absurd tricks, or
destructive bigotry of the bonzees. But the scene is changed as you come
homeward, and atheism or treason may be the names given in Britain, to
what would be reason and truth if asserted of China. I submit to the
condition, and though I have a notorious advantage before me, I waive
the pursuit. For else, my lord, it is very obvious what a picture might
be drawn of the excesses of party even in our own nation. I could show,
that the same faction has, in one reign, promoted popular seditions,
and, in the next, been a patron of tyranny: I could show that they have
all of them betrayed the public safety at all times, and have very
frequently with equal perfidy made a market of their own cause and their
own associates. I could show how vehemently they have contended for
names, and how silently they have passed over things of the last
importance. And I could demonstrate that they have had the opportunity
of doing all this mischief, nay, that they themselves had their origin
and growth from that complex form of government, which we are wisely
taught to look upon as so great a blessing. Revolve, my lord, our
history from the Conquest. We scarcely ever had a prince, who, by fraud
or violence, had not made some infringement on the constitution. We
scarcely ever had a Parliament which knew, when it attempted to set
limits to the royal authority, how to set limits to its own. Evils we
have had continually calling for reformation, and reformations more
grievous than any evils. Our boasted liberty sometimes trodden down,
sometimes giddily set up, and ever precariously fluctuating and
unsettled; it has only been kept alive by the blasts of continual feuds,
wars, and conspiracies. In no country in Europe has the scaffold so
often blushed with the blood of its nobility. Confiscations,
banishments, attainders, executions, make a large part of the history of
such of our families as are not utterly extinguished by them. Formerly,
indeed, things had a more ferocious appearance than they have at this
day. In these early and unrefined ages, the jarring part of a certain
chaotic constitution supported their several pretensions by the sword.
Experience and policy have since taught other methods.

     At nunc res agitur tenui pulmone rubetae.

But how far corruption, venality, the contempt of honor, the oblivion of
all duty to our country, and the most abandoned public prostitution, are
preferable to the more glaring and violent effects of faction, I will
not presume to determine. Sure I am that they are very great evils.

I have done with the forms of government. During the course of my
inquiry you may have observed a very material difference between my
manner of reasoning and that which is in use amongst the abettors of
artificial society. They form their plans upon what seems most eligible
to their imaginations, for the ordering of mankind. I discover the
mistakes in those plans, from the real known consequences which have
resulted from them. They have enlisted reason to fight against itself,
and employ its whole force to prove that it is an insufficient guide to
them in the conduct of their lives. But unhappily for us, in proportion
as we have deviated from the plain rule of our nature, and turned our
reason against itself, in that proportion have we increased the follies
and miseries of mankind. The more deeply we penetrate into the labyrinth
of art, the further we find ourselves from those ends for which we
entered it. This has happened in almost every species of artificial
society, and in all times. We found, or we thought we found, an
inconvenience in having every man the judge of his own cause. Therefore
judges were set up, at first, with discretionary powers. But it was soon
found a miserable slavery to have our lives and properties precarious,
and hanging upon the arbitrary determination of any one man, or set of
men. We fled to laws as a remedy for this evil. By these we persuaded
ourselves we might know with some certainty upon what ground we stood.
But lo! differences arose upon the sense and interpretation of those
laws. Thus we were brought back to our old incertitude. New laws were
made to expound the old; and new difficulties arose upon the new laws;
as words multiplied, opportunities of cavilling upon them multiplied
also. Then recourse was had to notes, comments, glosses, reports,
_responsa prudentum_, learned readings: eagle stood against eagle:
authority was set up against authority. Some were allured by the modern,
others reverenced the ancient. The new were more enlightened, the old
were more venerable. Some adopted the comment, others stuck to the text.
The confusion increased, the mist thickened, until it could be
discovered no longer what was allowed or forbidden, what things were in
property, and what common. In this uncertainty, (uncertain even to the
professors, an Egyptian darkness to the rest of mankind), the contending
parties felt themselves more effectually ruined by the delay, than they
could have been by the injustice of any decision. Our inheritances are
become a prize for disputation; and disputes and litigations are become
an inheritance.

The professors of artificial law have always walked hand in hand with
the professors of artificial theology. As their end, in confounding the
reason of man, and abridging his natural freedom, is exactly the same,
they have adjusted the means to that end in a way entirely similar. The
divine thunders out his _anathemas_ with more noise and terror against
the breach of one of his positive institutions, or the neglect of some
of his trivial forms, than against the neglect or breach of those duties
and commandments of natural religion, which by these forms and
institutions he pretends to enforce. The lawyer has his forms, and his
positive institutions too, and he adheres to them with a veneration
altogether as religious. The worst cause cannot be so prejudicial to the
litigant, as his advocate's or attorney's ignorance or neglect of these
forms. A lawsuit is like an ill-managed dispute, in which the first
object is soon out of sight, and the parties end upon a matter wholly
foreign to that on which they began. In a lawsuit the question is, who
has a right to a certain house or farm? And this question is daily
determined, not upon the evidence of the right, but upon the observance
or neglect of some forms of words in use with the gentlemen of the robe,
about which there is even amongst themselves such a disagreement, that
the most experienced veterans in the profession can never be positively
assured that they are not mistaken.

Let us expostulate with these learned sages, these priests of the sacred
temple of justice. Are we judges of our own property? By no means. You
then, who are initiated into the mysteries of the blindfold goddess,
inform me whether I have a right to eat the bread I have earned by the
hazard of my life or the sweat of my brow? The grave doctor answers me
in the affirmative; the reverend serjeant replies in the negative; the
learned barrister reasons upon one side and upon the other, and
concludes nothing. What shall I do? An antagonist starts up and presses
me hard. I enter the field, and retain these three persons to defend my
cause. My cause, which two farmers from the plough could have decided in
half an hour, takes the court twenty years. I am however at the end of
my labor, and have in reward for all my toil and vexation a judgment in
my favor. But hold--a sagacious commander, in the adversary's army, has
found a flaw in the proceeding. My triumph is turned into mourning. I
have used _or_, instead of _and_, or some mistake, small in appearance,
but dreadful in its consequences; and have the whole of my success
quashed in a writ of error. I remove my suit; I shift from court to
court; I fly from equity to law, and from law to equity; equal
uncertainty attends me everywhere; and a mistake in which I had no
share, decides at once upon my liberty and property, sending me from the
court to a prison, and adjudging my family to beggary and famine. I am
innocent, gentlemen, of the darkness and uncertainty of your science. I
never darkened it with absurd and contradictory notions, nor confounded
it with chicane and sophistry. You have excluded me from any share in
the conduct of my own cause; the science was too deep for me; I
acknowledged it; but it was too deep even for yourselves: you have made
the way so intricate, that you are yourselves lost in it; you err, and
you punish me for your errors.

The delay of the law is, your lordship will tell me, a trite topic, and
which of its abuses have not been too severely felt not to be complained
of? A man's property is to serve for the purposes of his support; and
therefore, to delay a determination concerning that, is the worst
injustice, because it cuts off the very end and purpose for which I
applied to the judicature for relief. Quite contrary in the case of a
man's life; there the determination can hardly be too much protracted.
Mistakes in this case are as often fallen into as many other; and if the
judgment is sudden, the mistakes are the most irretrievable of all
others. Of this the gentlemen of the robe are themselves sensible, and
they have brought it into a maxim. _De morte hominis nulla est cunctatio
longa._ But what could have induced them to reverse the rules, and to
contradict that reason which dictated them, I am utterly unable to
guess. A point concerning property, which ought, for the reasons I have
just mentioned, to be most speedily decided, frequently exercises the
wit of successions of lawyers, for many generations. _Multa virum
volvens durando saecula vincit._ But the question concerning a man's
life, that great question in which no delay ought to be counted tedious,
is commonly determined in twenty-four hours at the utmost. It is not to
be wondered at, that injustice and absurdity should be inseparable
companions.

Ask of politicians the end for which laws were originally designed; and
they will answer, that the laws were designed as a protection for the
poor and weak, against the oppression of the rich and powerful. But
surely no pretence can be so ridiculous; a man might as well tell me he
has taken off my load, because he has changed the burden. If the poor
man is not able to support his suit, according to the vexatious and
expensive manner established in civilized countries, has not the rich as
great an advantage over him as the strong has over the weak in a state
of nature? But we will not place the state of nature, which is the reign
of God, in competition with political society, which is the absurd
usurpation of man. In a state of nature, it is true that a man of
superior force may beat or rob me; but then it is true, that I am at
full liberty to defend myself, or make reprisal by surprise or by
cunning, or by any other way in which I may be superior to him. But in
political society, a rich man may rob me in another way. I cannot defend
myself; for money is the only weapon with which we are allowed to fight.
And if I attempt to avenge myself the whole force of that society is
ready to complete my ruin.

A good parson once said, that where mystery begins, religion ends.
Cannot I say, as truly at least, of human laws, that where mystery
begins, justice ends? It is hard to say, whether the doctors of law or
divinity have made the greater advances in the lucrative business of
mystery. The lawyers, as well as the theologians, have erected another
reason besides natural reason; and the result has been, another justice
besides natural justice. They have so bewildered the world and
themselves in unmeaning forms and ceremonies, and so perplexed the
plainest matters with metaphysical jargon, that it carries the highest
danger to a man out of that profession, to make the least step without
their advice and assistance. Thus, by confining to themselves the
knowledge of the foundation of all men's lives and properties, they have
reduced all mankind into the most abject and servile dependence. We are
tenants at the will of these gentlemen for everything; and a
metaphysical quibble is to decide whether the greatest villain breathing
shall meet his deserts, or escape with impunity, or whether the best man
in the society shall not be reduced to the lowest and most despicable
condition it affords. In a word, my lord, the injustice, delay,
puerility, false refinement, and affected mystery of the law are such,
that many who live under it come to admire and envy the expedition,
simplicity, and equality of arbitrary judgments. I need insist the less
on this article to your lordship, as you have frequently lamented the
miseries derived to us from artificial law, and your candor is the more
to be admired and applauded in this, as your lordship's noble house has
derived its wealth and its honors from that profession.

Before we finish our examination of artificial society, I shall lead
your lordship into a closer consideration of the relations which it
gives birth to, and the benefits, if such they are, which result from
these relations. The most obvious division of society is into rich and
poor; and it is no less obvious, that the number of the former bear a
great disproportion to those of the latter. The whole business of the
poor is to administer to the idleness, folly, and luxury of the rich;
and that of the rich, in return, is to find the best methods of
confirming the slavery and increasing the burdens of the poor. In a
state of nature, it is an invariable law, that a man's acquisitions are
in proportion to his labors. In a state of artificial society, it is a
law as constant and as invariable, that those who labor most enjoy the
fewest things; and that those who labor not at all have the greatest
number of enjoyments. A constitution of things this, strange and
ridiculous beyond expression! We scarce believe a thing when we are told
it, which we actually see before our eyes every day without being in the
least surprised. I suppose that there are in Great Britain upwards of a
hundred thousand people employed in lead, tin, iron, copper, and coal
mines; these unhappy wretches scarce ever see the light of the sun; they
are buried in the bowels of the earth; there they work at a severe and
dismal task, without the least prospect of being delivered from it; they
subsist upon the coarsest and worst sort of fare; they have their health
miserably impaired, and their lives cut short, by being perpetually
confined in the close vapor of these malignant minerals. A hundred
thousand more at least are tortured without remission by the suffocating
smoke, intense fires, and constant drudgery necessary in refining and
managing the products of those mines. If any man informed us that two
hundred thousand innocent persons were condemned to so intolerable
slavery, how should we pity the unhappy sufferers, and how great would
be our just indignation against those who inflicted so cruel and
ignominious a punishment! This is an instance--I could not wish a
stronger--of the numberless things which we pass by in their common
dress, yet which shock us when they are nakedly represented. But this
number, considerable as it is, and the slavery, with all its baseness
and horror, which we have at home, is nothing to what the rest of the
world affords of the same nature. Millions daily bathed in the
poisonous damps and destructive effluvia of lead, silver, copper, and
arsenic. To say nothing of those other employments, those stations of
wretchedness and contempt, in which civil society has placed the
numerous _enfans perdus_ of her army. Would any rational man submit to
one of the most tolerable of these drudgeries, for all the artificial
enjoyments which policy has made to result from them? By no means. And
yet need I suggest to your lordship, that those who find the means, and
those who arrive at the end, are not at all the same persons? On
considering the strange and unaccountable fancies and contrivances of
artificial reason, I have somewhere called this earth the Bedlam of our
system. Looking now upon the effects of some of those fancies, may we
not with equal reason call it likewise the Newgate and the Bridewell of
the universe? Indeed the blindness of one part of mankind co-operating
with the frenzy and villany of the other, has been the real builder of
this respectable fabric of political society: and as the blindness of
mankind has caused their slavery, in return their state of slavery is
made a pretence for continuing them in a state of blindness; for the
politician will tell you gravely, that their life of servitude
disqualifies the greater part of the race of man for a search of truth,
and supplies them with no other than mean and insufficient ideas. This
is but too true; and this is one of the reasons for which I blame such
institutions.

In a misery of this sort, admitting some few lenitives, and those too
but a few, nine parts in ten of the whole race of mankind drudge through
life. It may be urged perhaps, in palliation of this, that at least the
rich few find a considerable and real benefit from the wretchedness of
the many. But is this so in fact? Let us examine the point with a little
more attention. For this purpose the rich in all societies may he thrown
into two classes. The first is of those who are powerful as well as
rich, and conduct the operations of the vast political machine. The
other is of those who employ their riches wholly in the acquisition of
pleasure. As to the first sort, their continual care and anxiety, their
toilsome days, and sleepless nights, are next to proverbial. These
circumstances are sufficient almost to level their condition to that of
the unhappy majority; but there are other circumstances which place
them, in a far lower condition. Not only their understandings labor
continually, which is the severest labor, but their hearts are torn by
the worst, most troublesome, and insatiable of all passions, by avarice,
by ambition, by fear and jealousy. No part of the mind has rest. Power
gradually extirpates from the mind every humane and gentle virtue. Pity,
benevolence, friendship, are things almost unknown in high stations.
_Verae amicitiae rarissime inveniuntur in iis qui in honoribus reque
publica versantur_, says Cicero. And indeed courts are the schools where
cruelty, pride, dissimulation, and treachery are studied and taught in
the most vicious perfection. This is a point so clear and acknowledged,
that if it did not make a necessary part of my subject, I should pass it
by entirely. And this has hindered me from drawing at full length, and
in the most striking colors, this shocking picture of the degeneracy and
wretchedness of human nature, in that part which is vulgarly thought its
happiest and most amiable state. You know from what originals I could
copy such pictures. Happy are they who know enough of them to know the
little value of the possessors of such things, and of all that they
possess; and happy they who have been snatched from that post of danger
which they occupy, with the remains of their virtue; loss of honors,
wealth, titles, and even the loss of one's country, is nothing in
balance with so great an advantage.

Let us now view the other species of the rich, those who devote their
time and fortunes to idleness and pleasure. How much happier are they?
The pleasures which are agreeable to nature are within the reach of all,
and therefore can form no distinction in favor of the rich. The
pleasures which art forces up are seldom sincere, and never satisfying.
What is worse, this constant application to pleasure takes away from the
enjoyment, or rather turns it into the nature of a very burdensome and
laborious business. It has consequences much more fatal. It produces a
weak valetudinary state of body, attended by all those horrid disorders,
and yet more horrid methods of cure, which are the result of luxury on
the one hand, and the weak and ridiculous efforts of human art on the
other. The pleasures of such men are scarcely felt as pleasures; at the
same time that they bring on pains and diseases, which are felt but too
severely. The mind has its share of the misfortune; it grows lazy and
enervate, unwilling and unable to search for truth, and utterly
uncapable of knowing, much less of relishing, real happiness. The poor
by their excessive labor, and the rich by their enormous luxury, are set
upon a level, and rendered equally ignorant of any knowledge which might
conduce to their happiness. A dismal view of the interior of all civil
society! The lower part broken and ground down by the most cruel
oppression; and the rich by their artificial method of life bringing
worse evils on themselves than their tyranny could possibly inflict on
those below them. Very different is the prospect of the natural state.
Here there are no wants which nature gives, and in this state men can be
sensible of no other wants, which are not to be supplied by a very
moderate degree of labor; therefore there is no slavery. Neither is
there any luxury, because no single man can supply the materials of it.
Life is simple, and therefore it is happy.

I am conscious, my lord, that your politician will urge in his defence,
that this unequal state is highly useful. That without dooming some part
of mankind to extraordinary toil, the arts which cultivate life could
not be exercised. But I demand of this politician, how such arts came to
be necessary? He answers, that civil society could not well exist
without them. So that these arts are necessary to civil society, and
civil society necessary again to these arts. Thus are we running in a
circle, without modesty, and without end, and making one error and
extravagance an excuse for the other. My sentiments about these arts and
their cause, I have often discoursed with my friends at large. Pope has
expressed them in good verse, where he talks with so much force of
reason and elegance of language, in praise of the state of nature:

   "Then was not pride, nor arts that pride to aid,
    Man walked with beast, joint tenant of the shade."


On the whole, my lord, if political society, in whatever form, has still
made the many the property of the few; if it has introduced labors
unnecessary, vices and diseases unknown, and pleasures incompatible
with nature; if in all countries it abridges the lives of millions, and
renders those of millions more utterly abject and miserable, shall we
still worship so destructive an idol, and daily sacrifice to it our
health, our liberty, and our peace? Or shall we pass by this monstrous
heap of absurd notions, and abominable practices, thinking we have
sufficiently discharged our duty in exposing the trifling, cheats, and
ridiculous juggles of a few mad, designing, or ambitious priests? Alas!
my lord, we labor under a mortal consumption, whilst we are so anxious
about the cure of a sore finger. For has not this leviathan of civil
power overflowed the earth with a deluge of blood, as if he were made to
disport and play therein? We have shown that political society, on a
moderate calculation, has been the means of murdering several times the
number of inhabitants now upon the earth, during its short existence,
not upwards of four thousand years in any accounts to be depended on.
But we have said nothing of the other, and perhaps as bad, consequence
of these wars, which have spilled such seas of blood, and reduced so
many millions to a merciless slavery. But these are only the ceremonies
performed in the porch of the political temple. Much more horrid ones
are seen as you enter it. The several species of government vie with
each other in the absurdity of their constitutions, and the oppression
which they make their subjects endure. Take them under what form you
please, they are in effect but a despotism, and they fall, both in
effect and appearance too, after a very short period, into that cruel
and detestable species of tyranny: which I rather call it, because we
have been educated under another form, than that this is of worse
consequences to mankind. For the free governments, for the point of
their space, and the moment of their duration, have felt more confusion,
and committed more flagrant acts of tyranny, than the most perfect
despotic governments which we have ever known. Turn your eye next to the
labyrinth of the law, and the iniquity conceived in its intricate
recesses. Consider the ravages committed in the bowels of all
commonwealths by ambition, by avarice, envy, fraud, open injustice, and
pretended friendship; vices which could draw little support from a state
of nature, but which blossom and flourish in the rankness of political
society. Revolve our whole discourse; add to it all those reflections
which your own good understanding shall suggest, and make a strenuous
effort beyond the reach of vulgar philosophy, to confess that the cause
of artificial society is more defenceless even than that of artificial
religion; that it is as derogatory from the honor of the Creator, as
subversive of human reason, and productive of infinitely more mischief
to the human race.

If pretended revelations have caused wars where they were opposed, and
slavery where they were received, the pretended wise inventions of
politicians have done the same. But the slavery has been much heavier,
the wars far more bloody, and both more universal by many degrees. Show
me any mischief produced by the madness or wickedness of theologians,
and I will show you a hundred resulting from the ambition and villany of
conquerors and statesmen. Show me an absurdity in religion, and I will
undertake to show you a hundred for one in political laws and
institutions. If you say that natural religion is a sufficient guide
without the foreign aid of revelation, on what principle should
political laws become necessary? Is not the same reason available in
theology and in politics? If the laws of nature are the laws of God, is
it consistent with the Divine wisdom to prescribe rules to us, and leave
the enforcement of them to the folly of human institutions? Will you
follow truth but to a certain point?

We are indebted for all our miseries to our distrust of that guide which
Providence thought sufficient for our condition, our own natural reason,
which rejecting both in human and divine things, we have given our necks
to the yoke of political and theological slavery. We have renounced the
prerogative of man, and it is no wonder that we should be treated like
beasts. But our misery is much greater than theirs, as the crime we
commit in rejecting the lawful dominion of our reason is greater than
any which they can commit. If, after all, you should confess all these
things, yet plead the necessity of political institutions, weak and
wicked as they are, I can argue with equal, perhaps superior, force,
concerning the necessity of artificial religion; and every step you
advance in your argument, you add a strength to mine. So that if we are
resolved to submit our reason, and our liberty to civil usurpation, we
have nothing to do but to conform as quietly as we can to the vulgar
notions which are connected with this, and take up the theology of the
vulgar as well as their politics. But if we think this necessity rather
imaginary than real, we should renounce their dreams of society,
together with their visions of religion, and vindicate ourselves into
perfect liberty.

You are, my lord, but just entering into the world; I am going out of
it. I have played long enough to be heartily tired of the drama. Whether
I have acted my part in it well or ill, posterity will judge with more
candor than I, or than the present age, with our present passions, can
possibly pretend to. For my part, I quit it without a sigh, and submit
to the sovereign order without murmuring. The nearer we approach to the
goal of life, the better we begin to understand the true value of our
existence, and the real weight of our opinions. We set out much in love
with both; but we leave much behind us as we advance. We first throw
away the tales along with the rattles of our nurses: those of the priest
keep their hold a little longer; those of our governors the longest of
all. But the passions which prop these opinions are withdrawn one after
another; and the cool light of reason, at the setting of our life, shows
us what a false splendor played upon these objects during our more
sanguine seasons. Happy, my lord, if instructed by my experience, and
even by my errors, you come early to make such an estimate of things, as
may give freedom and ease to your life. I am happy that such an estimate
promises me comfort at my death.


FOOTNOTES:

[8] Had his lordship lived to our days, to have seen the noble relief
given by this nation to the distressed Portuguese, he had perhaps owned
this part of his argument a little weakened; but we do not think
ourselves entitled to alter his lordship's words, but that we are bound
to follow him exactly.

[9] Sciant quibus moris illicita mirari, posse etiam sub malis
principibus magnos viros, &c. See 42, to the end of it.




A

PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY

INTO THE ORIGIN OF OUR IDEAS OF

THE SUBLIME AND BEAUTIFUL

WITH

AN INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE

CONCERNING

TASTE,

AND SEVERAL OTHER ADDITIONS

*** _The first edition of this work was published in 1756;
     the second with large additions, in the year 1757._




PREFACE.


I have endeavored to make this edition something more full and
satisfactory than the first. I have sought with the utmost care, and
read with equal attention, everything which has appeared in public
against my opinions; I have taken advantage of the candid liberty of my
friends; and if by these means I have been better enabled to discover
the imperfections of the work, the indulgence it has received, imperfect
as it was, furnished me with a new motive to spare no reasonable pains
for its improvement. Though I have not found sufficient reason, or what
appeared to me sufficient, for making any material change in my theory,
I have found it necessary in many places to explain, illustrate, and
enforce it. I have prefixed an introductory discourse concerning Taste;
it is a matter curious in itself; and it leads naturally enough to the
principal inquiry. This, with the other explanations, has made the work
considerably larger; and by increasing its bulk has, I am afraid, added
to its faults; so that notwithstanding all my attention, it may stand in
need of a yet greater share of indulgence than it required at its first
appearance.

They who are accustomed to studies of this nature will expect, and they
will allow too for many faults. They know that many of the objects of
our inquiry are in themselves obscure and intricate; and that many
others have been rendered so by affected refinements, or false learning;
they know that there are many impediments in the subject, in the
prejudices of others, and even in our own, that render it a matter of no
small difficulty to show in a clear light the genuine face of nature.
They know that whilst the mind is intent on the general scheme of
things, some particular parts must be neglected; that we must often
submit the style to the matter, and frequently give up the praise of
elegance, satisfied with being clear.

The characters of nature are legible, it is true; but they are not plain
enough to enable those who run, to read them. We must make use of a
cautious, I had almost said, a timorous method of proceeding. We must
not attempt to fly, when we can scarcely pretend to creep. In
considering any complex matter, we ought to examine every distinct
ingredient in the composition, one by one; and reduce everything to the
utmost simplicity; since the condition of our nature binds us to a
strict law and very narrow limits. We ought afterwards to re-examine the
principles by the effect of the composition, as well as the composition
by that of the principles. We ought to compare our subject with things
of a similar nature, and even with things of a contrary nature; for
discoveries may be, and often are made by the contrast, which would
escape us on the single view. The greater number of the comparisons we
make, the more general and the more certain our knowledge is likely to
prove, as built upon a more extensive and perfect induction.

If an inquiry thus carefully conducted should fail at last of
discovering the truth, it may answer an end perhaps as useful, in
discovering to us the weakness of our own understanding. If it does not
make us knowing, it may make us modest. If it does not preserve us from
error, it may at least from the spirit of error; and may make us
cautious of pronouncing with positiveness or with haste, when so much
labor may end in so much uncertainty.

I could wish that, in examining this theory, the same method were
pursued which I endeavored to observe in forming it. The objections, in
my opinion, ought to be proposed, either to the several principles as
they are distinctly considered, or to the justness of the conclusion
which is drawn from them. But it is common to pass over both the
premises and conclusion in silence, and to produce, as an objection,
some poetical passage which does not seem easily accounted for upon the
principles I endeavor to establish. This manner of proceeding I should
think very improper. The task would be infinite, if we could establish
no principle until we had previously unravelled the complex texture of
every image or description to be found in poets and orators. And though
we should never be able to reconcile the effect of such images to our
principles, this can never overturn the theory itself, whilst it is
founded on certain and indisputable facts. A theory founded on
experiment, and not assumed, is always good for so much as it explains.
Our inability to push it indefinitely is no argument at all against it.
This inability may be owing to our ignorance of some necessary
_mediums_; to a want of proper application; to many other causes besides
a defect in the principles we employ. In reality, the subject requires a
much closer attention than we dare claim from our manner of treating
it.

If it should not appear on the face of the work, I must caution the
reader against imagining that I intended a full dissertation on the
Sublime and Beautiful. My inquiry went no farther than to the origin of
these ideas. If the qualities which I have ranged under the head of the
Sublime be all found consistent with each other, and all different from
those which I place under the head of Beauty; and if those which compose
the class of the Beautiful have the same consistency with themselves,
and the same opposition to those which are classed under the
denomination of Sublime, I am in little pain whether anybody chooses to
follow the name I give them or not, provided he allows that what I
dispose under different heads are in reality different things in nature.
The use I make of the words may be blamed, as too confined or too
extended; my meaning cannot well be misunderstood.

To conclude: whatever progress may be made towards the discovery of
truth in this matter, I do not repent the pains I have taken in it. The
use of such inquiries may be very considerable. Whatever turns the soul
inward on itself, tends to concentre its forces, and to fit it for
greater and stronger flights of science. By looking into physical causes
our minds are opened and enlarged; and in this pursuit, whether we take
or whether we lose our game, the chase is certainly of service. Cicero,
true as he was to the academic philosophy, and consequently led to
reject the certainty of physical, as of every other kind of knowledge,
yet freely confesses its great importance to the human understanding:
"_Est animorum ingeniorumque nostrorum naturale quoddam quasi pabulum
consideratio contemplatioque naturae_." If we can direct the lights we
derive from such exalted speculations upon the humbler field of the
imagination, whilst we investigate the springs, and trace the courses of
our passions, we may not only communicate to the taste a sort of
philosophical solidity, but we may reflect back on the severer sciences
some of the graces and elegances of taste, without which the greatest
proficiency in those sciences will always have the appearance of
something illiberal.




CONTENTS.

INTRODUCTION: On Taste                                                79


PART I

I.     Novelty                                                       101

II.    Pain and Pleasure                                             102

III.   The Difference between the Removal of Pain and Positive
       Pleasure                                                      104

IV.    Of Delight and Pleasure, as opposed to each other             106

V.     Joy and Grief                                                 108

VI.    Of the Passions which belong to Self-Preservation             110

VII.   Of the Sublime                                                110

VIII.  Of the Passions which belong to Society                       111

IX.    The Final Cause of the Difference between the Passions
       belonging to Self-Preservation, and those which regard
       the Society of the Sexes                                      113

X.     Of Beauty                                                     114

XI.    Society and Solitude                                          115

XII.   Sympathy, Imitation, and Ambition                             116

XIII.  Sympathy                                                      117

XIV.   The Effects of Sympathy in the Distresses of Others           119

XV.    Of the Effects of Tragedy                                     120

XVI.   Imitation                                                     122

XVII.  Ambition                                                      123

XVIII. The Recapitulation                                            125

XIX.   The Conclusion                                                126


PART II.

I.     Of the Passion caused by the Sublime                          130

II.    Terror                                                        130

III.   Obscurity                                                     132

IV.    Of the Difference between Clearness and Obscurity
       with regard to the Passions                                   133

[IV.]  The Same Subject continued                                    134

V.     Power                                                         138

VI.    Privation                                                     146

VII.   Vastness                                                      147

VIII.  Infinity                                                      148

IX.    Succession and Uniformity                                     149

X.     Magnitude in Building                                         152

XI.    Infinity in Pleasing Objects                                  153

XII.   Difficulty                                                    153

XIII.  Magnificence                                                  154

XIV.   Light                                                         156

XV.    Light in Building                                             157

XVI.   Color considered as productive of the Sublime                 158

XVII.  Sound and Loudness                                            159

XVIII. Suddenness                                                    160

XIX.   Intermitting                                                  160

XX.    The Cries of Animals                                          161

XXI.   Smell and Taste--Bitters and Stenches                         162

XXII.  Feeling.--Pain                                                164


PART III.

I.     Of Beauty                                                     165

II.    Proportion not the Cause of Beauty in Vegetables              166

III.   Proportion not the Cause of Beauty in Animals                 170

IV.    Proportion not the Cause of Beauty in the Human Species       172

V.     Proportion further considered                                 178

VI.    Fitness not the Cause of Beauty                               181

VII.   The Real Effects of Fitness                                   184

VIII.  The Recapitulation                                            187

IX.    Perfection not the Cause of Beauty                            187

X.     How far the Idea of Beauty may be applied to the
       Qualities of the Mind                                         188

XI.    How far the Idea of Beauty may be applied to Virtue           190

XII.   The Real Cause of Beauty                                      191

XIII.  Beautiful Objects Small                                       191

XIV.   Smoothness                                                    193

XV.    Gradual Variation                                             194

XVI.   Delicacy                                                      195

XVII.  Beauty in Color                                               196

XVIII. Recapitulation                                                197

XIX.   The Physiognomy                                               198

XX.    The Eye                                                       198

XXI.   Ugliness                                                      199

XXII.  Grace                                                         200

XXIII. Elegance and Speciousness                                     200

XXIV.  The Beautiful in Feeling                                      201

XXV.   The Beautiful in Sounds                                       203

XXVI.  Taste and Smell                                               205

XXVII. The Sublime and Beautiful compared                            205


PART IV.

I.     Of the Efficient Cause of the Sublime and Beautiful           208

II.    Association                                                   209

III.   Cause of Pain and Fear                                        210

IV.    Continued                                                     212

V.     How the Sublime is produced                                   215

VI.    How Pain can be a Cause of Delight                            215

VII.   Exercise necessary for the Finer Organs                       216

VIII.  Why Things not Dangerous sometimes produce a
       Passion like Terror                                           217

IX.    Why Visual Objects of Great Dimensions are Sublime            217

X.     Unity, why requisite to Vastness                              219

XI.    The Artificial Infinite                                       220

XII.   The Vibrations must be Similar                                222

XIII.  The Effects of Succession in Visual Objects explained         222

XIV.   Locke's Opinion concerning Darkness considered                225

XV.    Darkness Terrible in its own Nature                           226

XVI.   Why Darkness is Terrible                                      227

XVII.  The Effects of Blackness                                      229

XVIII. The Effects of Blackness moderated                            231

XIX.   The Physical Cause of Love                                    232

XX.    Why Smoothness is Beautiful                                   234

XXI.   Sweetness, its Nature                                         235

XXII.  Sweetness relaxing                                            237

XXIII. Variation, why Beautiful                                      239

XXIV.  Concerning Smallness                                          240

XXV.   Of Color                                                      244


PART V.

I.     Of Words                                                      246

II.    The Common Effect of Poetry, not by raising Ideas of Things   246

III.   General Words before Ideas                                    249

IV.    The Effect of Words                                           250

V.     Examples that Words may affect without raising Images         252

VI.    Poetry not strictly an Imitative Art                          257

VII.   How Words influence the Passions                              258




INTRODUCTION.

ON TASTE.


On a superficial view we may seem to differ very widely from each other
in our reasonings, and no less in our pleasures: but, notwithstanding
this difference, which I think to be rather apparent than real, it is
probable that the standard both of reason and taste is the same in all
human creatures. For if there were not some principles of judgment as
well as of sentiment common to all mankind, no hold could possibly be
taken either on their reason or their passions, sufficient to maintain
the ordinary correspondence of life. It appears, indeed, to be generally
acknowledged, that with regard to truth and falsehood there is something
fixed. We find people in their disputes continually appealing to certain
tests and standards, which are allowed on all sides, and are supposed to
be established in our common nature. But there is not the same obvious
concurrence in any uniform or settled principles which relate to taste.
It is even commonly supposed that this delicate and aerial faculty,
which seems too volatile to endure even the chains of a definition,
cannot be properly tried by any test, nor regulated by any standard.
There is so continual a call for the exercise of the reasoning facility;
and it is so much strengthened by perpetual contention, that certain
maxims of right reason seem to be tacitly settled amongst the most
ignorant. The learned have improved on this rude science, and reduced
those maxims into a system. If taste has not been so happily cultivated,
it was not that the subject was barren, but that the laborers were few
or negligent; for, to say the truth, there are not the same interesting
motives to impel us to fix the one, which urge us to ascertain the
other. And, after all, if men differ in their opinion concerning such
matters, their difference is not attended with the same important
consequences; else I make no doubt but that the logic of taste, if I may
be allowed the expression, might very possibly be as well digested, and
we might come to discuss matters of this nature with as much certainty,
as those which seem more immediately within the province of mere reason.
And, indeed, it is very necessary, at the entrance into such an inquiry
as our present, to make this point as clear as possible; for if taste
has no fixed principles, if the imagination is not affected according to
some invariable and certain laws, our labor is likely to be employed to
very little purpose; as it must be judged an useless, if not an absurd
undertaking, to lay down rules for caprice, and to set up for a
legislator of whims and fancies.

The term taste, like all other figurative terms, is not extremely
accurate; the thing which we understand by it is far from a simple and
determinate idea in the minds of most men, and it is therefore liable to
uncertainty and confusion. I have no great opinion of a definition, the
celebrated remedy for the cure of this disorder. For, when we define, we
seem in danger of circumscribing nature within the bounds of our own
notions, which we often take up by hazard or embrace on trust, or form
out of a limited and partial consideration of the object before us;
instead of extending our ideas to take in all that nature comprehends,
according to her manner of combining. We are limited in our inquiry by
the strict laws to which we have submitted at our setting out.

        Circa vilem patulumque morabimur orbem,
    Unde pudor proferre pedem vetat aut operis lex.


A definition may be very exact, and yet go but a very little way towards
informing us of the nature of the thing defined; but let the virtue of a
definition be what it will, in the order of things, it seems rather to
follow than to precede our inquiry, of which it ought to be considered
as the result. It must be acknowledged that the methods of disquisition
and teaching may be sometimes different, and on very good reason
undoubtedly; but, for my part, I am convinced that the method of
teaching which approaches most nearly to the method of investigation is
incomparably the best; since, not content with serving up a few barren
and lifeless truths, it leads to the stock on which they grew; it tends
to set the reader himself in the track of invention, and to direct him
into those paths in which the author has made his own discoveries, if he
should be so happy as to have made any that are valuable.

But to cut off all pretence for cavilling, I mean by the word taste, no
more than that faculty or those faculties of the mind, which are
affected with, or which form a judgment of, the works of imagination and
the elegant arts. This is, I think, the most general idea of that word,
and what is the least connected with any particular theory. And my point
in this inquiry is, to find whether there are any principles, on which
the imagination is affected, so common to all, so grounded and certain,
as to supply the means of reasoning satisfactorily about them. And such
principles of taste I fancy there are; however paradoxical it may seem
to those, who on a superficial view imagine that there is so great a
diversity of tastes, both in kind and degree, that nothing can be more
indeterminate.

All the natural powers in man, which I know, that are conversant about
external objects, are the senses; the imagination; and the judgment. And
first with regard to the senses. We do and we must suppose, that as the
conformation of their organs are nearly or altogether the same in all
men, so the manner of perceiving external objects is in all men the
same, or with little difference. We are satisfied that what appears to
be light to one eye, appears light to another; that what seems sweet to
one palate, is sweet to another; that what is dark and bitter to this
man, is likewise dark and bitter to that; and we conclude in the same
manner of great and little, hard and soft, hot and cold, rough and
smooth; and indeed of all the natural qualities and affections of
bodies. If we suffer ourselves to imagine, that their senses present to
different men different images of things, this sceptical proceeding will
make every sort of reasoning on every subject vain and frivolous, even
that sceptical reasoning itself which had persuaded us to entertain a
doubt concerning the agreement of our perceptions. But as there will be
little doubt that bodies present similar images to the whole species, it
must necessarily be allowed, that the pleasures and the pains which
every object excites in one man, it must raise in all mankind, whilst
it operates naturally, simply, and by its proper powers only: for if we
deny this, we must imagine that the same cause, operating in the same
manner, and on subjects of the same kind, will produce different
effects; which would be highly absurd. Let us first consider this point
in the sense of taste, and the rather as the faculty in question has
taken its name from that sense. All men are agreed to call vinegar sour,
honey sweet, and aloes bitter; and as they are all agreed in finding
those qualities in those objects, they do not in the least differ
concerning their effects with regard to pleasure and pain. They all
concur in calling sweetness pleasant, and sourness and bitterness
unpleasant. Here there is no diversity in their sentiments; and that
there is not, appears fully from the consent of all men in the metaphors
which are taken, from the souse of taste. A sour temper, bitter
expressions, bitter curses, a bitter fate, are terms well and strongly
understood by all. And we are altogether as well understood when we say,
a sweet disposition, a sweet person, a sweet condition and the like. It
is confessed, that custom and some other causes have made many
deviations from the natural pleasures or pains which belong to these
several tastes; but then the power of distinguishing between the natural
and the acquired relish remains to the very last. A man frequently comes
to prefer the taste of tobacco to that of sugar, and the flavor of
vinegar to that of milk; but this makes no confusion in tastes, whilst
he is sensible that the tobacco and vinegar are not sweet, and whilst he
knows that habit alone has reconciled his palate to these alien
pleasures. Even with such a person we may speak, and with sufficient
precision, concerning tastes. But should any man be found who declares,
that to him tobacco has a taste like sugar, and that he cannot
distinguish between milk and vinegar; or that tobacco and vinegar are
sweet, milk bitter, and sugar sour; we immediately conclude that the
organs of this man are out of order, and that his palate is utterly
vitiated. We are as far from conferring with such a person upon tastes,
as from reasoning concerning the relations of quantity with one who
should deny that all the parts together were equal to the whole. We do
not call a man of this kind wrong in his notions, but absolutely mad.
Exceptions of this sort, in either way, do not at all impeach our
general rule, nor make us conclude that men have various principles
concerning the relations of quantity or the taste of things. So that
when it is said, taste cannot be disputed, it can only mean, that no one
can strictly answer what pleasure or pain some particular man may find
from the taste of some particular thing. This indeed cannot be disputed;
but we may dispute, and with sufficient clearness too, concerning the
things which are naturally pleasing or disagreeable to the sense. But
when we talk of any peculiar or acquired relish, then we must know the
habits, the prejudices, or the distempers of this particular man, and we
must draw our conclusion from those.

This agreement of mankind is not confined to the taste solely. The
principle of pleasure derived from sight is the same in all. Light is
more pleasing than darkness. Summer, when the earth is clad in green,
when the heavens are serene and bright, is more agreeable than winter,
when everything makes a different appearance. I never remember that
anything beautiful, whether a man, a beast, a bird, or a plant, was
ever shown, though it were to a hundred people, that they did not all
immediately agree that it was beautiful, though some might have thought
that it fell short of their expectation, or that other things were still
finer. I believe no man thinks a goose to be more beautiful than a swan,
or imagines that what they call a Friesland hen excels a peacock. It
must be observed too, that the pleasures of the sight are not near so
complicated, and confused, and altered by unnatural habits and
associations, as the pleasures of the taste are; because the pleasures
of the sight more commonly acquiesce in themselves; and are not so often
altered by considerations which are independent of the sight itself. But
things do not spontaneously present themselves to the palate as they do
to the sight; they are generally applied to it, either as food or as
medicine; and from the qualities which they possess for nutritive or
medicinal purposes they often form the palate by degrees, and by force
of these associations. Thus opium is pleasing to Turks, on account of
the agreeable delirium it produces. Tobacco is the delight of Dutchmen,
as it diffuses a torpor and pleasing stupefaction. Fermented spirits
please our common people, because they banish care, and all
consideration of future or present evils. All of these would lie
absolutely neglected if their properties had originally gone no further
than the taste; but all these, together with tea and coffee, and some
other things, have passed from the apothecary's shop to our tables, and
were taken for health long before they were thought of for pleasure. The
effect of the drug has made us use it frequently; and frequent use,
combined with the agreeable effect, has made the taste itself at last
agreeable. But this does not in the least perplex our reasoning;
because we distinguish to the last the acquired from the natural relish.
In describing the taste of an unknown fruit, you would scarcely say that
it had a sweet and pleasant flavor like tobacco, opium, or garlic,
although you spoke to those who were in the constant use of those drugs,
and had great pleasure in them. There is in all men a sufficient
remembrance of the original natural causes of pleasure, to enable them
to bring all things offered to their senses to that standard, and to
regulate their feelings and opinions by it. Suppose one who had so
vitiated his palate as to take more pleasure in the taste of opium than
in that of butter or honey, to be presented with a bolus of squills;
there is hardly any doubt but that he would prefer the butter or honey
to this nauseous morsel, or to any other bitter drug to which he had not
been accustomed; which proves that his palate was naturally like that of
other men in all things, that it is still like the palate of other men
in many things, and only vitiated in some particular points. For in
judging of any new thing, even of a taste similar to that which he has
been formed by habit to like, he finds his palate affected in the
natural manner, and on the common principles. Thus the pleasure of all
the senses, of the sight, and even of the taste, that most ambiguous of
the senses, is the same in all, high and low, learned and unlearned.

Besides the ideas, with their annexed pains and pleasures, which are
presented by the sense; the mind of man possesses a sort of creative
power of its own; either in representing at pleasure the images of
things in the order and manner in which they were received by the
senses, or in combining those images in a new manner, and according to
a different order. This power is called imagination; and to this belongs
whatever is called wit, fancy, invention, and the like. But it must be
observed, that this power of the imagination is incapable of producing
anything absolutely new; it can only vary the disposition of those ideas
which it has received from the senses. Now the imagination is the most
extensive province of pleasure and pain, as it is the region of our
fears and our hopes, and of all our passions that are connected with
them; and whatever is calculated to affect the imagination with these
commanding ideas, by force of any original natural impression, must have
the same power pretty equally over all men. For since the imagination is
only the representation of the senses, it can only be pleased or
displeased with the images, from the same principle on which the sense
is pleased or displeased with the realities; and consequently there must
be just as close an agreement in the imaginations as in the senses of
men. A little attention will convince us that this must of necessity be
the case.

But in the imagination, besides the pain or pleasure arising from the
properties of the natural object, a pleasure is perceived from the
resemblance which the imitation has to the original: the imagination, I
conceive, can have no pleasure but what results from one or other of
these causes. And these causes operate pretty uniformly upon all men,
because they operate by principles in nature, and which are not derived
from any particular habits or advantages. Mr. Locke very justly and
finely observes of wit, that it is chiefly conversant in tracing
resemblances; he remarks, at the same time, that the business of
judgment is rather in finding differences. It may perhaps appear, on
this supposition, that there is no material distinction between the wit
and the judgment, as they both seem to result from different operations
of the same faculty of _comparing_. But in reality, whether they are or
are not dependent on the same power of the mind, they differ so very
materially in many respects, that a perfect union of wit and judgment is
one of the rarest things in the world. When two distinct objects are
unlike to each other, it is only what we expect; things are in their
common way; and therefore they make no impression on the imagination:
but when two distinct objects have a resemblance, we are struck, we
attend to them, and we are pleased. The mind of man has naturally a far
greater alacrity and satisfaction in tracing resemblances than in
searching for differences; because by making resemblances we produce
_new images_; we unite, we create, we enlarge our stock; but in making
distinctions we offer no food at all to the imagination; the task itself
is more severe and irksome, and what pleasure we derive from it is
something of a negative and indirect nature. A piece of news is told me
in the morning; this, merely as a piece of news, as a fact added to my
stock, gives me some pleasure. In the evening I find there was nothing
in it. What do I gain by this, but the dissatisfaction to find that I
had been imposed upon? Hence it is that men are much more naturally
inclined to belief than to incredulity. And it is upon this principle,
that the most ignorant and barbarous nations have frequently excelled in
similitudes, comparisons, metaphors, and allegories, who have been weak
and backward in distinguishing and sorting their ideas. And it is for a
reason of this kind, that Homer and the oriental writers, though very
fond of similitudes, and though they often strike out such as are truly
admirable, seldom take care to have them exact; that is, they are taken
with the general resemblance, they paint it strongly, and they take no
notice of the difference which may be found between the things compared.

Now as the pleasure of resemblance is that which principally flatters
the imagination, all men are nearly equal in this point, as far as their
knowledge of the things represented or compared extends. The principle
of this knowledge is very much accidental, as it depends upon experience
and observation, and not on the strength or weakness of any natural
faculty; and it is from this difference in knowledge, that what we
commonly, though with no great exactness, call a difference in taste
proceeds. A man to whom sculpture is new, sees a barber's block, or some
ordinary piece of statuary; he is immediately struck and pleased,
because he sees something like a human figure; and, entirely taken up
with this likeness, he does not at all attend to its defects. No person,
I believe, at the first time of seeing a piece of imitation ever did.
Some time after, we suppose that this novice lights upon a more
artificial work of the same nature; he now begins to look with contempt
on what he admired at first; not that he admired it even then for its
unlikeness to a man, but for that general though inaccurate resemblance
which it bore to the human figure. What he admired at different times in
these so different figures, is strictly the same; and though his
knowledge is improved, his taste is not altered. Hitherto his mistake
was from a want of knowledge in art, and this arose from his
inexperience; but he may be still deficient from a want of knowledge in
nature. For it is possible that the man in question may stop here, and
that the masterpiece of a great hand may please him no more than the
middling performance of a vulgar artist; and this not for want of better
or higher relish, but because all men do not observe with sufficient
accuracy on the human figure to enable them to judge properly of an
imitation of it. And that the critical taste does not depend upon a
superior principle in men, but upon superior knowledge, may appear from
several instances. The story of the ancient painter and the shoemaker is
very well known. The shoemaker set the painter right with regard to some
mistakes he had made in the shoe of one of his figures, which the
painter, who had not made such accurate observations on shoes, and was
content with a general resemblance, had never observed. But this was no
impeachment to the taste of the painter; it only showed some want of
knowledge in the art of making shoes. Let us imagine, that an anatomist
had come into the painter's working-room. His piece is in general well
done, the figure in question in a good attitude, and the parts well
adjusted to their various movements; yet the anatomist, critical in his
art, may observe the swell of some muscle not quite just in the peculiar
action of the figure. Here the anatomist observes what the painter had
not observed; and he passes by what the shoemaker had remarked. But a
want of the last critical knowledge in anatomy no more reflected on the
natural good taste of the painter, or of any common observer of his
piece, than the want of an exact knowledge in the formation of a shoe. A
fine piece of a decollated head of St. John the Baptist was shown to a
Turkish emperor: he praised many things, but he observed one defect: he
observed that the skin did not shrink from the wounded part of the neck.
The sultan on this occasion, though his observation was very just,
discovered no more natural taste than the painter who executed this
piece, or than a thousand European connoisseurs, who probably never
would have made the same observation. His Turkish majesty had indeed
been well acquainted with that terrible spectacle, which the others
could only have represented in their imagination. On the subject of
their dislike there is a difference between all these people, arising
from the different kinds and degrees of their knowledge; but there is
something in common to the painter, the shoemaker, the anatomist, and
the Turkish emperor, the pleasure arising from a natural object, so far
as each perceives it justly imitated; the satisfaction in seeing an
agreeable figure; the sympathy proceeding from a striking and affecting
incident. So far as taste is natural, it is nearly common to all.

In poetry, and other pieces of imagination, the same parity may be
observed. It is true, that one man is charmed with Don Bellianis, and
reads Virgil coldly; whilst another is transported with the AEneid, and
leaves Don Bellianis to children. These two men seem to have a taste
very different from each other; but in fact they differ very little. In
both these pieces, which inspire such opposite sentiments, a tale
exciting admiration is told; both are full of action, both are
passionate; in both are voyages, battles, triumphs, and continual
changes of fortune. The admirer of Don Bellianis perhaps does not
understand the refined language of the AEneid, who, if it was degraded
into the style of the "Pilgrim's Progress," might feel it in all its
energy, on the same principle which made him an admirer of Don
Bellianis.

In his favorite author he is not shocked with the continual breaches of
probability, the confusion of times, the offences against manners, the
trampling upon geography; for he knows nothing of geography and
chronology, and he has never examined the grounds of probability. He
perhaps reads of a shipwreck on the coast of Bohemia: wholly taken up
with so interesting an event, and only solicitous for the fate of his
hero, he is not in the least troubled at this extravagant blunder. For
why should he be shocked at a shipwreck on the coast of Bohemia, who
does not know but that Bohemia may be an island in the Atlantic ocean?
and after all, what reflection is this on the natural good taste of the
person here supposed?

So far then as taste belongs to the imagination, its principle is the
same in all men; there is no difference in the manner of their being
affected, nor in the causes of the affection; but in the _degree_ there
is a difference, which arises from two causes principally; either from a
greater degree of natural sensibility, or from a closer and longer
attention to the object. To illustrate this by the procedure of the
senses, in which the same difference is found, let us suppose a very
smooth marble table to be set before two men; they both perceive it to
be smooth, and they are both pleased with it because of this quality. So
far they agree. But suppose another, and after that another table, the
latter still smoother than the former, to be set before them. It is now
very probable that these men, who are so agreed upon what is smooth, and
in the pleasure from thence, will disagree when they come to settle
which table has the advantage in point of polish. Here is indeed the
great difference between tastes, when men come to compare the excess or
diminution of things which are judged by degree and not by measure. Nor
is it easy, when such a difference arises, to settle the point, if the
excess or diminution be not glaring. If we differ in opinion about two
quantities, we can have recourse to a common measure, which may decide
the question with the utmost exactness; and this, I take it, is what
gives mathematical knowledge a greater certainty than any other. But in
things whose excess is not judged by greater or smaller, as smoothness
and roughness, hardness and softness, darkness and light, the shades of
colors, all these are very easily distinguished when the difference is
any way considerable, but not when it is minute, for want of some common
measures, which perhaps may never come to be discovered. In these nice
cases, supposing the acuteness of the sense equal, the greater attention
and habit in such things will have the advantage. In the question about
the tables, the marble-polisher will unquestionably determine the most
accurately. But notwithstanding this want of a common measure for
settling many disputes relative to the senses, and their representative
the imagination, we find that the principles are the same in all, and
that there is no disagreement until we come to examine into the
pre-eminence or difference of things, which brings us within the
province of the judgment.

So long as we are conversant with the sensible qualities of things,
hardly any more than the imagination seems concerned; little more also
than the imagination seems concerned when the passions are represented,
because by the force of natural sympathy they are felt in all men
without any recourse to reasoning, and their justness recognized in
every breast. Love, grief, fear, anger, joy, all these passions have, in
their turns, affected every mind; and they do not affect it in an
arbitrary or casual manner, but upon certain, natural, and uniform
principles. But as many of the works of imagination are not confined to
the representation of sensible objects, nor to efforts upon the
passions, but extend themselves to the manners, the characters, the
actions, and designs of men, their relations, their virtues and vices,
they come within the province of the judgment, which is improved by
attention, and by the habit of reasoning. All these make a very
considerable part of what are considered as the objects of taste; and
Horace sends us to the schools of philosophy and the world for our
instruction in them. Whatever certainty is to be acquired in morality
and the science of life; just the same degree of certainty have we in
what relates to them in works of imitation. Indeed it is for the most
part in our skill in manners, and in the observances of time and place,
and of decency in general, which is only to be learned in those schools
to which Horace recommends us, that what is called taste, by way of
distinction, consists: and which is in reality no other than a more
refined judgment. On the whole, it appears to me, that what is called
taste, in its most general acceptation, is not a simple idea, but is
partly made up of a perception of the primary pleasures of sense, of the
secondary pleasures of the imagination, and of the conclusions of the
reasoning faculty, concerning the various relations of these, and
concerning the human passions, manners, and actions. All this is
requisite to form taste, and the groundwork of all these is the same in
the human mind; for as the senses are the great originals of all our
ideas, and consequently of all our pleasures, if they are not uncertain
and arbitrary, the whole groundwork of taste is common to all, and
therefore there is a sufficient foundation for a conclusive reasoning on
these matters.

Whilst we consider taste merely according to its nature and species, we
shall find its principles entirely uniform; but the degree in which
these principles prevail, in the several individuals of mankind, is
altogether as different as the principles themselves are similar. For
sensibility and judgment, which are the qualities that compose what we
commonly call a _taste_, vary exceedingly in various people. From a
defect in the former of these qualities arises a want of taste; a
weakness in the latter constitutes a wrong or a bad one. There are some
men formed with feelings so blunt, with tempers so cold and phlegmatic,
that they can hardly be said to be awake during the whole course of
their lives. Upon such persons the most striking objects make but a
faint and obscure impression. There are others so continually in the
agitation of gross and merely sensual pleasures, or so occupied in the
low drudgery of avarice, or so heated in the chase of honors and
distinction, that their minds, which had been used continually to the
storms of these violent and tempestuous passions, can hardly be put in
motion by the delicate and refined play of the imagination. These men,
though from a different cause, become as stupid and insensible as the
former; but whenever either of these happen to be struck with any
natural elegance or greatness, or with these qualities in any work of
art, they are moved upon the same principle.

The cause of a wrong taste is a defect of judgment. And this may arise
from a natural weakness of understanding (in whatever the strength of
that faculty may consist), or, which is much more commonly the case, it
may arise from a want of a proper and well-directed exercise, which
alone can make it strong and ready. Besides, that ignorance,
inattention, prejudice, rashness, levity, obstinacy, in short, all those
passions, and all those vices, which pervert the judgment in other
matters, prejudice it no less in this its more refined and elegant
province. These causes produce different opinions upon everything which
is an object of the understanding, without inducing us to suppose that
there are no settled principles of reason. And indeed, on the whole, one
may observe, that there is rather less difference upon matters of taste
among mankind, than upon most of those which depend upon the naked
reason; and that men are far better agreed on the excellence of a
description in Virgil, than on the truth or falsehood of a theory of
Aristotle.

A rectitude of judgment in the arts, which may be called a good taste,
does in a great measure depend upon sensibility; because if the mind has
no bent to the pleasures of the imagination, it will never apply itself
sufficiently to works of that species to acquire a competent knowledge
in them. But though a degree of sensibility is requisite to form a good
judgment, yet a good judgment does not necessarily arise from a quick
sensibility of pleasure; it frequently happens that a very poor judge,
merely by force of a greater complexional sensibility, is more affected
by a very poor piece, than the best judge by the most perfect; for as
everything now, extraordinary, grand, or passionate, is well calculated
to affect such a person, and that the faults do not affect him, his
pleasure is more pure and unmixed; and as it is merely a pleasure of the
imagination, it is much higher than any which is derived from a
rectitude of the judgment; the judgment is for the greater part employed
in throwing stumbling-blocks in the way of the imagination, in
dissipating the scenes of its enchantment, and in tying us down to the
disagreeable yoke of our reason: for almost the only pleasure that men
have in judging better than others, consists in a sort of conscious
pride and superiority, which arises from thinking rightly; but then this
is an indirect pleasure, a pleasure which does not immediately result
from the object which is under contemplation. In the morning of our
days, when the senses are unworn and tender, when the whole man is awake
in every part, and the gloss of novelty fresh upon all the objects that
surround us, how lively at that time are our sensations, but how false
and inaccurate the judgments we form of things! I despair of ever
receiving the same degree of pleasure from the most excellent
performances of genius, which I felt at that age from pieces which my
present judgment regards as trifling and contemptible. Every trivial
cause of pleasure is apt to affect the man of too sanguine a complexion:
his appetite is too keen to suffer his taste to be delicate; and he is
in all respects what Ovid says of himself in love,

    Molle meum levibus cor est violabile telis,
    Et semper causa est, cur ego semper amem.

One of this character can never be a refined judge; never what the
comic poet calls _elegans formarum spectator_. The excellence and force
of a composition must always he imperfectly estimated from its effect on
the minds of any, except we know the temper and character of those
minds. The most powerful effects of poetry and music have been
displayed, and perhaps are still displayed, where these arts are but in
a very low and imperfect state. The rude hearer is affected by the
principles which operate in these arts even in their rudest condition;
and he is not skilful enough to perceive the defects. But as the arts
advance towards their perfection, the science of criticism advances with
equal pace, and the pleasure of judges is frequently interrupted by the
faults which we discovered in the most finished compositions.

Before I leave this subject, I cannot help taking notice of an opinion
which many persons entertain, as if the taste were a separate faculty of
the mind, and distinct from the judgment and imagination; a species of
instinct, by which we are struck naturally, and at the first glance,
without any previous reasoning, with the excellences or the defects of a
composition. So far as the imagination, and the passions are concerned,
I believe it true, that the reason is little consulted; but where
disposition, where decorum, where congruity are concerned, in short,
wherever the best taste differs from the worst, I am convinced that the
understanding operates, and nothing else; and its operation is in
reality far from being always sudden, or, when it is sudden, it is often
far from being right. Men of the best taste by consideration come
frequently to change these early and precipitate judgments, which the
mind, from its aversion to neutrality and doubt, loves to form on the
spot. It is known that the taste (whatever it is) is improved exactly
as we improve our judgment, by extending our knowledge, by a steady
attention to our object, and by frequent exercise. They who have not
taken these methods, if their taste decides quickly, it is always
uncertainly; and their quickness is owing to their presumption and
rashness, and not to any sudden irradiation, that in a moment dispels
all darkness from their minds. But they who have cultivated that species
of knowledge which makes the object of taste, by degrees and habitually
attain not only a soundness but a readiness of judgment, as men do by
the same methods on all other occasions. At first they are obliged to
spell, but at last they read with ease and with celerity; but this
celerity of its operation is no proof that the taste is a distinct
faculty. Nobody, I believe, has attended the course of a discussion
which turned upon matters within the sphere of mere naked reason, but
must have observed the extreme readiness with which the whole process of
the argument is carried on, the grounds discovered, the objections
raised and answered, and the conclusions drawn from premises, with a
quickness altogether as great as the taste can be supposed to work with;
and yet where nothing but plain reason either is or can be suspected to
operate. To multiply principles for every different appearance is
useless, and unphilosophical too in a high degree.

This matter might be pursued much farther; but it is not the extent of
the subject which must prescribe our bounds, for what subject does not
branch out to infinity? It is the nature of our particular scheme, and
the single point of view in which we consider it, which ought to put a
stop to our researches.




A

PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY

INTO THE ORIGIN OF OUR IDEAS OF

THE SUBLIME AND BEAUTIFUL


PART I.


SECTION I.

NOVELTY.

The first and the simplest emotion which we discover in the human mind
is curiosity. By curiosity I mean whatever desire we have for, or
whatever pleasure we take in, novelty. We see children perpetually
running from place to place, to hunt out something new: they catch with
great eagerness, and with very little choice, at whatever comes before
them; their attention is engaged by everything, because everything has,
in that stage of life, the charm of novelty to recommend it. But as
those things, which engage us merely by their novelty, cannot attach us
for any length of time, curiosity is the most superficial of all the
affections; it changes its object perpetually; it has an appetite which
is very sharp, but very easily satisfied; and it has always an
appearance of giddiness, restlessness, and anxiety. Curiosity, from its
nature, is a very active principle; it quickly runs over the greatest
part of its objects, and soon exhausts the variety which is commonly to
be met with in nature; the same things make frequent returns, and they
return with less and less of any agreeable effect. In short, the
occurrences of life, by the time we come to know it a little, would be
incapable of affecting the mind with any other sensations than those of
loathing and weariness, if many things were not adapted to affect the
mind by means of other powers besides novelty in them, and of other
passions besides curiosity in ourselves. These powers and passions shall
be considered in their place. But, whatever these powers are, or upon
what principle soever they affect the mind, it is absolutely necessary
that they should not be exerted in those things which a daily and vulgar
use have brought into a stale unaffecting familiarity. Some degree of
novelty must be one of the materials in every instrument which works
upon the mind; and curiosity blends itself more or less with all our
passions.


SECTION II.

PAIN AND PLEASURE.

It seems, then, necessary towards moving the passions of people advanced
in life to any considerable degree, that the objects designed for that
purpose, besides their being in some measure new, should be capable of
exciting pain or pleasure from other causes. Pain and pleasure are
simple ideas, incapable of definition. People are not liable to be
mistaken in their feelings, but they are very frequently wrong in the
names they give them, and in their reasonings about them. Many are of
opinion, that pain arises necessarily from the removal of some pleasure;
as they think pleasure does from the ceasing or diminution of some pain.
For my part, I am rather inclined to imagine, that pain and pleasure,
in their most simple and natural manner of affecting, are each of a
positive nature, and by no means necessarily dependent on each other for
their existence. The human mind is often, and I think it is for the most
part, in a state neither of pain nor pleasure, which I call a state of
indifference. When I am carried from this state into a state of actual
pleasure, it does not appear necessary that I should pass through the
medium of any sort of pain. If in such a state of indifference, or ease,
or tranquillity, or call it what you please, you were to be suddenly
entertained with a concert of music; or suppose some object of a fine
shape, and bright, lively colors, to be presented before you; or imagine
your smell is gratified with the fragrance of a rose; or if, without any
previous thirst, you were to drink of some pleasant kind of wine, or to
taste of some sweetmeat without being hungry; in all the several senses,
of hearing, smelling, and tasting, you undoubtedly find a pleasure; yet,
if I inquire into the state of your mind previous to these
gratifications, you will hardly tell me that they found you in any kind
of pain; or, having satisfied these several senses with their several
pleasures, will you say that any pain has succeeded, though the pleasure
is absolutely over? Suppose, on the other hand, a man in the same state
of indifference to receive a violent blow, or to drink of some bitter
potion, or to have his ears wounded with some harsh and grating sound;
here is no removal of pleasure; and yet here is felt, his every sense
which is affected, a pain very distinguishable. It may be said, perhaps,
that the pain in these cases had its rise from the removal of the
pleasure which the man enjoyed before, though that pleasure was of so
low a degree as to be perceived only by the removal. But this seems to
me a subtilty that is not discoverable in nature. For if, previous to
the pain, I do not feel any actual pleasure, I have no reason to judge
that any such thing exists; since pleasure is only pleasure as it is
felt. The same may be said of pain, and with equal reason. I can never
persuade myself that pleasure and pain are mere relations, which can
only exist as they are contrasted; but I think I can discern clearly
that there are positive pains and pleasures, which do not at all depend
upon each other. Nothing is more certain to my own feelings than this.
There is nothing which I can distinguish in my mind with more clearness
than the three states, of indifference, of pleasure, and of pain. Every
one of these I can perceive without any sort of idea of its relation to
anything else. Caius is afflicted with a fit of the colic; this man is
actually in pain; stretch Caius upon the rack, he will feel a much
greater pain: but does this pain of the rack arise from the removal of
any pleasure? or is the fit of the colic a pleasure or a pain just as we
are pleased to consider it?


SECTION III.

THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THE REMOVAL OF PAIN AND POSITIVE PLEASURE.

We shall carry this proposition yet a step further. We shall venture to
propose, that pain and pleasure are not only not necessarily dependent
for their existence on their mutual diminution or removal, but that, in
reality, the diminution or ceasing of pleasure does not operate like
positive pain; and that the removal or diminution of pain, in its
effect, has very little resemblance to positive pleasure.[10] The former
of these propositions will, I believe, be much more readily allowed than
the latter; because it is very evident that pleasure, when it has run
its career, sets us down very nearly where it found us. Pleasure of
every kind quickly satisfies; and, when it is over, we relapse into
indifference, or, rather, we fall into a soft tranquillity which is
tinged with the agreeable color of the former sensation. I own it is not
at first view so apparent that the removal of a great pain does not
resemble positive pleasure: but let us recollect in what state we have
found our minds upon escaping some imminent danger, or on being released
from the severity of some cruel pain. We have on such occasions found,
if I am not much mistaken, the temper of our minds in a tenor very
remote from that which attends the presence of positive pleasure; we
have found them in a state of much sobriety, impressed with a sense of
awe, in a sort of tranquillity shadowed with horror. The fashion of the
countenance and the gesture of the body on such occasions is so
correspondent to this state of mind, that any person, a stranger to the
cause of the appearance, would rather judge us under some consternation,
than in the enjoyment of anything like positive pleasure.

    [Greek:
    Hos d' hotan andr' ate pykine labe, host' eni patre,
    Phota katakteinas, allon exiketo demon,
    Andros es aphneiou, thambos d' echei eisoroontas.]

                                        Iliad, [Greek: O]. 480.

   "As when a wretch, who, conscious of his crime,
    Pursued for murder from his native clime,
    Just gains some frontier, breathless, pale, amazed;
    All gaze, all wonder!"

This striking appearance of the man whom Homer supposes to have just
escaped an imminent danger, the sort of mixed passion of terror and
surprise, with which he affects the spectators, paints very strongly the
manner in which we find ourselves affected upon occasions any way
similar. For when we have suffered from any violent emotion, the mind
naturally continues in something like the same condition, after the
cause which first produced it has ceased to operate. The tossing of the
sea remains after the storm; and when this remain of horror has entirely
subsided, all the passion which the accident raised subsides along with
it; and the mind returns to its usual state of indifference. In short,
pleasure (I mean anything either in the inward sensation, or in the
outward appearance, like pleasure from a positive cause) has never, I
imagine, its origin from the removal of pain or danger.


SECTION IV.

OF DELIGHT AND PLEASURE, AS OPPOSED TO EACH OTHER.

But shall we therefore say, that the removal of pain or its diminution
is always simply painful? or affirm that the cessation or the lessening
of pleasure is always attended itself with a pleasure? By no means. What
I advance is no more than this; first, that there are pleasures and
pains of a positive and independent nature; and, secondly, that the
feeling which results from the ceasing or diminution of pain does not
bear a sufficient resemblance to positive pleasure, to have it
considered as of the same nature, or to entitle it to be known by the
same name; and thirdly, that upon the same principle the removal or
qualification of pleasure has no resemblance to positive pain. It is
certain that the former feeling (the removal or moderation of pain) has
something in it far from distressing, or disagreeable in its nature.
This feeling, in many cases so agreeable, but in all so different from
positive pleasure, has no name which I know; but that hinders not its
being a very real one, and very different from all others. It is most
certain, that every species of satisfaction or pleasure, how different
soever in its manner of affecting, is of a positive nature in the mind
of him who feels it. The affection is undoubtedly positive; but the
cause may be, as in this case it certainly is, a sort of _privation_.
And it is very reasonable that we should distinguish by some term two
things so distinct in nature, as a pleasure that is such simply, and
without any relation, from that pleasure which cannot exist without a
relation, and that, too, a relation to pain. Very extraordinary it would
be, if these affections, so distinguishable in their causes, so
different in their effects, should be confounded with each other,
because vulgar use has ranged them under the same general title.
Whenever I have occasion to speak of this species of relative pleasure,
I call it _delight_; and I shall take the best care I can to use that
word in no other sense. I am satisfied the word is not commonly used in
this appropriated signification; but I thought it better to take up a
word already known, and to limit its signification, than to introduce a
new one, which would not perhaps incorporate so well with the language.
I should never have presumed the least alteration in our words, if the
nature of the language, framed for the purposes of business rather than
those of philosophy, and the nature of my subject, that leads me out of
the common track of discourse, did not in a manner necessitate me to it.
I shall make use of this liberty with all possible caution. As I make
use of the word _delight_ to express the sensation which accompanies the
removal of pain or danger, so, when I speak of positive pleasure, I
shall for the most part call it simply _pleasure_.


SECTION V.

JOY AND GRIEF.

It must be observed, that the cessation of pleasure affects the mind
three ways. If it simply ceases after having continued a proper time,
the effect is _indifference_; if it be abruptly broken off, there ensues
an uneasy sense called _disappointment_; if the object be so totally
lost that there is no chance of enjoying it again, a passion arises in
the mind which is called _grief_. Now there is none of these, not even
grief, which is the most violent, that I think has any resemblance to
positive pain. The person who grieves suffers his passion to grow upon
him; he indulges it, he loves it: but this never happens in the case of
actual pain, which no man ever willingly endured for any considerable
time. That grief should be willingly endured, though far from a simply
pleasing sensation, is not so difficult to be understood. It is the
nature of grief to keep its object perpetually in its eye, to present it
in its most pleasurable views, to repeat all the circumstances that
attend it, even to the last minuteness; to go back to every particular
enjoyment, to dwell upon each, and to find a thousand new perfections in
all, that were not sufficiently understood before; in grief, the
_pleasure_ is still uppermost; and the affliction we suffer has no
resemblance to absolute pain, which is always odious, and which we
endeavor to shake off as soon as possible. The Odyssey of Homer, which
abounds with so many natural and affecting images, has none more
striking than those which Menelaus raises of the calamitous fate of his
friends, and his own manner of feeling it. He owns, indeed, that he
often gives himself some intermission from such melancholy reflections;
but he observes, too, that, melancholy as they are, they give him
pleasure.

    [Greek:
    All empes pantas men odyromenos kai acheuon,
    Pollakis en megaroisi kathemenos hemeteroisin,
    Allote men te goo phrena terpomai, allote d' aute
    Pauomai; aipseros de koros kryeroio gooio]

                                        Hom. Od. [Greek: D]. 100

   "Still in short intervals of _pleasing woe_,
    Regardful of the friendly dues I owe,
    I to the glorious dead, forever dear,
    _Indulge_ the tribute of a _grateful_ tear."

On the other hand, when we recover our health, when we escape an
imminent danger, is it with joy that we are affected? The sense on these
occasions is far from that smooth and voluptuous satisfaction which the
assured prospect of pleasure bestows. The delight which arises from the
modifications of pain confesses the stock from whence it sprung, in its
solid, strong, and severe nature.


SECTION VI.

OF THE PASSIONS WHICH BELONG TO SELF-PRESERVATION.

Most of the ideas which are capable of making a powerful impression on
the mind, whether simply of pain or pleasure, or of the modifications of
those, may be reduced very nearly to these two heads,
_self-preservation_, and _society_; to the ends of one or the other of
which all our passions are calculated to answer. The passions which
concern self-preservation, turn mostly on _pain_ or _danger_. The ideas
of _pain_, _sickness_, and _death_, fill the mind with strong emotions
of horror; but _life_ and _health_, though they put us in a capacity of
being affected with pleasure, make no such impression by the simple
enjoyment. The passions therefore which are conversant about the
preservation of the individual turn chiefly on _pain_ and _danger_, and
they are the most powerful of all the passions.


SECTION VII.

OF THE SUBLIME.

Whatever is fitted in any sort to excite the ideas of pain and danger,
that is to say, whatever is in any sort terrible, or is conversant about
terrible objects, or operates in a manner analogous to terror, is a
source of the _sublime_; that is, it is productive of the strongest
emotion which the mind is capable of feeling. I say the strongest
emotion, because I am satisfied the ideas of pain are much more powerful
than those which enter on the part of pleasure. Without all doubt, the
torments which we may be made to suffer are much greater in their
effect on the body and mind, than any pleasures which the most learned
voluptuary could suggest, or than the liveliest imagination, and the
most sound and exquisitely sensible body, could enjoy. Nay, I am in
great doubt whether any man could be found, who would earn a life of the
most perfect satisfaction at the price of ending it in the torments,
which justice inflicted in a few hours on the late unfortunate regicide
in France. But as pain is stronger in its operation than pleasure, so
death is in general a much more affecting idea than pain; because there
are very few pains, however exquisite, which are not preferred to death:
nay, what generally makes pain itself, if I may say so, more painful,
is, that it is considered as an emissary of this king of terrors. When
danger or pain press too nearly, they are incapable of giving any
delight, and are simply terrible; but at certain distances, and with
certain modifications, they may be, and they are, delightful, as we
every day experience. The cause of this I shall endeavor to investigate
hereafter.


SECTION VIII.

OF THE PASSIONS WHICH BELONG TO SOCIETY.

The other head under which I class our passions, is that of _society_,
which may be divided into two sorts. 1. The society of the _sexes_,
which answers the purpose of propagation; and next, that more _general
society_, which we have with men and with other animals, and which we
may in some sort be said to have even with the inanimate world. The
passions belonging to the preservation of the individual turn wholly on
pain and danger: those which belong to _generation_ have their origin in
gratifications and _pleasures_; the pleasure most directly belonging to
this purpose is of a lively character, rapturous and violent, and
confessedly the highest pleasure of sense; yet the absence of this so
great an enjoyment scarce amounts to an uneasiness; and, except at
particular times, I do not think it affects at all. When men describe in
what manner they are affected by pain and danger, they do not dwell on
the pleasure of health and the comfort of security, and then lament the
_loss_ of these satisfactions: the whole turns upon the actual pains and
horrors which they endure. But if you listen to the complaints of a
forsaken lover, you observe that he insists largely on the pleasures
which he enjoyed, or hoped to enjoy, and on the perfection of the object
of his desires; it is the _loss_ which is always uppermost in his mind.
The violent effects produced by love, which has sometimes been even
wrought up to madness, is no objection to the rule which we seek to
establish. When men have suffered their imaginations to be long affected
with any idea, it so wholly engrosses them as to shut out by degrees
almost every other, and to break down every partition of the mind which
would confine it. Any idea is sufficient for the purpose, as is evident
from the infinite variety of causes, which give rise to madness: but
this at most can only prove, that the passion of love is capable of
producing very extraordinary effects, not that its extraordinary
emotions have any connection with positive pain.


SECTION IX.

THE FINAL CAUSE OF THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THE PASSIONS BELONGING TO
SELF-PRESERVATION AND THOSE WHICH REGARD THE SOCIETY OF THE SEXES.

The final cause of the difference in character between the passions
which regard self-preservation, and those which are directed to the
multiplication of the species, will illustrate the foregoing remarks yet
further; and it is, I imagine, worthy of observation even upon its own
account. As the performance of our duties of every kind depends upon
life, and the performing them with vigor and efficacy depends upon
health, we are very strongly affected with whatever threatens the
destruction of either: but as we were not made to acquiesce in life and
health, the simple enjoyment of them is not attended with any real
pleasure, lest, satisfied with that, we should give ourselves over to
indolence and inaction. On the other hand, the generation of mankind is
a great purpose, and it is requisite that men should be animated to the
pursuit of it by some great incentive. It is therefore attended with a
very high pleasure; but as it is by no means designed to be our constant
business, it is not fit that the absence of this pleasure should be
attended with any considerable pain. The difference between men and
brutes, in this point, seems to be remarkable. Men are at all times
pretty equally disposed to the pleasures of love, because they are to be
guided by reason in the time and manner of indulging them. Had any great
pain arisen from the want of this satisfaction, reason, I am afraid,
would find great difficulties in the performance of its office. But
brutes that obey laws, in the execution of which their own reason has
but little share, have their stated seasons; at such times it is not
improbable that the sensation from the want is very troublesome, because
the end must be then answered, or be missed in many, perhaps forever; as
the inclination returns only with its season.


SECTION X.

OF BEAUTY.

The passion which belongs to generation, merely as such, is lust only.
This is evident in brutes, whose passions are more unmixed, and which
pursue their purposes more directly than ours. The only distinction they
observe with regard to their mates, is that of sex. It is true, that
they stick severally to their own species in preference to all others.
But this preference, I imagine, does not arise from any sense of beauty
which they find in their species, as Mr. Addison supposes, but from a
law of some other kind, to which they are subject; and this we may
fairly conclude, from their apparent want of choice amongst those
objects to which the barriers of their species have confined them. But
man, who is a creature adapted to a greater variety and intricacy of
relation, connects with the general passion the idea of some _social_
qualities, which direct and heighten the appetite which he has in common
with all other animals; and as he is not designed like them to live at
large, it is fit that he should have some thing to create a preference,
and fix his choice; and this in general should be some sensible quality;
as no other can so quickly, so powerfully, or so surely produce its
effect. The object therefore of this mixed passion, which we call love,
is the _beauty_ of the _sex_. Men are carried to the sex in general, as
it is the sex, and by the common law of nature; but they are attached to
particulars by personal _beauty_. I call beauty a social quality; for
where women and men, and not only they, but when other animals give us a
sense of joy and pleasure in beholding them (and there are many that do
so), they inspire us with sentiments of tenderness and affection towards
their persons; we like to have them near us, and we enter willingly into
a kind of relation with them, unless we should have strong reasons to
the contrary. But to what end, in many cases, this was designed, I am
unable to discover; for I see no greater reason for a connection between
man and several animals who are attired in so engaging a manner, than
between him and some others who entirely want this attraction, or
possess it in a far weaker degree. But it is probable that Providence
did not make even this distinction, but with a view to some great end;
though we cannot perceive distinctly what it is, as his wisdom is not
our wisdom, nor our ways his ways.


SECTION XI.

SOCIETY AND SOLITUDE.

The second branch of the social passions is that which administers to
_society in general_. With regard to this, I observe, that society,
merely as society, without any particular heightenings, gives us no
positive pleasure in the enjoyment; but absolute and entire _solitude_,
that is, the total and perpetual exclusion from all society, is as
great a positive pain as can almost be conceived. Therefore in the
balance between the pleasure of general _society_, and the pain of
absolute solitude, _pain_ is the predominant idea. But the pleasure of
any particular social enjoyment outweighs very considerably the
uneasiness caused by the want of that particular enjoyment; so that the
strongest sensations relative to the habitudes of _particular society_
are sensations of pleasure. Good company, lively conversations, and the
endearments of friendship, fill the mind with great pleasure; a
temporary solitude, on the other hand, is itself agreeable. This may
perhaps prove that we are creatures designed for contemplation as well
as action; since solitude as well as society has its pleasures; as from
the former observation we may discern, that an entire life of solitude
contradicts the purposes of our being, since death itself is scarcely an
idea of more terror.


SECTION XII.

SYMPATHY, IMITATION, AND AMBITION.

Under this denomination of society, the passions are of a complicated
kind, and branch out into a variety of forms, agreeably to that variety
of ends they are to serve in the great chain of society. The three
principal links in this chain are _sympathy_, _imitation,_ and
_ambition_.


SECTION XIII.

SYMPATHY.

It is by the first of these passions that we enter into the concerns of
others; that we are moved as they are moved, and are never suffered to
be indifferent spectators of almost anything which men can do or suffer.
For sympathy must be considered as a sort of substitution, by which we
are put into the place of another man, and affected in many respects as
he is affected: so that this passion may either partake of the nature of
those which regard self-preservation, and turning upon pain may be a
source of the sublime; or it may turn upon ideas of pleasure; and then
whatever has been said of the social affections, whether they regard
society in general, or only some particular modes of it, may be
applicable here. It is by this principle chiefly that poetry, painting,
and other affecting arts, transfuse their passions from one breast to
another, and are often capable of grafting a delight on wretchedness,
misery, and death itself. It is a common observation, that objects which
in the reality would shock, are in tragical, and such like
representations, the source of a very high species of pleasure. This,
taken as a fact, has been the cause of much reasoning. The satisfaction
has been commonly attributed, first, to the comfort we receive in
considering that so melancholy a story is no more than a fiction; and,
next, to the contemplation of our own freedom from the evils which we
see represented. I am afraid it is a practice much too common in
inquiries of this nature, to attribute the cause of feelings which
merely arise from the mechanical structure of our bodies, or from the
natural frame and constitution of our minds, to certain conclusions of
the reasoning faculty on the objects presented to us; for I should
imagine, that the influence of reason in producing our passions is
nothing near so extensive as it is commonly believed.


SECTION XIV.

THE EFFECTS OF SYMPATHY IN THE DISTRESSES OF OTHERS.

To examine this point concerning the effect of tragedy in a proper
manner, we must previously consider how we are affected by the feelings
of our fellow creatures in circumstances of real distress. I am
convinced we have a degree of delight, and that no small one, in the
real misfortunes and pains of others; for let the affection be what it
will in appearance, if it does not make us shun such objects, if on the
contrary it induces us to approach them, if it makes us dwell upon them,
in this case I conceive we must have a delight or pleasure of some
species or other in contemplating objects of this kind. Do we not read
the authentic histories of scenes of this nature with as much pleasure
as romances or poems, where the incidents are fictitious? The prosperity
of no empire, nor the grandeur of no king, can so agreeably affect in
the reading, as the ruin of the state of Macedon, and the distress of
its unhappy prince. Such a catastrophe touches us in history as much as
the destruction of Troy does in fable. Our delight, in cases of this
kind, is very greatly heightened, if the sufferer be some excellent
person who sinks under an unworthy fortune. Scipio and Cato are both
virtuous characters; but we are more deeply affected by the violent
death of the one, and the ruin of the great cause he adhered to, than
with the deserved triumphs and uninterrupted prosperity of the other:
for terror is a passion which always produces delight when it does not
press too closely; and pity is a passion accompanied with pleasure,
because it arises from love and social affection. Whenever we are formed
by nature to any active purpose, the passion which animates us to it is
attended with delight, or a pleasure of some kind, let the
subject-matter be what it will; and as our Creator has designed that we
should be united by the bond of sympathy, he has strengthened that bond
by a proportionable delight; and there most where our sympathy is most
wanted,--in the distresses of others. If this passion was simply
painful, we would shun with the greatest care all persons and places
that could excite such a passion; as some, who are so far gone in
indolence as not to endure any strong impression, actually do. But the
case is widely different with the greater part of mankind; there is no
spectacle we so eagerly pursue, as that of some uncommon and grievous
calamity; so that whether the misfortune is before our eyes, or whether
they are turned back to it in history, it always touches with delight.
This is not an unmixed delight, but blended with no small uneasiness.
The delight we have in such things hinders us from shunning scenes of
misery; and the pain we feel prompts us to relieve ourselves in
relieving those who suffer; and all this antecedent to any reasoning, by
an instinct that works us to its own purposes without our concurrence.


SECTION XV.

OF THE EFFECTS OF TRAGEDY.

It is thus in real calamities. In imitated distresses the only
difference is the pleasure resulting from the effects of imitation; for
it is never so perfect, but we can perceive it is imitation, and on that
principle are somewhat pleased with it. And indeed in some cases we
derive as much or more pleasure from that source than from the thing
itself. But then I imagine we shall be much mistaken if we attribute any
considerable part of our satisfaction in tragedy to the consideration
that tragedy is a deceit, and its representations no realities. The
nearer it approaches the reality, and the further it removes us from all
idea of fiction, the more perfect is its power. But be its power of what
kind it will, it never approaches to what it represents. Choose a day on
which to represent the most sublime and affecting tragedy we have;
appoint the most favorite actors; spare no cost upon the scenes and
decorations; unite the greatest efforts of poetry, painting, and music;
and when you have collected your audience, just at the moment when their
minds are erect with expectation, let it be reported that a state
criminal of high rank is on the point of being executed in the adjoining
square; in a moment the emptiness of the theatre would demonstrate the
comparative weakness of the imitative arts, and proclaim the triumph of
the real sympathy. I believe that this notion of our having a simple
pain in the reality, yet a delight in the representation, arises from
hence, that we do not sufficiently distinguish what we would by no means
choose to do, from what we should be eager enough to see if it was once
done. We delight in seeing things, which so far from doing, our
heartiest wishes would be to see redressed. This noble capital, the
pride of England and of Europe, I believe no man is so strangely wicked
as to desire to see destroyed by a conflagration or an earthquake,
though he should be removed himself to the greatest distance from the
danger. But suppose such a fatal accident to have happened, what numbers
from all parts would crowd to behold the ruins, and amongst them many
who would have been content never to have seen London in its glory! Nor
is it, either in real or fictitious distresses, our immunity from them
which produces our delight; in my own mind I can discover nothing like
it. I apprehend that this mistake is owing to a sort of sophism, by
which we are frequently imposed upon; it arises from our not
distinguishing between what is indeed a necessary condition to our doing
or suffering anything in general, and what is the _cause_ of some
particular act. If a man kills me with a sword, it is a necessary
condition to this that we should have been both of us alive before the
fact; and yet it would be absurd to say that our being both living
creatures was the cause of his crime and of my death. So it is certain
that it is absolutely necessary my life should be out of any imminent
hazard, before I can take a delight in the sufferings of others, real or
imaginary, or indeed in anything else from any cause whatsoever. But
then it is a sophism to argue from thence that this immunity is the
cause of my delight either on these or on any occasions. No one can
distinguish such a cause of satisfaction in his own mind, I believe;
nay, when we do not suffer any very acute pain, nor are exposed to any
imminent danger of our lives, we can feel for others, whilst we suffer
ourselves; and often then most when we are softened by affliction; we
see with pity even distresses which we would accept in the place of our
own.


SECTION XVI.

IMITATION.

The second passion belonging to society is imitation, or, if you will, a
desire of imitating, and consequently a pleasure in it. This passion
arises from much the same cause with sympathy. For as sympathy makes us
take a concern in whatever men feel, so this affection prompts us to
copy whatever they do; and consequently we have a pleasure in imitating,
and in whatever belongs to imitation merely as it is such, without any
intervention of the reasoning faculty, but solely from our natural
constitution, which Providence has framed in such a manner as to find
either pleasure or delight, according to the nature of the object, in
whatever regards the purposes of our being. It is by imitation far more
than by precept, that we learn everything; and what we learn thus, we
acquire not only more effectually, but more pleasantly. This forms our
manners, our opinions, our lives. It is one of the strongest links of
society; it is a species of mutual compliance, which all men yield to
each other, without constraint to themselves, and which is extremely
flattering to all. Herein it is that painting and many other agreeable
arts have laid one of the principal foundations of their power. And
since, by its influence on our manners and our passions, it is of such
great consequence, I shall here venture to lay down a rule, which may
inform us with a good degree of certainty when we are to attribute the
power of the arts to imitation, or to our pleasure in the skill of the
imitator merely, and when to sympathy, or some other cause in
conjunction, with it. When the object represented in poetry or painting
is such as we could have no desire of seeing in the reality, then I may
be sure that its power in poetry or painting is owing to the power of
imitation, and to no cause operating in the thing itself. So it is with
most of the pieces which the painters call still-life. In these a
cottage, a dung-hill, the meanest and most ordinary utensils of the
kitchen, are capable of giving us pleasure. But when the object of the
painting or poem is such as we should run to see if real, let it affect
us with what odd sort of sense it will, we may rely upon it that the
power of the poem or picture is more owing to the nature of the thing
itself than to the mere effect of imitation, or to a consideration of
the skill of the imitator, however excellent. Aristotle has spoken so
much and so solidly upon the force of imitation in his Poetics, that it
makes any further discourse upon this subject the less necessary.


SECTION XVII.

AMBITION.

Although imitation is one of the great instruments used by Providence in
bringing our nature towards its perfection, yet if men gave themselves
up to imitation entirely, and each followed the other, and so on in an
eternal circle, it is easy to see that there never could be any
improvement amongst them. Men must remain as brutes do, the same at the
end that they are at this day, and that they were in the beginning of
the world. To prevent this, God has planted in man a sense of ambition,
and a satisfaction arising from the contemplation of his excelling his
fellows in something deemed valuable amongst them. It is this passion
that drives men to all the ways we see in use of signalizing themselves,
and that tends to make whatever excites in a man the idea of this
distinction so very pleasant. It has been so strong as to make very
miserable men take comfort, that they were supreme in misery; and
certain it is that, where we cannot distinguish ourselves by something
excellent, we begin to take a complacency in some singular infirmities,
follies, or defects of one kind or other. It is on this principle that
flattery is so prevalent; for flattery is no more than what raises in a
man's mind an idea of a preference which he has not. Now, whatever,
either on good or upon bad grounds, tends to raise a man in his own
opinion, produces a sort of swelling and triumph, that is extremely
grateful to the human mind; and this swelling is never more perceived,
nor operates with more force, than when without danger we are conversant
with terrible objects; the mind always claiming to itself some part of
the dignity and importance of the things which it contemplates. Hence
proceeds what Longinus has observed of that glorying and sense of inward
greatness, that always fills the reader of such passages in poets and
orators as are sublime: it is what every man must have felt in himself
upon such occasions.


SECTION XVIII.

THE RECAPITULATION.

To draw the whole of what has been said into a few distinct points:--The
passions which belong to self-preservation turn on pain and danger; they
are simply painful when their causes immediately affect us; they are
delightful when we have an idea of pain and danger, without being
actually in such circumstances; this delight I have not called pleasure,
because it turns on pain, and because it is different enough from any
idea of positive pleasure. Whatever excites this delight, I call
_sublime_. The passions belonging to self-preservation are the strongest
of all the passions.

The second head to which the passions are referred with relation to
their final cause, is society. There are two sorts of societies. The
first is, the society of sex. The passion belonging to this is called
love, and it contains a mixture of lust; its object is the beauty of
women. The other is the great society with man and all other animals.
The passion subservient to this is called likewise love, but it has no
mixture of lust, and its object is beauty; which is a name I shall apply
to all such qualities in things as induce in us a sense of affection and
tenderness, or some other passion the most nearly resembling these. The
passion of love has its rise in positive pleasure; it is, like all
things which grow out of pleasure, capable of being mixed with a mode of
uneasiness, that is, when an idea of its object is excited in the mind
with an idea at the same time of having irretrievably lost it. This
mixed sense of pleasure I have not called _pain_, because it turns upon
actual pleasure, and because it is, both in its cause and in most of its
effects, of a nature altogether different.

Next to the general passion we have for society, to a choice in which we
are directed by the pleasure we have in the object, the particular
passion under this head called sympathy has the greatest extent. The
nature of this passion is, to put us in the place of another in whatever
circumstance he is in, and to affect us in a like manner; so that this
passion may, as the occasion requires, turn either on pain or pleasure;
but with the modifications mentioned in some cases in Sect. 11. As to
imitation and preference, nothing more need be said.


SECTION XIX.

THE CONCLUSION.

I believed that an attempt to range and methodize some of our most
leading passions would be a good preparative to such an inquiry as we
are going to make in the ensuing discourse. The passions I have
mentioned are almost the only ones which it can be necessary to consider
in our present design; though the variety of the passions is great, and
worthy, in every branch of that variety, of an attentive investigation.
The more accurately we search into the human mind, the stronger traces
we everywhere find of His wisdom who made it. If a discourse on the use
of the parts of the body may be considered as a hymn to the Creator; the
use of the passions, which are the organs of the mind, cannot be barren
of praise to him, nor unproductive to ourselves of that noble and
uncommon union of science and admiration, which a contemplation of the
works of infinite wisdom alone can afford to a rational mind; whilst,
referring to him whatever we find of right or good or fair in ourselves,
discovering his strength and wisdom even in our own weakness and
imperfection, honoring them where we discover them clearly, and adoring
their profundity where we are lost in our search, we may be inquisitive
without impertinence, and elevated without pride; we may be admitted, if
I may dare to say so, into the counsels of the Almighty by a
consideration of his works. The elevation of the mind ought to be the
principal end of all our studies; which, if they do not in some measure
effect, they are of very little service to us. But, besides this great
purpose, a consideration of the rationale of our passions seems to me
very necessary for all who would affect them upon solid and sure
principles. It is not enough to know them in general; to affect them
after a delicate manner, or to judge properly of any work designed to
affect them, we should know the exact boundaries of their several
jurisdictions; we should pursue them through all their variety of
operations, and pierce into the inmost, and what might appear
inaccessible parts of our nature,

     Quod latet arcana non enarrabile fibra.

Without all this it is possible for a man, after a confused manner
sometimes to satisfy his own mind of the truth of his work; but he can
never have a certain determinate rule to go by, nor can he ever make his
propositions sufficiently clear to others. Poets, and orators, and
painters, and those who cultivate other branches of the liberal arts,
have, without this critical knowledge, succeeded well in their several
provinces, and will succeed: as among artificers there are many machines
made and even invented without any exact knowledge of the principles
they are governed by. It is, I own, not uncommon to be wrong in theory,
and right in practice: and we are happy that it is so. Men often act
right from their feelings, who afterwards reason but ill on them from
principle; but as it is impossible to avoid an attempt at such
reasoning, and equally impossible to prevent its having some influence
on our practice, surely it is worth taking some pains to have it just,
and founded on the basis of sure experience. We might expect that the
artists themselves would have been our surest guides; but the artists
have been too much occupied in the practice: the philosophers have done
little; and what they have done, was mostly with a view to their own
schemes and systems; and as for those called critics, they have
generally sought the rule of the arts in the wrong place; they sought it
among poems, pictures, engravings, statues, and buildings. But art can
never give the rules that make an art. This is, I believe, the reason
why artists in general, and poets, principally, have been confined in so
narrow a circle: they have been rather imitators of one another than of
nature; and this with so faithful an uniformity, and to so remote an
antiquity, that it is hard to say who gave the first model. Critics
follow them, and therefore can do little as guides. I can judge but
poorly of anything, whilst I measure it by no other standard than
itself. The true standard of the arts is in every man's power; and an
easy observation of the most common, sometimes of the meanest things in
nature, will give the truest lights, where the greatest sagacity and
industry, that slights such observation, must leave us in the dark, or,
what is worse, amuse and mislead us by false lights. In an inquiry it is
almost everything to be once in a right road. I am satisfied I have done
but little by these observations considered in themselves; and I never
should have taken the pains to digest them, much less should I have ever
ventured to publish them, if I was not convinced that nothing tends more
to the corruption of science than to suffer it to stagnate. These waters
must be troubled, before they can exert their virtues. A man who works
beyond the surface of things, though he may be wrong himself, yet he
clears the way for others, and may chance to make even his errors
subservient to the cause of truth. In the following parts I shall
inquire what things they are that cause in us the affections of the
sublime and beautiful, as in this I have considered the affections
themselves. I only desire one favor,--that no part of this discourse may
be judged of by itself, and independently of the rest; for I am sensible
I have not disposed my materials to abide the test of a captious
controversy, but of a sober and even forgiving examination; that they
are not armed at all points for battle, but dressed to visit those who
are willing to give a peaceful entrance to truth.

FOOTNOTES:

[10] Mr. Locke [Essay on Human Understanding, l. ii. c. 20, sect. 16,]
thinks that the removal or lessening of a pain is considered and
operates as a pleasure, and the loss or diminishing of pleasure as a
pain. It is this opinion which we consider here.




PART II.


SECTION I.

OF THE PASSION CAUSED BY THE SUBLIME.

The passion caused by the great and sublime in _nature_, when those
causes operate most powerfully, is astonishment: and astonishment is
that state of the soul in which all its motions are suspended, with some
degree of horror.[11] In this case the mind is so entirely filled with
its object, that it cannot entertain any other, nor by consequence
reason on that object which employs it. Hence arises the great power of
the sublime, that, far from being produced by them, it anticipates our
reasonings, and hurries us on by an irresistible force. Astonishment, as
I have said, is the effect of the sublime in its highest degree; the
inferior effects are admiration, reverence, and respect.


SECTION II.

TERROR.

No passion so effectually robs the mind of all its powers of acting and
reasoning as _fear_.[12] For fear being an apprehension of pain or
death, it operates in a manner that resembles actual pain. Whatever
therefore is terrible, with regard to sight, is sublime too, whether
this cause of terror be endued with greatness of dimensions or not; for
it is impossible to look on anything as trifling, or contemptible, that
may be dangerous. There are many animals, who, though far from being
large, are yet capable of raising ideas of the sublime, because they are
considered as objects of terror. As serpents and poisonous animals of
almost all kinds. And to things of great dimensions, if we annex an
adventitious idea of terror, they become without comparison greater. A
level plain of a vast extent on land, is certainly no mean idea; the
prospect of such a plain may be as extensive as a prospect of the ocean;
but can it ever fill the mind with anything so great as the ocean
itself? This is owing to several causes; but it is owing to none more
than this, that the ocean is an object of no small terror. Indeed terror
is in all cases whatsoever, either more openly or latently, the ruling
principle of the sublime. Several languages bear a strong testimony to
the affinity of these ideas. They frequently use the same word to
signify indifferently the modes of astonishment or admiration and those
of terror. [Greek: Thambos] is in Greek either fear or wonder; [Greek:
deinos] is terrible or respectable; [Greek: ahideo], to reverence or to
fear. _Vereor_ in Latin is what [Greek: ahideo] is in Greek. The Romans
used the verb _stupeo_, a term which strongly marks the state of an
astonished mind, to express the effect either of simple fear, or of
astonishment; the word _attonitus_ (thunderstruck) is equally expressive
of the alliance of these ideas; and do not the French _etonnement_, and
the English _astonishment_ and _amazement_, point out as clearly the
kindred emotions which attend fear and wonder? They who have a more
general knowledge of languages, could produce, I make no doubt, many
other and equally striking examples.


SECTION III.

OBSCURITY.

To make anything very terrible, obscurity[13] seems in general to be
necessary. When we know the full extent of any danger, when we can
accustom our eyes to it, a great deal of the apprehension vanishes.
Every one will be sensible of this, who considers how greatly night adds
to our dread, in all cases of danger, and how much the notions of ghosts
and goblins, of which none can form clear ideas, affect minds which give
credit to the popular tales concerning such sorts of beings. Those
despotic governments which are founded on the passions of men, and
principally upon the passion of fear, keep their chief as much as may be
from the public eye. The policy has been the same in many cases of
religion. Almost all the heathen temples were dark. Even in the
barbarous temples of the Americans at this day, they keep their idol in
a dark part of the hut, which is consecrated to his worship. For this
purpose too the Druids performed all their ceremonies in the bosom of
the darkest woods, and in the shade of the oldest and most spreading
oaks. No person seems better to have understood the secret of
heightening, or of setting terrible things, if I may use the expression,
in their strongest light, by the force of a judicious obscurity than
Milton. His description of death in the second book is admirably
studied; it is astonishing with what a gloomy pomp, with what a
significant and expressive uncertainty of strokes and coloring, he has
finished the portrait of the king of terrors:

                        "The other shape,
    If shape it might be called that shape had none
    Distinguishable, in member, joint, or limb;
    Or substance might be called that shadow seemed;
    For each seemed either; black he stood as night;
    Fierce as ten furies; terrible as hell;
    And shook a deadly dart. What seemed his head
    The likeness of a kingly crown had on."

In this description all is dark, uncertain, confused, terrible, and
sublime to the last degree.


SECTION IV.

OF THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN CLEARNESS AND OBSCURITY WITH REGARD TO THE
PASSIONS.

It is one thing to make an idea clear, and another to make it
_affecting_ to the imagination. If I make a drawing of a palace, or a
temple, or a landscape, I present a very clear idea of those objects;
but then (allowing for the effect of imitation which is something) my
picture can at most affect only as the palace, temple, or landscape,
would have affected in the reality. On the other hand, the most lively
and spirited verbal description I can give raises a very obscure and
imperfect _idea_ of such objects; but then it is in my power to raise a
stronger _emotion_ by the description than I could do by the best
painting. This experience constantly evinces. The proper manner of
conveying the _affections_ of the mind from one to another is by words;
there is a great insufficiency in all other methods of communication;
and so far is a clearness of imagery from being absolutely necessary to
an influence upon the passions, that they may be considerably operated
upon, without presenting any image at all, by certain sounds adapted to
that purpose; of which we have a sufficient proof in the acknowledged
and powerful effects of instrumental music. In reality, a great
clearness helps but little towards affecting the passions, as it is in
some sort an enemy to all enthusiasms whatsoever.


SECTION [IV].

THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED.

There are two verses in Horace's Art of Poetry that seem to contradict
this opinion; for which reason I shall take a little more pains in
clearing it up. The verses are,

    Segnius irritant animos demissa per aures,
    Quam quae sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus.


On this the Abbe du Bos founds a criticism, wherein he gives painting
the preference to poetry in the article of moving the passions;
principally on account of the greater _clearness_ of the ideas it
represents. I believe this excellent judge was led into this mistake (if
it be a mistake) by his system; to which he found it more conformable
than I imagine it will be found to experience. I know several who admire
and love painting, and yet who regard the objects of their admiration in
that art with coolness enough in comparison of that warmth with which
they are animated by affecting pieces of poetry or rhetoric. Among the
common sort of people, I never could perceive that painting had much
influence on their passions. It is true that the best sorts of painting,
as well as the best sorts of poetry, are not much understood in that
sphere. But it is most certain that their passions are very strongly
roused by a fanatic preacher, or by the ballads of Chevy Chase, or the
Children in the Wood, and by other little popular poems and tales that
are current in that rank of life. I do not know of any paintings, bad or
good, that produce the same effect. So that poetry, with all its
obscurity, has a more general, as well as a more powerful dominion over
the passions, than the other art. And I think there are reasons in
nature, why the obscure idea, when properly conveyed, should be more
affecting than the clear. It is our ignorance of things that causes all
our admiration, and chiefly excites our passions. Knowledge and
acquaintance make the most striking causes affect but little. It is thus
with the vulgar; and all men are as the vulgar in what they do not
understand. The ideas of eternity, and infinity, are among the most
affecting we have: and yet perhaps there is nothing of which we really
understand so little, as of infinity and eternity. We do not anywhere
meet a more sublime description than this justly-celebrated one of
Milton, wherein he gives the portrait of Satan with a dignity so
suitable to the subject:

              "He above the rest
    In shape and gesture proudly eminent
    Stood like a tower; his form had yet not lost
    All her original brightness, nor appeared
    Less than archangel ruined, and th' excess
    Of glory obscured: as when the sun new risen
    Looks through the horizontal misty air
    Shorn of his beams; or from behind the moon
    In dim eclipse disastrous twilight sheds
    On half the nations; and with fear of change
    Perplexes monarchs."

Here is a very noble picture; and in what does this poetical picture
consist? In images of a tower, an archangel, the sun rising through
mists, or in an eclipse, the ruin of monarchs and the revolutions of
kingdoms. The mind is hurried out of itself, by a crowd of great and
confused images; which affect because they are crowded and confused. For
separate them, and you lose much of the greatness; and join them, and
you infallibly lose the clearness. The images raised by poetry are
always of this obscure kind; though in general the effects of poetry are
by no means to be attributed to the images it raises; which point we
shall examine more at large hereafter.[14] But painting, when we have
allowed for the pleasure of imitation, can only affect simply by the
images it presents; and even in painting, a judicious obscurity in some
things contributes to the effect of the picture; because the images in
painting are exactly similar to those in nature; and in nature, dark,
confused, uncertain images have a greater power on the fancy to form the
grander passions, than those have which are more clear and determinate.
But where and when this observation may be applied to practice, and how
far it shall be extended, will be better deduced from the nature of the
subject, and from the occasion, than from any rules that can be given.

I am sensible that this idea has met with opposition, and is likely
still to be rejected by several. But let it be considered that hardly
anything can strike the mind with its greatness, which does not make
some sort of approach towards infinity; which nothing can do whilst we
are able to perceive its bounds; but to see an object distinctly, and to
perceive its bounds, is one and the same thing. A clear idea is
therefore another name for a little idea. There is a passage in the book
of Job amazingly sublime, and this sublimity is principally due to the
terrible uncertainty of the thing described: _In thoughts from the
visions of the night, when deep sleep falleth upon men, fear came upon
me and trembling, which made all my bones to shake. Then a spirit
passed before my face. The hair of my flesh stood up. It stood still_,
but I could not discern the form thereof; _an image was before mine
eyes; there was silence; and I heard a voice,--Shall mortal man be more
just than God?_ We are first prepared with the utmost solemnity for the
vision; we are first terrified, before we are let even into the obscure
cause of our emotion: but when this grand cause of terror makes its
appearance, what is it? Is it not wrapt up in the shades of its own
incomprehensible darkness, more awful, more striking, more terrible,
than the liveliest description, than the clearest painting, could
possibly represent it? When painters have attempted to give us clear
representations of these very fanciful and terrible ideas, they have, I
think, almost always failed; insomuch that I have been at a loss, in all
the pictures I have seen of hell, to determine whether the painter did
not intend something ludicrous. Several painters have handled a subject
of this kind, with a view of assembling as many horrid phantoms as their
imagination could suggest; but all the designs I have chanced to meet of
the temptations of St. Anthony were rather a sort of odd, wild
grotesques, than any thing capable of producing a serious passion. In
all these subjects poetry is very happy. Its apparitions, its chimeras,
its harpies, its allegorical figures, are grand and affecting; and
though Virgil's Fame and Homer's Discord are obscure, they are
magnificent figures. These figures in painting would be clear enough,
but I fear they might become ridiculous.


SECTION V.

POWER.

Besides those things which _directly_ suggest the idea of danger, and
those which produce a similar effect from a mechanical cause, I know of
nothing sublime, which is not some modification of power. And this
branch rises, as naturally as the other two branches, from terror, the
common stock of everything that is sublime. The idea of power, at first
view, seems of the class of those indifferent ones, which may equally
belong to pain or to pleasure. But in reality, the affection arising
from the idea of vast power is extremely remote from that neutral
character. For first, we must remember[15] that the idea of pain, in its
highest degree, is much stronger than the highest degree of pleasure;
and that it preserves the same superiority through all the subordinate
gradations. From hence it is, that where the chances for equal degrees
of suffering or enjoyment are in any sort equal, the idea of the
suffering must always be prevalent. And indeed the ideas of pain, and,
above all, of death, are so very affecting, that whilst we remain in the
presence of whatever is supposed to have the power of inflicting either,
it is impossible to be perfectly free from terror. Again, we know by
experience, that, for the enjoyment of pleasure, no great efforts of
power are at all necessary; nay, we know that such efforts would go a
great way towards destroying our satisfaction: for pleasure must be
stolen, and not forced upon us; pleasure follows the will; and therefore
we are generally affected with it by many things of a force greatly
inferior to our own. But pain is always inflicted by a power in some way
superior, because we never submit to pain willingly. So that strength,
violence, pain, and terror, are ideas that rush in upon the mind
together. Look at a man, or any other animal of prodigious strength, and
what is your idea before reflection? Is it that this strength will be
subservient to you, to your ease, to your pleasure, to your interest in
any sense? No; the emotion you feel is, lest this enormous strength
should be employed to the purposes of[16] rapine and destruction. That
power derives all its sublimity from the terror with which it is
generally accompanied, will appear evidently from its effect in the very
few cases, in which it may be possible to strip a considerable degree of
strength of its ability to hurt. When you do this, you spoil it of
everything sublime, and it immediately becomes contemptible. An ox is a
creature of vast strength; but he is an innocent creature, extremely
serviceable, and not at all dangerous; for which reason the idea of an
ox is by no means grand. A bull is strong too; but his strength is of
another kind; often very destructive, seldom (at least amongst us) of
any use in our business; the idea of a bull is therefore great, and it
has frequently a place in sublime descriptions, and elevating
comparisons. Let us look at another strong animal, in the two distinct
lights in which we may consider him. The horse in the light of an
useful beast, fit for the plough, the road, the draft; in every social
useful light, the horse has nothing sublime; but is it thus that we are
affected with him, _whose neck is clothed with thunder, the glory of
whose nostrils is terrible, who swalloweth the ground with fierceness
and rage, neither believeth that it is the sound of the trumpet_? In
this description, the useful character of the horse entirely disappears,
and the terrible and sublime blaze out together. We have continually
about us animals of a strength that is considerable, but not pernicious.
Amongst these we never look for the sublime; it comes upon us in the
gloomy forest, and in the howling wilderness, in the form of the lion,
the tiger, the panther, or rhinoceros. Whenever strength is only useful,
and employed for our benefit or our pleasure, then it is never sublime;
for nothing can act agreeably to us, that does not act in conformity to
our will; but to act agreeably to our will, it must be subject to us,
and therefore can never be the cause of a grand and commanding
conception. The description of the wild ass, in Job, is worked up into
no small sublimity, merely by insisting on his freedom, and his setting
mankind at defiance; otherwise the description of such an animal could
have had nothing noble in it. _Who hath loosed_ (says he) _the bands of
the wild ass? whose house I have made the wilderness and the barren land
his dwellings. He scorneth the multitude of the city, neither regardeth
he the voice of the driver. The range of the mountains is his pasture._
The magnificent description of the unicorn and of leviathan, in the same
book, is full of the same heightening circumstances: _Will the unicorn
be willing to serve thee? canst thou bind the unicorn with his band in
the furrow? wilt thou trust him because his strength is great?--Canst
thou draw out leviathan with an hook? will he make a covenant with thee?
wilt thou take him for a servant forever? shall not one be cast down
even at the sight of him?_ In short, wheresoever we find strength, and
in what light soever we look upon power, we shall all along observe the
sublime the concomitant of terror, and contempt the attendant on a
strength that is subservient and innoxious. The race of dogs, in many of
their kinds, have generally a competent degree of strength and
swiftness; and they exert these and other valuable qualities which they
possess, greatly to our convenience and pleasure. Dogs are indeed the
most social, affectionate, and amiable animals of the whole brute
creation; but love approaches much nearer to contempt than is commonly
imagined; and accordingly, though we caress dogs, we borrow from them an
appellation of the most despicable kind, when we employ terms of
reproach; and this appellation is the common mark of the last vileness
and contempt in every language. Wolves have not more strength than
several species of dogs; but, on account of their unmanageable
fierceness, the idea of a wolf is not despicable; it is not excluded
from grand descriptions and similitudes. Thus we are affected by
strength, which is _natural_ power. The power which arises from
institution in kings and commanders, has the same connection with
terror. Sovereigns are frequently addressed with the title of _dread
majesty_. And it may be observed, that young persons, little acquainted
with the world, and who have not been used to approach men in power, are
commonly struck with an awe which takes away the free use of their
faculties. _When I prepared my seat in the street,_ (says Job,) _the
young men saw me, and hid themselves._ Indeed so natural is this
timidity with regard to power, and so strongly does it inhere in our
constitution, that very few are able to conquer it, but by mixing much
in the business of the great world, or by using no small violence to
their natural dispositions. I know some people are of opinion, that no
awe, no degree of terror, accompanies the idea of power; and have
hazarded to affirm, that we can contemplate the idea of God himself
without any such emotion. I purposely avoided, when I first considered
this subject, to introduce the idea of that great and tremendous Being,
as an example in an argument so light as this; though it frequently
occurred to me, not as an objection to, but as a strong confirmation of,
my notions in this matter. I hope, in what I am going to say, I shall
avoid presumption, where it is almost impossible for any mortal to speak
with strict propriety. I say then, that whilst we consider the Godhead
merely as he is an object of the understanding, which forms a complex
idea of power, wisdom, justice, goodness, all stretched to a degree far
exceeding the bounds of our comprehension, whilst we consider the
divinity in this refined and abstracted light, the imagination and
passions are little or nothing affected. But because we are bound, by
the condition of our nature, to ascend to these pure and intellectual
ideas, through the medium of sensible images, and to judge of these
divine qualities by their evident acts and exertions, it becomes
extremely hard to disentangle our idea of the cause from the effect by
which we are led to know it. Thus, when we contemplate the Deity, his
attributes and their operation, coming united on the mind, form a sort
of sensible image, and as such are capable of affecting the
imagination. Now, though in a just idea of the Deity, perhaps none of
his attributes are predominant, yet, to our imagination, his power is by
far the most striking. Some reflection, some comparing, is necessary to
satisfy us of his wisdom, his justice, and his goodness. To be struck
with his power, it is only necessary that we should open our eyes. But
whilst we contemplate so vast an object, under the arm, as it were, of
almighty power, and invested upon every side with omnipresence, we
shrink into the minuteness of our own nature, and are, in a manner,
annihilated before him. And though a consideration of his other
attributes may relieve, in some measure, our apprehensions; yet no
conviction of the justice with which it is exercised, nor the mercy with
which it is tempered, can wholly remove the terror that naturally arises
from a force which nothing can withstand. If we rejoice, we rejoice with
trembling; and even whilst we are receiving benefits, we cannot but
shudder at a power which can confer benefits of such mighty importance.
When the prophet David contemplated the wonders of wisdom and power
which are displayed in the economy of man, he seems to be struck with a
sort of divine horror, and cries out, _fearfully and wonderfully am I
made_! An heathen poet has a sentiment of a similar nature; Horace looks
upon it as the last effort of philosophical fortitude, to behold without
terror and amazement, this immense and glorious fabric of the universe:

    Hunc solem, et stellas, et decedentia certis
    Tempora momentis, sunt qui formidine nulla
    Imbuti spectent.

Lucretius is a poet not to be suspected of giving way to superstitious
terrors; yet, when he supposes the whole mechanism of nature laid open
by the master of his philosophy, his transport on this magnificent view,
which he has represented in the colors of such bold and lively poetry,
is overcast with a shade of secret dread and horror:

    His ibi me rebus quaedam divina voluptas
    Percipit, atque horror; quod sic natura, tua vi
    Tam manifesta patens, ex omni parte retecta est.

But the Scripture alone can supply ideas answerable to the majesty of
this subject. In the Scripture, wherever God is represented as appearing
or speaking, everything terrible in nature is called up to heighten the
awe and solemnity of the Divine presence. The Psalms, and the
prophetical books, are crowded with instances of this kind. _The earth
shook,_ (says the Psalmist,) _the heavens also dropped at the presence
of the Lord._ And what is remarkable, the painting preserves the same
character, not only when he is supposed descending to take vengeance
upon the wicked, but even when he exerts the like plenitude of power in
acts of beneficence to mankind. _Tremble, thou earth! at the presence of
the Lord; at the presence of the God of Jacob; which turned the rock
into standing water, the flint into a fountain of waters!_ It were
endless to enumerate all the passages, both in the sacred and profane
writers, which establish the general sentiment of mankind, concerning
the inseparable union of a sacred and reverential awe, with our ideas of
the divinity. Hence the common maxim, _Primus in orbe deos fecit timor_.
This maxim may be, as I believe it is, false with regard to the origin
of religion. The maker of the maxim saw how inseparable these ideas
were, without considering that the notion of some great power must be
always precedent to our dread of it. But this dread must necessarily
follow the idea of such a power, when it is once excited in the mind. It
is on this principle that true religion has, and must have, so large a
mixture of salutary fear; and that false religions have generally
nothing else but fear to support them. Before the Christian religion
had, as it were, humanized the idea of the Divinity, and brought it
somewhat nearer to us, there was very little said of the love of God.
The followers of Plato have something of it, and only something; the
other writers of pagan antiquity, whether poets or philosophers, nothing
at all. And they who consider with what infinite attention, by what a
disregard of every perishable object, through what long habits of piety
and contemplation it is that any man is able to attain an entire love
and devotion to the Deity, will easily perceive that it is not the
first, the most natural, and the most striking effect which proceeds
from that idea. Thus we have traced power through its several gradations
unto the highest of all, where our imagination is finally lost; and we
find terror, quite throughout the progress, its inseparable companion,
and growing along with it, as far as we can possibly trace them. Now, as
power is undoubtedly a capital source of the sublime, this will point
out evidently from whence its energy is derived, and to what class of
ideas we ought to unite it.


SECTION VI.

PRIVATION.

ALL _general_ privations are great, because they are all terrible;
_vacuity_, _darkness_, _solitude_, and _silence_. With what a fire of
imagination, yet with what severity of judgment, has Virgil amassed all
these circumstances, where he knows that all the images of a tremendous
dignity ought to be united at the mouth of hell! Where, before he
unlocks the secrets of the great deep, he seems to be seized with a
religious horror, and to retire astonished at the boldness of his own
design:

    Dii, quibus imperium est animarum, umbraeque _silentes_!
    Et Chaos, et Phlegethon! loca _nocte silentia_ late!
    Sit mihi fas audita loqui! sit numine vestro
    Pandere res alta terra et _caligine_ mersas!
    Ibant _obscuri_, _sola_ sub _nocte_, per _umbram_,
    Perque domos Ditis _vacuas_, et _inania_ regus.

   "Ye subterraneous gods! whose awful sway
    The gliding ghosts, and _silent_ shades obey:
    O Chaos hoar! and Phlegethon profound!
    Whose solemn empire stretches wide around;
    Give me, ye great, tremendous powers, to tell
    Of scenes and wonders in the depth of hell;
    Give me your mighty secrets to display
    From those _black_ realms of darkness to the day."

                                        PITT.

   "_Obscure_ they went through dreary _shades_ that led
    Along the _waste_ dominions of the _dead_."

                                        DRYDEN.


SECTION VII.

VASTNESS.

Greatness[17] of dimension is a powerful cause of the sublime. This is
too evident, and the observation too common, to need any illustration;
it is not so common to consider in what ways greatness of dimension,
vastness of extent or quantity, has the most striking effect. For,
certainly, there are ways and modes wherein the same quantity of
extension shall produce greater effects than it is found to do in
others. Extension is either in length, height, or depth. Of these the
length strikes least; a hundred yards of even ground will never work
such an effect as a tower a hundred yards high, or a rock or mountain of
that altitude. I am apt to imagine, likewise, that height is less grand
than depth; and that we are more struck at looking down from a
precipice, than looking up at an object of equal height; but of that I
am not very positive. A perpendicular has more force in forming the
sublime, than an inclined plane, and the effects of a rugged and broken
surface seem stronger than where it is smooth and polished. It would
carry us out of our way to enter in this place into the cause of these
appearances, but certain it is they afford a large and fruitful field of
speculation. However, it may not be amiss to add to these remarks upon
magnitude, that as the great extreme of dimension is sublime, so the
last extreme of littleness is in some measure sublime likewise; when we
attend to the infinite divisibility of matter, when we pursue animal
life into these excessively small, and yet organized beings, that
escape the nicest inquisition of the sense; when we push our discoveries
yet downward, and consider those creatures so many degrees yet smaller,
and the still diminishing scale of existence, in tracing which the
imagination is lost as well as the sense; we become amazed and
confounded at the wonders of minuteness; nor can we distinguish in its
effect this extreme of littleness from the vast itself. For division
must be infinite as well as addition; because the idea of a perfect
unity can no more be arrived at, than that of a complete whole, to which
nothing may be added.


SECTION VIII.

INFINITY.

Another source of the sublime is _infinity_; if it does not rather
belong to the last. Infinity has a tendency to fill the mind with that
sort of delightful horror, which is the most genuine effect, and truest
test of the sublime. There are scarce any things which can become the
objects of our senses, that are really and in their own nature infinite.
But the eye not being able to perceive the bounds of many things, they
seem to be infinite, and they produce the same effects as if they were
really so. We are deceived in the like manner, if the parts of some
large object are so continued to any indefinite number, that the
imagination meets no check which may hinder its extending them at
pleasure.

Whenever we repeat any idea frequently, the mind, by a sort of
mechanism, repeats it long after the first cause has ceased to
operate.[18] After whirling about, when we sit down, the objects about
us still seem to whirl. After a long succession of noises, as the fall
of waters, or the beating of forge-hammers, the hammers beat and the
waters roar in the imagination long after the first sounds have ceased
to affect it; and they die away at last by gradations which are scarcely
perceptible. If you hold up a straight pole, with your eye to one end,
it will seem extended to a length almost incredible.[19] Place a number
of uniform and equi-distant marks on this pole, they will cause the same
deception, and seem multiplied without end. The senses, strongly
affected in some one manner, cannot quickly change their tenor, or adapt
themselves to other things; but they continue in their old channel until
the strength of the first mover decays. This is the reason of an
appearance very frequent in madmen; that they remain whole days and
nights, sometimes whole years, in the constant repetition of some
remark, some complaint, or song; which having struck powerfully on their
disordered imagination, in the beginning of their frenzy, every
repetition reinforces it with new strength, and the hurry of their
spirits, unrestrained by the curb of reason, continues it to the end of
their lives.


SECTION IX.

SUCCESSION AND UNIFORMITY.

Succession and _uniformity_ of parts are what constitute the artificial
infinite. 1. _Succession_; which is requisite that the parts may be
continued so long and in such a direction, as by their frequent impulses
on the sense to impress the imagination with an idea of their progress
beyond their actual limits. 2. _Uniformity_; because, if the figures of
the parts should be changed, the imagination at every change finds a
check; you are presented at every alteration with the termination of one
idea, and the beginning of another; by which means it becomes impossible
to continue that uninterrupted progression, which alone can stamp on
bounded objects the character of infinity. It is in this kind of
artificial infinity, I believe, we ought to look for the cause why a
rotund has such a noble effect.[20] For in a rotund, whether it be a
building or a plantation, you can nowhere fix a boundary; turn which way
you will, the same object still seems to continue, and the imagination
has no rest. But the parts must be uniform, as well as circularly
disposed, to give this figure its full force; because any difference,
whether it be in the disposition, or in the figure, or even in the color
of the parts, is highly prejudicial to the idea of infinity, which every
change must check and interrupt, at every alteration commencing a new
series. On the same principles of succession and uniformity, the grand
appearance of the ancient heathen temples, which were generally oblong
forms, with a range of uniform pillars on every side, will be easily
accounted for. From the same cause also may be derived the grand effect
of the aisles in many of our own old cathedrals. The form of a cross
used in some churches seems to me not so eligible as the parallelogram
of the ancients; at least, I imagine it is not so proper for the
outside. For, supposing the arms of the cross every way equal, if you
stand in a direction parallel to any of the side walls, or colonnades,
instead of a deception that makes the building more extended than it is,
you are cut off from a considerable part (two thirds) of its _actual_
length; and, to prevent all possibility of progression, the arms of the
cross taking a new direction, make a right angle with the beam, and
thereby wholly turn the imagination from the repetition of the former
idea. Or suppose the spectator placed where he may take a direct view of
such a building, what will be the consequence? the necessary consequence
will be, that a good part of the basis of each angle formed by the
intersection of the arms of the cross, must be inevitably lost; the
whole must of course assume a broken, unconnected figure; the lights
must be unequal, here strong, and there weak; without that noble
gradation which the perspective always effects on parts disposed
uninterruptedly in a right line. Some or all of these objections will
lie against every figure of a cross, in whatever view you take it. I
exemplified them in the Greek cross, in which these faults appear the
most strongly; but they appear in some degree in all sorts of crosses.
Indeed, there is nothing more prejudicial to the grandeur of buildings
than to abound in angles; a fault obvious in many; and owing to an
inordinate thirst for variety, which, whenever it prevails, is sure to
leave very little true taste.


SECTION X.

MAGNITUDE IN BUILDING.

To the sublime in building, greatness of dimension seems requisite; for
on a few parts, and those small, the imagination cannot rise to any idea
of infinity. No greatness in the manner can effectually compensate for
the want of proper dimensions. There is no danger of drawing men into
extravagant designs by this rule; it carries its own caution along with
it. Because too great a length in buildings destroys the purpose of
greatness, which it was intended to promote; the perspective will lessen
it in height as it gains in length; and will bring it at last to a
point; turning the whole figure into a sort of triangle, the poorest in
its effect of almost any figure that can be presented to the eye. I have
ever observed, that colonnades and avenues of trees of a moderate length
were, without comparison, far grander than when they were suffered to
run to immense distances. A true artist should put a generous deceit on
the spectators, and effect the noblest designs by easy methods. Designs
that are vast only by their dimensions are always the sign of a common
and low imagination. No work of art can be great, but as it deceives; to
be otherwise is the prerogative of nature only. A good eye will fix the
medium betwixt an excessive length or height (for the same objection
lies against both), and a short or broken quantity: and perhaps it might
be ascertained to a tolerable degree of exactness, if it was my purpose
to descend far into the particulars of any art.


SECTION XI.

INFINITY IN PLEASING OBJECTS.

Infinity, though of another kind, causes much of our pleasure in
agreeable, as well as of our delight in sublime images. The spring is
the pleasantest of the seasons; and the young of most animals, though
far from being completely fashioned, afford a more agreeable sensation
than the full-grown; because the imagination is entertained with the
promise of something more, and does not acquiesce in the present object
of the sense. In unfinished sketches of drawing, I have often seen
something which pleased me beyond the best finishing; and this I believe
proceeds from the cause I have just now assigned.


SECTION XII.

DIFFICULTY.

Another source of greatness is _difficulty_.[21] When any work seems to
have required immense force and labor to effect it, the idea is grand.
Stonehenge, neither for disposition nor ornament, has anything
admirable; but those huge rude masses of stone, set on end, and piled
each on other, turn the mind on the immense force necessary for such a
work. Nay, the rudeness of the work increases this cause of grandeur, as
it excludes the idea of art and contrivance; for dexterity produces
another sort of effect, which is different enough from this.


SECTION XIII.

MAGNIFICENCE.

Magnificence is likewise a source of the sublime. A great profusion of
things, which are splendid or valuable in themselves, is _magnificent_.
The starry heaven, though it occurs so very frequently to our view never
fails to excite an idea of grandeur. This cannot be owing to the stars
themselves, separately considered. The number is certainly the cause.
The apparent disorder augments the grandeur, for the appearance of care
is highly contrary to our ideas of magnificence. Besides, the stars lie
in such apparent confusion, as makes it impossible on ordinary occasions
to reckon them. This gives them the advantage of a sort of infinity. In
works of art, this kind of grandeur which consists in multitude, is to
be very cautiously admitted; because a profusion of excellent things is
not to be attained, or with too much difficulty; and because in many
cases this splendid confusion would destroy all use, which should be
attended to in most of the works of art with the greatest care; besides,
it is to be considered, that unless you can produce an appearance of
infinity by your disorder, you will have disorder only without
magnificence. There are, however, a sort of fireworks, and some other
things, that in this way succeed well, and are truly grand. There are
also many descriptions in the poets and orators, which owe their
sublimity to a richness and profusion of images, in which the mind is so
dazzled as to make it impossible to attend to that exact coherence and
agreement of the allusions, which we should require on every other
occasion. I do not now remember a more striking example of this, than
the description which is given of the king's army in the play of Henry
IV.:--

              "All furnished, all in arms,
    All plumed like ostriches that with the wind
    Baited like eagles having lately bathed:
    As full of spirit us the month of May,
    And gorgeous as the sun in midsummer,
    Wanton as youthful goats, wild as young bulls.
    I saw young Harry with his beaver on
    Rise from the ground like feathered Mercury;
    And vaulted with such ease into his seat,
    As if an angel dropped down from the clouds
    To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus."


In that excellent book, so remarkable for the vivacity of its
descriptions, as well as the solidity and penetration of its sentences,
the Wisdom of the Son of Sirach, there is a noble panegyric on the
high-priest Simon the son of Onias; and it is a very fine example of the
point before us:--

    _How was he honored in the midst of the people, in his coming out of
    the sanctuary! He was as the morning star in the midst of a cloud,
    and as the moon at the full; as the sun shining upon the temple of
    the Most High, and as the rainbow giving light in the bright clouds:
    and as the flower of roses in the spring of the year, as lilies by
    the rivers of waters, and as the frankincense-tree in summer; as
    fire and incense in the censer, and as a vessel of gold set with
    precious stones; as a fair olive-tree budding forth fruit, and as a
    cypress which groweth up to the clouds. When he put on the robe of
    honor, and was clothed with the perfection of glory, when he went up
    to the holy altar, he made the garment of holiness honorable. He
    himself stood by the hearth of the altar, compassed with his
    brethren round about; as a young cedar in Libanus, and as
    palm-trees compassed they him about. So were all the sons of Aaron
    in their glory, and the oblations of the Lord in their hands, &c._


SECTION XIV.

LIGHT.

Having considered extension, so far as it is capable of raising ideas of
greatness; _color_ comes next under consideration. All colors depend on
_light_. Light therefore ought previously to be examined; and with it
its opposite, darkness. With regard to light, to make it a cause capable
of producing the sublime, it must be attended with some circumstances,
besides its bare faculty of showing other objects. Mere light is too
common a thing to make a strong impression on the mind, and without a
strong impression nothing can be sublime. But such a light as that of
the sun, immediately exerted on the eye, as it overpowers the sense, is
a very great idea. Light of an inferior strength to this, if it moves
with great celerity, has the same power; for lightning is certainly
productive of grandeur, which it owes chiefly to the extreme velocity of
its motion. A quick transition from light to darkness, or from darkness
to light, has yet a greater effect. But darkness is more productive of
sublime ideas than light. Our great poet was convinced of this; and
indeed so full was he of this idea, so entirely possessed with the power
of a well-managed darkness, that in describing the appearance of the
Deity, amidst that profusion of magnificent images, which the grandeur
of his subject provokes him to pour out upon every side, he is far from
forgetting the obscurity which surrounds the most incomprehensible of
all beings, but

          "With majesty of _darkness_ round
    Circles his throne."

And what is no less remarkable, our author had the secret of preserving
this idea, even when he seemed to depart the farthest from it, when he
describes the light and glory which flows from the Divine presence; a
light which by its very excess is converted into a species of
darkness:--

   "_Dark_ with excessive _light_ thy skirts appear."

Here is an idea not only poetical in a high degree, but strictly and
philosophically just. Extreme light, by overcoming the organs of sight,
obliterates all objects, so as in its effect exactly to resemble
darkness. After looking for some time at the sun, two black spots, the
impression which it leaves, seem to dance before our eyes. Thus are two
ideas as opposite as can be imagined reconciled in the extremes of both;
and both, in spite of their opposite nature, brought to concur in
producing the sublime. And this is not the only instance wherein the
opposite extremes operate equally in favor of the sublime, which in all
things abhors mediocrity.


SECTION XV.

LIGHT IN BUILDING.

As the management of light is a matter of importance in architecture, it
is worth inquiring, how far this remark is applicable to building. I
think, then, that all edifices calculated to produce an idea of the
sublime, ought rather to be dark and gloomy, and this for two reasons;
the first is, that darkness itself on other occasions is known by
experience to have a greater effect on the passions than light. The
second is, that to make an object very striking, we should make it as
different as possible from the objects with which we have been
immediately conversant; when therefore you enter a building, you cannot
pass into a greater light than you had in the open air; to go into one
some few degrees less luminous, can make only a trifling change; but to
make the transition thoroughly striking, you ought to pass from the
greatest light, to as much darkness as is consistent with the uses of
architecture. At night the contrary rule will hold, but for the very
same reason; and the more highly a room is then illuminated, the grander
will the passion be.


SECTION XVI.

COLOR CONSIDERED AS PRODUCTIVE OF THE SUBLIME.

Among colors, such as are soft or cheerful (except perhaps a strong red,
which is cheerful) are unfit to produce grand images. An immense
mountain covered with a shining green turf, is nothing, in this respect,
to one dark and gloomy; the cloudy sky is more grand than the blue; and
night more sublime and solemn than day. Therefore in historical
painting, a gay or gaudy drapery can never have a happy effect: and in
buildings, when the highest degree of the sublime is intended, the
materials and ornaments ought neither to be white, nor green, nor
yellow, nor blue, nor of a pale red, nor violet, nor spotted, but of
sad and fuscous colors, as black, or brown, or deep purple, and the
like. Much of gilding, mosaics, painting, or statues, contribute but
little to the sublime. This rule need not be put in practice, except
where an uniform degree of the most striking sublimity is to be
produced, and that in every particular; for it ought to be observed,
that this melancholy kind of greatness, though it be certainly the
highest, ought not to be studied in all sorts of edifices, where yet
grandeur must be studied; in such cases the sublimity must be drawn from
the other sources; with a strict caution however against anything light
and riant; as nothing so effectually deadens the whole taste of the
sublime.


SECTION XVII.

SOUND AND LOUDNESS.

The eye is not the only organ of sensation by which a sublime passion
may be produced. Sounds have a great power in these as in most other
passions. I do not mean words, because words do not affect simply by
their sounds, but by means altogether different. Excessive loudness
alone is sufficient to overpower the soul, to suspend its action, and to
fill it with terror. The noise of vast cataracts, raging storms,
thunder, or artillery, awakes a great and awful sensation in the mind,
though we can observe no nicety or artifice in those sorts of music. The
shouting of multitudes has a similar effect; and by the sole strength of
the sound, so amazes and confounds the imagination, that, in this
staggering and hurry of the mind, the best established tempers can
scarcely forbear being borne down, and joining in the common cry, and
common resolution of the crowd.


SECTION XVIII.

SUDDENNESS.

A sudden beginning, or sudden cessation of sound of any considerable
force, has the same power. The attention is roused by this; and the
faculties driven forward, as it were, on their guard. Whatever, either
in sights or sounds, makes the transition from one extreme to the other
easy, causes no terror, and consequently can be no cause of greatness.
In everything sudden and unexpected, we are apt to start; that is, we
have a perception of danger, and our nature rouses us to guard against
it. It may be observed that a single sound of some strength, though but
of short duration, if repeated after intervals, has a grand effect. Few
things are more awful than the striking of a great clock, when the
silence of the night prevents the attention from being too much
dissipated. The same may be said of a single stroke on a drum, repeated
with pauses; and of the successive firing of cannon at a distance. All
the effects mentioned in this section have causes very nearly alike.


SECTION XIX.

INTERMITTING.

A low, tremulous, intermitting sound, though it seems, in some respects,
opposite to that just mentioned, is productive of the sublime. It is
worth while to examine this a little. The fact itself must be determined
by every man's own experience and reflection. I have already observed,
that night[22] increases our terror, more perhaps than anything else; it
is our nature, when we do not know what may happen to us, to fear the
worst that can happen; and hence it is that uncertainty is so terrible,
that we often seek to be rid of it, at the hazard of a certain mischief.
Now some low, confused, uncertain sounds, leave us in the same fearful
anxiety concerning their causes, that no light, or an uncertain light,
does concerning the objects that surround us.

      Quale per incertam lunam sub luce maligna
      Est iter in sylvis.

          "A faint shadow of uncertain light,
      Like as a lamp, whose life doth fade away;
      Or as the moon clothed with cloudy night
    Doth show to him who walks in fear and great affright."

                                          SPENSER.

But light now appearing, and now leaving us, and so off and on, is even
more terrible than total darkness; and a sort of uncertain sounds are,
when the necessary dispositions concur, more alarming than a total
silence.


SECTION XX.

THE CRIES OF ANIMALS.

Such sounds as imitate the natural inarticulate voices of men, or any
animals in pain or danger, are capable of conveying great ideas; unless
it be the well-known voice of some creature, on which we are used to
look with contempt. The angry tones of wild beasts are equally capable
of causing a great and awful sensation.

    Hinc exaudiri gemitus, iraeque leonum
    Vincia recusantum, et sera sub nocte rudentum;
    Setigerique sues, atque in praesepibus ursi
    Saevire; et formae magnorum ululare luporam.

It might seem that those modulations of sound carry some connection with
the nature of the things they represent, and are not merely arbitrary;
because the natural cries of all animals, even of those animals with
whom we have not been acquainted, never fail to make themselves
sufficiently understood; this cannot be said of language. The
modifications of sound, which may be productive of the sublime, are
almost infinite. Those I have mentioned are only a few instances to show
on what principles they are all built.


SECTION XXI.

SMELL AND TASTE.--BITTERS AND STENCHES.

_Smells_ and _tastes_ have some share too in ideas of greatness; but it
is a small one, weak in its nature, and confined in its operations. I
shall only observe that no smells or tastes can produce a grand
sensation, except excessive bitters, and intolerable stenches. It is
true that these affections of the smell and taste, when they are in
their full force, and lean directly upon the sensory, are simply
painful, and accompanied with no sort of delight; but when they are
moderated, as in a description or narrative, they become sources of the
sublime, as genuine as any other, and upon the very same principle of a
moderated pain. "A cup of bitterness"; "to drain the bitter cup of
fortune"; "the bitter apples of Sodom"; these are all ideas suitable to
a sublime description. Nor is this passage of Virgil without sublimity,
where the stench of the vapor in Albunea conspires so happily with the
sacred horror and gloominess of that prophetic forest:

    At rex sollicitus monstris oracula Fauni
    Fatidici genitoris adit, lucosque sub alta
    Consulit Albunea, nemorum quae maxima sacro
    Fonte sonat; _saevamque exhalat opaca Mephitim_.

In the sixth book, and in a very sublime description, the poisonous
exhalation of Acheron is not forgotten, nor does it at all disagree with
the other images amongst which it is introduced:

    Spelunca _alta_ fuit, _vastoque immanis_ hiatu
    Scrupea, tuta _lacu nigro_, nemorumque _tenebris_;
    Quam super haud ullae poterant impune volantes
    Tendere iter pennis: _talis sese halitus atris_
    _Faucibus effundens supera ad convexa ferebat_.

I have added these examples, because some friends, for whose judgment I
have great deference, were of opinion that if the sentiment stood
nakedly by itself, it would be subject, at first view, to burlesque and
ridicule; but this I imagine would principally arise from considering
the bitterness and stench in company with mean and contemptible ideas,
with which it must be owned they are often united; such an union
degrades the sublime in all other instances as well as in those. But it
is one of the tests by which the sublimity of an image is to be tried,
not whether it becomes mean when associated with mean ideas; but
whether, when united with images of an allowed grandeur, the whole
composition is supported with dignity. Things which are terrible are
always great; but when things possess disagreeable qualities, or such
as have indeed some degree of danger, but of a danger easily overcome,
they are merely _odious_; as toads and spiders.


SECTION XXII.

FEELING.--PAIN.

Of _feeling_ little more can be said than that the idea of bodily pain,
in all the modes and degrees of labor, pain, anguish, torment, is
productive of the sublime; and nothing else in this sense can produce
it. I need not give here any fresh instances, as those given in the
former sections abundantly illustrate a remark that, in reality, wants
only an attention to nature, to be made by everybody.

Having thus run through the causes of the sublime with reference to all
the senses, my first observation (Sect. 7) will be found very nearly
true; that the sublime is an idea belonging to self-preservation; that
it is, therefore, one of the most affecting we have; that its strongest
emotion is an emotion of distress; and that no pleasure[23] from a
positive cause belongs to it. Numberless examples, besides those
mentioned, might be brought in support of these truths, and many perhaps
useful consequences drawn from them--

    Sed fugit interea, fugit irrevocabile tempus,
    Singula dum capti circumvectamur amore.

FOOTNOTES:

[11] Part I. sect. 3, 4, 7.

[12] Part IV. sect. 3, 4, 5, 6.

[13] Part IV. sect. 14, 15, 16.

[14] Part V.

[15] Part I. sect. 7.

[16] Vide Part III. sect. 21.

[17] Part IV. sect. 9.

[18] Part IV. sect. 11.

[19] Part IV. sect. 13.

[20] Mr. Addison, in the Spectators concerning the pleasures of the
imagination, thinks it is because in the rotund at one glance you see
half the building. This I do not imagine to be the real cause.

[21] Part IV. sect. 4, 5, 6.

[22] Sect. 3.

[23] Vide Part I. sect. 6.




PART III.


SECTION I.

OF BEAUTY.

It is my design to consider beauty as distinguished from the sublime;
and, in the course of the inquiry, to examine how far it is consistent
with it. But previous to this, we must take a short review of the
opinions already entertained of this quality; which I think are hardly
to be reduced to any fixed principles; because men are used to talk of
beauty in a figurative manner, that is to say, in a manner extremely
uncertain, and indeterminate. By beauty, I mean that quality, or those
qualities in bodies, by which they cause love, or some passion similar
to it. I confine this definition to the merely sensible qualities of
things, for the sake of preserving the utmost simplicity in a subject,
which must always distract us whenever we take in those various causes
of sympathy which attach us to any persons or things from secondary
considerations, and not from the direct force which they have merely on
being viewed. I likewise distinguish love, (by which I mean that
satisfaction which arises to the mind upon contemplating anything
beautiful, of whatsoever nature it may be,) from desire or lust; which
is an energy of the mind, that hurries us on to the possession of
certain objects, that do not affect us as they are beautiful, but by
means altogether different. We shall have a strong desire for a woman of
no remarkable beauty; whilst the greatest beauty in men, or in other
animals, though it causes love, yet excites nothing at all of desire.
Which shows that beauty, and the passion caused by beauty, which I call
love, is different from desire, though desire may sometimes operate
along with it; but it is to this latter that we must attribute those
violent and tempestuous passions, and the consequent emotions of the
body which attend what is called love in some of its ordinary
acceptations, and not to the effects of beauty merely as it is such.


SECTION II.

PROPORTION NOT THE CAUSE OF BEAUTY IN VEGETABLES.

Beauty hath usually been said to consist in certain proportions of
parts. On considering the matter, I have great reason to doubt, whether
beauty be at all an idea belonging to proportion. Proportion relates
almost wholly to convenience, as every idea of order seems to do; and it
must therefore be considered as a creature of the understanding, rather
than a primary cause acting on the senses and imagination. It is not by
the force of long attention and inquiry that we find any object to be
beautiful; beauty demands no assistance from our reasoning; even the
will is unconcerned; the appearance of beauty as effectually causes some
degree of love in us, as the application of ice or fire produces the
ideas of heat or cold. To gain something like a satisfactory conclusion
in this point, it were well to examine what proportion is; since several
who make use of that word do not always seem to understand very clearly
the force of the term, nor to have very distinct ideas concerning the
thing itself. Proportion is the measure of relative quantity. Since all
quantity is divisible, it is evident that every distinct part into which
any quantity is divided must bear some relation to the other parts, or
to the whole. These relations give an origin to the idea of proportion.
They are discovered by mensuration, and they are the objects of
mathematical inquiry. But whether any part of any determinate quantity
be a fourth, or a fifth, or a sixth, or a moiety of the whole; or
whether it be of equal length with any other part, or double its length,
or but one half, is a matter merely indifferent to the mind; it stands
neuter in the question: and it is from this absolute indifference and
tranquillity of the mind, that mathematical speculations derive some of
their most considerable advantages; because there is nothing to interest
the imagination; because the judgment sits free and unbiassed to examine
the point. All proportions, every arrangement of quantity, is alike to
the understanding, because the same truths result to it from all; from
greater, from lesser, from equality and inequality. But surely beauty is
no idea belonging to mensuration; nor has it anything to do with
calculation and geometry. If it had, we might then point out some
certain measures which we could demonstrate to be beautiful, either as
simply considered, or as related to others; and we could call in those
natural objects, for whose beauty we have no voucher but the sense, to
this happy standard, and confirm the voice of our passions by the
determination of our reason. But since we have not this help, let us see
whether proportion can in any sense be considered as the cause of
beauty, as hath been so generally, and, by some, so confidently
affirmed. If proportion be one of the constituents of beauty, it must
derive that power either from some natural properties inherent in
certain measures, which operate mechanically; from the operation of
custom; or from the fitness which some measures have to answer some
particular ends of conveniency. Our business therefore is to inquire,
whether the parts of those objects, which are found beautiful in the
vegetable or animal kingdoms, are constantly so formed according to such
certain measures, as may serve to satisfy us that their beauty results
from those measures, on the principle of a natural mechanical cause; or
from custom; or, in fine, from their fitness for any determinate
purposes. I intend to examine this point under each of these heads in
their order. But before I proceed further, I hope it will not be thought
amiss, if I lay down the rules which governed me in this inquiry, and
which have misled me in it, if I have gone astray. 1. If two bodies
produce the same or a similar effect on the mind, and on examination
they are found to agree in some of their properties, and to differ in
others; the common effect is to be attributed to the properties in which
they agree, and not to those in which they differ. 2. Not to account for
the effect of a natural object from the effect of an artificial object.
3. Not to account for the effect of any natural object from a conclusion
of our reason concerning its uses, if a natural cause may be assigned.
4. Not to admit any determinate quantity, or any relation of quantity,
as the cause of a certain effect, if the effect is produced by different
or opposite measures and relations; or if these measures and relations
may exist, and yet the effect may not be produced. These are the rules
which I have chiefly followed, whilst I examined into the power of
proportion considered as a natural cause; and these, if he thinks them
just, I request the reader to carry with him throughout the following
discussion; whilst we inquire, in the first place, in what things we
find this quality of beauty; next, to see whether in these we can find
any assignable proportions in such a manner as ought to convince us that
our idea of beauty results from them. We shall consider this pleasing
power as it appears in vegetables, in the inferior animals, and in man.
Turning our eyes to the vegetable creation, we find nothing there so
beautiful as flowers; but flowers are almost of every sort of shape, and
of every sort of disposition; they are turned and fashioned into an
infinite variety of forms; and from these forms botanists have given
them their names, which are almost as various. What proportion do we
discover between the stalks and the leaves of flowers, or between the
leaves and the pistils? How does the slender stalk of the rose agree
with the bulky head under which it bends? but the rose is a beautiful
flower; and can we undertake to say that it does not owe a great deal of
its beauty even to that disproportion; the rose is a large flower, yet
it grows upon a small shrub; the flower of the apple is very small, and
grows upon a large tree; yet the rose and the apple blossom are both
beautiful, and the plants that bear them are most engagingly attired,
notwithstanding this disproportion. What by general consent is allowed
to be a more beautiful object than an orange-tree, nourishing at once
with its leaves, its blossoms, and its fruit? but it is in vain that we
search here for any proportion between the height, the breadth, or
anything else concerning the dimensions of the whole, or concerning the
relation of the particular parts to each other. I grant that we may
observe in many flowers something of a regular figure, and of a
methodical disposition of the leaves. The rose has such a figure and
such a disposition of its petals; but in an oblique view, when this
figure is in a good measure lost, and the order of the leaves
confounded, it yet retains its beauty; the rose is even more beautiful
before it is full blown; in the bud; before this exact figure is formed;
and this is not the only instance wherein method and exactness, the soul
of proportion, are found rather prejudicial than serviceable to the
cause of beauty.


SECTION III.

PROPORTION NOT THE CAUSE OF BEAUTY IN ANIMALS.

That proportion has but a small share in the formation of beauty is full
as evident among animals. Here the greatest variety of shapes and
dispositions of parts are well fitted to excite this idea. The swan,
confessedly a beautiful bird, has a neck longer than the rest of his
body, and but a very short tail: is this a beautiful proportion? We must
allow that it is. But then what shall we say to the peacock, who has
comparatively but a short neck, with a tail longer than the neck and the
rest of the body taken together? How many birds are there that vary
infinitely from each of these standards, and from every other which you
can fix; with proportions different, and often directly opposite to each
other! and yet many of these birds are extremely beautiful; when upon
considering them we find nothing in any one part that might determine
us, _a priori_, to say what the others ought to be, nor indeed to guess
anything about them, but what experience might show to be full of
disappointment and mistake. And with regard to the colors either of
birds or flowers, for there is something similar in the coloring of
both, whether they are considered in their extension or gradation, there
is nothing of proportion to be observed. Some are of but one single
color; others have all the colors of the rainbow; some are of the
primary colors, others are of the mixed; in short, an attentive observer
may soon conclude that there is as little of proportion in the coloring
as in the shapes of these objects. Turn next to beasts; examine the head
of a beautiful horse; find what proportion that bears to his body, and
to his limbs, and what relation these have to each other; and when you
have settled these proportions as a standard of beauty, then take a dog
or cat, or any other animal, and examine how far the same proportions
between their heads and their necks, between those and the body, and so
on, are found to hold; I think we may safely say, that they differ in
every species, yet that there are individuals, found in a great many
species so differing, that have a very striking beauty. Now, if it be
allowed that very different, and even contrary forms and dispositions
are consistent with beauty, it amounts I believe to a concession, that
no certain measures, operating from a natural principle, are necessary
to produce it; at least so far as the brute species is concerned.


SECTION IV.

PROPORTION NOT THE CAUSE OF BEAUTY IN THE HUMAN SPECIES.

There are some parts of the human body that are observed to hold certain
proportions to each other; but before it can be proved that the
efficient cause of beauty lies in these, it must be shown that, wherever
these are found exact, the person to whom they belong is beautiful: I
mean in the effect produced on the view, either of any member distinctly
considered, or of the whole body together. It must be likewise shown,
that these parts stand in such a relation to each other, that the
comparison between them may be easily made, and that the affection of
the mind may naturally result from it. For my part, I have at several
times very carefully examined many of those proportions, and found them
hold very nearly, or altogether alike in many subjects, which were not
only very different from one another, but where one has been very
beautiful, and the other very remote from beauty. With regard to the
parts which are found so proportioned, they are often so remote from
each other, in situation, nature, and office, that I cannot see how they
admit of any comparison, nor consequently how any effect owing to
proportion can result from them. The neck, say they, in beautiful
bodies, should measure with the calf of the leg; it should likewise be
twice the circumference of the wrist. And an infinity of observations of
this kind are to be found in the writings and conversations of many. But
what relation has the calf of the leg to the neck; or either of these
parts to the wrist? These proportions are certainly to be found in
handsome bodies. They are as certainly in ugly ones; as any who will
take the pains to try may find. Nay, I do not know but they may be least
perfect in some of the most beautiful. You may assign any proportions
you please to every part of the human body; and I undertake that a
painter shall religiously observe them all, and notwithstanding produce,
if he pleases, a very ugly figure. The same painter shall considerably
deviate from these proportions, and produce a very beautiful one. And,
indeed, it may be observed in the masterpieces of the ancient and modern
statuary, that several of them differ very widely from the proportions
of others, in parts very conspicuous and of great consideration; and
that they differ no less from the proportions we find in living men, of
forms extremely striking and agreeable. And after all, how are the
partisans of proportional beauty agreed amongst themselves about the
proportions of the human body? Some hold it to be seven heads; some make
it eight; whilst others extend it even to ten: a vast difference in such
a small number of divisions! Others take other methods of estimating the
proportions, and all with equal success. But are these proportions
exactly the same in all handsome men? or are they at all the proportions
found in beautiful women? Nobody will say that they are; yet both sexes
are undoubtedly capable of beauty, and the female of the greatest; which
advantage I believe will hardly be attributed to the superior exactness
of proportion in the fair sex. Let us rest a moment on this point; and
consider how much difference there is between the measures that prevail
in many similar parts of the body, in the two sexes of this single
species only. If you assign any determinate proportions to the limbs of
a man, and if you limit human beauty to these proportions, when you find
a woman who differs in the make and measures of almost every part, you
must conclude her not to be beautiful, in spite of the suggestions of
your imagination; or, in obedience to your imagination, you must
renounce your rules; you must lay by the scale and compass, and look out
for some other cause of beauty. For if beauty be attached to certain
measures which operate from a _principle in nature_, why should similar
parts with different measures of proportion be found to have beauty, and
this too in the very same species? But to open our view a little, it is
worth observing, that almost all animals have parts of very much the
same nature, and destined nearly to the same purposes; a head, neck,
body, feet, eyes, ears, nose, and mouth; yet Providence, to provide in
the best manner for their several wants, and to display the riches of
his wisdom and goodness in his creation, has worked out of these few and
similar organs, and members, a diversity hardly short of infinite in
their disposition, measures and relation. But, as we have before
observed, amidst this infinite diversity, one particular is common to
many species: several of the individuals which compose them are capable
of affecting us with a sense of loveliness: and whilst they agree in
producing this effect, they differ extremely in the relative measures of
those parts which have produced it. These considerations were sufficient
to induce me to reject the notion of any particular proportions that
operated by nature to produce a pleasing effect; but those who will
agree with me with regard to a particular proportion, are strongly
prepossessed in favor of one more indefinite. They imagine, that
although beauty in general is annexed to no certain measures common to
the several kinds of pleasing plants and animals; yet that there is a
certain proportion in each species absolutely essential to the beauty of
that particular kind. If we consider the animal world in general, we
find beauty confined to no certain measures; but as some peculiar
measure and relation of parts is what distinguishes each peculiar class
of animals, it must of necessity be, that the beautiful in each kind
will be found in the measures and proportions of that kind; for
otherwise it would deviate from its proper species, and become in some
sort monstrous: however, no species is so strictly confined to any
certain proportions, that there is not a considerable variation amongst
the individuals; and as it has been shown of the human, so it may be
shown of the brute kinds, that beauty is found indifferently in all the
proportions which each kind can admit, without quitting its common form;
and it is this idea of a common form that makes the proportion of parts
at all regarded, and not the operation of any natural cause: indeed a
little consideration will make it appear, that it is not measure, but
manner, that creates all the beauty which belongs to shape. What light
do we borrow from these boasted proportions, when we study ornamental
design? It seems amazing to me, that artists, if they were as well
convinced as they pretend to be, that proportion is a principal cause of
beauty, have not by them at all times accurate measurements of all sorts
of beautiful animals to help them to proper proportions, when they would
contrive anything elegant; especially as they frequently assert that it
is from an observation of the beautiful in nature they direct their
practice. I know that it has been said long since, and echoed backward
and forward from one writer to another a thousand times, that the
proportions of building have been taken from those of the human body. To
make this forced analogy complete, they represent a man with his arms
raised and extended at full length, and then describe a sort of square,
as it is formed by passing lines along the extremities of this strange
figure. But it appears very clearly to me that the human figure never
supplied the architect with any of his ideas. For, in the first place,
men are very rarely seen in this strained posture; it is not natural to
them; neither is it at all becoming. Secondly, the view of the human
figure so disposed, does not naturally suggest the idea of a square, but
rather of a cross; as that large space be tween the arms and the ground
must be filled with something before it can make anybody think of a
square. Thirdly, several buildings are by no means of the form of that
particular square, which are notwithstanding planned by the best
architects, and produce an effect altogether as good, and perhaps a
better. And certainly nothing could he more unaccountably whimsical,
than for an architect to model his performance by the human figure,
since no two things can have less resemblance or analogy, than a man,
and a house or temple: do we need to observe that their purposes are
entirely different? What I am apt to suspect is this: that these
analogies were devised to give a credit to the works of art, by showing
a conformity between them and the noblest works in nature; not that the
latter served at all to supply hints for the perfection of the former.
And I am the more fully convinced, that the patrons of proportion have
transferred their artificial ideas to nature, and not borrowed from
thence the proportions they use in works of art; because in any
discussion of this subject they always quit as soon as possible the open
field of natural beauties, the animal and vegetable kingdoms, and
fortify themselves within the artificial lines and angles of
architecture. For there is in mankind an unfortunate propensity to make
themselves, their views, and their works, the measure of excellence in
everything whatsoever. Therefore having observed that their dwellings
were most commodious and firm when they were thrown into regular
figures, with parts answerable to each other; they transferred these
ideas to their gardens; they turned their trees into pillars, pyramids,
and obelisks; they formed their hedges into so many green walls, and
fashioned their walks into squares, triangles, and other mathematical
figures, with exactness and symmetry; and they thought, if they were not
imitating, they were at least improving nature, and teaching her to know
her business. But nature has at last escaped from their discipline and
their fetters; and our gardens, if nothing else, declare, we begin to
feel that mathematical ideas are not the true measures of beauty. And
surely they are full as little so in the animal as the vegetable world.
For is it not extraordinary, that in these fine descriptive pieces,
these innumerable odes and elegies which are in the mouths of all the
world, and many of which have been the entertainment of ages, that in
these pieces which describe love with such a passionate energy, and
represent its object in such an infinite variety of lights, not one word
is said of proportion, if it be, what some insist it is, the principal
component of beauty; whilst, at the same time, several other qualities
are very frequently and warmly mentioned? But if proportion has not this
power, it may appear odd how men came originally to be so prepossessed
in its favor. It arose, I imagine, from the fondness I have just
mentioned, which men bear so remarkably to their own works and notions;
it arose from false reasonings on the effects of the customary figure of
animals; it arose from the Platonic theory of fitness and aptitude. For
which reason, in the next section, I shall consider the effects of
custom in the figure of animals; and afterwards the idea of fitness:
since if proportion does not operate by a natural power attending some
measures, it must be either by custom, or the idea of utility; there is
no other way.


SECTION V.

PROPORTION FURTHER CONSIDERED.

If I am not mistaken, a great deal of the prejudice in favor of
proportion has arisen, not so much from the observation of any certain
measures found in beautiful bodies, as from a wrong idea of the relation
which deformity bears to beauty, to which it has been considered as the
opposite; on this principle it was concluded that where the causes of
deformity were removed, beauty must naturally and necessarily be
introduced. This I believe is a mistake. For _deformity_ is opposed not
to beauty, but to the _complete common form_. If one of the legs of a
man be found shorter than the other, the man is deformed; because there
is something wanting to complete the whole idea we form of a man; and
this has the same effect in natural faults, as maiming and mutilation
produce from accidents. So if the back be humped, the man is deformed;
because his back has an unusual figure, and what carries with it the
idea of some disease or misfortune; So if a man's neck be considerably
longer or shorter than usual, we say he is deformed in that part,
because men are not commonly made in that manner. But surely every
hour's experience may convince us that a man may have his legs of an
equal length, and resembling each other in all respects, and his neck of
a just size, and his back quite straight, without having at the same
time the least perceivable beauty. Indeed beauty is so far from
belonging to the idea of custom, that in reality what affects us in that
manner is extremely rare and uncommon. The beautiful strikes us as much
by its novelty as the deformed itself. It is thus in those species of
animals with which we are acquainted; and if one of a new species were
represented, we should by no means wait until custom had settled an idea
of proportion, before we decided concerning its beauty or ugliness:
which shows that the general idea of beauty can be no more owing to
customary than to natural proportion. Deformity arises from the want of
the common proportions; but the necessary result of their existence in
any object is not beauty. If we suppose proportion in natural things to
be relative to custom and use, the nature of use and custom will show
that beauty, which is a _positive_ and powerful quality, cannot result
from it. We are so wonderfully formed, that, whilst we are creatures
vehemently desirous of novelty, we are as strongly attached to habit and
custom. But it is the nature of things which hold us by custom, to
affect us very little whilst we are in possession of them, but strongly
when they are absent. I remember to have frequented a certain place,
every day for a long time together; and I may truly say that, so far
from finding pleasure in it, I was affected with a sort of weariness and
disgust; I came, I went, I returned, without pleasure; yet if by any
means I passed by the usual time of my going thither, I was remarkably
uneasy, and was not quiet till I had got into my old track. They who use
snuff, take it almost without being sensible that they take it, and the
acute sense of smell is deadened, so as to feel hardly anything from so
sharp a stimulus; yet deprive the snuff-taker of his box, and he is the
most uneasy mortal in the world. Indeed so far are use and habit from
being causes of pleasure merely as such, that the effect of constant use
is to make all things of whatever kind entirely unaffecting. For as use
at last takes off the painful effect of many things, it reduces the
pleasurable effect in others in the same manner, and brings both to a
sort of mediocrity and indifference. Very justly is use called a second
nature; and our natural and common state is one of absolute
indifference, equally prepared for pain or pleasure. But when we are
thrown out of this state, or deprived of anything requisite to maintain
us in it; when this chance does not happen by pleasure from some
mechanical cause, we are always hurt. It is so with the second nature,
custom, in all things which relate to it. Thus the want of the usual
proportions in men and other animals is sure to disgust, though their
presence is by no means any cause of real pleasure. It is true that the
proportions laid down as causes of beauty in the human body, are
frequently found in beautiful ones, because they are generally found in
all mankind; but if it can be shown too that they are found without
beauty, and that beauty frequently exists without them, and that this
beauty, where it exists, always can be assigned to other less equivocal
causes, it will naturally lead us to conclude that proportion and beauty
are not ideas of the same nature. The true opposite to beauty is not
disproportion or deformity, but _ugliness_: and as it proceeds from
causes opposite to those of positive beauty, we cannot consider it until
we come to treat of that. Between beauty and ugliness there is a sort of
mediocrity, in which the assigned proportions are most commonly found;
but this has no effect upon the passions.


SECTION VI.

FITNESS NOT THE CAUSE OF BEAUTY.

It is said that the idea of utility, or of a part's being well adapted
to answer its end, is the cause of beauty, or indeed beauty itself. If
it were not for this opinion, it had been impossible for the doctrine of
proportion to have held its ground very long; the world would be soon
weary of hearing of measures which related to nothing, either of a
natural principle, or of a fitness to answer some end; the idea which
mankind most commonly conceive of proportion, is the suitableness of
means to certain ends, and, where this is not the question, very seldom
trouble themselves about the effect of different measures of things.
Therefore it was necessary for this theory to insist that not only
artificial, but natural objects took their beauty from the fitness of
the parts for their several purposes. But in framing this theory, I am
apprehensive that experience was not sufficiently consulted. For, on
that principle, the wedge-like snout of a swine, with its tough
cartilage at the end, the little sunk eyes, and the whole make of the
head, so well adapted to its offices of digging and rooting, would be
extremely beautiful. The great bag hanging to the bill of a pelican, a
thing highly useful to this animal, would be likewise as beautiful in
our eyes. The hedge-hog, so well secured against all assaults by his
prickly hide, and the porcupine with his missile quills, would be then
considered as creatures of no small elegance. There are few animals
whose parts are better contrived than those of a monkey: he has the
hands of a man, joined to the springy limbs of a beast; he is admirably
calculated for running, leaping, grappling, and climbing; and yet there
are few animals which seem to have less beauty in the eyes of all
mankind. I need say little on the trunk of the elephant, of such various
usefulness, and which is so far from contributing to his beauty. How
well fitted is the wolf for running and leaping! how admirably is the
lion armed for battle! but will any one therefore call the elephant, the
wolf, and the lion, beautiful animals? I believe nobody will think the
form of a man's leg so well adapted to running, as those of a horse, a
dog, a deer, and several other creatures; at least they have not that
appearance: yet, I believe, a well-fashioned human leg will be allowed
to far exceed all these in beauty. If the fitness of parts was what
constituted the loveliness of their form, the actual employment of them
would undoubtedly much augment it; but this, though it is sometimes so
upon another principle, is far from being always the case. A bird on the
wing is not so beautiful as when it is perched; nay, there are several
of the domestic fowls which are seldom seen to fly, and which are
nothing the less beautiful on that account; yet birds are so extremely
different in their form from the beast and human kinds, that you cannot,
on the principle of fitness, allow them anything agreeable, but in
consideration of their parts being designed for quite other purposes. I
never in my life chanced to see a peacock fly; and yet before, very long
before I considered any aptitude in his form for the aerial life, I was
struck with the extreme beauty which raises that bird above many of the
best flying fowls in the world; though, for anything I saw, his way of
living was much like that of the swine, which fed in the farm-yard along
with him. The same may be said of cocks, hens, and the like; they are of
the flying kind in figure; in their manner of moving not very different
from men and beasts. To leave these foreign examples; if beauty in our
own species was annexed to use, men would be much more lovely than
women; and strength and agility would be considered as the only
beauties. But to call strength by the name of beauty, to have but one
denomination for the qualities of a Venus and Hercules, so totally
different in almost all respects, is surely a strange confusion of
ideas, or abuse of words. The cause of this confusion, I imagine,
proceeds from our frequently perceiving the parts of the human and other
animal bodies to be at once very beautiful, and very well adapted to
their purposes; and we are deceived by a sophism, which makes us take
that for a cause which is only a concomitant: this is the sophism of the
fly; who imagined he raised a great dust, because he stood upon the
chariot that really raised it. The stomach, the lungs, the liver, as
well as other parts, are incomparably well adapted to their purposes;
yet they are far from having any beauty. Again, many things are very
beautiful, in which it is impossible to discern any idea of use. And I
appeal to the first and most natural feelings of mankind, whether on
beholding a beautiful eye, or a well-fashioned mouth, or a well-turned
leg, any ideas of their being well fitted for seeing, eating, or
running, ever present themselves. What idea of use is it that flowers
excite, the most beautiful part of the vegetable world? It is true that
the infinitely wise and good Creator has, of his bounty, frequently
joined beauty to those things which he has made useful to us; but this
does not prove that an idea of use and beauty are the same thing, or
that they are any way dependent on each other.


SECTION VII.

THE REAL EFFECTS OF FITNESS.

When I excluded proportion and fitness from any share in beauty, I did
not by any means intend to say that they were of no value, or that they
ought to be disregarded in works of art. Works of art are the proper
sphere of their power; and here it is that they have their full effect.
Whenever the wisdom of our Creator intended that we should be affected
with anything, he did not confide the execution of his design to the
languid and precarious operation of our reason; but he endued it with
powers and properties that prevent the understanding, and even the will;
which, seizing upon the senses and imagination, captivate the soul,
before the understanding is ready either to join with them, or to
oppose them. It is by a long deduction, and much study, that we discover
the adorable wisdom of God in his works: when we discover it the effect
is very different, not only in the manner of acquiring it, but in its
own nature, from that which strikes us without any preparation from the
sublime or the beautiful. How different is the satisfaction of an
anatomist, who discovers the use of the muscles and of the skin, the
excellent contrivance of the one for the various movements of the body,
and the wonderful texture of the other, at once a general covering, and
at once a general outlet as well as inlet; how different is this from
the affection which possesses an ordinary man at the sight of a
delicate, smooth skin, and all the other parts of beauty, which require
no investigation to be perceived! In the former case, whilst we look up
to the Maker with admiration and praise, the object which causes it may
be odious and distasteful; the latter very often so touches us by its
power on the imagination, that we examine but little into the artifice
of its contrivance; and we have need of a strong effort of our reason to
disentangle our minds from the allurements of the object, to a
consideration of that wisdom which invented so powerful a machine. The
effect of proportion and fitness, at least so far as they proceed from a
mere consideration of the work itself, produce approbation, the
acquiescence of the understanding, but not love, nor any passion of that
species. When we examine the structure of a watch, when we come to know
thoroughly the use of every part of it, satisfied as we are with the
fitness of the whole, we are far enough from perceiving anything like
beauty in the watch-work itself; but let us look on the case, the labor
of some curious artist in engraving, with little or no idea of use, we
shall have a much livelier idea of beauty than we ever could have had
from the watch itself, though the masterpiece of Graham. In beauty, as I
said, the effect is previous to any knowledge of the use; but to judge
of proportion, we must know the end for which any work is designed.
According to the end, the proportion varies. Thus there is one
proportion of a tower, another of a house; one proportion of a gallery,
another of a hall, another of a chamber. To judge of the proportions of
these, you must be first acquainted with the purposes for which they
were designed. Good sense and experience acting together, find out what
is fit to be done in every work of art. We are rational creatures, and
in all our works we ought to regard their end and purpose; the
gratification of any passion, how innocent soever, ought only to be of
secondary consideration. Herein is placed the real power of fitness and
proportion; they operate on the understanding considering them, which
_approves_ the work and acquiesces in it. The passions, and the
imagination which principally raises them, have here very little to do.
When a room appears in its original nakedness, bare walls and a plain
ceiling: let its proportion be ever so excellent, it pleases very
little; a cold approbation is the utmost we can reach; a much worse
proportioned room with elegant mouldings and fine festoons, glasses, and
other merely ornamental furniture, will make the imagination revolt
against the reason; it will please much more than the naked proportion
of the first room, which the understanding has so much approved, as
admirably fitted for its purposes. What I have here said and before
concerning proportion, is by no means to persuade people absurdly to
neglect the idea of use in the works of art. It is only to show that
these excellent things, beauty and proportion, are not the same; not
that they should either of them be disregarded.


SECTION VIII.

THE RECAPITULATION.

On the whole; if such parts in human bodies as are found proportioned,
were likewise constantly found beautiful, as they certainly are not; or
if they were so situated, as that a pleasure might flow from the
comparison, which they seldom are; or if any assignable proportions were
found, either in plants or animals, which were always attended with
beauty, which never was the case; or if, where parts were well adapted
to their purposes, they were constantly beautiful, and when no use
appeared, there was no beauty, which is contrary to all experience; we
might conclude that beauty consisted in proportion or utility. But
since, in all respects, the case is quite otherwise; we may be satisfied
that beauty does not depend on these, let it owe its origin to what else
it will.


SECTION IX.

PERFECTION NOT THE CAUSE OF BEAUTY.

There is another notion current, pretty closely allied to the former;
that _perfection_ is the constituent cause of beauty. This opinion has
been made to extend much further than to sensible objects. But in
these, so far is perfection, considered as such, from being the cause of
beauty; that this quality, where it is highest, in the female sex,
almost always carries with it an idea of weakness and imperfection.
Women are very sensible of this; for which reason they learn to lisp, to
totter in their walk, to counterfeit weakness, and even sickness. In all
this they are guided by nature. Beauty in distress is much the most
affecting beauty. Blushing has little less power; and modesty in
general, which is a tacit allowance of imperfection, is itself
considered as an amiable quality, and certainly heightens every other
that is so. I know it is in every body's mouth, that we ought to love
perfection. This is to me a sufficient proof, that it is not the proper
object of love. Who ever said we _ought_ to love a fine woman, or even
any of these beautiful animals which please us? Here to be affected,
there is no need of the concurrence of our will.


SECTION X.

HOW FAR THE IDEA OF BEAUTY MAY BE APPLIED TO THE QUALITIES OF THE MIND.

Nor is this remark in general less applicable to the qualities of the
mind. Those virtues which cause admiration, and are of the sublimer
kind, produce terror rather than love; such as fortitude, justice,
wisdom, and the like. Never was any man amiable by force of these
qualities. Those which engage our hearts, which impress us with a sense
of loveliness, are the softer virtues; easiness of temper, compassion,
kindness, and liberality; though certainly those latter are of less
immediate and momentous concern to society, and of less dignity. But it
is for that reason that they are so amiable. The great virtues turn
principally on dangers, punishments, and troubles, and are exercised,
rather in preventing the worst mischiefs, than in dispensing favors; and
are therefore not lovely, though highly venerable. The subordinate turn
on reliefs, gratifications, and indulgences; and are therefore more
lovely, though inferior in dignity. Those persons who creep into the
hearts of most people, who are chosen as the companions of their softer
hours, and their reliefs from care and anxiety, are never persons of
shining qualities or strong virtues. It is rather the soft green of the
soul on which we rest our eyes, that are fatigued with beholding more
glaring objects. It is worth observing how we feel ourselves affected in
reading the characters of Caesar and Cato, as they are so finely drawn
and contrasted in Sallust. In one the _ignoscendo largiundo_; in the
other, _nil largiundo_. In one, the _miseris perfugium_; in the other,
_malis perniciem_. In the latter we have much to admire, much to
reverence, and perhaps something to fear; we respect him, but we respect
him at a distance. The former makes us familiar with him; we love him,
and he leads us whither he pleases. To draw things closer to our first
and most natural feelings, I will add a remark made upon reading this
section by an ingenious friend. The authority of a father, so useful to
our well-being, and so justly venerable upon all accounts, hinders us
from having that entire love for him that we have for our mothers, where
the parental authority is almost melted down into the mother's fondness
and indulgence. But we generally have a great love for our
grandfathers, in whom this authority is removed a degree from us, and
where the weakness of age mellows it into something of a feminine
partiality.


SECTION XI.

HOW FAR THE IDEA OF BEAUTY MAY BE APPLIED TO VIRTUE.

From what has been said in the foregoing section, we may easily see how
far the application of beauty to virtue may be made with propriety. The
general application of this quality to virtue has a strong tendency to
confound our ideas of things, and it has given rise to an infinite deal
of whimsical theory; as the affixing the name of beauty to proportion,
congruity, and perfection, as well as to qualities of things yet more
remote from our natural ideas of it, and from one another, has tended to
confound our ideas of beauty, and left us no standard or rule to judge
by, that was not even more uncertain and fallacious than our own
fancies. This loose and inaccurate manner of speaking has therefore
misled us both in the theory of taste and of morals; and induced us to
remove the science of our duties from their proper basis (our reason,
our relations, and our necessities), to rest it upon, foundations
altogether visionary and unsubstantial.


SECTION XII.

THE REAL CAUSE OF BEAUTY.

Having endeavored to show what beauty is not, it remains that we should
examine, at least with equal attention, in what it really consists.
Beauty is a thing much too affecting not to depend upon some positive
qualities. And since it is no creature of our reason, since it strikes
us without any reference to use, and even where no use at all can be
discerned, since the order and method of nature is generally very
different from our measures and proportions, we must conclude that
beauty is, for the greater part, some quality in bodies acting
mechanically upon the human mind by the intervention of the senses. We
ought, therefore, to consider attentively in what manner those sensible
qualities are disposed, in such things as by experience we find
beautiful, or which excite in us the passion of love, or some
correspondent affection.


SECTION XIII.

BEAUTIFUL OBJECTS SMALL.

The most obvious point that presents itself to us in examining any
object is its extent or quantity. And what degree of extent prevails in
bodies that are held beautiful, may be gathered from the usual manner of
expression concerning it. I am told that, in most languages, the objects
of love are spoken of under diminutive epithets. It is so in all the
languages of which I have any knowledge. In Greek the [Greek: ion] and
other diminutive terms are almost always the terms of affection and
tenderness. These diminutives were commonly added by the Greeks to the
names of persons with whom they conversed on terms of friendship and
familiarity. Though the Romans were a people of less quick and delicate
feelings, yet they naturally slid into the lessening termination upon
the same occasions. Anciently, in the English language, the diminishing
_ling_ was added to the names of persons and things that were the
objects of love. Some we retain still, as _darling_ (or little dear),
and a few others. But to this day, in ordinary conversation, it is usual
to add the endearing name of _little_ to everything we love; the French
and Italians make use of these affectionate diminutives even more than
we. In the animal creation, out of our own species, it is the small we
are inclined to be fond of; little birds, and some of the smaller kinds
of beasts. A great beautiful thing is a manner of expression scarcely
ever used; but that of a great ugly thing is very common. There is a
wide difference between admiration and love. The sublime, which is the
cause of the former, always dwells on great objects, and terrible; the
latter on small ones, and pleasing; we submit to what we admire, but we
love what submits to us; in one case we are forced, in the other we are
flattered, into compliance. In short, the ideas of the sublime and the
beautiful stand on foundations so different, that it is hard, I had
almost said impossible, to think of reconciling them in the same
subject, without considerably lessening the effect of the one or the
other upon the passions. So that, attending to their quantity, beautiful
objects are comparatively small.


SECTION XIV.

SMOOTHNESS.

The next property constantly observable in such objects is
_smoothness_;[24] a quality so essential to beauty, that I do not now
recollect anything beautiful that is not smooth. In trees and flowers,
smooth leaves are beautiful; smooth slopes of earth in gardens; smooth
streams in the landscape; smooth coats of birds and beasts in animal
beauties; in fine women, smooth skins; and in several sorts of
ornamental furniture, smooth and polished surfaces. A very considerable
part of the effect of beauty is owing to this quality; indeed the most
considerable. For, take any beautiful object, and give it a broken, and
rugged surface; and, however well formed it may be in other respects, it
pleases no longer. Whereas, let it want ever so many of the other
constituents, if it wants not this, it becomes more pleasing than almost
all the others without it. This seems to me so evident, that I am a good
deal surprised that none who have handled the subject have made any
mention of the quality of smoothness in the enumeration of those that go
to the forming of beauty. For, indeed, any ruggedness, any sudden,
projection, any sharp angle, is in the highest degree contrary to that
idea.


SECTION XV.

GRADUAL VARIATION.

But as perfectly beautiful bodies are not composed of angular parts, so
their parts never continue long in the same right line.[25] They vary
their direction every moment, and they change under the eye by a
deviation continually carrying on, but for whose beginning or end you
will find it difficult to ascertain a point. The view of a beautiful
bird will illustrate this observation. Here we see the head increasing
insensibly to the middle, from whence it lessens gradually until it
mixes with the neck; the neck loses itself in a larger swell, which
continues to the middle of the body, when the whole decreases again to
the tail; the tail takes a new direction, but it soon varies its new
course, it blends again with the other parts, and the line is
perpetually changing, above, below, upon every side. In this description
I have before me the idea of a dove; it agrees very well with most of
the conditions of beauty. It is smooth and downy; its parts are (to use
that expression) melted into one another; you are presented with no
sudden protuberance through the whole, and yet the whole is continually
changing. Observe that part of a beautiful woman where she is perhaps
the most beautiful, about the neck and breasts; the smoothness, the
softness, the easy and insensible swell; the variety of the surface,
which is never for the smallest space the same; the deceitful maze
through which the unsteady eye slides giddily, without knowing where to
fix, or whither it is carried. Is not this a demonstration of that
change of surface, continual, and yet hardly perceptible at any point,
which forms one of the great constituents of beauty? It gives me no
small pleasure to find that I can strengthen my theory in this point by
the opinion of the very ingenious Mr. Hogarth, whose idea of the line of
beauty I take in general to be extremely just. But the idea of
variation, without attending so accurately to the _manner_ of the
variation, has led him to consider angular figures as beautiful; these
figures, it is true, vary greatly, yet they vary in a sudden and broken
manner, and I do not find any natural object which is angular, and at
the same time beautiful. Indeed, few natural objects are entirely
angular. But I think those which approach the most nearly to it are the
ugliest. I must add, too, that so for as I could observe of nature,
though the varied line is that alone in which complete beauty is found,
yet there is no particular line which is always found in the most
completely beautiful, and which is therefore beautiful in preference to
all other lines. At least I never could observe it.


SECTION XVI.

DELICACY.

An air of robustness and strength is very prejudicial to beauty. An
appearance of _delicacy_, and even of fragility, is almost essential to
it. Whoever examines the vegetable or animal creation will find this
observation to be founded in nature. It is not the oak, the ash, or the
elm, or any of the robust trees of the forest which we consider as
beautiful; they are awful and majestic, they inspire a sort of
reverence. It is the delicate myrtle, it is the orange, it is the
almond, it is the jasmine, it is the vine which we look on as vegetable
beauties. It is the flowery species, so remarkable for its weakness and
momentary duration, that gives us the liveliest idea of beauty and
elegance. Among animals, the greyhound is more beautiful than the
mastiff, and the delicacy of a jennet, a barb, or an Arabian horse, is
much more amiable than the strength and stability of some horses of war
or carriage. I need here say little of the fair sex, where I believe the
point will be easily allowed me. The beauty of women is considerably
owing to their weakness or delicacy, and is even enhanced by their
timidity, a quality of mind analogous to it. I would not here be
understood to say, that weakness betraying very bad health has any share
in beauty; but the ill effect of this is not because it is weakness, but
because the ill state of health, which produces such weakness, alters
the other conditions of beauty; the parts in such a case collapse, the
bright color, the _lumen purpureum juventae_ is gone, and the fine
variation is lost in wrinkles, sudden breaks, and right lines.


SECTION XVII.

BEAUTY IN COLOR.

As to the colors usually found in beautiful bodies, it may be somewhat
difficult to ascertain them, because, in the several parts of nature,
there is an infinite variety. However, even in this variety, we may mark
out something on which to settle. First, the colors of beautiful bodies
must not be dusky or muddy, but clean and fair. Secondly, they must not
be of the strongest kind. Those which seem most appropriated to beauty,
are the milder of every sort; light greens; soft blues; weak whites;
pink reds; and violets. Thirdly, if the colors be strong and vivid, they
are always diversified, and the object is never of one strong color;
there are almost always such a number of them (as in variegated flowers)
that the strength and glare of each is considerably abated. In a fine
complexion there is not only some variety in the coloring, but the
colors: neither the red nor the white are strong and glaring. Besides,
they are mixed in such a manner, and with such gradations, that it is
impossible to fix the bounds. On the same principle it is that the
dubious color in the necks and tails of peacocks, and about the heads of
drakes, is so very agreeable. In reality, the beauty both of shape and
coloring are as nearly related as we can well suppose it possible for
things of such different natures to be.


SECTION XVIII.

RECAPITULATION.

On the whole, the qualities of beauty, as they are merely sensible
qualities, are the following: First, to be comparatively small.
Secondly, to be smooth. Thirdly, to have a variety in the direction of
the parts; but, fourthly, to have those parts not angular, but melted,
as it were, into each other. Fifthly, to be of a delicate frame, without
any remarkable appearance of strength. Sixthly, to have its colors clear
and bright, but not very strong and glaring. Seventhly, or if it should
have any glaring color, to have it diversified with others. These are, I
believe, the properties on which beauty depends; properties that operate
by nature, and are less liable to be altered by caprice, or confounded
by a diversity of tastes, than any other.


SECTION XIX.

THE PHYSIOGNOMY.

The _physiognomy_ has a considerable share in beauty, especially in that
of our own species. The manners give a certain determination to the
countenance; which, being observed to correspond pretty regularly with
them, is capable of joining the effect of certain agreeable qualities of
the mind to those of the body. So that to form a finished human beauty,
and to give it its full influence, the face must be expressive of such
gentle and amiable qualities, as correspond with the softness,
smoothness, and delicacy of the outward form.


SECTION XX.

THE EYE.

I have hitherto purposely omitted to speak of the _eye_, which has so
great a share in the beauty of the animal creation, as it did not fall
so easily under the foregoing heads, though in fact it is reducible to
the same principles. I think, then, that the beauty of the eye consists,
first, in its _clearness_; what _colored_ eye shall please most, depends
a good deal on particular fancies; but none are pleased with an eye
whose water (to use that term) is dull and muddy.[26] We are pleased
with the eye in this view, on the principle upon which we like diamonds,
clear water, glass, and such like transparent substances. Secondly, the
motion of the eye contributes to its beauty, by continually shifting its
direction; but a slow and languid motion is more beautiful than a brisk
one; the latter is enlivening; the former lovely. Thirdly, with regard
to the union of the eye with the neighboring parts, it is to hold the
same rule that is given of other beautiful ones; it is not to make a
strong deviation from the line of the neighboring parts; nor to verge
into any exact geometrical figure. Besides all this, the eye affects, as
it is expressive of some qualities of the mind, and its principal power
generally arises from this; so that what we have just said of the
physiognomy is applicable here.


SECTION XXI.

UGLINESS.

It may perhaps appear like a sort of repetition of what we have before
said, to insist here upon the nature of _ugliness_; as I imagine it to
be in all respects the opposite to those qualities which we have laid
down for the constituents of beauty. But though ugliness be the opposite
to beauty, it is not the opposite to proportion and fitness. For it is
possible that a thing may be very ugly with any proportions, and with a
perfect fitness to any uses. Ugliness I imagine likewise to be
consistent enough with an idea of the sublime. But I would by no means
insinuate that ugliness of itself is a sublime idea, unless united with
such qualities as excite a strong terror.


SECTION XXII.

GRACE.

Gracefulness is an idea not very different from beauty; it consists in
much the same things. Gracefulness is an idea belonging to _posture_ and
_motion_. In both these, to be graceful, it is requisite that there be
no appearance of difficulty; there is required a small inflection of the
body; and a composure of the parts in such a manner, as not to incumber
each other, not to appear divided by sharp and sudden angles. In this
case, this roundness, this delicacy of attitude and motion, it is that
all the magic of grace consists, and what is called its _je ne scai
quoi_; as will be obvious to any observer, who considers attentively the
Venus de Medicis, the Antinous or any statue generally allowed to be
graceful in a high degree.


SECTION XXIII.

ELEGANCE AND SPECIOUSNESS.

When any body is composed of parts smooth and polished, without pressing
upon each other, without showing any ruggedness or confusion, and at the
same time affecting some _regular shape_, I call it _elegant_. It is
closely allied to the beautiful, differing from it only in this
_regularity_; which, however, as it makes a very material difference in
the affection produced, may very well constitute another species. Under
this head I rank those delicate and regular works of art, that imitate
no determinate object in nature, as elegant buildings, and pieces of
furniture. When any object partakes of the above-mentioned qualities, or
of those of beautiful bodies, and is withal of great dimensions, it is
full as remote from the idea of mere beauty; I call _fine_ or
_specious_.


SECTION XXIV.

THE BEAUTIFUL IN FEELING.

The foregoing description of beauty, so far as it is taken in by the
eye, may he greatly illustrated by describing the nature of objects,
which produce a similar effect through the touch. This I call the
beautiful in _feeling_. It corresponds wonderfully with what causes the
same species of pleasure to the sight. There is a chain in all our
sensations; they are all but different sorts of feelings calculated to
be affected by various sorts of objects, but all to be affected after
the same manner. All bodies that are pleasant to the touch, are so by
the slightness of the resistance they make. Resistance is either to
motion along the surface, or to the pressure of the parts on one
another: if the former be slight, we call the body smooth; if the
latter, soft. The chief pleasure we receive by feeling, is in the one or
the other of these qualities; and if there be a combination of both, our
pleasure is greatly increased. This is so plain, that it is rather more
fit to illustrate other things, than to be illustrated itself by an
example. The next source of pleasure in this sense, as in every other,
is the continually presenting somewhat new; and we find that bodies
which continually vary their surface, are much the most pleasant or
beautiful to the feeling, as any one that pleases may experience. The
third property in such objects is, that though the surface continually
varies its direction, it never varies it suddenly. The application of
anything sudden, even though the impression itself have little or
nothing of violence, is disagreeable. The quick application of a finger
a little warmer or colder than usual, without notice, makes us start; a
slight tap on the shoulder, not expected, has the same effect. Hence it
is that angular bodies, bodies that suddenly vary the direction of the
outline, afford so little pleasure to the feeling. Every such change is
a sort of climbing or falling in miniature; so that squares, triangles,
and other angular figures are neither beautiful to the sight nor
feeling. Whoever compares his state of mind, on feeling soft, smooth,
variated, unangular bodies, with that in which he finds himself, on the
view of a beautiful object, will perceive a very striking analogy in the
effects of both; and which may go a good way towards discovering their
common cause. Feeling and sight, in this respect, differ in but a few
points. The touch takes in the pleasure of softness, which is not
primarily an object of sight; the sight, on the other hand, comprehends
color, which can hardly he made perceptible to the touch: the touch,
again, has the advantage in a new idea of pleasure resulting from a
moderate degree of warmth; but the eye triumphs in the infinite extent
and multiplicity of its objects. But there is such a similitude in the
pleasures of these senses, that I am apt to fancy, if it were possible
that one might discern color by feeling (as it is said some blind men
have done) that the same colors, and the same disposition of coloring,
which are found beautiful to the sight, would be found likewise most
grateful to the touch. But, setting aside conjectures, let us pass to
the other sense; of hearing.


SECTION XXV.

THE BEAUTIFUL IN SOUNDS.

In this sense we find an equal aptitude to be affected in a soft and
delicate manner; and how far sweet or beautiful sounds agree with our
descriptions of beauty in other senses, the experience of every one must
decide. Milton has described this species of music in one of his
juvenile poems.[27] I need not say that Milton was perfectly well versed
in that art; and that no man had a finer ear, with a happier manner of
expressing the affections of one sense by metaphors taken from another.
The description is as follows:--

          "And ever against eating cares,
    Lap me in _soft_ Lydian airs;
    In notes with many a _winding_ bout
    Of _linked sweetness long drawn_ out;
    With wanton heed, and giddy cunning,
    The _melting_ voice through _mazes_ running;
    _Untwisting_ all the chains that tie
    The hidden soul of harmony."

Let us parallel this with the softness, the winding surface, the
unbroken continuance, the easy gradation of the beautiful in other
things; and all the diversities of the several senses, with all their
several affections, will rather help to throw lights from one another to
finish one clear, consistent idea of the whole, than to obscure it by
their intricacy and variety.

To the above-mentioned description I shall add one or two remarks. The
first is; that the beautiful in music will not hear that loudness and
strength of sounds, which may be used to raise other passions; nor notes
which are shrill, or harsh, or deep; it agrees best with such as are
clear, even, smooth, and weak. The second is; that great variety, and
quick transitions from one measure or tone to another, are contrary to
the genius of the beautiful in music. Such[28] transitions often excite
mirth, or other sudden or tumultuous passions; but not that sinking,
that melting, that languor, which is the characteristical effect of the
beautiful as it regards every sense. The passion excited by beauty is in
fact nearer to a species of melancholy, than to jollity and mirth. I do
not here mean to confine music to any one species of notes, or tones,
neither is it an art in which I can say I have any great skill. My sole
design in this remark is to settle a consistent idea of beauty. The
infinite variety of the affections of the soul will suggest to a good
head, and skilful ear, a variety of such sounds as are fitted to raise
them. It can be no prejudice to this, to clear and distinguish some few
particulars that belong to the same class, and are consistent with each
other, from the immense crowd of different and sometimes contradictory
ideas, that rank vulgarly under the standard of beauty. And of these it
is my intention to mark such only of the leading points as show the
conformity of the sense of hearing with all the other senses, in the
article of their pleasures.


SECTION XXVI.

TASTE AND SMELL.

This general agreement of the senses is yet more evident on minutely
considering those of taste and smell. We metaphorically apply the idea
of sweetness to sights and sounds; but as the qualities of bodies by
which they are fitted to excite either pleasure or pain in these senses
are not so obvious as they are in the others, we shall refer an
explanation of their analogy, which is a very close one, to that part
wherein we come to consider the common efficient cause of beauty, as it
regards all the senses. I do not think anything better fitted to
establish a clear and settled idea of visual beauty than this way of
examining the similar pleasures of other senses; for one part is
sometimes clear in one of the senses that is more obscure in another;
and where there is a clear concurrence of all, we may with more
certainty speak of any one of them. By this means, they bear witness to
each other; nature is, as it were, scrutinized; and we report nothing of
her but what we receive from her own information.


SECTION XXVII.

THE SUBLIME AND BEAUTIFUL COMPARED.

On closing this general view of beauty, it naturally occurs that we
should compare it with the sublime; and in this comparison there appears
a remarkable contrast. For sublime objects are vast in their dimensions,
beautiful ones comparatively small; beauty should be smooth and
polished; the great, rugged and negligent: beauty should shun the right
line, yet deviate from it insensibly; the great in many cases loves the
right line; and when it deviates, it often makes a strong deviation:
beauty should not be obscure; the great ought to be dark and gloomy:
beauty should be light and delicate; the great ought to be solid, and
even massive. They are indeed ideas of a very different nature, one
being founded on pain, the other on pleasure; and, however they may vary
afterwards from the direct nature of their causes, yet these causes keep
up an eternal distinction between them, a distinction never to be
forgotten by any whose business it is to affect the passions. In the
infinite variety of natural combinations, we must expect to find the
qualities of things the most remote imaginable from each other united in
the same object. We must expect also to find combinations of the same
kind in the works of art. But when we consider the power of an object
upon our passions, we must know that when anything is intended to affect
the mind by the force of some predominant property, the affection
produced is like to be the more uniform and perfect, if all the other
properties or qualities of the object be of the same nature, and tending
to the same design as the principal.

   "If black and white blend, soften, and unite
    A thousand ways, are there no black and white?"

If the qualities of the sublime and beautiful are sometimes found
united, does this prove that they are the same; does it prove that they
are any way allied; does it prove even that they are not opposite and
contradictory? Black and white may soften, may blend; but they are not
therefore the same. Nor, when they are so softened and blended with each
other, or with different colors, is the power of black as black, or of
white as white, so strong as when each stands uniform and distinguished.

FOOTNOTES:

[24] Part IV. sect. 20.

[25] Part IV. sect. 23.

[26] Part IV. sect. 25.

[27] L'Allegro.

[28]

   "I ne'er am merry, when I hear sweet music."

                                        SHAKESPEARE.




PART IV.


SECTION I.

OF THE EFFICIENT CAUSE OF THE SUBLIME AND BEAUTIFUL.

When I say, I intend to inquire into the efficient cause of sublimity
and beauty, I would not be understood to say, that I can come to the
ultimate cause. I do not pretend that I shall ever be able to explain
why certain affections of the body produce such a distinct emotion of
mind, and no other; or why the body is at all affected by the mind, or
the mind by the body. A little thought will show this to be impossible.
But I conceive, if we can discover what affections of the mind produce
certain emotions of the body; and what distinct feelings and qualities
of body shall produce certain determinate passions in the mind, and no
others, I fancy a great deal will be done; something not unuseful
towards a distinct knowledge of our passions, so far at least as we have
them at present under our consideration. This is all, I believe, we can
do. If we could advance a step farther, difficulties would still remain,
as we should be still equally distant from the first cause. When Newton
first discovered the property of attraction, and settled its laws, he
found it served very well to explain several of the most remarkable
phenomena in nature; but yet, with reference to the general system of
things, he could consider attraction but as an effect, whose cause at
that time he did not attempt to trace. But when he afterwards began to
account for it by a subtle elastic ether, this great man (if in so
great a man it be not impious to discover anything like a blemish)
seemed to have quitted his usual cautious manner of philosophizing;
since, perhaps, allowing all that has been advanced on this subject to
be sufficiently proved, I think it leaves us with as many difficulties
as it found us. That great chain of causes, which, linking one to
another, even to the throne of God himself, can never be unravelled by
any industry of ours. When we go but one step beyond the immediate
sensible qualities of things, we go out of our depth. All we do after is
but a faint struggle, that shows we are in an element which does not
belong to us. So that when I speak of cause, and efficient cause, I only
mean certain affections of the mind, that cause certain changes in the
body; or certain powers and properties in bodies, that work a change in
the mind. As, if I were to explain the motion of a body falling to the
ground, I would say it was caused by gravity; and I would endeavor to
show after what manner this power operated, without attempting to show
why it operated in this manner: or, if I were to explain the effects of
bodies striking one another by the common laws of percussion, I should
not endeavor to explain how motion itself is communicated.


SECTION II.

ASSOCIATION.

It is no small bar in the way of our inquiry into the cause of our
passions, that the occasions of many of them are given, and that their
governing motions are communicated at a time when we have not capacity
to reflect on them; at a time of which all sort of memory is worn out
of our minds. For besides such things as affect us in various manners,
according to their natural powers, there are associations made at that
early season, which we find it very hard afterwards to distinguish from
natural effects. Not to mention the unaccountable antipathies which we
find in many persons, we all find it impossible to remember when a steep
became more terrible than a plain; or fire or water more terrible than a
clod of earth; though all these are very probably either conclusions
from experience, or arising from the premonitions of others; and some of
them impressed, in all likelihood, pretty late. But as it must be
allowed that many things affect us after a certain manner, not by any
natural powers they have for that purpose, but by association; so it
would be absurd, on the other hand, to say that all things affect us by
association only; since some things must have been originally and
naturally agreeable or disagreeable, from which the others derive their
associated powers; and it would be, I fancy, to little purpose to look
for the cause of our passions in association, until we fail of it in the
natural properties of things.


SECTION III.

CAUSE OF PAIN AND FEAR.

I have before observed,[29] that whatever is qualified to cause terror
is a foundation capable of the sublime; to which I add, that not only
these, but many things from which we cannot probably apprehend any
danger, have a similar effect, because they operate in a similar manner.
I observed, too,[30] that whatever produces pleasure, positive and
original pleasure, is fit to have beauty engrafted on it. Therefore, to
clear up the nature of these qualities, it may be necessary to explain
the nature of pain and pleasure on which they depend. A man who suffers
under violent bodily pain, (I suppose the most violent, because the
effect may be the more obvious,) I say a man in great pain has his teeth
set, his eyebrows are violently contracted, his forehead is wrinkled,
his eyes are dragged inwards, and rolled with great vehemence, his hair
stands on end, the voice is forced out in short shrieks and groans, and
the whole fabric totters. Fear or terror, which is an apprehension of
pain or death, exhibits exactly the same effects, approaching in
violence to those just mentioned, in proportion to the nearness of the
cause, and the weakness of the subject. This is not only so in the human
species: but I have more than once observed in dogs, under an
apprehension of punishment, that they have writhed their bodies, and
yelped, and howled, as if they had actually felt the blows. From hence I
conclude, that pain and fear act upon the same parts of the body, and in
the same manner, though somewhat differing in degree: that pain and fear
consist in an unnatural tension of the nerves; that this is sometimes
accompanied with an unnatural strength, which sometimes suddenly changes
into an extraordinary weakness; that these effects often come on
alternately, and are sometimes mixed with each other. This is the nature
of all convulsive agitations, especially in weaker subjects, which are
the most liable to the severest impressions of pain and fear. The only
difference between pain and terror is, that things which cause pain
operate on the mind by the intervention of the body; whereas things that
cause terror generally affect the bodily organs by the operation of the
mind suggesting the danger; but both agreeing, either primarily or
secondarily, in producing a tension, contraction, or violent emotion of
the nerves,[31] they agree likewise in everything else. For it appears
very clearly to me from this, as well as from many other examples, that
when the body is disposed, by any means whatsoever, to such emotions as
it would acquire by the means of a certain passion; it will of itself
excite something very like that passion in the mind.


SECTION IV.

CONTINUED.

To this purpose Mr. Spon, in his "Recherches d'Antiquite," gives us a
curious story of the celebrated physiognomist Campanella. This man, it
seems, had not only made very accurate observations on human faces, but
was very expert in mimicking such as were any way remarkable. When he
had a mind to penetrate into the inclinations of those he had to deal
with, he composed his face, his gesture, and his whole body, as nearly
as he could into the exact similitude of the person he intended to
examine; and then carefully observed what turn of mind he seemed to
acquire by this change. So that, says my author, he was able to enter
into the dispositions and thoughts of people as effectually as if he had
been changed into the very men. I have often observed, that on mimicking
the looks and gestures of angry, or placid, or frighted, or daring men,
I have involuntarily found my mind turned to that passion, whose
appearance I endeavored to imitate; nay, I am convinced it is hard to
avoid it, though one strove to separate the passion from its
correspondent gestures. Our minds and bodies are so closely and
intimately connected, that one is incapable of pain or pleasure without
the other. Campanella, of whom we have been speaking, could so abstract
his attention from any sufferings of his body, that he was able to
endure the rack itself without much pain; and in lesser pains everybody
must have observed that, when we can employ our attention on anything
else, the pain has been for a time suspended: on the other hand, if by
any means the body is indisposed to perform such gestures, or to be
stimulated into such emotions as any passion usually produces in it,
that passion itself never can arise, though its cause should be never so
strongly in action; though it should be merely mental, and immediately
affecting none of the senses. As an opiate, or spirituous liquors, shall
suspend the operation of grief, or fear, or anger, in spite of all our
efforts to the contrary; and this by inducing in the body a disposition
contrary to that which it receives from these passions.


SECTION V.

HOW THE SUBLIME IS PRODUCED.

Having considered terror as producing an unnatural tension and certain
violent emotions of the nerves; it easily follows, from what we have
just said, that whatever is fitted to produce such a tension must be
productive of a passion similar to terror,[32] and consequently must be
a source of the sublime, though it should have no idea of danger
connected with it. So that little remains towards showing the cause of
the sublime, but to show that the instances we have given of it in the
second part relate to such things, as are fitted by nature to produce
this sort of tension, either by the primary operation of the mind or the
body. With regard to such things as affect by the associated idea of
danger, there can be no doubt but that they produce terror, and act by
some modification of that passion; and that terror, when sufficiently
violent, raises the emotions of the body just mentioned, can as little
be doubted. But if the sublime is built on terror or some passion like
it, which has pain for its object, it is previously proper to inquire
how any species of delight can be derived from a cause so apparently
contrary to it. I say _delight_, because, as I have often remarked, it
is very evidently different in its cause, and in its own nature, from
actual and positive pleasure.


SECTION VI.

HOW PAIN CAN BE A CAUSE OF DELIGHT.

Providence has so ordered it, that a state of rest and inaction, however
it may flatter our indolence, should be productive of many
inconveniences; that it should generate such disorders, as may force us
to have recourse to some labor, as a thing absolutely requisite to make
us pass our lives with tolerable satisfaction; for the nature of rest is
to suffer all the parts of our bodies to fall into a relaxation, that
not only disables the members from performing their functions, but takes
away the vigorous tone of fibre which is requisite for carrying on the
natural and necessary secretions. At the same time, that in this languid
in active state, the nerves are more liable to the most horrid
convulsions, than when they are sufficiently braced and strengthened.
Melancholy, dejection, despair, and often self-murder, is the
consequence of the gloomy view we take of things in this relaxed state
of body. The best remedy for all these evils is exercise or _labor_; and
labor is a surmounting of _difficulties_, an exertion of the contracting
power of the muscles; and as such resembles pain, which consists in
tension or contraction, in everything but degree. Labor is not only
requisite to preserve the coarser organs, in a state fit for their
functions; but it is equally necessary to these finer and more delicate
organs, on which, and by which, the imagination and perhaps the other
mental powers act. Since it is probable, that not only the inferior
parts of the soul, as the passions are called, but the understanding
itself makes use of some fine corporeal instruments in its operation;
though what they are, and where they are, may be somewhat hard to
settle: but that it does make use of such, appears from hence; that a
long exercise of the mental powers induces a remarkable lassitude of the
whole body; and on the other hand, that great bodily labor, or pain,
weakens and sometimes actually destroys the mental faculties. Now, as a
due exercise is essential to the coarse muscular parts of the
constitution, and that without this rousing they would become languid
and diseased, the very same rule holds with regard to those finer parts
we have mentioned; to have them in proper order, they must be shaken and
worked to a proper degree.


SECTION VII.

EXERCISE NECESSARY FOR THE FINER ORGANS.

As common labor, which is a mode of pain, is the exercise of the
grosser, a mode of terror is the exercise of the finer parts of the
system; and if a certain mode of pain be of such a nature as to act upon
the eye or the ear, as they are the most delicate organs, the affection
approaches more nearly to that which has a mental cause. In all these
cases, if the pain and terror are so modified as not to be actually
noxious; if the pain is not carried to violence, and the terror is not
conversant about the present destruction of the person, as these
emotions clear the parts, whether fine or gross, of a dangerous and
troublesome incumbrance, they are capable of producing delight; not
pleasure, but a sort of delightful horror, a sort of tranquillity tinged
with terror; which, as it belongs to self-preservation, is one of the
strongest of all the passions. Its object is the sublime.[33] Its
highest degree I call _astonishment_; the subordinate degrees are awe,
reverence, and respect, which, by the very etymology of the words, show
from what source they are derived, and how they stand distinguished from
positive pleasure.


SECTION VIII.

WHY THINGS NOT DANGEROUS SOMETIMES PRODUCE A PASSION LIKE TERROR.

A mode of terror or pain is always the cause of the sublime.[34] For
terror or associated danger, the foregoing explication is, I believe,
sufficient. It will require something more trouble to show, that such
examples as I have given of the sublime in the second part are capable
of producing a mode of pain, and of being thus allied to terror, and to
be accounted for on the same principles. And first of such objects as
are great in their dimensions. I speak of visual objects.


SECTION IX.

WHY VISUAL OBJECTS OF GREAT DIMENSIONS ARE SUBLIME.

Vision is performed by having a picture, formed by the rays of light
which are reflected from the object, painted in one piece,
instantaneously, on the retina, or last nervous part of the eye. Or,
according to others, there is but one point of any object painted on the
eye in such a manner as to be perceived at once, but by moving the eye,
we gather up, with great celerity, the several parts of the object, so
as to form one uniform piece. If the former opinion be allowed, it will
be considered,[35] that though all the light reflected from a large body
should strike the eye in one instant; yet we must suppose that the body
itself is formed of a vast number of distinct points, every one of
which, or the ray from every one, makes an impression on the retina. So
that, though the image of one point should cause but a small tension of
this membrane, another, and another, and another stroke, must in their
progress cause a very great one, until it arrives at last to the highest
degree; and the whole capacity of the eye, vibrating in all its parts,
must approach near to the nature of what causes pain, and consequently
must produce an idea of the sublime. Again, if we take it, that one
point only of an object is distinguishable at once; the matter will
amount nearly to the same thing, or rather it will make the origin of
the sublime from greatness of dimension yet clearer. For if but one
point is observed at once, the eye must traverse the vast space of such
bodies with great quickness, and consequently the fine nerves and
muscles destined to the motion of that part must be very much strained;
and their great sensibility must make them highly affected by this
straining. Besides, it signifies just nothing to the effect produced,
whether a body has its parts connected and makes its impression at once;
or, making but one impression of a point at a time, it causes a
succession of the same or others so quickly as to make them seem united;
as is evident from the common effect of whirling about a lighted torch
or piece of wood: which, if done with celerity, seems a circle of fire.


SECTION X.

UNITY WHY REQUISITE TO VASTNESS.

It may be objected to this theory, that the eye generally receives an
equal number of rays at all times, and that therefore a great object
cannot affect it by the number of rays, more than that variety of
objects which the eye must always discern whilst it remains open. But to
this I answer, that admitting an equal number of rays, or an equal
quantity of luminous particles to strike the eye at all times, yet if
these rays frequently vary their nature, now to blue, now to red, and so
on, or their manner of termination, as to a number of petty squares,
triangles, or the like, at every change, whether of color or shape, the
organ has a sort of relaxation or rest; but this relaxation and labor so
often interrupted, is by no means productive of ease; neither has it the
effect of vigorous and uniform labor. Whoever has remarked the different
effects of some strong exercise, and some little piddling action, will
understand why a teasing, fretful employment, which at once wearies and
weakens the body, should have nothing great; these sorts of impulses,
which are rather teasing than painful, by continually and suddenly
altering their tenor and direction, prevent that full tension, that
species of uniform labor, which is allied to strong pain, and causes the
sublime. The sum total of things of various kinds, though it should
equal the number of the uniform parts composing some _one_ entire
object, is not equal in its effect upon the organs of our bodies.
Besides the one already assigned, there is another very strong reason
for the difference. The mind in reality hardly ever can attend
diligently to more than one thing at a time; if this thing be little,
the effect is little, and a number of other little objects cannot engage
the attention; the mind is bounded by the bounds of the object; and what
is not attended to, and what does not exist, are much the same in the
effect; but the eye or the mind, (for in this case there is no
difference,) in great, uniform objects, does not readily arrive at their
bounds; it has no rest, whilst it contemplates them; the image is much
the same everywhere. So that everything great by its quantity must
necessarily be one, simple and entire.


SECTION XI.

THE ARTIFICIAL INFINITE.

We have observed that a species of greatness arises from the artificial
infinite; and that this infinite consists in an uniform succession of
great parts: we observed too, that the same uniform succession had a
like power in sounds. But because the effects of many things are clearer
in one of the senses than in another, and that all the senses bear
analogy to and illustrate one another, I shall begin with this power in
sounds, as the cause of the sublimity from succession is rather more
obvious in the sense of hearing. And I shall here, once for all,
observe, that an investigation of the natural and mechanical causes of
our passions, besides the curiosity of the subject, gives, if they are
discovered, a double strength and lustre to any rules we deliver on such
matters. When the ear receives any simple sound, it is struck by a
single pulse of the air which makes the ear-drum and the other
membranous parts vibrate according to the nature and species of the
stroke. If the stroke be strong, the organ of hearing suffers a
considerable degree of tension. If the stroke be repeated pretty soon
after, the repetition causes an expectation of another stroke. And it
must be observed, that expectation itself causes a tension. This is
apparent in many animals, who, when they prepare for hearing any sound,
rouse themselves, and prick up their ears; so that here the effect of
the sounds is considerably augmented by a new auxiliary, the
expectation. But though after a number of strokes, we expect still more,
not being able to ascertain the exact time of their arrival, when they
arrive, they produce a sort of surprise, which increases this tension
yet further. For I have observed, that when at any time I have waited
very earnestly for some sound, that returned at intervals, (as the
successive firing of cannon,) though I fully expected the return of the
sound, when it came it always made me start a little; the ear-drum
suffered a convulsion, and the whole body consented with it. The tension
of the part thus increasing at every blow, by the united forces of the
stroke itself, the expectation and the surprise, it is worked up to such
a pitch as to be capable of the sublime; it is brought just to the verge
of pain. Even when the cause has ceased, the organs of hearing being
often successively struck in a similar manner, continue to vibrate in
that manner for some time longer; this is an additional help to the
greatness of the effect.


SECTION XII.

THE VIBRATIONS MUST BE SIMILAR.

But if the vibration be not similar at every impression, it can never be
carried beyond the number of actual impressions; for, move any body as a
pendulum, in one way, and it will continue to oscillate in an arch of
the same circle, until the known causes make it rest; but if, after
first putting it in motion in one direction, you push it into another,
it can never reassume the first direction; because it can never move
itself, and consequently it can have but the effect of that last motion;
whereas, if in the same direction you act upon it several times, it will
describe a greater arch, and move a longer time.


SECTION XIII.

THE EFFECTS OF SUCCESSION IN VISUAL OBJECTS EXPLAINED.

If we can comprehend clearly how things operate upon one of our senses,
there can be very little difficulty in conceiving in what manner they
affect the rest. To say a great deal therefore upon the corresponding
affections of every sense, would tend rather to fatigue us by an useless
repetition, than to throw any new light upon the subject by that ample
and diffuse manner of treating it; but as in this discourse we chiefly
attach ourselves to the sublime, as it affects the eye, we shall
consider particularly why a successive disposition of uniform parts in
the same right line should be sublime,[36] and upon what principle this
disposition is enabled to make a comparatively small quantity of matter
produce a grander effect, than a much larger quantity disposed in
another manner. To avoid the perplexity of general notions; let us set
before our eyes, a colonnade of uniform pillars planted in a right line;
let us take our stand in such a manner, that the eye may shoot along
this colonnade, for it has its best effect in this view. In our present
situation it is plain, that the rays from the first round pillar will
cause in the eye a vibration of that species; an image of the pillar
itself. The pillar immediately succeeding increases it; that which
follows renews and enforces the impression; each in its order as it
succeeds, repeats impulse after impulse, and stroke after stroke, until
the eye, long exercised in one particular way, cannot lose that object
immediately, and, being violently roused by this continued agitation, it
presents the mind with a grand or sublime conception. But instead of
viewing a rank of uniform pillars, let us suppose that they succeed each
other, a round and a square one alternately. In this case the vibration
caused by the first round pillar perishes as soon as it is formed; and
one of quite another sort (the square) directly occupies its place;
which however it resigns as quickly to the round one; and thus the eye
proceeds, alternately, taking up one image, and laying down another, as
long as the building continues. From whence it is obvious that, at the
last pillar, the impression is as far from continuing as it was at the
very first; because, in fact, the sensory can receive no distinct
impression but from the last; and it can never of itself resume a
dissimilar impression: besides every variation of the object is a rest
and relaxation to the organs of sight; and these reliefs prevent that
powerful emotion so necessary to produce the sublime. To produce
therefore a perfect grandeur in such things as we have been mentioning,
there should be a perfect simplicity, an absolute uniformity in
disposition, shape, and coloring. Upon this principle of succession and
uniformity it may be asked, why a long bare wall should not be a more
sublime object than a colonnade; since the succession is no way
interrupted; since the eye meets no check; since nothing more uniform
can be conceived? A long bare wall is certainly not so grand an object
as a colonnade of the same length and height. It is not altogether
difficult to account for this difference. When we look at a naked wall,
from the evenness of the object, the eye runs along its whole space, and
arrives quickly at its termination; the eye meets nothing which may
interrupt its progress; but then it meets nothing which may detain it a
proper time to produce a very great and lasting effect. The view of a
bare wall, if it be of a great height and length, is undoubtedly grand;
but this is only _one_ idea, and not a _repetition_ of _similar_ ideas:
it is therefore great, not so much upon the principle of _infinity_, as
upon that of _vastness_. But we are not so powerfully affected with any
one impulse, unless it be one of a prodigious force indeed, as we are
with a succession of similar impulses; because the nerves of the sensory
do not (if I may use the expression) acquire a habit of repeating the
same feeling in such a manner as to continue it longer than its cause is
in action; besides, all the effects which I have attributed to
expectation and surprise in Sect. 11, can have no place in a bare wall.


SECTION XIV.

LOCKE'S OPINION CONCERNING DARKNESS CONSIDERED.

It is Mr. Locke's opinion, that darkness is not naturally an idea of
terror; and that, though an excessive light is painful to the sense, the
greatest excess of darkness is no ways troublesome. He observes indeed
in another place, that a nurse or an old woman having once associated
the ideas of ghosts and goblins with that of darkness, night, ever
after, becomes painful and horrible to the imagination. The authority of
this great man is doubtless as great as that of any man can be, and it
seems to stand in the way of our general principle.[37] We have
considered darkness as a cause of the sublime; and we have all along
considered the sublime as depending on some modification of pain or
terror: so that if darkness be no way painful or terrible to any, who
have not had their minds early tainted with superstitions, it can be no
source of the sublime to them. But, with all deference to such an
authority, it seems to me, that an association of a more general nature,
an association which takes in all mankind, may make darkness terrible;
for in utter darkness it is impossible to know in what degree of safety
we stand; we are ignorant of the objects that surround us; we may every
moment strike against some dangerous obstruction; we may fall down a
precipice the first step we take; and if an enemy approach, we know not
in what quarter to defend ourselves; in such a case strength is no sure
protection; wisdom can only act by guess; the boldest are staggered, and
he who would pray for nothing else towards his defence is forced to
pray for light.

    [Greek:
    Zeu pater, alla su rusai up eeros uias Achaion
    Poieson d' aithren, dos d' ophthalmoisin idesthai
    En de phaei kai olesson....]


As to the association of ghosts and goblins; surely it is more natural
to think that darkness, being originally an idea of terror, was chosen
as a fit scene for such terrible representations, than that such
representations have made darkness terrible. The mind of man very easily
slides into an error of the former sort; but it is very hard to imagine,
that the effect of an idea so universally terrible in all times, and in
all countries, as darkness, could possibly have been owing to a set of
idle stories, or to any cause of a nature so trivial, and of an
operation so precarious.


SECTION XV.

DARKNESS TERRIBLE IN ITS OWN NATURE.

Perhaps it may appear on inquiry, that blackness and darkness are in
some degree painful by their natural operation, independent of any
associations whatsoever. I must observe, that the ideas of darkness and
blackness are much the same; and they differ only in this, that
blackness is a more confined idea. Mr. Cheselden has given us a very
curious story of a boy who had been born blind, and continued so until
he was thirteen or fourteen years old; he was then couched for a
cataract, by which operation he received his sight. Among many
remarkable particulars that attended his first perceptions and judgments
on visual objects, Cheselden tells us, that the first time the boy saw
a black object, it gave him great uneasiness; and that some time after,
upon accidentally seeing a negro woman, he was struck with great horror
at the sight. The horror, in this case, can scarcely be supposed to
arise from any association. The boy appears by the account to have been
particularly observing and sensible for one of his age; and therefore it
is probable, if the great uneasiness he felt at the first sight of black
had arisen from its connection with any other disagreeable ideas, he
would have observed and mentioned it. For an idea, disagreeable only by
association, has the cause of its ill effect on the passions evident
enough at the first impression; in ordinary cases, it is indeed
frequently lost; but this is because the original association was made
very early, and the consequent impression repeated often. In our
instance, there was no time for such a habit; and there is no reason to
think that the ill effects of black on his imagination were more owing
to its connection with any disagreeable ideas, than that the good
effects of more cheerful colors were derived from their connection with
pleasing ones. They had both probably their effects from their natural
operation.


SECTION XVI.

WHY DARKNESS IS TERRIBLE.

It may be worth while to examine how darkness can operate in such a
manner as to cause pain. It is observable, that still as we recede from
the light, nature has so contrived it, that the pupil is enlarged by the
retiring of the iris, in proportion to our recess. Now, instead of
declining from it but a little, suppose that we withdraw entirely from
the light; it is reasonable to think that the contraction of the radial
fibres of the iris is proportionally greater; and that this part may by
great darkness come to be so contracted, as to strain the nerves that
compose it beyond their natural tone; and by this means to produce a
painful sensation. Such a tension it seems there certainly is, whilst we
are involved in darkness; for in such a state, whilst the eye remains
open, there is a continual nisus to receive light; this is manifest from
the flashes and luminous appearances which often seem in these
circumstances to play before it; and which can be nothing but the effect
of spasms, produced by its own efforts in pursuit of its object: several
other strong impulses will produce the idea of light in the eye, besides
the substance of light itself, as we experience on many occasions. Some,
who allow darkness to be a cause of the sublime, would infer, from the
dilatation of the pupil, that a relaxation may be productive of the
sublime as well as a convulsion: but they do not, I believe, consider,
that although the circular ring of the iris be in some sense a
sphincter, which may possibly be dilated by a simple relaxation, yet in
one respect it differs from most of the other sphincters of the body,
that it is furnished with antagonist muscles, which are the radial
fibres of the iris: no sooner does the circular muscle begin to relax,
than these fibres, wanting their counterpoise, are forcibly drawn back,
and open the pupil to a considerable wideness. But though we were not
apprised of this, I believe any one will find, if he opens his eyes and
makes an effort to see in a dark place, that a very perceivable pain
ensues. And I have heard some ladies remark, that after having worked a
long time upon a ground of black, their eyes were so pained and
weakened, they could hardly see. It may perhaps be objected to this
theory of the mechanical effect of darkness, that the ill effects of
darkness or blackness seem rather mental than corporeal: and I own it is
true that they do so; and so do all those that depend on the affections
of the finer parts of our system. The ill effects of bad weather appear
often no otherwise than in a melancholy and dejection of spirits; though
without doubt, in this case, the bodily organs suffer first, and the
mind through these organs.


SECTION XVII.

THE EFFECTS OF BLACKNESS.

Blackness is but a _partial darkness_; and therefore it derives some of
its powers from being mixed and surrounded with colored bodies. In its
own nature, it cannot be considered as a color. Black bodies, reflecting
none, or but a few rays, with regard to sight, are but as so many vacant
spaces, dispersed among the objects we view. When the eye lights on one
of these vacuities, after having been kept in some degree of tension by
the play of the adjacent colors upon it, it suddenly falls into a
relaxation; out of which it as suddenly recovers by a convulsive spring.
To illustrate this: let us consider that when we intend to sit on a
chair, and find it much lower than was expected, the shock is very
violent; much more violent than could be thought from so slight a fall
as the difference between one chair and another can possibly make. If,
after descending a flight of stairs, we attempt inadvertently to take
another step in the manner of the former ones, the shock is extremely
rude and disagreeable: and by no art can we cause such a shock by the
same means when we expect and prepare for it. When I say that this is
owing to having the change made contrary to expectation; I do not mean
solely, when the _mind_ expects. I mean likewise, that when any organ of
sense is for some time affected in some one manner, if it be suddenly
affected otherwise, there ensues a convulsive motion; such a convulsion
as is caused when anything happens against the expectance of the mind.
And though it may appear strange that such a change as produces a
relaxation should immediately produce a sudden convulsion; it is yet
most certainly so, and so in all the senses. Every one knows that sleep
is a relaxation; and that silence, where nothing keeps the organs of
hearing in action, is in general fittest to bring on this relaxation;
yet when a sort of murmuring sounds dispose a man to sleep, let these
sounds cease suddenly, and the person immediately awakes; that is, the
parts are braced up suddenly, and he awakes. This I have often
experienced myself, and I have heard the same from observing persons. In
like manner, if a person in broad daylight were falling asleep, to
introduce a sudden darkness would prevent his sleep for that time,
though silence and darkness in themselves, and not suddenly introduced,
are very favorable to it. This I knew only by conjecture on the analogy
of the senses when I first digested these observations; but I have since
experienced it. And I have often experienced, and so have a thousand
others, that on the first inclining towards sleep, we have been suddenly
awakened with a most violent start; and that this start was generally
preceded by a sort of dream of our falling down a precipice: whence does
this strange motion arise, but from the too sudden relaxation of the
body, which by some mechanism in nature restores itself by as quick and
vigorous an exertion of the contracting power of the muscles? The dream
itself is caused by this relaxation; and it is of too uniform a nature
to be attributed to any other cause. The parts relax too suddenly, which
is in the nature of falling; and this accident of the body induces this
image in the mind. When we are in a confirmed state of health and vigor,
as all changes are then less sudden, and less on the extreme, we can
seldom complain of this disagreeable sensation.


SECTION XVIII.

THE EFFECTS OF BLACKNESS MODERATED.

Though the effects of black be painful originally, we must not think
they always continue so. Custom reconciles us to everything. After we
have been used to the sight of black objects, the terror abates, and the
smoothness and glossiness, or some agreeable accident of bodies so
colored, softens in some measure the horror and sternness of their
original nature; yet the nature of the original impression still
continues. Black will always have something melancholy in it, because
the sensory will always find the change to it from other colors too
violent; or if it occupy the whole compass of the sight, it will then be
darkness; and what was said of darkness will be applicable here. I do
not purpose to go into all that might be said to illustrate this theory
of the effects of light and darkness; neither will I examine all the
different effects produced by the various modifications and mixtures of
these two causes. If the foregoing observations have any foundation in
nature, I conceive them very sufficient to account for all the phenomena
that can arise from all the combinations of black with other colors. To
enter into every particular, or to answer every objection, would be an
endless labor. We have only followed the most leading roads; and we
shall observe the same conduct in our inquiry into the cause of beauty.


SECTION XIX.

THE PHYSICAL CAUSE OF LOVE.

When we have before us such objects as excite love and complacency, the
body is affected, so far as I could observe, much in the following
manner: the head reclines something on one side; the eyelids are more
closed than usual, and the eyes roll gently with an inclination to the
object; the mouth is a little opened, and the breath drawn slowly, with
now and then a low sigh; the whole body is composed, and the hands fall
idly to the sides. All this is accompanied with an inward sense of
melting and languor. These appearances are always proportioned to the
degree of beauty in the object, and of sensibility in the observer. And
this gradation from the highest pitch of beauty and sensibility, even to
the lowest of mediocrity and indifference, and their correspondent
effects, ought to be kept in view, else this description will seem
exaggerated, which it certainly is not. But from this description it is
almost impossible not to conclude that beauty acts by relaxing the
solids of the whole system. There are all the appearances of such a
relaxation; and a relaxation somewhat below the natural tone seems to me
to be the cause of all positive pleasure. Who is a stranger to that
manner of expression so common in all times and in all countries, of
being softened, relaxed, enervated, dissolved, melted away by pleasure?
The universal voice of mankind, faithful to their feelings, concurs in
affirming this uniform and general effect: and although some odd and
particular instance may perhaps be found, wherein there appears a
considerable degree of positive pleasure, without all the characters of
relaxation, we must not therefore reject the conclusion we had drawn
from a concurrence of many experiments; but we must still retain it,
subjoining the exceptions which may occur according to the judicious
rule laid down by Sir Isaac Newton in the third book of his Optics. Our
position will, I conceive, appear confirmed beyond any reasonable doubt,
if we can show that such things as we have already observed to be the
genuine constituents of beauty have each of them, separately taken, a
natural tendency to relax the fibres. And if it must be allowed us, that
the appearance of the human body, when all these constituents are united
together before the sensory, further favors this opinion, we may
venture, I believe, to conclude that the passion called love is produced
by this relaxation. By the same method of reasoning which we have used
in the inquiry into the causes of the sublime, we may likewise conclude,
that as a beautiful object presented to the sense, by causing a
relaxation of the body, produces the passion of love in the mind; so if
by any means the passion should first have its origin in the mind, a
relaxation of the outward organs will as certainly ensue in a degree
proportioned to the cause.


SECTION XX.

WHY SMOOTHNESS IS BEAUTIFUL.

It is to explain the true cause of visual beauty that I call in the
assistance of the other senses. If it appears that _smoothness_ is a
principal cause of pleasure to the touch, taste, smell, and hearing, it
will be easily admitted a constituent of visual beauty; especially as we
have before shown, that this quality is found almost without exception
in all bodies that are by general consent held beautiful. There can be
no doubt that bodies which are rough and angular, rouse and vellicate
the organs of feeling, causing a sense of pain, which consists in the
violent tension or contraction of the muscular fibres. On the contrary,
the application of smooth bodies relaxes; gentle stroking with a smooth
hand allays violent pains and cramps, and relaxes the suffering parts
from their unnatural tension; and it has therefore very often no mean
effect in removing swellings and obstructions. The sense of feeling is
highly gratified with smooth bodies. A bed smoothly laid, and soft, that
is, where the resistance is every way inconsiderable, is a great luxury,
disposing to an universal relaxation, and inducing beyond anything else
that species of it called sleep.


SECTION XXI.

SWEETNESS, ITS NATURE.

Nor is it only in the touch that smooth bodies cause positive pleasure
by relaxation. In the smell and taste, we find all things agreeable to
them, and which are commonly called sweet, to be of a smooth nature, and
that they all evidently tend to relax their respective sensories. Let us
first consider the taste. Since it is most easy to inquire into the
property of liquids, and since all things seem to want a fluid vehicle
to make them tasted at all, I intend rather to consider the liquid than
the solid parts of our food. The vehicles of all tastes are _water_ and
_oil_. And what determines the taste is some salt, which affects
variously according to its nature, or its manner of being combined with
other things. Water and oil, simply considered, are capable of giving
some pleasure to the taste. Water, when simple, is insipid, inodorous,
colorless, and smooth; it is found, when _not cold_, to be a great
resolver of spasms, and lubricator of the fibres; this power it probably
owes to its smoothness. For as fluidity depends, according to the most
general opinion, on the roundness, smoothness, and weak cohesion of the
component parts of any body, and as water acts merely as a simple fluid,
it follows that the cause of its fluidity is likewise the cause of its
relaxing quality, namely, the smoothness and slippery texture of its
parts. The other fluid vehicle of tastes is _oil_. This too, when
simple, is insipid, inodorous, colorless, and smooth to the touch and
taste. It is smoother than water, and in many cases yet more relaxing.
Oil is in some degree pleasant to the eye, the touch, and the taste,
insipid as it is. Water is not so grateful; which I do not know on what
principle to account for, other than that water is not so soft and
smooth. Suppose that to this oil or water were added a certain quantity
of a specific salt, which had a power of putting the nervous papillae of
the tongue into a gentle vibratory motion; as suppose sugar dissolved in
it. The smoothness of the oil and the vibratory power of the salt cause
the sense we call sweetness. In all sweet bodies, sugar, or a substance
very little different from sugar, is constantly found. Every species of
salt, examined by the microscope, has its own distinct, regular,
invariable form. That of nitre is a pointed oblong; that of sea-salt an
exact cube; that of sugar a perfect globe. If you have tried how smooth
globular bodies, as the marbles with which boys amuse themselves, have
affected the touch when they are rolled backward and forward and over
one another, you will easily conceive how sweetness, which consists in a
salt of such nature, affects the taste; for a single globe (though
somewhat pleasant to the feeling), yet by the regularity of its form,
and the somewhat too sudden deviation of its parts from a right line, is
nothing near so pleasant to the touch as several globes, where the hand
gently rises to one and falls to another; and this pleasure is greatly
increased if the globes are in motion, and sliding over one another; for
this soft variety prevents that weariness, which the uniform disposition
of the several globes would otherwise produce. Thus in sweet liquors,
the parts of the fluid vehicle, though most probably round, are yet so
minute, as to conceal the figure of their component parts from the
nicest inquisition of the microscope; and consequently, being so
excessively minute, they have a sort of flat simplicity to the taste,
resembling the effects of plain smooth bodies to the touch; for if a
body be composed of round parts excessively small, and packed pretty
closely together, the surface will be both to the sight and touch as if
it were nearly plain and smooth. It is clear from their unveiling their
figure to the microscope, that the particles of sugar are considerably
larger than those of water or oil, and consequently that their effects
from their roundness will be more distinct and palpable to the nervous
papillae of that nice organ the tongue; they will induce that sense
called sweetness, which in a weak manner we discover in oil, and in a
yet weaker in water; for, insipid as they are, water and oil are in some
degree sweet; and it may be observed, that insipid things of all kinds
approach more nearly to the nature of sweetness than to that of any
other taste.


SECTION XXII.

SWEETNESS RELAXING.

In the other senses we have remarked, that smooth things are relaxing.
Now it ought to appear that sweet things, which are the smooth of taste,
are relaxing too. It is remarkable, that in some languages soft and
sweet have but one name. _Doux_ in French signifies soft as well as
sweet. The Latin _dulcis_, and the Italian _dolce_, have in many cases
the same double signification. That sweet things are generally relaxing,
is evident; because all such, especially those which are most oily,
taken frequently, or in a large quantity, very much enfeeble the tone of
the stomach. Sweet smells, which bear a great affinity to sweet tastes,
relax very remarkably. The smell of flowers disposes people to
drowsiness; and this relaxing effect is further apparent from the
prejudice which people of weak nerves receive from their use. It were
worth while to examine, whether tastes of this kind, sweet ones, tastes
that are caused by smooth oils and a relaxing salt, are not the
originally pleasant tastes. For many, which use has rendered such, were
not at all agreeable at first. The way to examine this is, to try what
nature has originally provided for us, which she has undoubtedly made
originally pleasant; and to analyze this provision. _Milk_ is the first
support of our childhood. The component parts of this are water, oil,
and a sort of a very sweet salt, called the sugar of milk. All these
when blended have a great _smoothness_ to the taste, and a relaxing
quality to the skin. The next thing children covet is _fruit_, and of
fruits those principally which are sweet; and every one knows that the
sweetness of fruit is caused by a subtle oil, and such a salt as that
mentioned in the last section. Afterwards custom, habit, the desire of
novelty, and a thousand other causes, confound, adulterate, and change
our palates, so that we can no longer reason with any satisfaction about
them. Before we quit this article, we must observe, that as smooth
things are, as such, agreeable to the taste, and are found of a relaxing
quality; so on the other hand, things which are found by experience to
be of a strengthening quality, and fit to brace the fibres, are almost
universally rough and pungent to the taste, and in many cases rough even
to the touch. We often apply the quality of sweetness, metaphorically,
to visual objects. For the better carrying on this remarkable analogy
of the senses, we may here call sweetness the beautiful of the taste.


SECTION XXIII.

VARIATION, WHY BEAUTIFUL.

Another principal property of beautiful objects is, that the line of
their parts is continually varying its direction; but it varies it by a
very insensible deviation; it never varies it so quickly as to surprise,
or by the sharpness of its angle to cause any twitching or convulsion of
the optic nerve. Nothing long continued in the same manner, nothing very
suddenly varied, can be beautiful; because both are opposite to that
agreeable relaxation which is the characteristic effect of beauty. It is
thus in all the senses. A motion in a right line is that manner of
moving, next to a very gentle descent, in which we meet the least
resistance; yet it is not that manner of moving, which next to a
descent, wearies us the least. Rest certainly tends to relax: yet there
is a species of motion which relaxes more than rest; a gentle
oscillatory motion, a rising and falling. Rocking sets children to sleep
better than absolute rest; there is indeed scarcely anything at that
age, which gives more pleasure than to be gently lifted up and down; the
manner of playing which their nurses use with children, and the weighing
and swinging used afterwards by themselves as a favorite amusement,
evince this very sufficiently. Most people must have observed the sort
of sense they have had on being swiftly drawn in an easy coach on a
smooth turf, with gradual ascents and declivities. This will give a
better idea of the beautiful, and point out its probable cause better,
than almost anything else. On the contrary, when one is hurried over a
rough, rocky, broken road, the pain felt by these sudden inequalities
shows why similar sights, feelings, and sounds, are so contrary to
beauty: and with regard to the feeling, it is exactly the same in its
effect, or very nearly the same, whether, for instance, I move my hand
along the surface of a body of a certain shape, or whether such a body
is moved along my hand. But to bring this analogy of the senses home to
the eye; if a body presented to that sense has such a waving surface,
that the rays of light reflected from it are in a continual insensible
deviation from the strongest to the weakest (which is always the case in
a surface gradually unequal), it must be exactly similar in its effects
on the eye and touch; upon the one of which it operates directly, on the
other indirectly. And this body will be beautiful if the lines which
compose its surface are not continued, even so varied, in a manner that
may weary or dissipate the attention. The variation itself must be
continually varied.


SECTION XXIV.

CONCERNING SMALLNESS.

To avoid a sameness which may arise from the too frequent repetition of
the same reasonings, and of illustrations of the same nature, I will not
enter very minutely into every particular that regards beauty, as it is
founded on the disposition of its quantity, or its quantity itself. In
speaking of the magnitude of bodies there is great uncertainty, because
the ideas of great and small are terms almost entirely relative to the
species of the objects, which are infinite. It is true, that having once
fixed the species of any object, and the dimensions common in the
individuals of that species, we may observe some that exceed, and some
that fall short of, the ordinary standard: those which greatly exceed
are, by that excess, provided the species itself be not very small,
rather great and terrible than beautiful; but as in the animal world,
and in a good measure in the vegetable world likewise, the qualities
that constitute beauty may possibly be united to things of greater
dimensions; when they are so united, they constitute a species something
different both from the sublime and beautiful, which I have before
called _fine_; but this kind, I imagine, has not such a power on the
passions, either as vast bodies have which are endued with the
correspondent qualities of the sublime; or as the qualities of beauty
have when united in a small object. The affection produced by large
bodies adorned with the spoils of beauty, is a tension continually
relieved; which approaches to the nature of mediocrity. But if I were to
say how I find myself affected upon such occasions, I should say that
the sublime suffers less by being united to some of the qualities of
beauty, than beauty does by being joined to greatness of quantity, or
any other properties of the sublime. There is something so overruling in
whatever inspires us with awe, in all things which belong ever so
remotely to terror, that nothing else can stand in their presence. There
lie the qualities of beauty either dead or unoperative; or at most
exerted to mollify the rigor and sternness of the terror, which is the
natural concomitant of greatness. Besides the extraordinary great in
every species, the opposite to this, the dwarfish and diminutive, ought
to be considered. Littleness, merely as such, has nothing contrary to
the idea of beauty. The humming-bird, both in shape and coloring, yields
to none of the winged species, of which it is the least; and perhaps his
beauty is enhanced by his smallness. But there are animals, which, when
they are extremely small, are rarely (if ever) beautiful. There is a
dwarfish size of men and women, which is almost constantly so gross and
massive in comparison of their height, that they present us with a very
disagreeable image. But should a man be found not above two or three
feet high, supposing such a person to have all the parts of his body of
a delicacy suitable to such a size, and otherwise endued with the common
qualities of other beautiful bodies, I am pretty well convinced that a
person of such a stature might be considered as beautiful; might be the
object of love; might give us very pleasing ideas on viewing him. The
only thing which could possibly interpose to check our pleasure is, that
such creatures, however formed, are unusual, and are often therefore
considered as something monstrous. The large and gigantic, though very
compatible with the sublime, is contrary to the beautiful. It is
impossible to suppose a giant the object of love. When we let our
imagination loose in romance, the ideas we naturally annex to that size
are those of tyranny, cruelty, injustice, and everything horrid and
abominable. We paint the giant ravaging the country, plundering the
innocent traveller, and afterwards gorged with his half-living flesh:
such are Polyphemus, Cacus, and others, who make so great a figure in
romances and heroic poems. The event we attend to with the greatest
satisfaction is their defeat and death. I do not remember, in all that
multitude of deaths with which the Iliad is filled, that the fall of any
man, remarkable for his great stature and strength, touches us with
pity; nor does it appear that the author, so well read in human nature,
ever intended it should. It is Simoisius, in the soft bloom of youth,
torn from his parents, who tremble for a courage so ill suited to his
strength; it is another hurried by war from the new embraces of his
bride, young and fair, and a novice to the field, who melts us by his
untimely fate. Achilles, in spite of the many qualities of beauty which
Homer has bestowed on his outward form, and the many great virtues with
which he has adorned his mind, can never make us love him. It may be
observed, that Homer has given the Trojans, whose fate he has designed
to excite our compassion, infinitely more of the amiable, social virtues
than he has distributed among his Greeks. With regard to the Trojans,
the passion he chooses to raise is pity; pity is a passion founded on
love; and these _lesser_, and if I may say domestic virtues, are
certainly the most amiable. But he has made the Greeks far their
superiors in the politic and military virtues. The councils of Priam are
weak; the arms of Hector comparatively feeble; his courage far below
that of Achilles. Yet we love Priam more than Agamemnon, and Hector more
than his conqueror Achilles. Admiration is the passion which Homer would
excite in favor of the Greeks, and he has done it by bestowing on them
the virtues which have but little to do with love. This short digression
is perhaps not wholly beside our purpose, where our business is to show
that objects of great dimensions are incompatible with beauty, the more
incompatible as they are greater; whereas the small, if ever they fail
of beauty, this failure is not to be attributed to their size.


SECTION XXV.

OF COLOR.

With regard to color, the disquisition is almost infinite; but I
conceive the principles laid down in the beginning of this part are
sufficient to account for the effects of them all, as well as for the
agreeable effects of transparent bodies, whether fluid or solid. Suppose
I look at a bottle of muddy liquor, of a blue or red color; the blue or
red rays cannot pass clearly to the eye, but are suddenly and unequally
stopped by the intervention of little opaque bodies, which without
preparation change the idea, and change it too into one disagreeable in
its own nature, conformably to the principles laid down in Sect. 24. But
when the ray passes without such opposition through the glass or liquor,
when the glass or liquor is quite transparent, the light is sometimes
softened in the passage, which makes it more agreeable even as light;
and the liquor reflecting all the rays of its proper color _evenly_, it
has such an effect on the eye, as smooth opaque bodies have on the eye
and touch. So that the pleasure here is compounded of the softness of
the transmitted, and the evenness of the reflected light. This pleasure
may be heightened by the common principles in other things, if the shape
of the glass which holds the transparent liquor be so judiciously
varied, as to present the color gradually and interchangeably, weakened
and strengthened with all the variety which judgment in affairs of this
nature shall suggest. On a review of all that has been said of the
effects, as well as the causes of both, it will appear that the sublime
and beautiful are built on principles very different, and that their
affections are as different: the great has terror for its basis, which,
when it is modified, causes that emotion in the mind, which I have
called astonishment; the beautiful is founded on mere positive pleasure,
and excites in the soul that feeling which is called love. Their causes
have made the subject of this fourth part.

FOOTNOTES:

[29] Part I. sect. 7.

[30] Part I. sect. 10.

[31] I do not here enter into the question debated among physiologists,
whether pain be the effect of a contraction, or a tension of the nerves.
Either will serve my purpose; for by tension, I mean no more than a
violent pulling of the fibres which compose any muscle or membrane, in
whatever way this is done.

[32] Part II. sect. 2.

[33] Part II. sect. 1.

[34] Part I. sect. 7. Part II. sect. 2.

[35] Part II. sect. 7.

[36] Part II. sect. 10.

[37] Part II. sect. 3.




PART V.


SECTION I.

OF WORDS.

Natural objects affect us by the laws of that connection which
Providence has established between certain motions and configurations of
bodies, and certain consequent feelings in our mind. Painting affects in
the same manner, but with the superadded pleasure of imitation.
Architecture affects by the laws of nature and the law of reason; from
which latter result the rules of proportion, which make a work to be
praised or censured, in the whole or in some part, when the end for
which it was designed is or is not properly answered. But as to words;
they seem to me to affect us in a manner very different from that in
which we are affected by natural objects, or by painting or
architecture; yet words have as considerable a share in exciting ideas
of beauty and of the sublime as many of those, and sometimes a much
greater than any of them; therefore an inquiry into the manner by which
they excite such emotions is far from being unnecessary in a discourse
of this kind.


SECTION II.

THE COMMON EFFECTS OF POETRY, NOT BY RAISING IDEAS OF THINGS.

The common notion of the power of poetry and eloquence, as well as that
of words in ordinary conversation, is, that they affect the mind by
raising in it ideas of those things for which custom has appointed them
to stand. To examine the truth of this notion, it may be requisite to
observe that words may be divided into three sorts. The first are such
as represent many simple ideas _united by nature_ to form some one
determinate composition, as man, horse, tree, castle, &c. These I call
_aggregate words_. The second are they that stand for one simple idea of
such compositions, and no more; as red, blue, round, square, and the
like. These I call _simple abstract_ words. The third are those which
are formed by an union, an _arbitrary_ union of both the others, and of
the various relations between them in greater or lesser degrees of
complexity; as virtue, honor, persuasion, magistrate, and the like.
These I call _compound abstract_ words. Words, I am sensible, are
capable of being classed into more curious distinctions; but these seem
to be natural, and enough for our purpose; and they are disposed in that
order in which they are commonly taught, and in which the mind gets the
ideas they are substituted for. I shall begin with the third sort of
words; compound abstracts, such as virtue, honor, persuasion, docility.
Of these I am convinced, that whatever power they may have on the
passions, they do not derive it from any representation raised in the
mind of the things for which they stand. As compositions, they are not
real essences, and hardly cause, I think, any real ideas. Nobody, I
believe, immediately on hearing the sounds, virtue, liberty, or honor,
conceives any precise notions of the particular modes of action and
thinking, together with the mixed and simple ideas, and the several
relations of them for which these words are substituted; neither has he
any general idea compounded of them; for if he had, then some of those
particular ones, though indistinct perhaps, and confused, might come
soon to be perceived. But this, I take it, is hardly ever the case. For,
put yourself upon analyzing one of these words, and you must reduce it
from one set of general words to another, and then into the simple
abstracts and aggregates, in a much longer series than may be at first
imagined, before any real idea emerges to light, before you come to
discover anything like the first principles of such compositions; and
when you have made such a discovery of the original ideas, the effect of
the composition is utterly lost. A train of thinking of this sort is
much too long to be pursued in the ordinary ways of conversation; nor is
it at all necessary that it should. Such words are in reality but mere
sounds; but they are sounds which being used on particular occasions,
wherein we receive some good, or suffer some evil; or see others
affected with good or evil; or which we hear applied to other
interesting things or events; and being applied in such a variety of
cases, that we know readily by habit to what things they belong, they
produce in the mind, whenever they are afterwards mentioned, effects
similar to those of their occasions. The sounds being often used without
reference to any particular occasion, and carrying still their first
impressions, they at last utterly lose their connection with the
particular occasions that gave rise to them; yet the sound, without any
annexed notion, continues to operate as before.


SECTION III.

GENERAL WORDS BEFORE IDEAS.

Mr. Locke has somewhere observed, with his usual sagacity, that most
general words, those belonging to virtue and vice, good and evil
especially, are taught before the particular modes of action to which
they belong are presented to the mind; and with them, the love of the
one, and the abhorrence of the other; for the minds of children are so
ductile, that a nurse, or any person about a child, by seeming pleased
or displeased with anything, or even any word, may give the disposition
of the child a similar turn. When, afterwards, the several occurrences
in life come to be applied to these words, and that which is pleasant
often appears under the name of evil; and what is disagreeable to nature
is called good and virtuous; a strange confusion of ideas and affections
arises in the minds of many; and an appearance of no small contradiction
between their notions and their actions. There are many who love virtue
and who detest vice, and this not from hypocrisy or affectation, who
notwithstanding very frequently act ill and wickedly in particulars
without the least remorse; because these particular occasions never came
into view, when the passions on the side of virtue were so warmly
affected by certain words heated originally by the breath of others; and
for this reason, it is hard to repeat certain sets of words, though
owned by themselves unoperative, without being in some degree affected;
especially if a warm and affecting tone of voice accompanies them, as
suppose,

  Wise, valiant, generous, good, and great.

These words, by having no application, ought to be unoperative; but
when words commonly sacred to great occasions are used, we are affected
by them even without the occasions. When words which have been generally
so applied are put together without any rational view, or in such a
manner that they do not rightly agree with each other, the style is
called bombast. And it requires in several cases much good sense and
experience to be guarded against the force of such language; for when
propriety is neglected, a greater number of these affecting words may be
taken into the service, and a greater variety may be indulged in
combining them.


SECTION IV.

THE EFFECT OF WORDS.

If words have all their possible extent of power, three effects arise in
the mind of the hearer. The first is, the _sound_; the second, the
_picture_, or representation of the thing signified by the sound; the
third is, the _affection_ of the soul produced by one or by both of the
foregoing. _Compounded abstract_ words, of which we have been speaking,
(honor, justice, liberty, and the like,) produce the first and the last
of these effects, but not the second. _Simple abstracts_ are used to
signify some one simple idea without much adverting to others which may
chance to attend it, as blue, green, hot, cold, and the like; these are
capable of affecting all three of the purposes of words; as the
_aggregate_ words, man, castle, horse, &c. are in a yet higher degree.
But I am of opinion, that the most general effect, even of these words,
does not arise from their forming pictures of the several things they
would represent in the imagination; because, on a very diligent
examination of my own mind, and getting others to consider theirs, I do
not find that once in twenty times any such picture is formed, and when
it is, there is most commonly a particular effort of the imagination for
that purpose. But the aggregate words operate, as I said of the
compound-abstracts, not by presenting any image to the mind, but by
having from use the same effect on being mentioned, that their original
has when it is seen. Suppose we were to read a passage to this effect:
"The river Danube rises in a moist and mountainous soil in the heart of
Germany, where, winding to and fro, it waters several principalities,
until, turning into Austria, and laving the walls of Vienna, it passes
into Hungary; there with a vast flood, augmented by the Save and the
Drave, it quits Christendom, and rolling through the barbarous countries
which border on Tartary, it enters by many mouths in the Black Sea." In
this description many things are mentioned, as mountains, rivers,
cities, the sea, &c. But let anybody examine himself, and see whether he
has had impressed on his imagination any pictures of a river, mountain,
watery soil, Germany, &c. Indeed it is impossible, in the rapidity and
quick succession of words in conversation, to have ideas both of the
sound of the word, and of the thing represented; besides, some words,
expressing real essences, are so mixed with others of a general and
nominal import, that it is impracticable to jump from sense to thought,
from particulars to generals, from things to words, in such a manner as
to answer the purposes of life; nor is it necessary that we should.


SECTION V.

EXAMPLES THAT WORDS MAY AFFECT WITHOUT RAISING IMAGES.

I find it very hard to persuade several that their passions are affected
by words from whence they have no ideas; and yet harder to convince them
that in the ordinary course of conversation we are sufficiently
understood without raising any images of the things concerning which we
speak. It seems to be an odd subject of dispute with any man, whether he
has ideas in his mind or not. Of this, at first view, every man, in his
own forum, ought to judge without appeal. But, strange as it may appear,
we are often at a loss to know what ideas we have of things, or whether
we have any ideas at all upon some subjects. It even requires a good
deal of attention to be thoroughly satisfied on this head. Since I wrote
these papers, I found two very striking instances of the possibility
there is, that a man may hear words without having any idea of the
things which they represent, and yet afterwards be capable of returning
them to others, combined in a new way, and with great propriety, energy,
and instruction. The first instance is that of Mr. Blacklock, a poet
blind from his birth. Few men blessed with the most perfect sight can
describe visual objects with more spirit and justness than this blind
man; which cannot possibly be attributed to his having a clearer
conception of the things he describes than is common to other persons.
Mr. Spence, in an elegant preface which he has written to the works of
this poet, reasons very ingeniously, and, I imagine, for the most part,
very rightly, upon the cause of this extraordinary phenomenon; but I
cannot altogether agree with him, that some improprieties in language
and thought, which occur in these poems, have arisen from the blind
poet's imperfect conception of visual objects, since such improprieties,
and much greater, may be found in writers even of a higher class than
Mr. Blacklock, and who, notwithstanding, possessed the faculty of seeing
in its full perfection. Here is a poet doubtless as much affected by his
own descriptions as any that reads them can be; and yet he is affected
with this strong enthusiasm by things of which he neither has, nor can
possibly have, any idea further than that of a bare sound: and why may
not those who read his works be affected in the same manner that he was;
with as little of any real ideas of the things described? The second
instance is of Mr. Saunderson, professor of mathematics in the
University of Cambridge. This learned man had acquired great knowledge
in natural philosophy, in astronomy, and whatever sciences depend upon
mathematical skill. What was the most extraordinary and the most to my
purpose, he gave excellent lectures upon light and colors; and this man
taught others the theory of those ideas which they had, and which he
himself undoubtedly had not. But it is probable that the words red,
blue, green, answered to him as well as the ideas of the colors
themselves; for the ideas of greater or lesser degrees of refrangibility
being applied to these words, and the blind man being instructed in what
other respects they were found to agree or to disagree, it was as easy
for him to reason upon the words as if he had been fully master of the
ideas. Indeed it must be owned he could make no new discoveries in the
way of experiment. He did nothing but what we do every day in common
discourse. When I wrote this last sentence, and used the words _every
day_ and _common discourse_, I had no images in my mind of any
succession of time; nor of men in conference with each other; nor do I
imagine that the reader will have any such ideas on reading it. Neither
when I spoke of red, or blue, and green, as well as refrangibility, had
I these several colors, or the rays of light passing into a different
medium, and there diverted from their course, painted before me in the
way of images. I know very well that the mind possesses a faculty of
raising such images at pleasure; but then an act of the will is
necessary to this; and in ordinary conversation or reading it is very
rarely that any image at all is excited in the mind. If I say, "I shall
go to Italy next summer," I am well understood. Yet I believe nobody has
by this painted in his imagination the exact figure of the speaker
passing by land or by water, or both; sometimes on horseback, sometimes
in a carriage: with all the particulars of the journey. Still less has
he any idea of Italy, the country to which I proposed to go; or of the
greenness of the fields, the ripening of the fruits, and the warmth of
the air, with the change to this from a different season, which are the
ideas for which the word _summer_ is substituted; but least of all has
he any image from the word _next_; for this word stands for the idea of
many summers, with the exclusion of all but one: and surely the man who
says _next summer_ has no images of such a succession, and such an
exclusion. In short, it is not only of those ideas which are commonly
called abstract, and of which no image at all can be formed, but even of
particular, real beings, that we converse without having any idea of
them excited in the imagination; as will certainly appear on a diligent
examination of our own minds. Indeed, so little does poetry depend for
its effect on the power of raising sensible images, that I am convinced
it would lose a very considerable part of its energy, if this were the
necessary result of all description. Because that union of affecting
words, which is the most powerful of all poetical instruments, would
frequently lose its force along with its propriety and consistency, if
the sensible images were always excited. There is not, perhaps, in the
whole AEneid a more grand and labored passage than the description of
Vulcan's cavern in Etna, and the works that are there carried on. Virgil
dwells particularly on the formation of the thunder which he describes
unfinished under the hammers of the Cyclops. But what are the principles
of this extraordinary composition?

    Tres imbris torti radios, tres nubis aquosae
    Addiderant; rutili tres ignis, et alitis austri:
    Fulgores nunc terrificos, sonitumque, metumque
    Miscebant operi, flammisque sequacibus iras.

This seems to me admirably sublime: yet if we attend coolly to the kind
of sensible images which a combination of ideas of this sort must form,
the chimeras of madmen cannot appear more wild and absurd than such a
picture. "_Three rays of twisted showers, three of watery clouds, three
of fire, and three of the winged south wind; then mixed they in the work
terrific lightnings, and sound, and fear, and anger, with pursuing
flames._" This strange composition is formed into a gross body; it is
hammered by the Cyclops, it is in part polished, and partly continues
rough. The truth is, if poetry gives us a noble assemblage of words
corresponding to many noble ideas, which are connected by circumstances
of time or place, or related to each other as cause and effect, or
associated in any natural way, they may be moulded together in any form,
and perfectly answer their end. The picturesque connection is not
demanded; because no real picture is formed; nor is the effect of the
description at all the less upon this account. What is said of Helen by
Priam and the old men of his council, is generally thought to give us
the highest possible idea of that fatal beauty.

    [Greek:
    Ou nemesis, Troas kai euknemidas 'Achaious
    Toied' amphi gunaiki polun chronon algea paschein
    Ainos athanatesi thees eis opa eoiken.]

   "They cried, No wonder such celestial charms
    For nine long years have set the world in arms;
    What winning graces! what majestic mien!
    She moves a goddess, and she looks a queen."

                                        POPE.

Here is not one word said of the particulars of her beauty; nothing
which can in the least help us to any precise idea of her person; but
yet we are much more touched by this manner of mentioning her, than by
those long and labored descriptions of Helen, whether handed down by
tradition, or formed by fancy, which are to be met with in some authors.
I am sure it affects me much more than the minute description which
Spenser has given of Belphebe; though I own that there are parts, in
that description, as there are in all the descriptions of that excellent
writer, extremely fine and poetical. The terrible picture which
Lucretius has drawn of religion in order to display the magnanimity of
his philosophical hero in opposing her, is thought to be designed with
great boldness and spirit:--

    Humana ante oculos foede cum vita jaceret,
    In terris, oppressa gravi sub religione,
    Quae caput e coeli regionibus ostendebat
    Horribili super aspectu mortalibus instans;
    Primus Graius homo mortales tollere contra
    Est oculos ausus.

What idea do you derive from so excellent a picture? none at all, most
certainly: neither has the poet said a single word which might in the
least serve to mark a single limb or feature of the phantom, which he
intended to represent in all the horrors imagination can conceive. In
reality, poetry and rhetoric do not succeed in exact description so well
as painting does; their business is, to affect rather by sympathy than
imitation; to display rather the effect of things on the mind of the
speaker, or of others, than to present a clear idea of the things
themselves. This is their most extensive province, and that in which
they succeed the best.


SECTION VI.

POETRY NOT STRICTLY AN IMITATIVE ART.

Hence we may observe that poetry, taken in its most general sense,
cannot with strict propriety be called an art of imitation. It is indeed
an imitation so far as it describes the manners and passions of men
which their words can express; where _animi motus effert interprete
lingua_. There it is strictly imitation; and all merely _dramatic_
poetry is of this sort. But _descriptive_ poetry operates chiefly by
_substitution_; by the means of sounds, which by custom have the effect
of realities. Nothing is an imitation further than as it resembles some
other thing; and words undoubtedly have no sort of resemblance to the
ideas for which they stand.


SECTION VII.

HOW WORDS INFLUENCE THE PASSIONS.

Now, as words affect, not by any original power, but by representation,
it might be supposed, that their influence over the passions should be
but light; yet it is quite otherwise; for we find by experience, that
eloquence and poetry are as capable, nay indeed much more capable, of
making deep and lively impressions than any other arts, and even than
nature itself in very many cases. And this arises chiefly from these
three causes. First, that we take an extraordinary part in the passions
of others, and that we are easily affected and brought into sympathy by
any tokens which are shown of them; and there are no tokens which can
express all the circumstances of most passions so fully as words; so
that if a person speaks upon any subject, he can not only convey the
subject to you, but likewise the manner in which he is himself affected
by it. Certain it is, that the influence of most things on our passions
is not so much from the things themselves, as from our opinions
concerning them; and these again depend very much on the opinions of
other men, conveyable for the most part by words only. Secondly, there
are many things of a very affecting nature, which can seldom occur in
the reality, but the words that represent them often do; and thus they
have an opportunity of making a deep impression and taking root in the
mind, whilst the idea of the reality was transient; and to some perhaps
never really occurred in any shape, to whom it is notwithstanding very
affecting, as war, death, famine, &c. Besides many ideas have never been
at all presented to the senses of any men but by words, as God, angels,
devils, heaven, and hell, all of which have however a great influence
over the passions. Thirdly, by words we have it in our power to make
such _combinations_ as we cannot possibly do otherwise. By this power of
combining we are able, by the addition of well-chosen circumstances, to
give a new life and force to the simple object. In painting we may
represent any fine figure we please; but we never can give it those
enlivening touches which it may receive from words. To represent an
angel in a picture, you can only draw a beautiful young man winged: but
what painting can furnish out anything so grand as the addition of one
word, "the angel of the _Lord_"? It is true, I have here no clear idea;
but these words affect the mind more than the sensible image did; which
is all I contend for. A picture of Priam dragged to the altar's foot,
and there murdered, if it were well executed, would undoubtedly be very
moving; but there are very aggravating circumstances, which it could
never represent:

     Sanguine foedantem _quos ipse sacraverat_ ignes.

As a further instance, let us consider those lines of Milton, where he
describes the travels of the fallen angels through their dismal
habitation:

          "O'er many a dark and dreary vale
    They passed, and many a region dolorous;
    O'er many a frozen, many a fiery Alp;
    Rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens, and shades of death,
    A universe of death."

Here is displayed the force of union in

   "Rocks, caves, lakes, dens, bogs, fens, and shades"

which yet would lose the greatest part of their effect, if they were not
the

   "Rocks, caves, lakes, dens, bogs, fens, and shades--of _Death_."


This idea or this affection caused by a word, which nothing but a word
could annex to the others, raises a very great degree of the sublime,
and this sublime is raised yet higher by what follows, a "_universe of
death_." Here are again two ideas not presentable but by language, and
an union of them great and amazing beyond conception; if they may
properly be called ideas which present no distinct image to the mind;
but still it will be difficult to conceive how words can move the
passions which belong to real objects, without representing these
objects clearly. This is difficult to us, because we do not sufficiently
distinguish, in our observations upon language, between a clear
expression and a strong expression. These are frequently confounded with
each other, though they are in reality extremely different. The former
regards the understanding, the latter belongs to the passions. The one
describes a thing as it is, the latter describes it as it is felt. Now,
as there is a moving tone of voice, an impassioned countenance, an
agitated gesture, which affect independently of the things about which
they are exerted, so there are words, and certain dispositions of words,
which being peculiarly devoted to passionate subjects, and always used
by those who are under the influence of any passion, touch and move us
more than those which far more clearly and distinctly express the
subject-matter. We yield to sympathy what we refuse to description. The
truth is, all verbal description, merely as naked description, though
never so exact, conveys so poor and insufficient an idea of the thing
described, that it could scarcely have the smallest effect, if the
speaker did not call in to his aid those modes of speech that mark a
strong and lively feeling in himself. Then, by the contagion of our
passions, we catch a fire already kindled in another, which probably
might never have been struck out by the object described. Words, by
strongly conveying the passions by those means which we have already
mentioned, fully compensate for their weakness in other respects. It may
be observed, that very polished languages, and such as are praised for
their superior clearness and perspicuity, are generally deficient in
strength. The French language has that perfection and that defect.
Whereas the Oriental tongues, and in general the languages of most
unpolished people, have a great force and energy of expression, and this
is but natural. Uncultivated people are but ordinary observers of
things, and not critical in distinguishing them; but, for that reason
they admire more, and are more affected with what they see, and
therefore express themselves in a warmer and more passionate manner. If
the affection be well conveyed, it will work its effect without any
clear idea, often without any idea at all of the thing which has
originally given rise to it.

It might be expected, from the fertility of the subject, that I should
consider poetry, as it regards the sublime and beautiful, more at large;
but it must be observed, that in this light it has been often and well
handled already. It was not my design to enter into the criticism of the
sublime and beautiful in any art, but to attempt to lay down such
principles as may tend to ascertain, to distinguish, and to form a sort
of standard for them; which purposes I thought might be best effected
by an inquiry into the properties of such things in nature, as raise
love and astonishment in us; and by showing in what manner they operated
to produce these passions. Words were only so far to be considered as to
show upon what principle they were capable of being the representatives
of these natural things, and by what powers they were able to affect us
often as strongly as the things they represent, and sometimes much more
strongly.




A

SHORT ACCOUNT

OF

A LATE SHORT ADMINISTRATION.

1766.


The late administration came into employment, under the mediation of the
Duke of Cumberland, on the tenth day of July, 1765; and was removed,
upon a plan settled by the Earl of Chatham, on the thirtieth day of
July, 1766, having lasted just one year and twenty days.

In that space of time

The distractions of the British empire were composed, by _the repeal of
the American stamp act_;

But the constitutional superiority of Great Britain was preserved by
_the act for securing the dependence of the colonies_.

_Private_ houses were relieved from the jurisdiction of the excise, by
_the repeal of the cider tax_.

The personal liberty of the subject was confirmed, by _the resolution
against general warrants_.

The lawful secrets of business and friendship were rendered inviolable,
by _the resolution for condemning the seizure of papers_.

The trade of America was set free from injudicious and ruinous
impositions,--its revenue was improved, and settled upon a rational
foundation,--its commerce extended with foreign countries; while all
the advantages were secured to Great Britain, by _the act for repealing
certain duties, and encouraging, regulating, and securing the trade of
this kingdom, and the British dominions in America_.

Materials were provided and insured to our manufactures,--the sale of
these manufactures was increased,--the African trade preserved and
extended,--the principles of the act of navigation pursued, and the plan
improved,--and the trade for bullion rendered free, secure, and
permanent, by _the act for opening certain ports in Dominica and
Jamaica_.

That administration was the first which proposed and encouraged public
meetings and free consultations of merchants from all parts of the
kingdom; by which means the truest lights have been received; great
benefits have been already derived to manufactures and commerce; and the
most extensive prospects are opened for further improvement.

Under them, the interests of our northern and southern colonies, before
that time jarring and dissonant, were understood, compared, adjusted,
and perfectly reconciled. The passions and animosities of the colonies,
by judicious and lenient measures, were allayed and composed, and the
foundation laid for a lasting agreement amongst them.

Whilst that administration provided for the liberty and commerce of
their country, as the true basis of its power, they consulted its
interests, they asserted its honor abroad, with temper and with
firmness; by making an advantageous treaty of commerce with Russia; by
obtaining a liquidation of the Canada bills, to the satisfaction of the
proprietors; by reviving and raising from its ashes the negotiation for
the Manilla ransom, which had been extinguished and abandoned by their
predecessors.

They treated their sovereign with decency; with reverence. They
discountenanced, and, it is hoped, forever abolished, the dangerous and
unconstitutional practice of removing military officers for their votes
in Parliament. They firmly adhered to those friends of liberty, who had
run all hazards in its cause; and provided for them in preference to
every other claim.

With the Earl of Bute they had no personal connection; no correspondence
of councils. They neither courted him nor persecuted him. They practised
no corruption; nor were they even suspected of it. They sold no offices.
They obtained no reversions or pensions, either coming in or going out,
for them selves, their families, or their dependents.

In the prosecution of their measures they were traversed by an
opposition of a new and singular character; an opposition of placemen
and pensioners. They were supported by the confidence of the nation. And
having held their offices under many difficulties and discouragements,
they left them at the express command, as they had accepted them at the
earnest request, of their royal master.

These are plain facts; of a clear and public nature; neither extended by
elaborate reasoning, nor heightened by the coloring of eloquence. They
are the services of a single year.

The removal of that administration from power is not to them premature;
since they were in office long enough to accomplish many plans of public
utility; and, by their perseverance and resolution, rendered the way
smooth and easy to their successors; having left their king and their
country in a much better condition than they found them. By the temper
they manifest, they seem to have now no other wish than that their
successors may do the public as real and as faithful service as they
have done.




OBSERVATIONS

ON A LATE PUBLICATION,

INTITULED

"THE PRESENT STATE OF THE NATION."

   "O Tite, si quid ego adjuvero curamve levasso,
    Quae nunc te coquit, et versat sub pectore fixa,
    Ecquid erit pretii?"

                                        ENN. ap. CIC.

1769.


Party divisions, whether on the whole operating for good or evil, are
things inseparable from free government. This is a truth which, I
believe, admits little dispute, having been established by the uniform
experience of all ages. The part a good citizen ought to take in these
divisions has been a matter of much deeper controversy. But God forbid
that any controversy relating to our essential morals should admit of no
decision. It appears to me, that this question, like most of the others
which regard our duties in life, is to be determined by our station in
it. Private men may be wholly neutral, and entirely innocent: but they
who are legally invested with public trust, or stand on the high ground
of rank and dignity, which is trust implied, can hardly in any case
remain indifferent, without the certainty of sinking into
insignificance; and thereby in effect deserting that post in which, with
the fullest authority, and for the wisest purposes, the laws and
institutions of their country have fixed them. However, if it be the
office of those who are thus circumstanced, to take a decided part, it
is no less their duty that it should be a sober one. It ought to be
circumscribed by the same laws of decorum, and balanced by the same
temper, which bound and regulate all the virtues. In a word, we ought to
act in party with all the moderation which does not absolutely enervate
that vigor, and quench that fervency of spirit, without which the best
wishes for the public good must evaporate in empty speculation.

It is probably from some such motives that the friends of a very
respectable party in this kingdom have been hitherto silent. For these
two years past, from one and the same quarter of politics, a continual
fire has been kept upon them; sometimes from the unwieldy column of
quartos and octavos; sometimes from the light squadrons of occasional
pamphlets and flying sheets. Every month has brought on its periodical
calumny. The abuse has taken every shape which the ability of the
writers could give it; plain invective, clumsy raillery, misrepresented
anecdote.[38] No method of vilifying the measures, the abilities, the
intentions, or the persons which compose that body, has been omitted.

On their part nothing was opposed but patience and character. It was a
matter of the most serious and indignant affliction to persons who
thought themselves in conscience bound to oppose a ministry dangerous
from its very constitution, as well as its measures, to find themselves,
whenever they faced their adversaries, continually attacked on the rear
by a set of men who pretended to be actuated by motives similar to
theirs. They saw that the plan long pursued, with but too fatal a
success, was to break the strength of this kingdom, by frittering down
the bodies which compose it, by fomenting bitter and sanguinary
animosities, and by dissolving every tie of social affection and public
trust. These virtuous men, such I am warranted by public opinion to call
them, were resolved rather to endure everything, than co-operate in that
design. A diversity of opinion upon almost every principle of politics
had indeed drawn a strong line of separation between them and some
others. However, they were desirous not to extend the misfortune by
unnecessary bitterness; they wished to prevent a difference of opinion
on the commonwealth from festering into rancorous and incurable
hostility. Accordingly they endeavored that all past controversies
should be forgotten; and that enough for the day should be the evil
thereof. There is however a limit at which forbearance ceases to be a
virtue. Men may tolerate injuries whilst they are only personal to
themselves. But it is not the first of virtues to bear with moderation
the indignities that are offered to our country. A piece has at length
appeared, from the quarter of all the former attacks, which upon every
public consideration demands an answer. Whilst persons more equal to
this business may be engaged in affairs of greater moment, I hope I
shall be excused, if, in a few hours of a time not very important, and
from such materials as I have by me (more than enough however for this
purpose), I undertake to set the facts and arguments of this wonderful
performance in a proper light. I will endeavor to state what this piece
is; the purpose for which I take it to have been written; and the
effects (supposing it should have any effect at all) it must necessarily
produce.

This piece is called "The Present State of the Nation." It may be
considered as a sort of digest of the avowed maxims of a certain
political school, the effects of whose doctrines and practices this
country will fuel long and severely. It is made up of a farrago of
almost every topic which has been agitated on national affairs in
parliamentary debate, or private conversation, for these last seven
years. The oldest controversies are hauled out of the dust with which
time and neglect had covered them. Arguments ten times repeated, a
thousand times answered before, are here repeated again. Public accounts
formerly printed and reprinted revolve once more, and find their old
station in this sober meridian. All the commonplace lamentations upon
the decay of trade, the increase of taxes, and the high price of labor
and provisions, are here retailed again and again in the same tone with
which they have drawled through columns of Gazetteers and Advertisers
for a century together. Paradoxes which affront common sense, and
uninteresting barren truths which generate no conclusion, are thrown in
to augment unwieldy bulk, without adding anything to weight. Because two
accusations are better than one, contradictions are set staring one
another in the face, without even an attempt to reconcile them. And, to
give the whole a sort of portentous air of labor and information, the
table of the House of Commons is swept into this grand reservoir of
politics.

As to the composition, it bears a striking and whimsical resemblance to
a funeral sermon, not only in the pathetic prayer with which it
concludes, but in the style and tenor of the whole performance. It is
piteously doleful, nodding every now and then towards dulness; well
stored with pious frauds, and, like most discourses of the sort, much
better calculated for the private advantage of the preacher than the
edification of the hearers.

The author has indeed so involved his subject, that it is frequently far
from being easy to comprehend his meaning. It is happy for the public
that it is never difficult to fathom his design. The apparent intention
of this author is to draw the most aggravated, hideous and deformed
picture of the state of this country, which his querulous eloquence,
aided by the arbitrary dominion he assumes over fact, is capable of
exhibiting. Had he attributed our misfortunes to their true cause, the
injudicious tampering of bold, improvident, and visionary ministers at
one period, or to their supine negligence and traitorous dissensions at
another, the complaint had been just, and might have been useful. But
far the greater and much the worst part of the state which he exhibits
is owing, according to his representation, not to accidental and
extrinsic mischiefs attendant on the nation, but to its radical weakness
and constitutional distempers. All this however is not without purpose.
The author is in hopes, that, when we are fallen into a fanatical terror
for the national salvation, we shall then be ready to throw
ourselves,--in a sort of precipitate trust, some strange disposition of
the mind jumbled up of presumption and despair,--into the hands of the
most pretending and forward undertaker. One such undertaker at least he
has in readiness for our service. But let me assure this generous
person, that however he may succeed in exciting our fears for the public
danger, he will find it hard indeed to engage us to place any confidence
in the system he proposes for our security.

His undertaking is great. The purpose of this pamphlet, at which it
aims directly or obliquely in every page, is to persuade the public of
three or four of the most difficult points in the world,--that all the
advantages of the late war were on the part of the Bourbon alliance;
that the peace of Paris perfectly consulted the dignity and interest of
this country; and that the American Stamp Act was a masterpiece of
policy and finance; that the only good minister this nation has enjoyed
since his Majesty's accession, is the Earl of Bute; and the only good
managers of revenue we have seen are Lord Despenser and Mr. George
Grenville; and, under the description of men of virtue and ability, he
holds them out to us as the only persons fit to put our affairs in
order. Let not the reader mistake me: he does not actually name these
persons; but having highly applauded their conduct in all its parts, and
heavily censured every other set of men in the kingdom, he then
recommends us to his men of virtue and ability.

Such is the author's scheme. Whether it will answer his purpose I know
not. But surely that purpose ought to be a wonderfully good one, to
warrant the methods he has taken to compass it. If the facts and
reasonings in this piece are admitted, it is all over with us. The
continuance of our tranquillity depends upon the compassion of our
rivals. Unable to secure to ourselves the advantages of peace, we are at
the same time utterly unfit for war. It is impossible, if this state of
things be credited abroad, that we can have any alliance; all nations
will fly from so dangerous a connection, lest, instead of being
partakers of our strength, they should only become sharers in our ruin.
If it is believed at home, all that firmness of mind, and dignified
national courage, which used to be the great support of this isle
against the powers of the world, must melt away, and fail within us.

In such a state of things can it be amiss if I aim at holding out some
comfort to the nation; another sort of comfort, indeed, than that which
this writer provides for it; a comfort not from its physician, but from
its constitution: if I attempt to show that all the arguments upon which
he founds the decay of that constitution, and the necessity of that
physician, are vain and frivolous? I will follow the author closely in
his own long career, through the war, the peace, the finances, our
trade, and our foreign politics: not for the sake of the particular
measures which he discusses; that can be of no use; they are all
decided; their good is all enjoyed, or their evil incurred: but for the
sake of the principles of war, peace, trade, and finances. These
principles are of infinite moment. They must come again and again under
consideration; and it imports the public, of all things, that those of
its ministers be enlarged, and just, and well confirmed, upon all these
subjects. What notions this author entertains we shall see presently;
notions in my opinion very irrational, and extremely dangerous; and
which, if they should crawl from pamphlets into counsels, and be
realized from private speculation into national measures, cannot fail of
hastening and completing our ruin.

This author, after having paid his compliment to the showy appearances
of the late war in our favor, is in the utmost haste to tell you that
these appearances were _fallacious_, that they were no more than an
_imposition_.--I fear I must trouble the reader with a pretty long
quotation, in order to set before him the more clearly this author's
peculiar way of conceiving and reasoning:

"Happily (the K.) was then advised by ministers, who did not suffer
themselves to be dazzled by the glare of brilliant appearances; but,
knowing them to be _fallacious_, they wisely resolved to profit of their
splendor before our enemies should also _discover the imposition_.--The
increase in the exports was found to have been occasioned chiefly by the
demands of _our own fleets and armies_, and, instead of bringing wealth
to the nation, was to be paid for by oppressive taxes upon the people of
England. While the British seamen were consuming on board our men of war
and privateers, foreign ships and foreign seamen were employed in the
transportation of our merchandise; and the carrying trade, so great a
source of wealth and marine, _was entirely engrossed by the neutral
nations_. The number of British ships annually arriving in our ports was
reduced 1756 sail, containing 92,559 tons, on a medium of the six years'
war, compared with the six years of peace preceding it.--The conquest of
the Havannah had, indeed, stopped the remittance of specie from Mexico
to Spain; but it had not enabled England to seize it: on the contrary,
our merchants suffered by the detention of the galleons, as their
_correspondents in Spain were disabled from paying them for their goods
sent to America. The loss of the trade to Old Spain was a further bar to
an influx of specie_; and the attempt upon Portugal had not only
deprived us of an import of bullion from thence, but the payment of our
troops employed in its defence was a fresh drain opened for the
diminution of our circulating specie.--The high premiums given for new
loans had sunk the price of the old stock near a third of its original
value; so that the purchasers had an obligation from the state to repay
them with an addition of 33 per cent to their capital. Every new loan
required new taxes to be imposed; new taxes must add to the price of our
manufactures, _and lessen their consumption among foreigners_. The decay
of our trade must necessarily _occasion a decrease of the public
revenue_; and a deficiency of our funds must either be made up by fresh
taxes, which would only add to the calamity, or our national credit must
be destroyed, by showing the public creditors the inability of the
nation to repay them their principal money.--Bounties had already been
given for recruits which exceeded the year's wages of the ploughman and
reaper; and as these were exhausted, and _husbandry stood still for want
of hands_, the manufacturers were next to be tempted to quit the anvil
and the loom by higher offers.--_France, bankrupt France, had no such
calamities impending over her; her distresses were great, but they were
immediate and temporary; her want of credit preserved her from a great
increase of debt, and the loss of her ultramarine dominions lessened her
expenses. Her colonies had, indeed, put themselves into the hands of the
English; but the property of her subjects had been preserved by
capitulations, and a way opened for making her those remittances which
the war had before suspended, with as much security as in time of
peace_.--Her armies in Germany had been hitherto prevented from seizing
upon Hanover; but they continued to encamp on the same ground on which
the first battle was fought; and, as it must ever happen from the policy
of that government, _the last troops she sent into the field were
always found to be the best, and her frequent losses only served to fill
her regiments with better soldiers. The conquest of Hanover became
therefore every campaign more probable_.--It is to be noted, that the
French troops received subsistence only, for the last three years of the
war; and that, although large arrears were due to them at its
conclusion, the charge was the less during its continuance."[39]

If any one be willing to see to how much greater lengths the author
carries these ideas, he will recur to the book. This is sufficient for a
specimen of his manner of thinking. I believe one reflection uniformly
obtrudes itself upon every reader of these paragraphs. For what purpose,
in any cause, shall we hereafter contend with France? Can we ever
flatter ourselves that we shall wage a more successful war? If, on our
part, in a war the most prosperous we ever carried on, by sea and by
land, and in every part of the globe, attended with the unparalleled
circumstance of an immense increase of trade and augmentation of
revenue; if a continued series of disappointments, disgraces, and
defeats, followed by public bankruptcy, on the part of France; if all
these still leave her a gainer on the whole balance, will it not be
downright frenzy in us ever to look her in the face again, or to contend
with her any, even the most essential points, since victory and defeat,
though by different ways, equally conduct us to our ruin? Subjection to
France without a struggle will indeed be less for our honor, but on
every principle of our author it must be more for our advantage.
According to his representation of things, the question is only
concerning the most easy fall. France had not discovered, our statesman
tells us, at the end of that war, the triumphs of defeat, and the
resources which are derived from bankruptcy. For my poor part, I do not
wonder at their blindness. But the English ministers saw further. Our
author has at length let foreigners also into the secret, and made them
altogether as wise as ourselves. It is their own fault if (_vulgato
imperii arcano_) they are imposed upon any longer. They now are apprised
of the sentiments which the great candidate for the government of this
great empire entertains; and they will act accordingly. They are taught
our weakness and their own advantages.

He tells the world,[40] that if France carries on the war against us in
Germany, every loss she sustains contributes to the achievement of her
conquest. If her armies are three years unpaid, she is the less
exhausted by expense. If her credit is destroyed, she is the less
oppressed with debt. If her troops are cut to pieces, they will by her
policy (and a wonderful policy it is) be improved, and will be supplied
with much better men. If the war is carried on in the colonies, he tells
them[41] that the loss of her ultramarine dominions lessens her
expenses, and insures her remittances:--

    Per damna, per caedes, ab ipso
    Ducit opes animumque ferro.

If so, what is it we can do to hurt her?--it will be all an
_imposition_, all _fallacious_. Why, the result must be,--

                Occidit, occidit
    Spes omnis, et fortuna nostri
    Nominis.


The only way which the author's principles leave for our escape, is to
reverse our condition into that of France, and to take her losing cards
into our hands. But though his principles drive him to it, his politics
will not suffer him to walk on this ground. Talking at our ease and of
other countries, we may bear to be diverted with such speculations; but
in England we shall never be taught to look upon the annihilation of our
trade, the ruin of our credit, the defeat of our armies, and the loss of
our ultramarine dominions (whatever the author may think of them), to be
the high road to prosperity and greatness.

The reader does not, I hope, imagine that I mean seriously to set about
the refutation of these uningenious paradoxes and reveries without
imagination. I state them only that we may discern a little in the
questions of war and peace, the most weighty of all questions, what is
the wisdom of those men who are held out to us as the only hope of an
expiring nation. The present ministry is indeed of a strange character:
at once indolent and distracted. But if a ministerial system should be
formed, actuated by such maxims as are avowed in this piece, the vices
of the present ministry would become their virtues; their indolence
would be the greatest of all public benefits, and a distraction that
entirely defeated every one of their schemes would be our only security
from destruction.

To have stated these reasonings is enough, I presume, to do their
business. But they are accompanied with facts and records, which may
seem of a little more weight. I trust, however, that the facts of this
author will be as far from bearing the touchstone, as his arguments. On
a little inquiry, they will be found as great an imposition as the
successes they are meant to depreciate; for they are all either false
or fallaciously applied; or not in the least to the purpose for which
they are produced.

First the author, in order to support his favorite paradox, that our
possession of the French colonies was of no detriment to France, has
thought proper to inform us, that[42] "they put themselves into the
hands of the English." He uses the same assertion, in nearly the same
words, in another place;[43] "her colonies had put themselves into our
hands." Now, in justice, not only to fact and common sense, but to the
incomparable valor and perseverance of our military and naval forces
thus unhandsomely traduced, I must tell this author, that the French
colonies did not "put themselves into the hands of the English." They
were compelled to submit; they were subdued by dint of English valor.
Will the five years' war carried on in Canada, in which fell one of the
principal hopes of this nation, and all the battles lost and gained
during that anxious period, convince this author of his mistake? Let him
inquire of Sir Jeffery Amherst, under whose conduct that war was carried
on; of Sir Charles Saunders, whose steadiness and presence of mind saved
our fleet, and were so eminently serviceable in the whole course of the
siege of Quebec; of General Monckton, who was shot through the body
there, whether France "put her colonies into the hands of the English."

Though he has made no exception, yet I would be liberal to him; perhaps
he means to confine himself to her colonies in the West Indies. But
surely it will fare as ill with him there as in North America, whilst we
remember that in our first attempt at Martinico we were actually
defeated; that it was three months before we reduced Guadaloupe; and
that the conquest of the Havannah was achieved by the highest conduct,
aided by circumstances of the greatest good fortune. He knows the
expense both of men and treasure at which we bought that place. However,
if it had so pleased the peacemakers, it was no dear purchase; for it
was decisive of the fortune of the war and the terms of the treaty: the
Duke of Nivernois thought so; France, England, Europe, considered it in
that light; all the world, except the then friends of the then ministry,
who wept for our victories, and were in haste to get rid of the burden
of our conquests. This author knows that France did not put those
colonies into the hands of England; but he well knows who did put the
most valuable of them into the hands of France.

In the next place, our author[44] is pleased to consider the conquest of
those colonies in no other light than as a convenience for the
remittances to France, which he asserts that the war had before
suspended, but for which a way was opened (by our conquest) as secure as
in time of peace. I charitably hope he knows nothing of the subject. I
referred him lately to our commanders, for the resistance of the French
colonies; I now wish he would apply to our custom-house entries, and our
merchants, for the advantages which we derived from them.

In 1761, there was no entry of goods from any of the conquered places
but Guadaloupe; in that year it stood thus:--

  Imports from Guadaloupe,       value, L482,179
                                        --------

In 1762, when we had not yet delivered up our conquests, the account
was,

  Guadaloupe                            L513,244
  Martinico                              288,425
                                        --------
  Total imports in 1762,         value, L801,669
                                        --------

In 1763, after we had delivered up the sovereignty of these islands, but
kept open a communication with them, the imports were,

  Guadaloupe                            L412,303
  Martinico                              344,161
  Havannah                               249,386
                                      ----------
  Total imports in 1763,         value, L1,005,850
                                      ----------

Besides, I find, in the account of bullion imported and brought to the
Bank, that, during that period in which the intercourse with the
Havannah was open, we received at that one shop, in treasure, from that
one place, 559,810_l._; in the year 1763, 389,450_l._; so that the
import from these places in that year amounted to 1,395,300_l._

On this state the reader will observe, that I take the imports from, and
not the exports to, these conquests, as the measure of the advantages
which we derived from them. I do so for reasons which will be somewhat
worthy the attention of such readers as are fond of this species of
inquiry. I say therefore I choose the import article, as the best, and
indeed the only standard we can have, of the value of the West India
trade. Our export entry does not comprehend the greatest trade we carry
on with any of the West India islands, the sale of negroes: nor does it
give any idea of two other advantages we draw from them; the
remittances for money spent here, and the payment of part of the balance
of the North American trade. It is therefore quite ridiculous, to strike
a balance merely on the face of an excess of imports and exports, in
that commerce; though, in most foreign branches, it is, on the whole,
the best method. If we should take that standard, it would appear, that
the balance with our own islands is, annually, several hundred thousand
pounds against this country.[45] Such is its aspect on the custom-house
entries; but we know the direct contrary to be the fact. We know that
the West-Indians are always indebted to our merchants, and that the
value of every shilling of West India produce is English property. So
that our import from them, and not our export, ought always to be
considered as their true value; and this corrective ought to be applied
to all general balances of our trade, which are formed on the ordinary
principles.

If possible, this was more emphatically true of the French West India
islands, whilst they continued in our hands. That none or only a very
contemptible part, of the value of this produce could be remitted to
France, the author will see, perhaps with unwillingness, but with the
clearest conviction, if he considers, that in the year 1763, _after we
had ceased to export_ to the isles of Guadaloupe and Martinico, and to
the Havannah, and after the colonies were free to send all their
produce to Old France and Spain, if they had any remittance to make; he
will see, that we imported from those places, in that year, to the
amount of 1,395,300_l._ So far was the whole annual produce of these
islands from being adequate to the payments of their annual call upon
us, that this mighty additional importation was necessary, though not
quite sufficient, to discharge the debts contracted in the few years we
held them. The property, therefore, of their whole produce was ours; not
only during the war, but even for more than a year after the peace. The
author, I hope, will not again venture upon so rash and discouraging a
proposition concerning the nature and effect of those conquests, as to
call them a convenience to the remittances of France; he sees, by this
account, that what he asserts is not only without foundation, but even
impossible to be true.

As to our trade at that time, he labors with all his might to represent
it as absolutely ruined, or on the very edge of ruin. Indeed, as usual
with him, he is often as equivocal in his expression as he is clear in
his design. Sometimes he more than insinuates a decay of our commerce in
that war; sometimes he admits an increase of exports; but it is in order
to depreciate the advantages we might appear to derive from that
increase, whenever it should come to be proved against him. He tells
you,[46] "that it was chiefly occasioned by the demands of our own
fleets and armies, and, instead or bringing wealth to the nation, was to
be paid for by oppressive taxes upon the people of England." Never was
anything more destitute of foundation. It might be proved, with the
greatest ease, from the nature and quality of the goods exported, as
well as from the situation of the places to which our merchandise was
sent, and which the war could no wise affect, that the supply of our
fleets and armies could not have been the cause of this wonderful
increase of trade: its cause was evident to the whole world; the ruin of
the trade of France, and our possession of her colonies. What wonderful
effects this cause produced the reader will see below;[47] and he will
form on that account some judgment of the author's candor or
information.

Admit however that a great part of our export, though nothing is more
remote from fact, was owing to the supply of our fleets and armies; was
it not something?--was it not peculiarly fortunate for a nation, that
she was able from her own bosom to contribute largely to the supply of
her armies militating in so many distant countries? The author allows
that France did not enjoy the same advantages. But it is remarkable,
throughout his whole book, that those circumstances which have ever been
considered as great benefits, and decisive proofs of national
superiority, are, when in our hands, taken either in diminution of some
other apparent advantage, or even sometimes as positive misfortunes. The
optics of that politician must be of a strange conformation, who beholds
everything in this distorted shape.

So far as to our trade. With regard to our navigation, he is still more
uneasy at our situation, and still more fallacious in his state of it.
In his text, he affirms it "to have been _entirely_ engrossed by the
neutral nations."[48] This he asserts roundly and boldly, and without
the least concern; although it cost no more than a single glance of the
eye upon his own margin to see the full refutation of this assertion.
His own account proves against him, that, in the year 1761, the British
shipping amounted to 527,557 tons,--the foreign to no more than 180,102.
The medium of his six years British, 2,449,555 tons,--foreign only
906,690. This state (his own) demonstrates that the neutral nations did
not _entirely engross our navigation_.

I am willing from a strain of candor to admit that this author speaks at
random; that he is only slovenly and inaccurate, and not fallacious. In
matters of account, however, this want of care is not excusable; and the
difference between neutral nations entirely engrossing our navigation,
and being only subsidiary to a vastly augmented trade, makes a most
material difference to his argument. From that principle of fairness,
though the author speaks otherwise, I am willing to suppose he means no
more than that our navigation had so declined as to alarm us with the
probable loss of this valuable object. I shall however show, that his
whole proposition, whatever modifications he may please to give it, is
without foundation; that our navigation had not decreased; that, on the
contrary, it had greatly increased in the war; that it had increased by
the war; and that it was probable the same cause would continue to
augment it to a still greater height; to what an height it is hard to
say, had our success continued.

But first I must observe, I am much less solicitous whether his fact be
true or no, than whether his principle is well established. Cases are
dead things, principles are living and productive. I affirm then, that,
if in time of war our trade had the good fortune to increase, and at the
same time a large, nay the largest, proportion of carriage had been
engrossed by neutral nations, it ought not in itself to have been
considered as a circumstance of distress. War is a time of inconvenience
to trade; in general it must be straitened, and must find its way as it
can. It is often happy for nations that they are able to call in neutral
navigation. They all aim at it. France endeavored at it, but could not
compass it. Will this author say, that, in a war with Spain, such an
assistance would not be of absolute necessity? that it would not be the
most gross of all follies to refuse it?

In the next place, his method of stating a medium of six years of war,
and six years of peace, to decide this question, is altogether unfair.
To say, in derogation of the advantages of a war, that navigation is not
equal to what it was in time of peace, is what hitherto has never been
heard of. No war ever bore that test but the war which he so bitterly
laments. One may lay it down as a maxim, that an average estimate of an
object in a steady course of rising or of falling, must in its nature be
an unfair one; more particularly if the cause of the rise or fall be
visible, and its continuance in any degree probable. Average estimates
are never just but when the object fluctuates, and no reason can be
assigned why it should not continue still to fluctuate. The author
chooses to allow nothing at all for this: he has taken an average of six
years of the war. He knew, for everybody knows, that the first three
years were on the whole rather unsuccessful; and that, in consequence of
this ill success, trade sunk, and navigation declined with it; but _that
grand delusion_ of the three last years turned the scale in our favor.
At the beginning of that war (as in the commencement of every war),
traders were struck with a sort of panic. Many went out of the
freighting business. But by degrees, as the war continued, the terror
wore off; the danger came to be better appreciated, and better provided
against; our trade was carried on in large fleets, under regular
convoys, and with great safety. The freighting business revived. The
ships were fewer, but much larger; and though the number decreased, the
tonnage was vastly augmented: insomuch that in 1761 the _British_
shipping had risen by the author's own account to 527,557 tons.--In the
last year he has given us of the peace, it amounted to no more than
494,772; that is, in the last year of the war it was 32,785 tons more
than in the correspondent year of his peace average. No year of the
peace exceeded it except one, and that but little.

The fair account of the matter is this. Our trade had, as we have just
seen, increased to so astonishing a degree in 1761, as to employ British
and foreign ships to the amount of 707,659 tons, which is 149,500 more
than we employed in the last year of the peace.--Thus our trade
increased more than a fifth; our British navigation had increased
likewise with this astonishing increase of trade, but was not able to
keep pace with it; and we added about 120,000 tons of foreign shipping
to the 60,000, which had been employed in the last year of the peace.
Whatever happened to our shipping in the former years of the war, this
would be no true state of the case at the time of the treaty. If we had
lost something in the beginning, we had then recovered, and more than
recovered, all our losses. Such is the ground of the doleful complaints
of the author, that _the carrying trade was wholly engrossed by the
neutral nations_.

I have done fairly, and even very moderately, in taking this year, and
not his average, as the standard of what might be expected in future,
had the war continued. The author will be compelled to allow it, unless
he undertakes to show; first, that the possession of Canada, Martinico,
Guadaloupe, Grenada, the Havannah, the Philippines, the whole African
trade, the whole East India trade, and the whole Newfoundland fishery,
had no certain inevitable tendency to increase the British shipping;
unless, in the second place, he can prove that those trades were, or
might be, by law or indulgence, carried on in foreign vessels; and
unless, thirdly, he can demonstrate that the premium of insurance on
British ships was rising as the war continued. He can prove not one of
these points. I will show him a fact more that is mortal to his
assertions. It is the state of our shipping in 1762. The author had his
reasons for stopping short at the preceding year. It would have
appeared, had he proceeded farther, that our tonnage was in a course of
uniform augmentation, owing to the freight derived from our foreign
conquests, and to the perfect security of our navigation from our clear
and decided superiority at sea. This, I say, would have appeared from
the state of the two years:--

  1761. British       527,557 tons.
  1762. Ditto         559,537 tons.
  1761. Foreign       180,102 tons.
  1762. Ditto         129,502 tons.

The two last years of the peace were in no degree equal to these. Much
of the navigation of 1763 was also owing to the war; this is manifest
from the large part of it employed in the carriage from the ceded
islands, with which the communication still continued open. No such
circumstances of glory and advantage ever attended upon a war. Too happy
will be our lot, if we should again be forced into a war, to behold
anything that shall resemble them; and if we were not then the better
for them, it is net in the ordinary course of God's providence to mend
our condition.

In vain does the author declaim on the high premiums given for the loans
during the war. His long note swelled with calculations on that subject
(even supposing the most inaccurate of all calculations to be just)
would be entirety thrown away, did it not serve to raise a wonderful
opinion of his financial skill in those who are not less surprised than
edified, when, with a solemn face and mysterious air, they are told that
two and two make four. For what else do we learn from this note? That
the more expense is incurred by a nation, the more money will be
required to defray it; that in proportion to the continuance of that
expense, will be the continuance of borrowing; that the increase of
borrowing and the increase of debt will go hand in hand; and lastly,
that the more money you want, the harder it will be to get it; and that
the scarcity of the commodity will enhance the price. Who ever doubted
the truth, or the insignificance, of these propositions? what do they
prove? that war is expensive, and peace desirable. They contain nothing
more than a commonplace against war; the easiest of all topics. To bring
them home to his purpose, he ought to have shown that our enemies had
money upon better terms; which he has not shown, neither can he. I shall
speak more fully to this point in another place. He ought to have shown
that the money they raised, upon whatever terms, had procured them a
more lucrative return. He knows that our expenditure purchased commerce
and conquest: theirs acquired nothing but defeat and bankruptcy.

Thus the author has laid down his ideas on the subject of war. Next
follow those he entertains on that of peace. The treaty of Paris upon
the whole has his approbation. Indeed, if his account of the war be
just, he might have spared himself all further trouble. The rest is
drawn on as an inevitable conclusion.[49] If the House of Bourbon had
the advantage, she must give the law; and the peace, though it were much
worse than it is, had still been a good one. But as the world is yet
_deluded_ on the state of that war, other arguments are necessary; and
the author has in my opinion very ill supplied them. He tells of many
things we have got, and of which he has made out a kind of bill. This
matter may be brought within a very narrow compass, if we come to
consider the requisites of a good peace under some plain distinct heads.
I apprehend they may be reduced to these: 1. Stability; 2.
Indemnification; 3. Alliance.

As to the first, the author more than obscurely hints in several places,
that he thinks the peace not likely to last. However, he does furnish a
security; a security, in any light, I fear, but insufficient; on his
hypothesis, surely a very odd one. "By stipulating for the entire
possession of the Continent (says he) the restored French islands are
become in some measure dependent on the British empire; and the good
faith of France in observing the treaty guaranteed by the value at which
she estimates their possession."[50] This author soon grows weary of his
principles. They seldom last him for two pages together. When the
advantages of the war were to be depreciated, then the loss of the
ultramarine colonies lightened the expenses of France, facilitated her
remittances, and therefore _her colonists put them into our hands_.
According to this author's system, the actual possession of those
colonies ought to give us little or no advantage in the negotiation for
peace; and yet the chance of possessing them on a future occasion gives
a perfect security for the preservation of that peace.[51] The conquest
of the Havannah, if it did not serve Spain, rather distressed England,
says our author.[52] But the molestation which her galleons may suffer
from our station in Pensacola gives us advantages, for which we were not
allowed to credit the nation for the Havannah itself; a place surely
full as well situated for every external purpose as Pensacola, and of
more internal benefit than ten thousand Pensacolas.

The author sets very little by conquests;[53] I suppose it is because he
makes them so very lightly. On this subject he speaks with the greatest
certainty imaginable. We have, according to him, nothing to do, but to
go and take possession, whenever we think proper, of the French and
Spanish settlements. It were better that he had examined a little what
advantage the peace gave us towards the invasion of these colonies,
which we did not possess before the peace. It would not have been amiss
if he had consulted the public experience, and our commanders,
concerning the absolute certainty of those conquests on which he is
pleased to found our security. And if, after all, he should have
discovered them to be so very sure, and so very easy, he might at least,
to preserve consistency, have looked a few pages back, and (no
unpleasing thing to him) listened to himself, where he says, "that the
most successful enterprise could not compensate to the nation for the
waste of its people, by carrying on war in unhealthy climates."[54] A
position which he repeats again, p. 9. So that, according to himself,
his security is not worth the suit; according to fact, he has only a
chance, God knows what a chance, of getting at it; and therefore,
according to reason, the giving up the most valuable of all possessions,
in hopes to conquer them back, under any advantage of situation, is the
most ridiculous security that ever was imagined for the peace of a
nation. It is true his friends did not give up Canada; they could not
give up everything; let us make the most of it. We have Canada, we know
its value. We have not the French any longer to fight in North America;
and from this circumstance we derive considerable advantages. But here
let me rest a little. The author touches upon a string which sounds
under his fingers but a tremulous and melancholy note. North America was
once indeed a great strength to this nation, in opportunity of ports, in
ships, in provisions, in men. We found her a sound, an active, a
vigorous member of the empire. I hope, by wise management, she will
again become so. But one of our capital present misfortunes is her
discontent and disobedience. To which of the author's favorites this
discontent is owing, we all know but too sufficiently. It would be a
dismal event, if this foundation of his security, and indeed of all our
public strength, should, in reality, become our weakness; and if all the
powers of this empire, which ought to fall with a compacted weight upon
the head of our enemies, should be dissipated and distracted by a
jealous vigilance, or by hostile attempts upon one another. Ten Canadas
cannot restore that security for the peace, and for everything valuable
to this country, which we have lost along with the affection and the
obedience of our colonies. He is the wise minister, he is the true
friend to Britain, who shall be able to restore it.

To return to the security for the peace. The author tells us, that the
original great purposes of the war were more than accomplished by the
treaty. Surely he has experience and reading enough to know, that, in
the course of a war, events may happen, that render its original very
far from being its principal purpose. This original may dwindle by
circumstances, so as to become not a purpose of the second or even the
third magnitude. I trust this is so obvious that it will not be
necessary to put cases for its illustration. In that war, as soon as
Spain entered into the quarrel, the security of North America was no
longer the sole nor the foremost object. The _Family Compact_ had been I
know not how long before in agitation. But then it was that we saw
produced into daylight and action the most odious and most formidable of
all the conspiracies against the liberties of Europe that ever has been
framed. The war with Spain was the first fruits of that league; and a
security against that league ought to have been the fundamental point of
a pacification with the powers who compose it. We had materials in our
hands to have constructed that security in such a manner as never to be
shaken. But how did the virtuous and able men of our author labor for
this great end? They took no one step towards it. On the contrary they
countenanced, and, indeed, as far as it depended on them, recognized it
in all its parts; for our plenipotentiary treated with those who acted
for the two crowns, as if they had been different ministers of the same
monarch. The Spanish minister received his instructions, not from
Madrid, but from Versailles.

This was not hid from our ministers at home; and the discovery ought to
have alarmed them, if the good of their country had been the object of
their anxiety. They could not but have seen that the whole Spanish
monarchy was melted down into the cabinet of Versailles. But they
thought this circumstance an advantage; as it enabled them to go through
with their work the more expeditiously. Expedition was everything to
them; because France might happen during a protracted negotiation to
discover the great imposition of our victories.

In the same spirit they negotiated the terms of the peace. If it were
thought advisable not to take any positive security from Spain, the most
obvious principles of policy dictated that the burden of the cessions
ought to fall upon France; and that everything which was of grace and
favor should be given to Spain. Spain could not, on her part, have
executed a capital article in the family compact, which obliged her to
compensate the losses of France. At least she could not do it in
America; for she was expressly precluded by the treaty of Utrecht from
ceding any territory or giving any advantage in trade to that power.
What did our ministers? They took from Spain the territory of Florida,
an object of no value except to show our dispositions to be quite equal
at least towards both powers; and they enabled France to compensate
Spain by the gift of Louisiana: loading us with all the harshness,
leaving the act of kindness with France, and opening thereby a door to
the fulfilling of this the most consolidating article of the family
compact. Accordingly that dangerous league, thus abetted and authorized
by the English ministry without an attempt to invalidate it in any way,
or in any of its parts, exists to this hour; and has grown stronger and
stronger every hour of its existence.

As to the second component of a good peace, _compensation_, I have but
little trouble; the author has said nothing upon that head. He has
nothing to say. After a war of such expense, this ought to have been a
capital consideration. But on what he has been so prudently silent, I
think it is right to speak plainly. All our new acquisitions together,
at this time, scarce afford matter of revenue, either at home or abroad,
sufficient to defray the expense of their establishments; not one
shilling towards the reduction of our debt. Guadaloupe or Martinico
alone would have given us material aid; much in the way of duties, much
in the way of trade and navigation. A good ministry would have
considered how a renewal of the _Assiento_ might have been obtained. We
had as much right to ask it at the treaty of Paris as at the treaty of
Utrecht. We had incomparably more in our hands to purchase it. Floods of
treasure would have poured into this kingdom from such a source; and,
under proper management, no small part of it would have taken a public
direction, and have fructified an exhausted exchequer.

If this gentleman's hero of finance, instead of flying from a treaty,
which, though he now defends, he could not approve, and would not
oppose; if he, instead of shifting into an office, which removed him
from the manufacture of the treaty, had, by his credit with the then
great director, acquired for us these, or any of these, objects, the
possession of Guadaloupe or Martinico, or the renewal of the _Assiento_,
he might have held his head high in his country; because he would have
performed real service; ten thousand times more real service, than all
the economy of which this writer is perpetually talking, or all the
little tricks of finance which the expertest juggler of the treasury can
practise, could amount to in a thousand years. But the occasion is lost;
the time is gone, perhaps forever.

As to the third requisite, _alliance_, there too the author is silent.
What strength of that kind did they acquire? They got no one new ally;
they stript the enemy of not a single old one. They disgusted (how
justly, or unjustly, matters not) every ally we had; and from that time
to this we stand friendless in Europe. But of this naked condition of
their country I know some people are not ashamed. They have their system
of politics; our ancestors grew great by another. In this manner these
virtuous men concluded the peace; and their practice is only consonant
to their theory.

Many things more might be observed on this curious head of our author's
speculations. But, taking leave of what the writer says in his serious
part, if he be serious in any part, I shall only just point out a piece
of his pleasantry. No man, I believe, ever denied that the time for
making peace is that in which the best terms maybe obtained. But what
that time is, together with the use that has been made of it, we are to
judge by seeing whether terms adequate to our advantages, and to our
necessities, have been actually obtained. Here is the pinch of the
question, to which the author ought to have set his shoulders in
earnest. Instead of doing this, he slips out of the harness by a jest;
and sneeringly tells us, that, to determine this point, we must know the
secrets of the French and Spanish cabinets[55], and that Parliament was
pleased to approve the treaty of peace without calling for the
correspondence concerning it. How just this sarcasm on that Parliament
may be, I say not; but how becoming in the author, I leave it to his
friends to determine.

Having thus gone through the questions of war and peace, the author
proceeds to state our debt, and the interest which it carried, at the
time of the treaty, with the unfairness and inaccuracy, however, which
distinguish all his assertions, and all his calculations. To detect
every fallacy, and rectify every mistake, would be endless. It will be
enough to point out a few of them, in order to show how unsafe it is to
place anything like an implicit trust in such a writer.

The interest of debt contracted during the war is stated by the author
at 2,614,892_l._ The particulars appear in pp. 14 and 15. Among them is
stated the unfunded debt, 9,975,017_l._, supposed to carry interest on a
medium at 3 per cent, which amounts to 299,250_l._ We are referred to
the "Considerations on the Trade and Finances of the Kingdom," p. 22,
for the particulars of that unfunded debt. Turn to the work, and to the
place referred to by the author himself, if you have a mind to see a
clear detection of a capital fallacy of this article in his account. You
will there see that this unfunded debt consists of the nine following
articles: the remaining subsidy to the Duke of Brunswick; the remaining
_dedommagement_ to the Landgrave of Hesse; the German demands; the army
and ordnance extraordinaries; the deficiencies of grants and funds; Mr.
Touchet's claim; the debts due to Nova Scotia and Barbadoes; exchequer
bills; and navy debt. The extreme fallacy of this state cannot escape
any reader who will be at the pains to compare the interest money, with
which he affirms us to have been loaded, in his "State of the Nation,"
with the items of the principal debt to which he refers in his
"Considerations." The reader must observe, that of this long list of
nine articles, only two, the exchequer bills, and part of the navy debt,
carried any interest at all. The first amounted to 1,800,000_l._; and
this undoubtedly carried interest. The whole navy debt indeed amounted
to 4,576,915_l._; but of this only a _part_ carried interest. The author
of the "Considerations," &c. labors to prove this very point in p. 18;
and Mr. G. has always defended himself upon the same ground, for the
insufficient provision he made for the discharge of that debt. The
reader may see their own authority for it.[56]

Mr. G. did in fact provide no more than 2,150,000_l._ for the discharge
of these bills in two years. It is much to be wished that these
gentlemen would lay their heads together, that they would consider well
this matter, and agree upon something. For when the scanty provision
made for the unfunded debt is to be vindicated, then we are told it is a
very _small part_ of that debt which carries interest. But when the
public is to be represented in a miserable condition, and the
consequences of the late war to be laid before us in dreadful colors,
then we are to be told that the unfunded debt is within a trifle of ten
millions, and so large a portion of it carries interest that we must not
compute less than 3 per cent upon the _whole_.

In the year 1764, Parliament voted 650,000_l._ towards the discharge of
the navy debt. This sum could not be applied solely to the discharge of
bills carrying interest; because part of the debt due on seamen's wages
must have been paid, and some bills carried no interest at all.
Notwithstanding this, we find by an account in the journals of the House
of Commons, in the following session, that the navy debt carrying
interest was, on the 31st of December, 1764, no more than 1,687,442_l._
I am sure therefore that I admit too much when I admit the navy debt
carrying interest, after the creation of the navy annuities in the year
1763, to have been 2,200,000_l._ Add the exchequer bills; and the whole
unfunded debt carrying interest will be four millions instead of ten;
and the annual interest paid for it at 4 per cent will be 160,000_l._
instead of 299,250_l._ An error of no small magnitude, and which could
not have been owing to inadvertency.

The misrepresentation of the increase of the peace establishment is
still more extraordinary than that of the interest of the unfunded debt.
The increase is great, undoubtedly. However, the author finds no fault
with it, and urges it only as a matter of argument to support the
strange chimerical proposals he is to make us in the close of his work
for the increase of revenue. The greater he made that establishment, the
stronger he expected to stand in argument: but, whatever he expected or
proposed, he should have stated the matter fairly. He tells us that this
establishment is nearly 1,500,000_l._ more than it was in 1752, 1753,
and other years of peace. This he has done in his usual manner, by
assertion, without troubling himself either with proof or probability.
For he has not given us any state of the peace establishment in the
years 1753 and 1754, the time which he means to compare with the
present. As I am obliged to force him to that precision, from which he
always flies as from his most dangerous enemy, I have been at the
trouble to search the journals in the period between the two last wars:
and I find that the peace establishment, consisting of the navy, the
ordnance, and the several incidental expenses, amounted to 2,346,594_l._
Now is this writer wild enough to imagine, that the peace establishment
of 1764 and the subsequent years, made up from the same articles, is
3,800,000_l._ and upwards? His assertion however goes to this. But I
must take the liberty of correcting him in this gross mistake, and from
an authority he cannot refuse, from his favorite work, and standing
authority, the "Considerations." We find there, p. 43[57], the peace
establishment of 1764 and 1765 stated at 3,609,700_l._ This is near two
hundred thousand pounds less than that given in "The State of the
Nation." But even from this, in order to render the articles which
compose the peace establishment in the two periods correspondent (for
otherwise they cannot be compared), we must deduct first, his articles
of the deficiency of land and malt, which amount to 300,000_l._ They
certainly are no part of the establishment; nor are they included in
that sum, which I have stated above for the establishment in the time of
the former peace. If they were proper to be stated at all, they ought to
be stated in both accounts. We must also deduct the deficiencies of
funds, 202,400_l._ These deficiencies are the difference between the
interest charged on the public for moneys borrowed, and the produce of
the taxes laid for the discharge of that interest. Annual provision is
indeed to be made for them by Parliament: but in the inquiry before us,
which is only what charge is brought on the public by interest paid or
to be paid for money borrowed, the utmost that the author should do, is
to bring into the account the full interest for all that money. This he
has done in p. 15; and he repeats it in p. 18, the very page I am now
examining, 2,614,892_l._ To comprehend afterwards in the peace
establishment the deficiency of the fund created for payment of that
interest, would be laying twice to the account of the war part of the
same sum. Suppose ten millions borrowed at 4 per cent, and the fund for
payment of the interest to produce no more than 200,000_l._ The whole
annual charge on the public is 400,000_l._ It can be no more. But to
charge the interest in one part of the account, and then the deficiency
in the other, would be charging 600,000_l._ The deficiency of funds must
therefore be also deducted from the peace establishment in the
"Considerations"; and then the peace establishment in that author will
be reduced to the same articles with those included in the sum I have
already mentioned for the peace establishment before the last war, in
the year 1753, and 1754.

  Peace establishment in the "Considerations"     L3,609,700
  Deduct deficiency of land and malt    L300,000
  Ditto of funds                         202,400
                                        --------     502,400
                                                   ---------
                                                   3,107,300
  Peace establishment before the late war, in
    which no deficiencies of land and malt, or
    funds are included                             2,346,594
                                                   ---------

                           Difference               L760,706


Being about half the sum which our author has been pleased to suppose
it.

Let us put the whole together. The author states,--

  Difference of peace establishment before and
    since the war                                 L1,500,000
  Interest of Debt contracted by the war           2,614,892
                                                   ---------
                                                   4,114,892
  The _real_ difference in the peace
    establishment is                    L760,706

  The actual interest of the
    funded debt, including
    that charged on the
    sinking fund            L2,315,642

  The actual interest of
    unfunded debt at most      160,000
                             ---------
  Total interest of debt
    contracted by the war              2,475,642
                                       ---------
  Increase of peace establishment, and interest of
    new debt                                       3,236,348
                                                   ---------
  Error of the author                               L878,544


It is true, the extraordinaries of the army have been found considerably
greater than the author of the "Considerations" was pleased to foretell
they would be. The author of "The Present State" avails himself of that
increase, and, finding it suit his purpose, sets the whole down in the
peace establishment of the present times. If this is allowed him, his
error perhaps may be reduced to 700,000_l._ But I doubt the author of
the "Considerations" will not thank him for admitting 200,000_l._ and
upwards, as the peace establishment for extraordinaries, when that
author has so much labored to confine them within 35,000_l._

These are some of the capital fallacies of the author. To break the
thread of my discourse as little as possible, I have thrown into the
margin many instances, though God knows far from the whole of his
inaccuracies, inconsistencies, and want of common care. I think myself
obliged to take some notice of them, in order to take off from any
authority this writer may have; and to put an end to the deference which
careless men are apt to pay to one who boldly arrays his accounts, and
marshals his figures, in perfect confidence that their correctness will
never be examined.[58]

However, for argument, I am content to take his state of it. The debt
was and is enormous. The war was expensive. The best economy had not
perhaps been used. But I must observe, that war and economy are things
not easily reconciled; and that the attempt of leaning towards parsimony
in such a state may be the worst management, and in the end the worst
economy in the world, hazarding the total loss of all the charge
incurred, and of everything along with it.

But _cui bono_ all this detail of our debt? Has the author given a
single light towards any material reduction of it? Not a glimmering. We
shall see in its place what sort of thing he proposes. But before he
commences his operations, in order to scare the public imagination, he
raises by art magic a thick mist before our eyes, through which glare
the most ghastly and horrible phantoms:

    Hunc igitur terrorem animi tenebrasque necesse est.
    Non radii solis, neque lucida tela diei
    Discutiant, sed naturae species ratioque.

Let us therefore calmly, if we can for the fright into which he has put
us, appreciate those dreadful and deformed gorgons and hydras, which
inhabit the joyless regions of an imagination fruitful in nothing but
the production of monsters.

His whole representation, is founded on the supposed operation of our
debt, upon our manufactures, and our trade. To this cause he attributes
a certain supposed dearness of the necessaries of life, which must
compel our manufacturers to emigrate to cheaper countries, particularly
to France, and with them the manufacture. Thence consumption declining,
and with it revenue. He will not permit the real balance of our trade to
be estimated so high as 2,500,000_l._; and the interest of the debt to
foreigners carries off 1,500,000_l._ of that balance. France is not in
the same condition. Then follow his wailings and lamentings, which he
renews over and over, according to his custom--a declining trade, and
decreasing specie--on the point of becoming tributary to France--of
losing Ireland--of having the colonies torn away from us.

The first thing upon which I shall observe is,[60] what he takes for
granted as the clearest of all propositions, the emigration of our
manufacturers to France. I undertake to say that this assertion is
totally groundless, and I challenge the author to bring any sort of
proof of it. If living is cheaper in France, that is, to be had for less
specie, wages are proportionably lower. No manufacturer, let the living
be what it will, was ever known to fly for refuge to low wages. Money is
the first thing which attracts him. Accordingly our wages attract
artificers from all parts of the world. From two shillings to one
shilling, is a fall in all men's imaginations, which no calculation upon
a difference in the price of the necessaries of life can compensate. But
it will be hard to prove that a French artificer is better fed, clothed,
lodged, and warmed, than one in England; for that is the sense, and the
only sense, of living cheaper. If, in truth and fact, our artificer
fares as well in all these respects as one in the same state in
France,--how stands the matter in point of opinion and prejudice, the
springs by which people in that class of life are chiefly actuated? The
idea of our common people concerning French living is dreadful;
altogether as dreadful as our author's can possibly be of the state of
his own country; a way of thinking that will hardly ever prevail on them
to desert to France.[61]

But, leaving the author's speculations, the fact is, that they have not
deserted; and of course the manufacture cannot be departed, or
departing, with them. I am not indeed able to get at all the details of
our manufactures; though, I think, I have taken full as much pains for
that purpose as our author. Some I have by me; and they do not hitherto,
thank God, support the author's complaint, unless a vast increase of the
quantity of goods manufactured be a proof of losing the manufacture. On
a view of the registers in the West Riding of Yorkshire, for three years
before the war, and for the three last, it appears, that the quantities
of cloths entered were as follows:

                            Pieces broad.    Pieces narrow.
                  1752           60,724           72,442
                  1753           55,358           71,618
                  1754           56,070           72,394
                                -------          -------
                                172,152          216,454

                            Pieces broad.    Pieces narrow.
                  1765           54,660           77,419
                  1766           72,575           78,893
                  1767          102,428           78,819
                                -------          -------
  3 years, ending 1767          229,663          235,131
  3 years, ending 1754          172,152          216,464
                                -------          -------
                   Increase      57,511           18,677


In this manner this capital branch of manufacture has increased, under
the increase of taxes; and this not from a declining, but from a greatly
flourishing period of commerce. I may say the same on the best authority
of the fabric of thin goods at Halifax; of the bays at Rochdale; and of
that infinite variety of admirable manufactures that grow and extend
every year among the spirited, inventive, and enterprising traders of
Manchester.

A trade sometimes seems to perish when it only assumes a different form.
Thus the coarsest woollens were formerly exported in great quantities to
Russia. The Russians now supply themselves with these goods. But the
export thither of finer cloths has increased in proportion as the other
has declined. Possibly some parts of the kingdom may have felt something
like a languor in business. Objects like trade and manufacture, which
the very attempt to confine would certainly destroy, frequently change
their place; and thereby, far from being lost, are often highly
improved. Thus some manufactures have decayed in the west and south,
which have made new and more vigorous shoots when transplanted into the
north. And here it is impossible to pass by, though the author has said
nothing upon it, the vast addition to the mass of British trade, which
has been made by the improvement of Scotland. What does he think of the
commerce of the city of Glasgow, and of the manufactures of Paisley and
all the adjacent country? Has this anything like the deadly aspect and
_facies Hippocratica_ which the false diagnostic of our state physician
has given to our trade in general? Has he not heard of the iron-works of
such magnitude even in their cradle which are set up on the Carron, and
which at the same time have drawn nothing from Sheffield, Birmingham, or
Wolverhampton?

This might perhaps be enough to show the entire falsity of the complaint
concerning the decline of our manufactures. But every step we advance,
this matter clears up more; and the false terrors of the author are
dissipated, and fade away as the light appears. "The trade and
manufactures of this country (says he) going to ruin, and a diminution
of our _revenue from consumption_ must attend the loss of so many seamen
and artificers." Nothing more true than the general observation: nothing
more false than its application to our circumstances. Let the revenue on
consumption speak for itself:--

  Average of net excise, since the new duties,
    three years ending 1767                       L4,590,734
  Ditto before the new duties, three years
    ending 1759                                    3,261,694
                                                   ---------
                    Average increase              L1,329,040

Here is no diminution. Here is, on the contrary, an immense increase.
This is owing, I shall be told, to the new duties, which may increase
the total bulk, but at the same time may make some diminution of the
produce of the old. Were this the fact, it would be far from supporting
the author's complaint. It might have proved that the burden lay rather
too heavy; but it would never prove that the _revenue from, consumption_
was impaired, which it was his business to do. But what is the real
fact? Let us take, as the best instance for the purpose, the produce of
the old hereditary and temporary excise granted in the reign of Charles
the Second, whose object is that of most of the new impositions, from
two averages, each of eight years.

  Average, first period, eight years, ending 1754   L525,317
  Ditto, second period, eight years, ending 1767     538,542
                                                     -------
                             Increase               L613,225

I have taken these averages as including in each a war and a peace
period; the first before the imposition of the new duties, the other
since those impositions; and such is the state of the oldest branch of
the revenue from consumption. Besides the acquisition of so much new,
this article, to speak of no other, has rather increased under the
pressure of all those additional taxes to which the author is pleased to
attribute its destruction. But as the author has made his grand effort
against those moderate, judicious, and necessary levies, which support
all the dignity, the credit, and the power of his country, the reader
will excuse a little further detail on this subject; that we may see how
little oppressive those taxes are on the shoulders of the public, with
which he labors so earnestly to load its imagination. For this purpose
we take the state of that specific article upon which the two capital
burdens of the war leaned the most immediately, by the additional
duties on malt, and upon beer.

                                                  Barrels.
  Average of strong beer, brewed in eight years
    before the additional malt and beer duties   3,895,059

  Average of strong beer, eight years since
    the duties                                   4,060,726
                                                 ---------
              Increase in the last period          165,667

Here is the effect of two such daring taxes as 3_d._ by the bushel
additional on malt, and 3_s._ by the barrel additional on beer. Two
impositions laid without remission one upon the neck of the other; and
laid upon an object which before had been immensely loaded. They did not
in the least impair the consumption: it has grown under them. It appears
that, upon the whole, the people did not feel so much inconvenience from
the new duties as to oblige them to take refuge in the private brewery.
Quite the contrary happened in both these respects in the reign of King
William; and it happened from much slighter impositions.[62] No people
can long consume a commodity for which they are not well able to pay. An
enlightened reader laughs at the inconsistent chimera of our author, of
a people universally luxurious, and at the same time oppressed with
taxes and declining in trade. For my part, I cannot look on these duties
as the author does. He sees nothing but the burden. I can perceive the
burden as well as he; but I cannot avoid contemplating also the strength
that supports it. From thence I draw the most comfortable assurances of
the future vigor, and the ample resources, of this great, misrepresented
country; and can never prevail on myself to make complaints which have
no cause, in order to raise hopes which have no foundation.

When a representation is built on truth and nature, one member supports
the other, and mutual lights are given and received from every part.
Thus, as our manufacturers have not deserted, nor the manufacture left
us, nor the consumption declined, nor the revenue sunk; so neither has
trade, which is at once the result, measure, and cause of the whole, in
the least decayed, as our author has thought proper sometimes to affirm,
constantly to suppose, as if it were the most indisputable of all
propositions. The reader will see below the comparative state of our
trade[63] in three of the best years before our increase of debt and
taxes, and with it the three last years since the author's date of our
ruin.

In the last three years the whole of our exports was between 44 and 45
millions. In the three years preceding the war, it was no more than from
35 to 36 millions. The average balance of the former period was
3,706,000_l._; of the latter, something above four millions. It is true,
that whilst the impressions of the author's destructive war continued,
our trade was greater than it is at present. One of the necessary
consequences of the peace was, that France must gradually recover a part
of those markets of which she had been originally in possession.
However, after all these deductions, still the gross trade in the worst
year of the present is better than in the best year of any former period
of peace. A very great part of our taxes, if not the greatest, has been
imposed since the beginning of the century. On the author's principles,
this continual increase of taxes must have ruined our trade, or at least
entirely checked its growth. But I have a manuscript of Davenant, which
contains an abstract of our trade for the years 1703 and 1704; by which
it appears that the whole export from England did not then exceed
6,552,019_l._ It is now considerably more than double that amount. Yet
England was then a rich and flourishing nation.

The author endeavors to derogate from the balance in our favor as it
stands on the entries, and reduces it from four millions, as it there
appears, to no more than 2,500,000_l._ His observation on the looseness
and inaccuracy of the export entries is just; and that the error is
always an error of excess, I readily admit. But because, as usual, he
has wholly omitted some very material facts, his conclusion is as
erroneous as the entries he complains of.

On this point of the custom-house entries I shall make a few
observations. 1st. The inaccuracy of these entries can extend only to
FREE GOODS, that is, to such British products and manufactures, as are
exported without drawback and without bounty; which do not in general
amount to more than two thirds at the very utmost of the whole export
even of _our home products_. The valuable articles of corn, malt,
leather, hops, beer, and many others, do not come under this objection
of inaccuracy. The article of CERTIFICATE GOODS re-exported, a vast
branch of our commerce, admits of no error, (except some smaller frauds
which cannot be estimated,) as they have all a drawback of duty, and the
exporter must therefore correctly specify their quantity and kind. The
author therefore is not warranted from the known error in some of the
entries, to make a general defalcation from the whole balance in our
favor. This error cannot affect more than half, if so much, of the
export article. 2dly. In the account made up at the Inspector-General's
office, they estimate only the original cost of British products as they
are here purchased; and on foreign goods, only the prices in the country
from whence they are sent. This was the method established by Mr.
Davenant; and as far as it goes, it certainly is a good one. But the
profits of the merchant at home, and of our factories abroad, are not
taken into the account; which profit on such an immense quantity of
goods exported and re-exported cannot fail of being very great: five per
cent, upon the whole, I should think, a very moderate allowance. 3dly.
It does not comprehend the advantage arising from the employment of
600,000 tons of shipping, which must be paid by the foreign consumer,
and which, in many bulky articles of commerce, is equal to the value of
the commodity. This can scarcely be rated at less than a million
annually. 4thly. The whole import from Ireland and America, and from the
West Indies, is set against us in the ordinary way of striking a balance
of imports and exports; whereas the import and export are both our own.
This is just as ridiculous, as to put against the general balance of the
nation, how much more goods Cheshire receives from London than London
from Cheshire. The whole revolves and circulates through this kingdom,
and is, so far as regards our profit, in the nature of home trade, as
much as if the several countries of America and Ireland were all pieced
to Cornwall. The course of exchange with all these places is fully
sufficient to demonstrate that this kingdom has the whole advantage of
their commerce. When the final profit upon a whole system of trade rests
and centres in a certain place, a balance struck in that place merely on
the mutual sale of commodities is quite fallacious. 5thly. The
custom-house entries furnish a most defective, and, indeed, ridiculous
idea of the most valuable branch of trade we have in the world,--that
with Newfoundland. Observe what you export thither; a little spirits,
provision, fishing-lines, and fishing-hooks. Is this _export_ the true
idea of the Newfoundland trade in the light of a beneficial branch of
commerce? Nothing less. Examine our imports from thence; it seems upon
this vulgar idea of exports and imports, to turn the balance against
you. But your exports to Newfoundland are your own goods. Your import is
your own food; as much your own, as that you raise with your ploughs out
of your own soil; and not your loss, but your gain; your riches, not
your poverty. But so fallacious is this way of judging, that neither the
export nor import, nor both together, supply any idea approaching to
adequate of that branch of business. The vessels in that trade go
straight from Newfoundland to the foreign market; and the sale there,
not the import here, is the measure of its value. That trade, which is
one of your greatest and best, is hardly so much as seen in the
custom-house entries; and it is not of less annual value to this nation
than 400,000_l._ 6thly. The quality of your imports must be considered
as well as the quantity. To state the whole of the foreign import _as
loss_, is exceedingly absurd. All the iron, hemp, flax, cotton, Spanish
wool, raw silk, woollen and linen-yarn, which we import, are by no means
to be considered as the matter of a merely luxurious consumption; which
is the idea too generally and loosely annexed to our import article.
These above mentioned are materials of industry, not of luxury, which
are wrought up here, in many instances, to ten times, and more, of their
original value. Even where they are not subservient to our exports, they
still add to our internal wealth, which consists in the stock of useful
commodities, as much as in gold and silver. In looking over the specific
articles of our export and import, I have often been astonished to see
for how small a part of the supply of our consumption, either luxurious
or convenient, we are indebted to nations properly foreign to us.

These considerations are entirely passed over by the author; they have
been but too much neglected by most who have speculated on this subject.
But they ought never to be omitted by those who mean to come to anything
like the true state of the British trade. They compensate, and they more
than compensate, everything which the author can cut off with any
appearance of reason for the over-entry of British goods; and they
restore to us that balance of four millions, which the author has
thought proper on such a very poor and limited comprehension of the
object to reduce to 2,500,000_l._

In general this author is so circumstanced, that to support his theory
he is obliged to assume his facts: and then, if you allow his facts,
they will not support his conclusions. What if all he says of the state
of this balance were true? did not the same objections always lie to
custom-house entries? do they defalcate more from the entries of 1766
than from those of 1754? If they prove us ruined, we were always ruined.
Some ravens have always indeed croaked out this kind of song. They have
a malignant delight in presaging mischief, when they are not employed in
doing it: they are miserable and disappointed at every instance of the
public prosperity. They overlook us like the malevolent being of the
poet:--

             Tritonida conspicit arcem
    Ingeniis, opibusque, et festa pace virentem;
    Vixque tenet lacrymas quia nil lacrymabile cernit.


It is in this spirit that some have looked upon those accidents that
cast an occasional damp upon trade. Their imaginations entail these
accidents upon us in perpetuity. We have had some bad harvests. This
must very disadvantageously affect the balance of trade, and the
navigation of a people, so large a part of whose commerce is in grain.
But, in knowing the cause, we are morally certain, that, according to
the course of events, it cannot long subsist. In the three last years,
we have exported scarcely any grain; in good years, that export hath
been worth twelve hundred thousand pounds and more; in the two last
years, far from exporting, we have been obliged to import to the amount
perhaps of our former exportation. So that in this article the balance
must be 2,000,000_l._ against us; that is, one million in the ceasing of
gain, the other in the increase of expenditure. But none of the author's
promises or projects could have prevented this misfortune; and, thank
God, we do not want him or them to relieve us from it; although, if his
friends should now come into power, I doubt not but they will be ready
to take credit for any increase of trade or excise, that may arise from
the happy circumstance of a good harvest.

This connects with his loud laments and melancholy prognostications
concerning the high price of the necessaries of life and the products of
labor. With all his others, I deny this fact; and I again call upon him
to prove it. Take average and not accident, the grand and first
necessary of life is cheap in this country; and that too as weighed, not
against labor, which is its true counterpoise, but against money. Does
he call the price of wheat at this day, between 32 and 40 shillings per
quarter in London dear?[64] He must know that fuel (an object of the
highest order in the necessaries of life, and of the first necessity in
almost every kind of manufacture) is in many of our provinces cheaper
than in any part of the globe. Meat is on the whole not excessively
dear, whatever its price may be at particular times and from particular
accidents. If it has had anything like an uniform rise, this enhancement
may easily be proved not to be owing to the increase of taxes, but to
uniform increase of consumption and of money. Diminish the latter, and
meat in your markets will be sufficiently cheap in account, but much
dearer in effect: because fewer will be in a condition to buy. Thus your
apparent plenty will be real indigence. At present, even under temporary
disadvantages, the use of flesh is greater here than anywhere else; it
is continued without any interruption of Lents or meagre days; it is
sustained and growing even with the increase of our taxes. But some have
the art of converting even the signs of national prosperity into
symptoms of decay and ruin. And our author, who so loudly disclaims
popularity, never fails to lay hold of the most vulgar popular
prejudices and humors, in hopes to captivate the crowd. Even those
peevish dispositions which grow out of some transitory suffering, those
passing clouds which float in our changeable atmosphere, are by him
industriously figured into frightful shapes, in order first to terrify,
and then to govern the populace.

It was not enough for the author's purpose to give this false and
discouraging picture of the state of his own country. It did not fully
answer his end, to exaggerate her burdens, to depreciate her successes,
and to vilify her character. Nothing had been done, unless the
situation of France were exalted in proportion as that of England had
been abased. The reader will excuse the citation I make at length from
his book; he outdoes himself upon this occasion. His confidence is
indeed unparalleled, and altogether of the heroic cast:--

"If our rival nations were in the same circumstances with ourselves, the
_augmentation of our taxes would produce no ill consequences_: if we
were obliged to raise our prices, they must, from the same causes, do
the like, and could take no advantage by underselling and under-working
us. But the alarming consideration to Great Britain is, _that France is
not in the same condition_. Her distresses, during the war, were great,
but they were immediate; her want of credit, as has been said, compelled
her to impoverish her people, by raising the greatest part of her
supplies within the year; _but the burdens she imposed on them were, in
a great measure, temporary, and must be greatly diminished by a few
years of peace_. She could procure no considerable loans, therefore she
has mortgaged no _such oppressive taxes as those Great Britain has
imposed in perpetuity for payment of interest_. Peace must, therefore,
soon re-establish her commerce and manufactures, especially as the
comparative _lightness of taxes_, and the cheapness of living, in that
country, must make France an asylum for British manufacturers and
artificers." On this the author rests the merit of his whole system. And
on this point I will join issue with him. If France is not at least in
the _same condition_, even in that very condition which the author
falsely represents to be ours,--if the very reverse of his proposition
be not true, then I will admit his state of the nation to be just; and
all his inferences from that state to be logical and conclusive. It is
not surprising, that the author should hazard our opinion of his
veracity. That is a virtue on which great statesmen do not perhaps pique
themselves so much; but it is somewhat extraordinary, that he should
stake on a very poor calculation of chances, all credit for care, for
accuracy, and for knowledge of the subject of which he treats. He is
rash and inaccurate, because he thinks he writes to a public ignorant
and inattentive. But he may find himself in that respect, as in many
others, greatly mistaken. In order to contrast the light and vigorous
condition of France with that of England, weak, and sinking under her
burdens, he states, in his tenth page, that France had raised
50,314,378_l._ sterling _by taxes within the several years_ from the
year 1756 to 1762 both inclusive. All Englishman must stand aghast at
such a representation: To find France able to _raise within the year_
sums little inferior to all that we were able even to _borrow_ on
interest with all the resources of the greatest and most established
credit in the world! Europe was filled with astonishment when they saw
England _borrow_ in one year twelve millions. It was thought, and very
justly, no small proof of national strength and financial skill, to find
a fund for the payment of the interest upon this sum. The interest of
this, computed with the one per cent annuities, amounted only to
600,000_l._ a year. This, I say, was thought a surprising effort even of
credit. But this author talks, as of a thing not worth proving, and but
just worth observing, that France in one year raised sixteen times that
sum without borrowing, and continued to raise sums not far from equal to
it for several years together. Suppose some Jacob Henriques had
proposed, in the year 1762, to prevent a perpetual charge on the nation
by raising ten millions within the year: he would have been considered,
not as a harsh financier, who laid a heavy hand on the public; but as a
poor visionary, who had run mad on supplies and taxes. They who know
that the whole land-tax of England, at 4_s._ in the pound, raises but
two millions, will not easily apprehend that any such sums as the author
has conjured up can be raised even in the most opulent nations. France
owed a large debt, and was encumbered with heavy establishments, before
that war. The author does not formally deny that she borrowed something
in every year of its continuance; let him produce the funds for this
astonishing annual addition to all her vast preceding taxes; an
addition, equal to the whole excise, customs, land and malt-taxes of
England taken together.

But what must be the reader's astonishment, perhaps his indignation, if
he should find that this great financier has fallen into the most
unaccountable of all errors, no less an error than that of mistaking the
_identical sums borrowed by France upon interest, for supplies raised
within the year_! Can it be conceived that any man, only entered into
the first rudiments of finance, should make so egregious a blunder;
should write it, should print it; should carry it to a second edition;
should take it not collaterally and incidentally, but lay it down as the
corner-stone of his whole system, in such an important point as the
comparative states of France and England? But it will be said, that it
was his misfortune to be ill-informed. Not at all. A man of any loose
general knowledge, and of the most ordinary sagacity, never could have
been misinformed in so gross a manner; because he would have immediately
rejected so wild and extravagant an account.

The fact is this: the credit of France, bad as it might have been, did
enable her (not to raise within the year) but to _borrow_ the very sums
the author mentions; that is to say, 1,106,916,261 livres, making, in
the author's computation, 50,314,378_l._ The credit of France was low;
but it was not annihilated. She did not derive, as our author chooses to
assert, any advantages from the debility of her credit. Its consequence
was the natural one: she borrowed; but she borrowed upon bad terms,
indeed on the most exorbitant usury.

In speaking of a foreign revenue, the very pretence to accuracy would be
the most inaccurate thing in the world. Neither the author nor I can
with certainty authenticate the information we communicate to the
public, nor in an affair of eternal fluctuation arrive at perfect
exactness. All we can do, and this we may be expected to do, is to avoid
gross errors and blunders of a capital nature. We cannot order the
proper officer to lay the accounts before the House. But the reader must
judge on the probability of the accounts we lay before him. The author
speaks of France as raising her supplies for war by taxes within the
year; and of her debt, as a thing scarcely worthy of notice. I affirm
that she borrowed large sums in every year; and has thereby accumulated
an immense debt. This debt continued after the war infinitely to
embarrass her affairs; and to find some means for its reduction was then
and has ever since been the first object of her policy. But she has so
little succeeded in all her efforts, that the _perpetual_ debt of
France is at this hour little short of 100,000,000_l._ sterling; and she
stands charged with at least 40,000,000 of English pounds on life-rents
and tontines. The annuities paid at this day at the Hotel de Ville of
Paris, which are by no means her sole payments of that nature, amount to
139,000,000 of livres, that is to 6,318,000_l._; besides _billets au
porteur_, and various detached and unfunded debts, to a great amount,
and which bear an interest.

At the end of the war, the interest payable on her debt amounted to
upwards of seven millions sterling. M. de la Verdy, the last hope of the
French finances, was called in, to aid in the reduction of an interest,
so light to our author, so intolerably heavy upon those who are to pay
it. After many unsuccessful efforts towards reconciling arbitrary
reduction with public credit, he was obliged to go the plain high road
of power, and to impose a tax of 10 per cent upon a very great part of
the capital debt of that kingdom; and this measure of present ease, to
the destruction of future credit, produced about 500,000_l._ a year,
which was carried to their _Caisse d'amortissement_ or sinking fund. But
so unfaithfully and unsteadily has this and all the other articles which
compose that fund been applied to their purposes, that they have given
the state but very little even of present relief, since it is known to
the whole world that she is behindhand on every one of her
establishments. Since the year 1763, there has been no operation of any
consequence on the French finances; and in this enviable condition is
France at present with regard to her debt.

Everybody knows that the principal of the debt is but a name; the
interest is the only thing which can distress a nation. Take this idea,
which will not be disputed, and compare the interest paid by England
with that paid by France:

  Interest paid by France, funded and
    unfunded, for perpetuity or on lives,
    after the tax of 10 per cent                L6,500,000
  Interest paid by England, as stated by
    the author, p. 27                            4,600,000
                                                ----------
  Interest paid by France exceeds that
    paid by England                             L1,900,000


The author cannot complain, that I state the interest paid by England as
too low. He takes it himself as the extremest term. Nobody who knows
anything of the French finances will affirm that I state the interest
paid by that kingdom too high. It might be easily proved to amount to a
great deal more: even this is near two millions above what is paid by
England.

There are three standards to judge of the good condition of a nation
with regard to its finances. 1st, The relief of the people. 2nd, The
equality of supplies to establishments. 3rd, The state of public credit.
Try France on all these standards.

Although our author very liberally administers relief to the people of
France, its government has not been altogether so gracious. Since the
peace, she has taken off but a single _vingtieme_, or shilling in the
pound, and some small matter in the capitation. But, if the government
has relieved them in one point, it has only burdened them the more
heavily in another. The _Taille_,[65] that grievous and destructive
imposition, which all their financiers lament, without being able to
remove or to replace, has been augmented no less than six millions of
livres, or 270,000 pounds English. A further augmentation of this or
other duties is now talked of; and it is certainly necessary to their
affairs: so exceedingly remote from either truth or verisimilitude is
the author's amazing assertion, _that the burdens of France in the war
were in a great measure temporary, and must be greatly diminished by a
few years of peace_.

In the next place, if the people of France are not lightened of taxes,
so neither is the state disburdened of charges. I speak from very good
information, that the annual income of that state is at this day thirty
millions of livres, or 1,350,000_l._ sterling, short of a provision for
their ordinary peace establishment; so far are they from the attempt or
even hope to discharge any part of the capital of their enormous debt.
Indeed, under such extreme straitness and distraction labors the whole
body of their finances, so far does their charge outrun their supply in
every particular, that no man, I believe, who has considered their
affairs with any degree of attention or information, but must hourly
look for some extraordinary convulsion in that whole system: the effect
of which on France, and even on all Europe, it is difficult to
conjecture.

In the third point of view, their credit. Let the reader cast his eye on
a table of the price of French funds, as they stood a few weeks ago,
compared with the state of some of our English stocks, even in their
present low condition:--

        French.                          British.
  5 per cents              63      Bank stock, 5-1/2   159
  4 per cent (not taxed)   57      4 per cent cons.    100
  3 per cent    "   "      49      3 per cent cons.     88


This state of the funds of France and England is sufficient to convince
even prejudice and obstinacy, that if France and England are not in the
same condition (as the author affirms they are not) the difference is
infinitely to the disadvantage of France. This depreciation of their
funds has not much the air of a nation lightening burdens and
discharging debts.

Such is the true comparative state of the two kingdoms in those capital
points of view. Now as to the nature of the taxes which provide for this
debt, as well as for their ordinary establishments, the author has
thought proper to affirm that "they are comparatively light"; that "she
has mortgaged no such oppressive taxes as ours"; his effrontery on this
head is intolerable. Does the author recollect a single tax in England
to which something parallel in nature, and as heavy in burden, does not
exist in France; does he not know that the lands of the noblesse are
still under the load of the greater part of the old feudal charges, from
which the gentry of England have been relieved for upwards of a hundred
years, and which were in kind, as well as burden, much worse than our
modern land-tax? Besides that all the gentry of France serve in the army
on very slender pay, and to the utter ruin of their fortunes, all those
who are not noble have their lands heavily taxed. Does he not know that
wine, brandy, soap, candles, leather, saltpetre, gunpowder, are taxed in
France? Has he not heard that government in France has made a monopoly
of that great article of _salt?_ that they compel the people to take a
certain quantity of it, and at a certain rate, both rate and quantity
fixed at the arbitrary pleasure of the imposer?[66] that they pay in
France the _Taille_, an arbitrary imposition on presumed property? that
a tax is laid in fact and name, on the same arbitrary standard, upon the
acquisitions of their _industry_? and that in France a heavy
_capitation-tax_ is also paid, from the highest to the very poorest sort
of people? Have we taxes of such weight, or anything at all of the
compulsion, in the article of _salt_? do we pay any _taillage_, any
_faculty-tax_, any _industry-tax?_ do we pay any _capitation-tax_
whatsoever? I believe the people of London would fall into an agony to
hear of such taxes proposed upon them as are paid at Paris. There is not
a single article of provision for man or beast which enters that great
city, and is not excised; corn, hay, meal, butcher's-meat, fish, fowls,
everything. I do not here mean to censure the policy of taxes laid on
the consumption of great luxurious cities. I only state the fact. We
should be with difficulty brought to hear of a tax of 50_s._ upon every
ox sold in Smithfield. Yet this tax is paid in Paris. Wine, the lower
sort of wine, little better than English small beer, pays 2_d._ a
bottle.

We, indeed, tax our beer; but the imposition on small beer is very far
from heavy. In no part of England are eatables of any kind the object of
taxation. In almost every other country in Europe they are excised, more
or less. I have by me the state of the revenues of many of the principal
nations on the Continent; and, on comparing them with ours, I think I am
fairly warranted to assert, that England is the most lightly taxed of
any of the great states of Europe. They, whose unnatural and sullen joy
arises from a contemplation of the distresses of their country, will
revolt at this position. But if I am called upon, I will prove it beyond
all possibility of dispute; even though this proof should deprive these
gentlemen of the singular satisfaction of considering their country as
undone; and though the best civil government, the best constituted, and
the best managed revenue that ever the world beheld, should be
thoroughly vindicated from their perpetual clamors and complaints. As to
our neighbor and rival France, in addition to what I have here
suggested, I say, and when the author chooses formally to deny, I shall
formally prove it, that her subjects pay more than England, on a
computation of the wealth of both countries; that her taxes are more
injudiciously and more oppressively imposed; more vexatiously collected;
come in a smaller proportion to the royal coffers, and are less applied
by far to the public service. I am not one of those who choose to take
the author's word for this happy and flourishing condition of the French
finances, rather than attend to the changes, the violent pushes and the
despair of all her own financiers. Does he choose to be referred for the
easy and happy condition of the subject in France to the remonstrances
of their own parliaments, written with such an eloquence, feeling, and
energy, as I have not seen exceeded in any other writings? The author
may say, their complaints are exaggerated, and the effects of faction. I
answer, that they are the representations of numerous, grave, and most
respectable bodies of men, upon the affairs of their own country. But,
allowing that discontent and faction may pervert the judgment of such
venerable bodies in France, we have as good a right to suppose that the
same causes may full as probably have produced from a private, however
respectable person, that frightful, and, I trust I have shown,
groundless representation of our own affairs in England.

The author is so conscious of the dangerous effects of that
representation, that he thinks it necessary, and very necessary it is,
to guard against them. He assures us, "that he has not made that display
of the difficulties of his country, to expose her counsels to the
ridicule of other states, or to provoke a vanquished enemy to insult
her; nor to excite the people's rage against their governors, or sink
them into a despondency of the public welfare." I readily admit this
apology for his intentions. God forbid I should think any man capable of
entertaining so execrable and senseless a design. The true cause of his
drawing so shocking a picture is no more than this; and it ought rather
to claim our pity than excite our indignation; he finds himself out of
power; and this condition is intolerable to him. The same sun which
gilds all nature, and exhilarates the whole creation, does not shine
upon disappointed ambition. It is something that rays out of darkness,
and inspires nothing but gloom and melancholy. Men in this deplorable
state of mind find a comfort in spreading the contagion of their spleen.
They find an advantage too; for it is a general, popular error, to
imagine the loudest complainers for the public to be the most anxious
for its welfare. If such persons can answer the ends of relief and
profit to themselves, they are apt to be careless enough about either
the means or the consequences.

Whatever this complainant's motives may be, the effects can by no
possibility be other than those which he so strongly, and I hope truly,
disclaims all intention of producing. To verify this, the reader has
only to consider how dreadful a picture he has drawn in his 32nd page,
of the state of this kingdom; such a picture as, I believe, has hardly
been applicable, without some exaggeration, to the most degenerate and
undone commonwealth that ever existed. Let this view of things be
compared with the prospect of a remedy which he proposes in the page
directly opposite, and the subsequent. I believe no man living could
have imagined it possible, except for the sake of burlesquing a subject,
to propose remedies so ridiculously disproportionate to the evil, so
full of uncertainty in their operation, and depending for their success
in every step upon the happy event of so many new, dangerous, and
visionary projects. It is not amiss, that he has thought proper to give
the public some little notice of what they may expect from his friends,
when our affairs shall be committed to their management. Let us see how
the accounts of disease and remedy are balanced in his "State of the
Nation." In the first place, on the side of evils, he states, "an
impoverished and heavily-burdened public. A declining trade and
decreasing specie. The power of the crown never so much extended over
the great; but the great without influence over the lower sort.
Parliament losing its reverence with the people. The voice of the
multitude set up against the sense of the legislature; a people
luxurious and licentious, impatient of rule, and despising all
authority. Government relaxed in every sinew, and a corrupt selfish
spirit pervading the whole. An opinion of many, that the form of
government is not worth contending for. No attachment in the bulk of
the people towards the constitution. No reverence for the customs of our
ancestors. No attachment but to private interest, nor any zeal but for
selfish gratifications. Trade and manufactures going to ruin. Great
Britain in danger of becoming tributary to France, and the descent of
the crown dependent on her pleasure. Ireland, in case of a war, to
become a prey to France; and Great Britain, unable to recover Ireland,
cede it by treaty," (the author never can think of a treaty without
making cessions,) "in order to purchase peace for herself. The colonies
left exposed to the ravages of a domestic, or the conquest of a foreign
enemy."--Gloomy enough, God knows. The author well observes,[67] _that a
mind not totally devoid of feeling cannot look upon such a prospect
without horror; and an heart capable of humanity must be unable to hear
its description_. He ought to have added, that no man of common
discretion ought to have exhibited it to the public, if it were true; or
of common honesty, if it were false.

But now for the comfort; the day-star which is to arise in our hearts;
the author's grand scheme for totally reversing this dismal state of
things, and making us[68] "happy at home and respected abroad,
formidable in war and flourishing in peace."

In this great work he proceeds with a facility equally astonishing and
pleasing. Never was financier less embarrassed by the burden of
establishments, or with the difficulty of finding ways and means. If an
establishment is troublesome to him, he lops off at a stroke just as
much of it as he chooses. He mows down, without giving quarter, or
assigning reason, army, navy, ordnance, ordinary, extraordinaries;
nothing can stand before him. Then, when he comes to provide, Amalthea's
horn is in his hands; and he pours out with an inexhaustible bounty,
taxes, duties, loans, and revenues, without uneasiness to himself, or
burden to the public. Insomuch that, when we consider the abundance of
his resources, we cannot avoid being surprised at his extraordinary
attention to savings. But it is all the exuberance of his goodness.

This book has so much of a certain tone of power, that one would be
almost tempted to think it written by some person who had been high in
office. A man is generally rendered somewhat a worse reasoner for having
been a minister. In private, the assent of listening and obsequious
friends; in public, the venal cry and prepared vote of a passive senate,
confirm him in habits of begging the question with impunity, and
asserting without thinking himself obliged to prove. Had it not been for
some such habits, the author could never have expected that we should
take his estimate for a peace establishment solely on his word.

This estimate which he gives,[69] is the great groundwork of his plan
for the national redemption; and it ought to be well and firmly laid, or
what must become of the superstructure? One would have thought the
natural method in a plan of reformation would be, to take the present
existing estimates as they stand; and then to show what may be
practicably and safely defalcated from them. This would, I say, be the
natural course; and what would be expected from a man of business. But
this author takes a very different method. For the ground of his
speculation of a present peace establishment, he resorts to a former
speculation of the same kind, which was in the mind of the minister of
the year 1764. Indeed it never existed anywhere else. "The plan,"[70]
says he, with his usual ease, "has been already formed, and the outline
drawn, by the administration of 1764. I shall attempt to fill up the
void and obliterated parts, and trace its operation. The standing
expense of the present (his projected) peace establishment, _improved by
the experience of the two last years, may be thus estimated_"; and he
estimates it at 3,468,161_l._

Here too it would be natural to expect some reasons for condemning the
subsequent actual establishments, which have so much transgressed the
limits of his plan of 1764, as well as some arguments in favor of his
new project; which has in some articles exceeded, in others fallen
short, but on the whole is much below his old one. Hardly a word on any
of these points, the only points however that are in the least
essential; for unless you assign reasons for the increase or diminution
of the several articles of public charge, the playing at establishments
and estimates is an amusement of no higher order, and of much less
ingenuity, than _Questions and commands_, or _What is my thought like_?
To bring more distinctly under the reader's view this author's strange
method of proceeding, I will lay before him the three schemes; viz. the
idea of the ministers in 1764, the actual estimates of the two last
years as given by the author himself, and lastly the new project of his
political millennium:--

  Plan of establishment for 1764, as by
    "Considerations," p. 43              [71]   L3,609,700
  Medium of 1767 and 1768, as by
    "State of the Nation," p. 29 and 30          3,919,375
  Present peace establishment, as by the
    project in "State of the Nation," p. 33      3,468,161


It is not from anything our author has anywhere said, that you are
enabled to find the ground, much less the justification, of the immense
difference between these several systems; you must compare them
yourself, article by article; no very pleasing employment, by the way,
to compare the agreement or disagreement of two chimeras. I now only
speak of the comparison of his own two projects. As to the latter of
them, it differs from the former, by having some of the articles
diminished, and others increased.[72] I find the chief article of
reduction arises from the smaller deficiency of land and malt, and of
the annuity funds, which he brings down to 295,561_l._ in his new
estimate, from 502,400_l._ which he had allowed for those articles in
the "Considerations." With this _reduction_, owing, as it must be,
merely to a smaller deficiency of funds, he has nothing at all to do. It
can be no work and no merit of his. But with regard to the _increase_,
the matter is very different. It is all his own; the public is loaded
(for anything we can see to the contrary) entirely _gratis_. The chief
articles of the increase are on the navy,[73] and on the army and
ordnance extraordinaries; the navy being estimated in his "State of the
Nation" 50,000_l._ a year more, and the army and ordnance
extraordinaries 40,000_l._ more, than he had thought proper to allow for
them in that estimate in his "Considerations," which he makes the
foundation of his present project. He has given no sort of reason,
stated no sort of necessity, for this additional allowance, either in
the one article or the other. What is still stronger, he admits that his
allowance for the army and ordnance extras is too great, and expressly
refers you to the "Considerations";[74] where, far from giving
75,000_l._ a year to that service, as the "State of the Nation" has
done, the author apprehends his own scanty provision of 35,000_l._ to be
by far too considerable, and thinks it may well admit of further
reductions.[75] Thus, according to his own principles, this great
economist falls into a vicious prodigality; and is as far in his
estimate from a consistency with his own principles as with the real
nature of the services.

Still, however, his present establishment differs from its archetype of
1764, by being, though raised in particular parts, upon the whole, about
141,000_l._ smaller. It is improved, he tells us, by the experience of
the two last years. One would have concluded that the peace
establishment of these two years had been less than that of 1764, in
order to suggest to the author his improvements, which enabled him to
reduce it. But how does that turn out?

  Peace establishment[76] 1767 and 1768, medium       L3,919,375
  Ditto, estimate in the "Considerations," for 1764    3,609,700
                                                       ---------
                            Difference                  L309,675

A vast increase instead of diminution. The experience then of the two
last years ought naturally to have given the idea of a heavier
establishment; but this writer is able to diminish by increasing, and to
draw the effects of subtraction from the operations of addition. By
means of these new powers, he may certainly do whatever he pleases. He
is indeed moderate enough in the use of them, and condescends to settle
his establishments at 3,468,161_l._ a year.

However, he has not yet done with it; he has further ideas of saving,
and new resources of revenue. These additional savings are principally
two: 1st, _It is to be hoped_,[77] says he, that the sum of 250,000_l._
(which in the estimate he allows for the deficiency of land and malt)
will be less by 37,924_l._[78]

2nd, That the sum of 20,000_l._ allowed for the Foundling Hospital, and
1800_l._ for American Surveys, will soon cease to be necessary, as the
services will be completed.

What follows, with regard to the resources,[79] is very well worthy the
reader's attention. "Of this estimate," says he, "upwards of 300,000_l._
will be for the plantation service; and that sum, _I hope_, the people
of Ireland and the colonies _might be induced_ to take off Great
Britain, and defray between them, in the proportion of 200,000_l._ by
the colonies, and 100,000_l._ by Ireland."

Such is the whole of this mighty scheme. Take his reduced estimate, and
his further reductions, and his resources all together, and the result
will be,--he will _certainly_ lower the provision made for the navy. He
will cut off largely (God knows what or how) from the army and ordnance
extraordinaries. He may be _expected_ to cut off more. He _hopes_ that
the deficiencies on land and malt will be less than usual; and he
_hopes_ that America and Ireland might be _induced_ to take off
300,000_l._ of our annual charges.

If any of these Hopes, Mights, Insinuations, Expectations, and
Inducements, should fail him, there will be a formidable gaping breach
in his whole project. If all of them should fail, he has left the nation
without a glimmering of hope in this thick night of terrors which he has
thought fit to spread about us. If every one of them, which, attended
with success, would signify anything to our revenue, can have no effect
but to add to our distractions and dangers, we shall be if possible in a
still worse condition from his projects of cure, than he represents us
from our original disorders.

Before we examine into the consequences of these schemes, and the
probability of these savings, let us suppose them all real and all safe,
and then see what it is they amount to, and how he reasons on them:--

  Deficiency on land and malt, less by             L37,000
  Foundling Hospital                                20,000
  American Surveys                                   1,800
                                                   -------
                                                   L58,800

This is the amount of the only articles of saving he specifies: and yet
he chooses to assert,[81] "that we may venture on the credit of them to
reduce the standing expenses of the estimate (from 3,468,161_l._) to
3,300,000_l._"; that is, for a saving of 58,000_l._ he is not ashamed
to take credit for a defalcation from his own ideal establishment in a
sum of no less than 168,161_l._! Suppose even that we were to take up
the estimate of the "Considerations" (which is however abandoned in the
"State of the Nation"), and reduce his 75,000_l._ extraordinaries to the
original 35,000_l._, still all these savings joined together give us but
98,800_l._; that is, near 70,000_l._ short of the credit he calls for,
and for which he has neither given any reason, nor furnished any data
whatsoever for others to reason upon.

Such are his savings, as operating on his own project of a peace
establishment. Let us now consider them as they affect the existing
establishment and our actual services. He tells us, the sum allowed in
his estimate for the navy is "69,321_l._ less than the grant for that
service in 1767; but in that grant 30,000_l._ was included for the
purchase of hemp, and a saving of about 25,000_l._ was made in that
year." The author has got some secret in arithmetic. These two sums put
together amount, in the ordinary way of computing, to 55,000_l._, and
not to 69,321_l._ On what principle has he chosen to take credit for
14,321_l._ more? To what this strange inaccuracy is owing, I cannot
possibly comprehend; nor is it very material, where the logic is so bad,
and the policy so erroneous, whether the arithmetic be just or
otherwise. But in a scheme for making this nation "happy at home and
respected abroad, formidable in war and flourishing in peace," it is
surely a little unfortunate for us, that he has picked out the _Navy_,
as the very first object of his economical experiments. Of all the
public services, that of the navy is the one in which tampering may be
of the greatest danger, which can worst be supplied upon an emergency,
and of which any failure draws after it the longest and heaviest train
of consequences. I am far from saying, that this or any service ought
not to be conducted with economy. But I will never suffer the sacred
name of economy to be bestowed upon arbitrary defalcation of charge. The
author tells us himself, "that to suffer the navy to rot in harbor for
want of repairs and marines, would be to invite destruction." It would
be so. When the author talks therefore of savings on the navy estimate,
it is incumbent on him to let us know, not what sums he will cut off,
but what branch of that service he deems superfluous. Instead of putting
us off with unmeaning generalities, he ought to have stated what naval
force, what naval works, and what naval stores, with the lowest
estimated expense, are necessary to keep our marine in a condition
commensurate to its great ends. And this too not for the contracted and
deceitful space of a single year, but for some reasonable term.
Everybody knows that many charges cannot be in their nature regular or
annual. In the year 1767 a stock of hemp, &c., was to be laid in; that
charge intermits, but it does not end. Other charges of other kinds take
their place. Great works are now carrying on at Portsmouth, but not of
greater magnitude than utility; and they must be provided for. A year's
estimate is therefore no just idea at all of a permanent peace
establishment. Had the author opened this matter upon these plain
principles, a judgment might have been formed, how far he had contrived
to reconcile national defence with public economy. Till he has done it,
those who had rather depend on any man's reason than the greatest man's
authority, will not give him credit on this head, for the saving of a
single shilling. As to those savings which are already made, or in
course of being made, whether right or wrong, he has nothing at all to
do with them; they can be no part of his project, considered as a plan
of reformation. I greatly fear that the error has not lately been on the
side of profusion.

Another head is the saving on the army and ordnance extraordinaries,
particularly in the American branch. What or how much reduction may be
made, none of us, I believe, can with any fairness pretend to say; very
little, I am convinced. The state of America is extremely unsettled;
more troops have been sent thither; new dispositions have been made; and
this augmentation of number, and change of disposition, has rarely, I
believe, the effect of lessening the bill for extraordinaries, which, if
not this year, yet in the next we must certainly feel. Care has not been
wanting to introduce economy into that part of the service. The author's
great friend has made, I admit, some regulations: his immediate
successors have made more and better. This part will be handled more
ably and more minutely at another time: but no one can cut down this
bill of extraordinaries at his pleasure. The author has given us
nothing, but his word, for any certain or considerable reduction; and
this we ought to be the more cautious in taking, as he has promised
great savings in his "Considerations," which he has not chosen to abide
by in his "State of the Nation."

On this head also of the American extraordinaries, he can take credit
for nothing. As to his next, the lessening of the deficiency of the land
and malt-tax, particularly of the malt-tax, any person the least
conversant in that subject cannot avoid a smile. This deficiency arises
from charge of collection, from anticipation, and from defective
produce. What has the author said on the reduction of any head of this
deficiency upon the land-tax? On these points he is absolutely silent.
As to the deficiency on the malt-tax, which is chiefly owing to a
defective produce, he has and can have nothing to propose. If this
deficiency should he lessened by the increase of malting in any years
more than in others, (as it is a greatly fluctuating object,) how much
of this obligation shall we owe to this author's ministry? will it not
be the case under any administration? must it not go to the general
service of the year, in some way or other, let the finances be in whose
hands they will? But why take credit for so extremely reduced a
deficiency at all? I can tell him he has no rational ground for it in
the produce of the year 1767; and I suspect will have full as little
reason from the produce of the year 1768. That produce may indeed become
greater, and the deficiency of course will be less. It may too be far
otherwise. A fair and judicious financier will not, as this writer has
done, for the sake of making out a specious account, select a favorable
year or two, at remote periods, and ground his calculations on those. In
1768 he will not take the deficiencies of 1753 and 1754 for his
standard. Sober men have hitherto (and must continue this course, to
preserve this character,) taken indifferently the mediums of the years
immediately preceding. But a person who has a scheme from which he
promises much to the public ought to be still more cautious; he should
ground his speculation rather on the lowest mediums because all new
schemes are known to be subject to some defect or failure not foreseen;
and which therefore every prudent proposer will be ready to allow for,
in order to lay his foundation as low and as solid as possible. Quite
contrary is the practice of some politicians. They first propose
savings, which they well know cannot be made, in order to get a
reputation for economy. In due time they assume another, but a different
method, by providing for the service they had before cut off or
straitened, and which they can then very easily prove to be necessary.
In the same spirit they raise magnificent ideas of revenue on funds
which they know to be insufficient. Afterwards, who can blame them, if
they do not satisfy the public desires? They are great artificers but
they cannot work without materials.

These are some of the little arts of great statesmen. To such we leave
them, and follow where the author leads us, to his next resource, the
Foundling Hospital. Whatever particular virtue there is in the mode of
this saving, there seems to be nothing at all new, and indeed nothing
wonderfully important in it. The sum annually voted for the support of
the Foundling Hospital has been in a former Parliament limited to the
establishment of the children then in the hospital. When they are
apprenticed, this provision will cease. It will therefore fall in more
or less at different times; and will at length cease entirely. But,
until it does, we cannot reckon upon it as the saving on the
establishment of any given year: nor can any one conceive how the author
comes to mention this, any more than some other articles, as a part of a
_new_ plan of economy which is to retrieve our affairs. This charge will
indeed cease in its own time. But will no other succeed to it? Has he
ever known the public free from some contingent charge, either for the
just support of royal dignity or for national magnificence, or for
public charity, or for public service? does he choose to flatter his
readers that no such will ever return? or does he in good earnest
declare, that let the reason, or necessity, be what they will, he is
resolved not to provide for such services?

Another resource of economy yet remains, for he gleans the field very
closely,--1800_l._ for the American surveys. Why, what signifies a
dispute about trifles? he shall have it. But while he is carrying it
off, I shall just whisper in his ear, that neither the saving that is
allowed, nor that which is doubted of, can at all belong to that future
proposed administration, whose touch is to cure all our evils. Both the
one and the other belong equally (as indeed all the rest do) to the
present administration, to any administration; because they are the gift
of time, and not the bounty of the exchequer.

I have now done with all the minor, preparatory parts of the author's
scheme, the several articles of saving which he proposes. At length
comes the capital operation, his new resources. Three hundred thousand
pounds a year from America and Ireland.--Alas! alas! if that too should
fail us, what will become of this poor undone nation? The author, in a
tone of great humility, _hopes_ they may be induced to pay it. Well, if
that be all, we may hope so too: and for any light he is pleased to give
us into the ground of this hope, and the ways and means of this
inducement, here is a speedy end both of the question and the revenue.

It is the constant custom of this author, in all his writings, to take
it for granted, that he has given you a revenue, whenever he can point
out to you where you may have money, if you can contrive how to get at
it; and this seems to be the masterpiece of his financial ability. I
think, however, in his way of proceeding, he has behaved rather like a
harsh step-dame, than a kind nursing-mother to his country. Why stop at
300,000_l._ If his state of things be at all founded, America and
Ireland are much better able to pay 600,000_l._ than we are to satisfy
ourselves with half that sum. However, let us forgive him this one
instance of tenderness towards Ireland and the colonies.

He spends a vast deal of time[82] in an endeavor to prove that Ireland
is able to bear greater impositions. He is of opinion, that the poverty
of the lower class of people there is, in a great measure, owing to _a
want_ of judicious taxes; that a land-tax will enrich her tenants; that
taxes are paid in England which are not paid there; that the colony
trade is increased above 100,000_l._ since the peace; that she _ought_
to have further indulgence in that trade; and ought to have further
privileges in the woollen manufacture. From these premises, of what she
has, what she has not, and what she ought to have, he infers that
Ireland will contribute 100,000_l._ towards the extraordinaries of the
American establishment.

I shall make no objections whatsoever, logical or financial, to this
reasoning: many occur; but they would lead me from my purpose, from
which I do not intend to be diverted, because it seems to me of no small
importance. It will be just enough to hint, what I dare say many readers
have before observed, that when any man proposes new taxes in a country
with which he is not personally conversant by residence or office, he
ought to lay open its situation much more minutely and critically than
this author has done, or than perhaps he is able to do. He ought not to
content himself with saying that a single article of her trade is
increased 100,000_l._ a year; he ought, if he argues from the increase
of trade to the increase of taxes, to state the whole trade, and not one
branch of trade only; he ought to enter fully into the state of its
remittances, and the course of its exchange; he ought likewise to
examine whether all its establishments are increased or diminished; and
whether it incurs or discharges debts annually. But I pass over all
this; and am content to ask a few plain questions.

Does the author then seriously mean to propose in Parliament a land-tax,
or any tax for 100,000_l._ a year upon Ireland? If he does, and if
fatally, by his temerity and our weakness, he should succeed; then I say
he will throw the whole empire from one end of it to the other into
mortal convulsions. What is it that can satisfy the furious and
perturbed mind of this man? is it not enough for him that such projects
have alienated our colonies from the mother-country, and not to propose
violently to tear our sister kingdom also from our side, and to convince
every dependent part of the empire, that, when a little money is to be
raised, we have no sort of regard to their ancient customs, their
opinions, their circumstances, or their affections? He has however a
_douceur_ for Ireland in his pocket; benefits in trade, by opening the
woollen manufacture to that nation. A very right idea in my opinion; but
not more strong in reason, than likely to be opposed by the most
powerful and most violent of all local prejudices and popular passions.
First, a fire is already kindled by his schemes of taxation in America;
he then proposes one which will set all Ireland in a blaze; and his way
of quenching both is by a plan which may kindle perhaps ten times a
greater flame in Britain.

Will the author pledge himself, previously to his proposal of such a
tax, to carry this enlargement of the Irish trade? If he does not, then
the tax will be certain; the benefit will be less than problematical. In
this view, his compensation to Ireland vanishes into smoke; the tax, to
their prejudices, will appear stark naked in the light of an act of
arbitrary power and oppression. But, if he should propose the benefit
and tax together, then the people of Ireland, a very high and spirited
people, would think it the worst bargain in the world. They would look
upon the one as wholly vitiated and poisoned by the other; and, if they
could not be separated, would infallibly resist them both together. Here
would be taxes, indeed, amounting to a handsome sum; 100,000_l._ very
effectually voted, and passed through the best and most authentic forms;
but how to be collected?--This is his perpetual manner. One of his
projects depends for success upon another project, and this upon a
third, all of them equally visionary. His finance is like the Indian
philosophy; his earth is poised on the horns of a bull, his bull stands
upon an elephant, his elephant is supported by a tortoise; and so on
forever.

As to his American 200,000_l._ a year, he is satisfied to repeat
gravely, as he has done an hundred times before, that the Americans are
able to pay it. Well, and what then? does he lay open any part of his
plan how they may be compelled to pay it, without plunging ourselves
into calamities that outweigh tenfold the proposed benefit? or does he
show how they may be induced to submit to it quietly? or does he give
any satisfaction concerning the mode of levying it; in commercial
colonies, one of the most important and difficult of all considerations?
Nothing like it. To the Stamp Act, whatever its excellences may be, I
think he will not in reality recur, or even choose to assert that he
means to do so, in case his minister should come again into power. If he
does, I will predict that some of the fastest friends of that minister
will desert him upon this point. As to port duties he has damned them
all in the lump, by declaring them[83] "contrary to the first principles
of colonization, and not less prejudicial to the interests of Great
Britain than to those of the colonies." Surely this single observation
of his ought to have taught him a little caution; he ought to have begun
to doubt, whether there is not something in the nature of commercial
colonies, which renders them an unfit object of taxation; when port
duties, so large a fund of revenue in all countries, are by himself
found, in this case, not only improper, but destructive. However, he has
here pretty well narrowed the field of taxation. Stamp Act, hardly to be
resumed. Port duties, mischievous. Excises, I believe, he will scarcely
think worth the collection (if any revenue should be so) in America.
Land-tax (notwithstanding his opinion of its immense use to agriculture)
he will not directly propose, before he has thought again and again on
the subject. Indeed he very readily recommends it for Ireland, and
seems to think it not improper for America; because, he observes, they
already raise most of their taxes internally, including this tax. A most
curious reason, truly! because their lands are already heavily burdened,
he thinks it right to burden them still further. But he will recollect,
for surely he cannot be ignorant of it, that the lands of America are
not, as in England, let at a rent certain in money, and therefore
cannot, as here, be taxed at a certain pound rate. They value them in
gross among themselves; and none but themselves in their several
districts can value them. Without their hearty concurrence and
co-operation, it is evident, we cannot advance a step in the assessing
or collecting any land-tax. As to the taxes which in some places the
Americans pay by the acre, they are merely duties of regulation; they
are small; and to increase them, notwithstanding the secret virtues of a
land-tax, would be the most effectual means of preventing that
cultivation they are intended to promote. Besides, the whole country is
heavily in arrear already for land-taxes and quit-rents. They have
different methods of taxation in the different provinces, agreeable to
their several local circumstances. In New England by far the greatest
part of their revenue is raised by _faculty-taxes_ and _capitations_.
Such is the method in many others. It is obvious that Parliament,
unassisted by the colonies themselves, cannot take so much as a single
step in this mode of taxation. Then what tax is it he will impose? Why,
after all the boasting speeches and writings of his faction for these
four years, after all the vain expectations which they have held out to
a deluded public, this their great advocate, after twisting the subject
every way, after writhing himself in every posture, after knocking at
every door, is obliged fairly to abandon every mode of taxation
whatsoever in America.[84] He thinks it the best method for Parliament
to impose the sum, and reserve the account to itself, leaving the mode
of taxation to the colonies. But how and in what proportion? what does
the author say? O, not a single syllable on this the most material part
of the whole question! Will he, in Parliament, undertake to settle the
proportions of such payments from Nova Scotia to Nevis, in no fewer than
six-and-twenty different countries, varying in almost every possible
circumstance one from another? If he does, I tell him, he adjourns his
revenue to a very long day. If he leaves it to themselves to settle
these proportions, he adjourns it to doomsday.

Then what does he get by this method on the side of acquiescence? will
the people of America relish this course, of giving and granting and
applying their money, the better because their assemblies are made
commissioners of the taxes? This is far worse than all his former
projects; for here, if the assemblies shall refuse, or delay, or be
negligent, or fraudulent, in this new-imposed duty, we are wholly
without remedy; and neither our custom-house officers, nor our troops,
nor our armed ships can be of the least use in the collection. No idea
can be more contemptible (I will not call it an oppressive one, the
harshness is lost in the folly) than that of proposing to get any
revenue from the Americans but by their freest and most cheerful
consent. Most moneyed men know their own interest right well; and are as
able as any financier, in the valuation of risks. Yet I think this
financier will scarcely find that adventurer hardy enough, at any
premium, to advance a shilling upon a vote of such taxes. Let him name
the man, or set of men, that would do it. This is the only proof of the
value of revenues; what would an interested man rate them at? His
subscription would be at ninety-nine per cent discount the very first
day of its opening. Here is our only national security from ruin; a
security upon which no man in his senses would venture a shilling of his
fortune. Yet he puts down those articles as gravely in his supply for
the peace establishment, as if the money had been all fairly lodged in
the exchequer.

          American revenue                      L200,000
          Ireland                                100,000

Very handsome indeed! But if supply is to be got in such a manner,
farewell the lucrative mystery of finance! If you are to be credited for
savings, without showing how, why, or with what safety, they are to be
made; and for revenues, without specifying on what articles, or by what
means, or at what expense, they are to be collected; there is not a
clerk in a public office who may not outbid this author, or his friend,
for the department of chancellor of the exchequer; not an apprentice in
the city, that will not strike out, with the same advantages, the same,
or a much larger plan of supply.

Here is the whole of what belongs to the author's scheme for saving us
from impending destruction. Take it even in its most favorable point of
view, as a thing within possibility; and imagine what must be the wisdom
of this gentleman, or his opinion of ours, who could first think of
representing this nation in such a state, as no friend can look upon but
with horror, and scarcely an enemy without compassion, and afterwards
of diverting himself with such inadequate, impracticable, puerile
methods for our relief! If these had been the dreams of some unknown,
unnamed, and nameless writer, they would excite no alarm; their weakness
had been an antidote to their malignity. But as they are universally
believed to be written by the hand, or, what amounts to the same thing,
under the immediate direction, of a person who has been in the
management of the highest affairs, and may soon be in the same
situation, I think it is not to be reckoned amongst our greatest
consolations, that the yet remaining power of this kingdom is to be
employed in an attempt to realize notions that are at once so frivolous,
and so full of danger. That consideration will justify me in dwelling a
little longer on the difficulties of the nation, and the solutions of
our author.

I am then persuaded that he cannot be in the least alarmed about our
situation, let his outcry be what he pleases. I will give him a reason
for my opinion, which, I think, he cannot dispute. All that he bestows
upon the nation, which it does not possess without him, and supposing it
all sure money, amounts to no more than a sum of 300,000_l._ a year.
This, he thinks, will do the business completely, and render us
flourishing at home, and respectable abroad. If the option between glory
and shame, if our salvation or destruction, depended on this sum, it is
impossible that he should have been active, and made a merit of that
activity, in taking off a shilling in the pound of the land-tax, which
came up to his grand desideratum, and upwards of 100,000_l._ more. By
this manoeuvre, he left our trade, navigation, and manufactures, on the
verge of destruction, our finances in ruin, our credit expiring, Ireland
on the point of being ceded to France, the colonies of being torn to
pieces, the succession of the crown at the mercy of our great rival, and
the kingdom itself on the very point of becoming tributary to that
haughty power. All this for want of 300,000_l._; for I defy the reader
to point out any other revenue, or any other precise and defined scheme
of politics, which he assigns for our redemption.

I know that two things may be said in his defence, as bad reasons are
always at hand in an indifferent cause; that he was not sure the money
would be applied as he thinks it ought to be, by the present ministers.
I think as ill of them as he does to the full. They have done very near
as much mischief as they can do, to a constitution so robust as this is.
Nothing can make them more dangerous, but that, as they are already in
general composed of his disciples and instruments, they may add to the
public calamity of their own measures, the adoption of his projects. But
be the ministers what they may, the author knows that they could not
avoid applying this 450,000_l._ to the service of the establishment, as
faithfully as he, or any other minister, could do. I say they could not
avoid it, and have no merit at all for the application. But supposing
that they should greatly mismanage this revenue. Here is a good deal of
room for mistake and prodigality before you come to the edge of ruin.
The difference between the amount of that real and his imaginary revenue
is, 150,000_l._ a year at least; a tolerable sum for them to play with:
this might compensate the difference between the author's economy and
their profusion; and still, notwithstanding their vices and ignorance,
the nation might he saved. The author ought also to recollect, that a
good man would hardly deny, even to the worst of ministers, the means of
doing their duty; especially in a crisis when our being depended on
supplying them with some means or other. In such a case their penury of
mind, in discovering resources, would make it rather the more necessary,
not to strip such poor providers of the little stock they had in hand.

Besides, here is another subject of distress, and a very serious one,
which puts us again to a stand. The author may possibly not come into
power (I only state the possibility): he may not always continue in it:
and if the contrary to all this should fortunately for us happen, what
insurance on his life can be made for a sum adequate to his loss? Then
we are thus unluckily situated, that the _chance_ of an American and
Irish revenue of 300,000_l._ to be managed by him, is to save us from
ruin two or three years hence at best, to make us happy at home and
glorious abroad; and the actual possession of 400,000_l._ English taxes
cannot so much as protract our ruin without him. So we are staked on
four chances; his power, its permanence, the success of his projects,
and the duration of his life. Any one of these failing, we are gone.
_Propria haec si dona fuissent!_ This is no unfair representation;
ultimately all hangs on his life, because, in his account of every set
of men that have held or supported administration, he finds neither
virtue nor ability in any but himself. Indeed he pays (through their
measures) some compliments to Lord Bute and Lord Despenser. But to the
latter, this is, I suppose, but a civility to old acquaintance: to the
former, a little stroke of politics. We may therefore fairly say, that
our only hope is his life; and he has, to make it the more so, taken
care to cut off any resource which we possessed independently of him.

In the next place it may be said, to excuse any appearance of
inconsistency between the author's actions and his declarations, that he
thought it right to relieve the landed interest, and lay the burden
where it ought to lie, on the colonies. What! to take off a revenue so
necessary to our being, before anything whatsoever was acquired in the
place of it? In prudence, he ought to have waited at least for the first
quarter's receipt of the new anonymous American revenue, and Irish
land-tax. Is there something so specific for our disorders in American,
and something so poisonous in English money, that one is to heal, the
other to destroy us? To say that the landed interest _could_ not
continue to pay it for a year or two longer, is more than the author
will attempt to prove. To say that they _would_ pay it no longer, is to
treat the landed interest, in my opinion, very scurvily. To suppose that
the gentry, clergy, and freeholders of England do not rate the commerce,
the credit, the religion, the liberty, the independency of their
country, and the succession of their crown, at a shilling in the pound
land-tax! They never gave him reason to think so meanly of them. And, if
I am rightly informed, when that measure was debated in Parliament, a
very different reason was assigned by the author's great friend, as well
as by others, for that reduction: one very different from the critical
and almost desperate state of our finances. Some people then endeavored
to prove, that the reduction might be made without detriment to the
national credit, or the due support of a proper peace establishment;
otherwise it is obvious that the reduction could not be defended in
argument. So that this author cannot despair so much of the
commonwealth, without this American and Irish revenue, as he pretends to
do. If he does, the reader sees how handsomely he has provided for us,
by voting away one revenue, and by giving us a pamphlet on the other.

I do not mean to blame the relief which was then given by Parliament to
the land. It was grounded on very weighty reasons. The administration
contended only for its continuance for a year, in order to have the
merit of taking off the shilling in the pound immediately before the
elections; and thus to bribe the freeholders of England with their own
money.

It is true, the author, in his estimate of ways and means, takes credit
for 400,000_l._ a year, _Indian Revenue_. But he will not very
positively insist, that we should put this revenue to the account of his
plans or his power; and for a very plain reason: we are already near two
years in possession of it. By what means we came to that possession, is
a pretty long story; however, I shall give nothing more than a short
abstract of the proceeding, in order to see whether the author will take
to himself any part in that measure.

The fact is this; the East India Company had for a good while solicited
the ministry for a negotiation, by which they proposed to pay largely
for some advantages in their trade, and for the renewal of their
charter. This had been the former method of transacting with that body.
Government having only leased the monopoly for short terms, the Company
has been obliged to resort to it frequently for renewals. These two
parties had always negotiated (on the true principle of credit) not as
government and subject, but as equal dealers, on the footing of mutual
advantage. The public had derived great benefit from such dealing. But
at that time new ideas prevailed. The ministry, instead of listening to
the proposals of that Company, chose to set up a claim of the crown to
their possessions. The original plan seems to have been, to get the
House of Commons to compliment the crown with a sort of juridical
declaration of a title to the Company's acquisitions in India; which the
crown on its part, with the best air in the world, was to bestow upon
the public. Then it would come to the turn of the House of Commons again
to be liberal and grateful to the crown. The civil list debts were to be
paid off; with perhaps a pretty augmentation of income. All this was to
be done on the most public-spirited principles, and with a politeness
and mutual interchange of good offices, that could not but have charmed.
But what was best of all, these civilities were to be without a farthing
of charge to either of the kind and obliging parties. The East India
Company was to be covered with infamy and disgrace, and at the same time
was to pay the whole bill.

In consequence of this scheme, the terrors of a parliamentary inquiry
were hung over them. A judicature was asserted in Parliament to try this
question. But lest this judicial character should chance to inspire
certain stubborn ideas of law and right, it was argued, that the
judicature was arbitrary, and ought not to determine by the rules of
law, but by their opinion of policy and expediency. Nothing exceeded the
violence of some of the managers, except their impotence. They were
bewildered by their passions, and by their want of knowledge or want of
consideration of the subject. The more they advanced, the further they
found themselves from their object.--All things ran into confusion. The
ministers quarrelled among themselves. They disclaimed one another. They
suspended violence, and shrunk from treaty. The inquiry was almost at
its last gasp; when some active persons of the Company were given to
understand that this hostile proceeding was only set up _in terrorem_;
that government was far from an intention of seizing upon the
possessions of the Company. Administration, they said, was sensible,
that the idea was in every light full of absurdity; and that such a
seizure was not more out of their power, than remote from their wishes;
and therefore, if the Company would come in a liberal manner to the
House, they certainly could not fail of putting a speedy end to this
disagreeable business, and of opening a way to an advantageous treaty.

On this hint the Company acted: they came at once to a resolution of
getting rid of the difficulties which arose from the complication of
their trade with their revenue; a step which despoiled them of their
best defensive armor, and put them at once into the power of
administration. They threw their whole stock of every kind, the revenue,
the trade, and even their debt from government, into one fund, which
they computed on the surest grounds would amount to 800,000_l._, with a
large probable surplus for the payment of debt. Then they agreed to
divide this sum in equal portions between themselves and the public,
400,000_l._ to each. This gave to the proprietors of that fund an annual
augmentation of no more than 80,000_l._ dividend. They ought to receive
from government 120,000_l._ for the loan of their capital. So that, in
fact, the whole, which on this plan they reserved to themselves, from
their vast revenues, from their extensive trade, and in consideration of
the great risks and mighty expenses which purchased these advantages,
amounted to no more than 280,000_l._, whilst government was to receive,
as I said, 400,000_l._

This proposal was thought by themselves liberal indeed; and they
expected the highest applauses for it. However, their reception was very
different from their expectations. When they brought up their plan to
the House of Commons, the offer, as it was natural, of 400,000_l._ was
very well relished. But nothing could be more disgustful than the
80,000_l._ which the Company had divided amongst themselves. A violent
tempest of public indignation and fury rose against them. The heads of
people turned. The Company was held well able to pay 400,000_l._ a year
to government; but bankrupts, if they attempted to divide the fifth part
of it among themselves. An _ex post facto_ law was brought in with great
precipitation, for annulling this dividend. In the bill was inserted a
clause, which suspended for about a year the right, which, under the
public faith, the Company enjoyed, of making their own dividends. Such
was the disposition and temper of the House, that although the plain
face of facts, reason, arithmetic, all the authority, parts, and
eloquence in the kingdom, were against this bill; though all the
Chancellors of the Exchequer, who had held that office from the
beginning of this reign, opposed it; yet a few placemen of the
subordinate departments sprung out of their ranks, took the lead, and,
by an opinion _of some sort of secret support_, carried the bill with a
high hand, leaving the then Secretary of State and the Chancellor of the
Exchequer in a very moderate minority. In this distracted situation, the
managers of the bill, notwithstanding their triumph, did not venture to
propose the payment of the civil list debt. The Chancellor of the
Exchequer was not in good humor enough, after his late defeat by his own
troops, to co-operate in such a design; so they made an act, to lock up
the money in the exchequer until they should have time to look about
them, and settle among themselves what they were to do with it.

Thus ended this unparalleled transaction. The author, I believe, will
not claim any part of the glory of it: he will leave it whole and entire
to the authors of the measure. The money was the voluntary, free gift of
the Company; the rescinding bill was the act of legislature, to which
they and we owe submission: the author has nothing to do with the one or
with the other. However, he cannot avoid rubbing himself against this
subject merely for the pleasure of stirring controversies, and
gratifying a certain pruriency of taxation that seems to infect his
blood. It is merely to indulge himself in speculations of taxing, that
he chooses to harangue on this subject. For he takes credit for no
greater sum than the public is already in possession of. He does not
hint that the Company means, or has ever shown any disposition, if
managed with common prudence, to pay less in future; and he cannot doubt
that the present ministry are as well inclined to drive them by their
mock inquiries, and real rescinding bills, as he can possibly be with
his taxes. Besides, it is obvious, that as great a sum might have been
drawn from that Company, without affecting property, or shaking the
constitution, or endangering the principle of public credit, or running
into his golden dreams of cockets on the Ganges, or visions of
stamp-duties on _Perwannas_, _Dusticks_, _Kistbundees_, and
_Husbulhookums_. For once, I will disappoint him in this part of the
dispute; and only in a very few words recommend to his consideration,
how he is to get off the dangerous idea of taxing a public fund, if he
levies those duties in England; and if he is to levy them in India, what
provision he has made for a revenue establishment there; supposing that
he undertakes this new scheme of finance independently of the Company,
and against its inclinations.

So much for these revenues; which are nothing but his visions, or
already the national possessions without any act of his. It is easy to
parade with a high talk of Parliamentary rights, of the universality of
legislative powers, and of uniform taxation. Men of sense, when new
projects come before them, always think a discourse proving the mere
right or mere power of acting in the manner proposed, to be no more than
a very unpleasant way of misspending time. They must see the object to
be of proper magnitude to engage them; they must see the means of
compassing it to be next to certain; the mischiefs not to counterbalance
the profit; they will examine how a proposed imposition or regulation
agrees with the opinion of those who are likely to be affected by it;
they will not despise the consideration even of their habitudes and
prejudices. They wish to know how it accords or disagrees with the true
spirit of prior establishments, whether of government or of finance;
because they well know, that in the complicated economy of great
kingdoms, and immense revenues, which in a length of time, and by a
variety of accidents have coalesced into a sort of body, an attempt
towards a compulsory equality in all circumstances, and an exact
practical definition of the supreme rights in every case, is the most
dangerous and chimerical of all enterprises. The old building stands
well enough, though part Gothic, part Grecian, and part Chinese, until
an attempt is made to square it into uniformity. Then it may come down
upon our heads altogether, in much uniformity of ruin; and great will be
the fall thereof. Some people, instead of inclining to debate the
matter, only feel a sort of nausea, when they are told, that "protection
calls for supply," and that "all the parts ought to contribute to the
support of the whole." Strange argument for great and grave
deliberation! As if the same end may not, and must not, be compassed,
according to its circumstances, by a great diversity of ways. Thus, in
Great Britain, some of our establishments are apt for the support of
credit. They stand therefore upon a principle of their own, distinct
from, and in some respects contrary to, the relation between prince and
subject. It is a new species of contract superinduced upon the old
contract of the state. The idea of power must as much as possible be
banished from it; for power and credit are things adverse, incompatible;
_Non bene conveniunt, nec in una sede morantur_. Such establishments are
our great _moneyed_ companies. To tax them would be critical and
dangerous, and contradictory to the very purpose of their institution;
which is credit, and cannot therefore be taxation. But the nation, when
it gave up that power, did not give up the advantage; but supposed, and
with reason, that government was overpaid in credit, for what it seemed
to lose in authority. In such a case to talk of the rights of
sovereignty is quite idle. Other establishments supply other modes of
public contribution. Our _trading_ companies, as well as individual
importers, are a fit subject of revenue by customs. Some establishments
pay us by a _monopoly_ of their consumption and their produce. This,
nominally no tax, in reality comprehends all taxes. Such establishments
are our colonies. To tax them would be as erroneous in policy, as
rigorous in equity. Ireland supplies us by furnishing troops in war; and
by bearing part of our foreign establishment in peace. She aids us at
all times by the money that her absentees spend amongst us; which is no
small part of the rental of that kingdom. Thus Ireland contributes her
part. Some objects bear port-duties. Some are fitter for an inland
excise. The mode varies, the object is the same. To strain these from
their old and inveterate leanings, might impair the old benefit, and not
answer the end of the new project. Among all the great men of antiquity,
_Procrustes_ shall never be my hero of legislation; with his iron bed,
the allegory of his government, and the type of some modern policy, by
which the long limb was to be cut short, and the short tortured into
length. Such was the state-bed of uniformity! He would, I conceive, be a
very indifferent farmer, who complained that his sheep did not plough,
or his horses yield him wool, though it would be an idea full of
equality. They may think this right in rustic economy, who think it
available in the politic:

    Qui Bavium non odit, amet tua carimna, Maevi!
    Atque idem jungat vulpes, et mulgeat hircos.


As the author has stated this Indian taxation for no visible purpose
relative to his plan of supply, so he has stated many other projects
with as little, if any distinct end; unless perhaps to show you how full
he is of projects for the public good; and what vast expectations may be
formed of him or his friends, if they should be translated into
administration. It is also from some opinion that these speculations may
one day become our public measures, that I think it worth while to
trouble the reader at all about them.

Two of them stand out in high relievo beyond the rest. The first is a
change in the internal representation of this country, by enlarging our
number of constituents. The second is an addition to our
representatives, by new American members of Parliament. I pass over here
all considerations how far such a system will be an improvement of our
constitution according to any sound theory. Not that I mean to condemn
such speculative inquiries concerning this great object of the national
attention. They may tend to clear doubtful points, and possibly may
lead, as they have often done, to real improvements. What I object to,
is their introduction into a discourse relating to the immediate state
of our affairs, and recommending plans of practical government. In this
view, I see nothing in them but what is usual with the author; an
attempt to raise discontent in the people of England, to balance those
discontents which the measures of his friends had already raised in
America. What other reason can he have for suggesting, that we are not
happy enough to enjoy a sufficient number of voters in England? I
believe that most sober thinkers on this subject are rather of opinion,
that our fault is on the other side; and that it would be more in the
spirit of our constitution, and more agreeable to the pattern of our
best laws, by lessening the number, to add to the weight and
independency of our voters. And truly, considering the immense and
dangerous charge of elections; the prostitute and daring venality, the
corruption of manners, the idleness and profligacy of the lower sort of
voters, no prudent man would propose to increase such an evil, if it be,
as I fear it is, out of our power to administer to it any remedy. The
author proposes nothing further. If he has any improvements that may
balance or may lessen this inconvenience, he has thought proper to keep
them as usual in his own breast. Since he has been so reserved, I should
have wished he had been as cautious with regard to the project itself.
First, because he observes justly, that his scheme, however it might
improve the platform, can add nothing to the authority of the
legislature; much I fear, it will have a contrary operation; for,
authority depending on opinion at least as much as on duty, an idea
circulated among the people that our constitution is not so perfect as
it ought to be, before you are sure of mending it, is a certain method
of lessening it in the public opinion. Of this irreverent opinion of
Parliament, the author himself complains in one part of his book; and he
endeavors to increase it in the other.

Has he well considered what an immense operation any change in our
constitution is? how many discussions, parties, and passions, it will
necessarily excite; and when you open it to inquiry in one part, where
the inquiry will stop? Experience shows us, that no time can be fit for
such changes but a time of general confusion; when good men, finding
everything already broken up, think it right to take advantage of the
opportunity of such derangement in favor of an useful alteration.
Perhaps a time of the greatest security and tranquillity both at home
and abroad may likewise be fit; but will the author affirm this to be
just such a time? Transferring an idea of military to civil prudence, he
ought to know how dangerous it is to make an alteration of your
disposition in the face of an enemy.

Now comes his American representation. Here too, as usual, he takes no
notice of any difficulty, nor says anything to obviate those objections
that must naturally arise in the minds of his readers. He throws you his
politics as he does his revenue; do you make something of them if you
can. Is not the reader a little astonished at the proposal of an
American representation from that quarter? It is proposed merely as a
project[85] of speculative improvement; not from the necessity in the
case, not to add anything to the authority of Parliament, but that we
may afford a greater attention to the concerns of the Americans, and
give them a better opportunity of stating their grievances, and of
obtaining redress. I am glad to find the author has at length discovered
that we have not given a sufficient attention to their concerns, or a
proper redress to their grievances. His great friend would once have
been exceedingly displeased with any person, who should tell him, that
he did not attend sufficiently to those concerns. He thought he did so,
when he regulated the colonies over and over again: he thought he did so
when he formed two general systems of revenue; one of port-duties, and
the other of internal taxation. These systems supposed, or ought to
suppose, the greatest attention to and the most detailed information
of, all their affairs. However, by contending for the American
representation, he seems at last driven virtually to admit, that great
caution ought to be used in the exercise of _all_ our legislative rights
over an object so remote from our eye, and so little connected with our
immediate feelings; that in prudence we ought not to be quite so ready
with our taxes, until we can secure the desired representation in
Parliament. Perhaps it may be some time before this hopeful scheme can
be brought to perfect maturity, although the author seems to be in no
wise aware of any obstructions that lie in the way of it. He talks of
his union, just as he does of his taxes and his savings, with as much
_sang froid_ and ease as if his wish and the enjoyment were exactly the
same thing. He appears not to have troubled his head with the infinite
difficulty of settling that representation on a fair balance of wealth
and numbers throughout the several provinces of America and the West
Indies, under such an infinite variety of circumstances. It costs him
nothing to fight with nature, and to conquer the order of Providence,
which manifestly opposes itself to the possibility of such a
Parliamentary union.

But let us, to indulge his passion for projects and power, suppose the
happy time arrived, when the author comes into the ministry, and is to
realize his speculations. The writs are issued for electing members for
America and the West Indies. Some provinces receive them in six weeks,
some in ten, some in twenty. A vessel may be lost, and then some
provinces may not receive them at all. But let it be, that they all
receive them at once, and in the shortest time. A proper space must be
given for proclamation and for the election; some weeks at least. But
the members are chosen; and if ships are ready to sail, in about six
more they arrive in London. In the mean time the Parliament has sat and
business far advanced without American representatives. Nay, by this
time, it may happen that the Parliament is dissolved; and then the
members ship themselves again, to be again elected. The writs may arrive
in America, before the poor members of a Parliament in which they never
sat, can arrive at their several provinces. A new interest is formed,
and they find other members are chosen whilst they are on the high seas.
But, if the writs and members arrive together, here is at best a new
trial of skill amongst the candidates, after one set of them have well
aired themselves with their two voyages of 6000 miles.

However, in order to facilitate everything to the author, we will
suppose them all once more elected, and steering again to Old England,
with a good heart, and a fair westerly wind in their stern. On their
arrival, they find all in a hurry and bustle; in and out; condolence and
congratulation; the crown is demised. Another Parliament is to be
called. Away back to America again on a fourth voyage, and to a third
election. Does the author mean to make our kings as immortal in their
personal as in their politic character? or whilst he bountifully adds to
their life, will he take from them their prerogative of dissolving
Parliaments, in favor of the American union? or are the American
representatives to be perpetual, and to feel neither demises of the
crown, nor dissolutions of Parliament?

But these things may be granted to him, without bringing him much nearer
to his point. What does he think of re-election? is the American member
the only one who is not to take a place, or the only one to be exempted
from the ceremony of re-election? How will this great politician
preserve the rights of electors, the fairness of returns, and the
privilege of the House of Commons, as the sole judge of such contests?
It would undoubtedly be a glorious sight to have eight or ten petitions,
or double returns, from Boston and Barbadoes, from Philadelphia and
Jamaica, the members returned, and the petitioners, with all their train
of attorneys, solicitors, mayors, selectmen, provost-marshals, and above
five hundred or a thousand witnesses, come to the bar of the House of
Commons. Possibly we might be interrupted in the enjoyment of this
pleasing spectacle, if a war should break out, and our constitutional
fleet, loaded with members of Parliament, returning-officers, petitions,
and witnesses, the electors and elected, should become a prize to the
French or Spaniards, and be conveyed to Carthagena, or to La Vera Cruz,
and from thence perhaps to Mexico or Lima, there to remain until a
cartel for members of Parliament can be settled, or until the war is
ended.

In truth the author has little studied this business; or he might have
known, that some of the most considerable provinces of America, such,
for instance, as Connecticut and Massachusetts Bay, have not in each of
them two men who can afford, at a distance from their estates, to spend
a thousand pounds a year. How can these provinces be represented at
Westminster? If their province pays them, they are American agents, with
salaries, and not independent members of Parliament. It is true, that
formerly in England members had salaries from their constituents; but
they all had salaries, and were all, in this way, upon a par. If these
American representatives have no salaries, then they must add to the
list of our pensioners and dependents at court, or they must starve.
There is no alternative.

Enough of this visionary union; in which much extravagance appears
without any fancy, and the judgment is shocked without anything to
refresh the imagination. It looks as if the author had dropped down from
the moon, without any knowledge of the general nature of this globe, of
the general nature of its inhabitants, without the least acquaintance
with the affairs of this country. Governor Pownall has handled the same
subject. To do him justice, he treats it upon far more rational
principles of speculation; and much more like a man of business. He
thinks (erroneously, I conceive; but he does think) that our legislative
rights are incomplete without such a representation. It is no wonder,
therefore, that he endeavors by every means to obtain it. Not like our
author, who is always on velvet, he is aware of some difficulties; and
he proposes some solutions. But nature is too hard for both these
authors; and America is, and ever will be, without actual representation
in the House of Commons; nor will any minister be wild enough even to
propose such a representation in Parliament; however he may choose to
throw out that project, together with others equally far from his real
opinions, and remote from his designs, merely to fall in with the
different views, and captivate the affections, of different sorts of
men.

Whether these projects arise from the author's real political
principles, or are only brought out in subservience to his political
views, they compose the whole of anything that is like precise and
definite, which the author has given us to expect from that
administration which is so much the subject of his praises and prayers.
As to his general propositions, that "there is a deal of difference
between impossibilities and great difficulties"; that "a great scheme
cannot be carried unless made the business of successive
administrations"; that "virtuous and able men are the fittest to serve
their country"; all this I look on as no more than so much rubble to
fill up the spaces between the regular masonry. Pretty much in the same
light I cannot forbear considering his detached observations on
commerce; such as, that "the system for colony regulations would be very
simple, and mutually beneficial to Great Britain and her colonies, if
the old navigation laws were adhered to."[86] That "the transportation
should be in all cases in ships belonging to British subjects." That
"even British ships should not be _generally_ received into the colonies
from any part of Europe, except the dominions of Great Britain." That
"it is unreasonable that corn and such like products should be
restrained to come first to a British port." What do all these fine
observations signify? Some of them condemn, as ill practices, things
that were never practised at all. Some recommend to be done, things that
always have been done. Others indeed convey, though obliquely and
loosely, some insinuations highly dangerous to our commerce. If I could
prevail on myself to think the author meant to ground any practice upon
these general propositions, I should think it very necessary to ask a
few questions about some of them. For instance, what does he mean by
talking of an adherence to the old navigation laws? Does he mean, that
the particular law, 12 Car. II. c. 19, commonly called "The Act of
Navigation," is to be adhered to, and that the several subsequent
additions, amendments, and exceptions, ought to be all repealed? If so,
he will make a strange havoc in the whole system of our trade laws,
which have been universally acknowledged to be full as well founded in
the alterations and exceptions, as the act of Charles the Second in the
original provisions; and to pursue full as wisely the great end of that
very politic law, the increase of the British navigation. I fancy the
writer could hardly propose anything more alarming to those immediately
interested in that navigation than such a repeal. If he does not mean
this, he has got no farther than a nugatory proposition, which nobody
can contradict, and for which no man is the wiser.

That "the regulations for the colony trade would be few and simple if
the old navigation laws were adhered to," I utterly deny as a fact. That
they ought to be so, sounds well enough; but this proposition is of the
same nugatory nature with some of the former. The regulations for the
colony trade ought not to be more nor fewer, nor more nor less complex,
than the occasion requires. And, as that trade is in a great measure a
system of art and restriction, they can neither be few nor simple. It is
true, that the very principle may be destroyed, by multiplying to excess
the means of securing it. Never did a minister depart more from the
author's ideas of simplicity, or more embarrass the trade of America
with the multiplicity and intricacy of regulations and ordinances, than
his boasted minister of 1764. That minister seemed to be possessed with
something, hardly short of a rage, for regulation and restriction. He
had so multiplied bonds, certificates, affidavits, warrants,
sufferances, and cockets; had supported them with such severe penalties,
and extended them without the least consideration of circumstances to so
many objects, that, had they all continued in their original force,
commerce must speedily have expired under them. Some of them, the
ministry which gave them birth was obliged to destroy: with their own
hand they signed the condemnation of their own regulations; confessing
in so many words, in the preamble of their act of the 5th Geo. III.,
that some of these regulations had laid _an unnecessary restraint on the
trade and correspondence of his Majesty's American subjects_. This, in
that ministry, was a candid confession of a mistake; but every
alteration made in those regulations by their successors is to be the
effect of envy, and American misrepresentation. So much for the author's
simplicity in regulation.

I have now gone through all which I think immediately essential in the
author's idea of war, of peace, of the comparative states of England and
France, of our actual situation; in his projects of economy, of finance,
of commerce, and of constitutional improvement. There remains nothing
now to be considered, except his heavy censures upon the administration
which was formed in 1765; which is commonly known by the name of the
Marquis of Rockingham's administration, as the administration which
preceded it is by that of Mr. Grenville. These censures relate chiefly
to three heads:--1. To the repeal of the American Stamp Act. 2. To the
commercial regulations then made. 3. To the course of foreign
negotiations during that short period.

A person who knew nothing of public affairs but from the writings of
this author, would be led to conclude, that, at the time of the change
in June, 1765, some well-digested system of administration, founded in
national strength, and in the affections of the people, proceeding in
all points with the most reverential and tender regard to the laws, and
pursuing with equal wisdom and success everything which could tend to
the internal prosperity, and to the external honor and dignity of this
country, had been all at once subverted, by an irruption of a sort of
wild, licentious, unprincipled invaders, who wantonly, and with a
barbarous rage, had defaced a thousand fair monuments of the
constitutional and political skill of their predecessors. It is natural
indeed that this author should have some dislike to the administration
which was formed in 1765. Its views, in most things, were different from
those of his friends; in some, altogether opposite to them. It is
impossible that both of these administrations should be the objects of
public esteem. Their different principles compose some of the strongest
political lines which discriminate the parties even now subsisting
amongst us. The ministers of 1764 are not indeed followed by very many
in their opposition; yet a large part of the people now in office
entertain, or pretend to entertain, sentiments entirely conformable to
theirs; whilst some of the former colleagues of the ministry which was
formed in 1765, however they may have abandoned the connection, and
contradicted by their conduct the principles of their former friends,
pretend, on their parts, still to adhere to the same maxims. All the
lesser divisions, which are indeed rather names of personal attachment
than of party distinction, fall in with the one or the other of these
leading parties.

I intend to state, as shortly as I am able, the general condition of
public affairs, and the disposition of the minds of men, at the time of
the remarkable change of system in 1765. The reader will have thereby a
more distinct view of the comparative merits of these several plans, and
will receive more satisfaction concerning the ground and reason of the
measures which were then pursued, than, I believe, can be derived from
the perusal of those partial representations contained in the "State of
the Nation," and the other writings of those who have continued, for now
nearly three years, in the undisturbed possession of the press. This
will, I hope, be some apology for my dwelling a little on this part of
the subject.

On the resignation of the Earl of Bute, in 1763, our affairs had been
delivered into the hands of three ministers of his recommendation: Mr.
Grenville, the Earl of Egremont, and the Earl of Halifax. This
arrangement, notwithstanding the retirement of Lord Bute, announced to
the public a continuance of the same measures; nor was there more reason
to expect a change from the death of the Earl of Egremont. The Earl of
Sandwich supplied his place. The Duke of Bedford, and the gentlemen who
act in that connection, and whose general character and politics were
sufficiently understood, added to the strength of the ministry, without
making any alteration in their plan of conduct. Such was the
constitution of the ministry which was changed in 1765.

As to their politics, the principles of the peace of Paris governed in
foreign affairs. In domestic, the same scheme prevailed, of
contradicting the opinions, and disgracing most of the persons, who had
been countenanced and employed in the late reign. The inclinations of
the people were little attended to; and a disposition to the use of
forcible methods ran through the whole tenor of administration. The
nation in general was uneasy and dissatisfied. Sober men saw causes for
it, in the constitution of the ministry and the conduct of the
ministers. The ministers, who have usually a short method on such
occasions, attributed their unpopularity wholly to the efforts of
faction. However this might be, the licentiousness and tumults of the
common people, and the contempt of government, of which our author so
often and so bitterly complains, as owing to the mismanagement of the
subsequent administrations, had at no time risen to a greater or more
dangerous height. The measures taken to suppress that spirit were as
violent and licentious as the spirit itself; injudicious, precipitate,
and some of them illegal. Instead of allaying, they tended infinitely to
inflame the distemper; and whoever will be at the least pains to
examine, will find those measures not only the causes of the tumults
which then prevailed, but the real sources of almost all the disorders
which have arisen since that time. More intent on making a victim to
party than an example of justice, they blundered in the method of
pursuing their vengeance. By this means a discovery was made of many
practices, common indeed in the office of Secretary of State, but wholly
repugnant to our laws, and to the genius of the English constitution.
One of the worst of these was, the wanton and indiscriminate seizure of
papers, even in cases where the safety of the state was not pretended in
justification of so harsh a proceeding. The temper of the ministry had
excited a jealousy, which made the people more than commonly vigilant
concerning every power which was exercised by government. The abuse,
however sanctioned by custom, was evident; but the ministry, instead of
resting in a prudent inactivity, or (what would have been still more
prudent) taking the lead, in quieting the minds of the people, and
ascertaining the law upon those delicate points, made use of the whole
influence of government to prevent a Parliamentary resolution against
these practices of office. And lest the colorable reasons, offered in
argument against this Parliamentary procedure, should be mistaken for
the real motives of their conduct, all the advantage of privilege, all
the arts and finesses of pleading, and great sums of public money were
lavished, to prevent any decision upon those practices in the courts of
justice. In the mean time, in order to weaken, since they could not
immediately destroy, the liberty of the press, the privilege of
Parliament was voted away in all accusations for a seditious libel. The
freedom of debate in Parliament itself was no less menaced. Officers of
the army, of long and meritorious service, and of small fortunes, were
chosen as victims for a single vote, by an exertion of ministerial
power, which had been very rarely used, and which is extremely unjust,
as depriving men not only of a place, but a profession, and is indeed of
the most pernicious example both in a civil and a military light.

Whilst all things were managed at home with such a spirit of disorderly
despotism, abroad there was a proportionable abatement of all spirit.
Some of our most just and valuable claims were in a manner abandoned.
This indeed seemed not very inconsistent conduct in the ministers who
had made the treaty of Paris. With regard to our domestic affairs, there
was no want of industry; but there was a great deficiency of temper and
judgment, and manly comprehension of the public interest. The nation
certainly wanted relief, and government attempted to administer it. Two
ways were principally chosen for this great purpose. The first by
regulations; the second by new funds of revenue. Agreeably to this plan,
a new naval establishment was formed at a good deal of expense, and to
little effect, to aid in the collection of the customs. Regulation was
added to regulation; and the strictest and most unreserved orders were
given, for a prevention of all contraband trade here, and in every part
of America. A teasing custom-house, and a multiplicity of perplexing
regulations, ever have, and ever will appear, the masterpiece of finance
to people of narrow views; as a paper against smuggling, and the
importation of French finery, never fails of furnishing a very popular
column in a newspaper.

The greatest part of these regulations were made for America; and they
fell so indiscriminately on all sorts of contraband, or supposed
contraband, that some of the most valuable branches of trade were driven
violently from our ports; which caused an universal consternation
throughout the colonies. Every part of the trade was infinitely
distressed by them. Men-of-war now for the first time, armed with
regular commissions of custom-house officers, invested the coasts, and
gave to the collection of revenue the air of hostile contribution. About
the same time that these regulations seemed to threaten the destruction
of the only trade from whence the plantations derived any specie, an act
was made, putting a stop to the future emission of paper currency, which
used to supply its place among them. Hand in hand with this went
another act, for obliging the colonies to provide quarters for soldiers.
Instantly followed another law, for levying throughout all America new
port duties, upon a vast variety of commodities of their consumption,
and some of which lay heavy upon objects necessary for their trade and
fishery. Immediately upon the heels of these, and amidst the uneasiness
and confusion produced by a crowd of new impositions and regulations,
some good, some evil, some doubtful, all crude and ill-considered, came
another act, for imposing an universal stamp-duty on the colonies; and
this was declared to be little more than an experiment, and a foundation
of future revenue. To render these proceedings the more irritating to
the colonies, the principal argument used in favor of their ability to
pay such duties was the liberality of the grants of their assemblies
during the late war. Never could any argument be more insulting and
mortifying to a people habituated to the granting of their own money.

Taxes for the purpose of raising revenue had hitherto been sparingly
attempted in America. Without ever doubting the extent of its lawful
power, Parliament always doubted the propriety of such impositions. And
the Americans on their part never thought of contesting a right by which
they were so little affected. Their assemblies in the main answered all
the purposes necessary to the internal economy of a free people, and
provided for all the exigencies of government which arose amongst
themselves. In the midst of that happy enjoyment, they never thought of
critically settling the exact limits of a power, which was necessary to
their union, their safety, their equality, and even their liberty. Thus
the two very difficult points, superiority in the presiding state, and
freedom in the subordinate, were on the whole sufficiently, that is,
practically, reconciled; without agitating those vexatious questions,
which in truth rather belong to metaphysics than politics, and which can
never be moved without shaking the foundations of the best governments
that have ever been constituted by human wisdom. By this measure was let
loose that dangerous spirit of disquisition, not in the coolness of
philosophical inquiry, but inflamed with all the passions of a haughty,
resentful people, who thought themselves deeply injured, and that they
were contending for everything that was valuable in the world.

In England, our ministers went on without the least attention to these
alarming dispositions; just as if they were doing the most common things
in the most usual way, and among a people not only passive, but pleased.
They took no one step to divert the dangerous spirit which began even
then to appear in the colonies, to compromise with it, to mollify it, or
to subdue it. No new arrangements were made in civil government; no new
powers or instructions were given to governors; no augmentation was
made, or new disposition, of forces. Never was so critical a measure
pursued with so little provision against its necessary consequences. As
if all common prudence had abandoned the ministers, and as if they meant
to plunge themselves and us headlong into that gulf which stood gaping
before them; by giving a year's notice of the project of their Stamp
Act, they allowed time for all the discontents of that country to fester
and come to a head, and for all the arrangements which factious men
could make towards an opposition to the law. At the same time they
carefully concealed from the eye of Parliament those remonstrances which
they had actually received; and which in the strongest manner indicated
the discontent of some of the colonies, and the consequences which might
be expected; they concealed them even in defiance of an order of
council, that they should be laid before Parliament. Thus, by concealing
the true state of the case, they rendered the wisdom of the nation as
improvident as their own temerity, either in preventing or guarding
against the mischief. It has indeed, from the beginning to this hour,
been the uniform policy of this set of men, in order at any hazard to
obtain a present credit, to propose whatever might be pleasing, as
attended with no difficulty; and afterwards to throw all the
disappointment of the wild expectations they had raised, upon those who
have the hard task of freeing the public from the consequences of their
pernicious projects.

Whilst the commerce and tranquillity of the whole empire were shaken in
this manner, our affairs grew still more distracted by the internal
dissensions of our ministers. Treachery and ingratitude were charged
from one side; despotism and tyranny from the other; the vertigo of the
regency bill; the awkward reception of the silk bill in the House of
Commons, and the inconsiderate and abrupt rejection of it in the House
of Lords; the strange and violent tumults which arose in consequence,
and which were rendered more serious by being charged by the ministers
upon one another; the report of a gross and brutal treatment of the
----, by a minister at the same time odious to the people; all conspired
to leave the public, at the close of the session of 1765, in as
critical and perilous a situation, as ever the nation was, or could be,
in a time when she was not immediately threatened by her neighbors.

It was at this time, and in these circumstances, that a new
administration was formed. Professing even industriously, in this public
matter, to avoid anecdotes; I say nothing of those famous
reconciliations and quarrels, which weakened the body that should have
been the natural support of this administration. I run no risk in
affirming, that, surrounded as they were with difficulties of every
species, nothing but the strongest and most uncorrupt sense of their
duty to the public could have prevailed upon some of the persons who
composed it to undertake the king's business at such a time. Their
preceding character, their measures while in power, and the subsequent
conduct of many of them, I think, leave no room to charge this assertion
to flattery. Having undertaken the commonwealth, what remained for them
to do? to piece their conduct upon the broken chain of former measures?
If they had been so inclined, the ruinous nature of those measures,
which began instantly to appear, would not have permitted it. Scarcely
had they entered into office, when letters arrived from all parts of
America, making loud complaints, backed by strong reasons, against
several of the principal regulations of the late ministry, as
threatening destruction to many valuable branches of commerce. These
were attended with representations from many merchants and capital
manufacturers at home, who had all their interests involved in the
support of lawful trade, and in the suppression of every sort of
contraband. Whilst these things were under consideration, that
conflagration blazed out at once in North America; an universal
disobedience, and open resistance to the Stamp Act; and, in consequence,
an universal stop to the course of justice, and to trade and navigation,
throughout that great important country; an interval during which the
trading interest of England lay under the most dreadful anxiety which it
ever felt.

The repeal of that act was proposed. It was much too serious a measure,
and attended with too many difficulties upon every side, for the then
ministry to have undertaken it, as some paltry writers have asserted,
from envy and dislike to their predecessors in office. As little could
it be owing to personal cowardice, and dread of consequences to
themselves. Ministers, timorous from their attachment to place and
power, will fear more from the consequences of one court intrigue, than
from a thousand difficulties to the commerce and credit of their country
by disturbances at three thousand miles distance. From which of these
the ministers had most to apprehend at that time, is known, I presume,
universally. Nor did they take that resolution from a want of the
fullest sense of the inconveniences which must necessarily attend a
measure of concession from the sovereign to the subject. That it must
increase the insolence of the mutinous spirits in America, was but too
obvious. No great measure indeed, at a very difficult crisis, can be
pursued, which is not attended with some mischief; none but conceited
pretenders in public business will hold any other language: and none but
weak and unexperienced men will believe them, if they should. If we were
found in such a crisis, let those, whose bold designs, and whose
defective arrangements, brought us into it, answer for the consequences.
The business of the then ministry evidently was, to take such steps, not
as the wishes of our author, or as their own wishes dictated, but as the
bad situation in which their predecessors had left them, absolutely
required.

The disobedience to this act was universal throughout America; nothing,
it was evident, but the sending a very strong military, backed by a very
strong naval force, would reduce the seditious to obedience. To send it
to one town, would not be sufficient; every province of America must be
traversed, and must be subdued. I do not entertain the least doubt but
this could be done. We might, I think, without much difficulty, have
destroyed our colonies. This destruction might be effected, probably in
a year, or in two at the utmost. If the question was upon a foreign
nation, where every successful stroke adds to your own power, and takes
from that of a rival, a just war with such a certain superiority would
be undoubtedly an advisable measure. But _four million_ of debt due to
our merchants, the total cessation of a trade annually worth _four
million_more, a large foreign traffic, much home manufacture, a very
capital immediate revenue arising from colony imports, indeed the
produce of every one of our revenues greatly depending on this trade,
all these were very weighty accumulated considerations, at least well to
be weighed, before that sword was drawn, which even by its victories
must produce all the evil effects of the greatest national defeat. How
public credit must have suffered, I need not say. If the condition of
the nation, at the close of our foreign war, was what this author
represents it, such a civil war would have been a bad couch, on which
to repose our wearied virtue. Far from being able to have entered into
new plans of economy, we must have launched into a new sea, I fear a
boundless sea, of expense. Such an addition of debt, with such a
diminution of revenue and trade, would have left us in no want of a
"State of the Nation" to aggravate the picture of our distresses.

Our trade felt this to its vitals; and our then ministers were not
ashamed to say, that they sympathized with the feelings of our
merchants. The universal alarm of the whole trading body of England,
will never be laughed at by them as an ill-grounded or a pretended
panic. The universal desire of that body will always have great weight
with them in every consideration connected with commerce: neither ought
the opinion of that body to be slighted (notwithstanding the
contemptuous and indecent language of this author and his associates) in
any consideration whatsoever of revenue. Nothing amongst us is more
quickly or deeply affected by taxes of any kind than trade; and if an
American tax was a real relief to England, no part of the community
would be sooner or more materially relieved by it than our merchants.
But they well know that the trade of England must be more burdened by
one penny raised in America, than by three in England; and if that penny
be raised with the uneasiness, the discontent, and the confusion of
America, more than by ten.

If the opinion and wish of the landed interest is a motive, and it is a
fair and just one, for taking away a real and large revenue, the desire
of the trading interest of England ought to be a just ground for taking
away a tax of little better than speculation, which was to be collected
by a war, which was to be kept up with the perpetual discontent of those
who were to be affected by it, and the value of whose produce even after
the _ordinary_ charges of collection, was very uncertain;[87] after the
_extraordinary_, the dearest purchased revenue that ever was made by any
nation.

These were some of the motives drawn from principles of convenience for
that repeal. When the object came to be more narrowly inspected, every
motive concurred. These colonies were evidently founded in subservience
to the commerce of Great Britain. From this principle, the whole system
of our laws concerning them became a system of restriction. A double
monopoly was established on the part of the parent country; 1. A
monopoly of their whole import, which is to be altogether from Great
Britain; 2. A monopoly of all their export, which is to be nowhere but
to Great Britain, as far as it can serve any purpose here. On the same
idea it was contrived that they should send all their products to us
raw, and in their first state; and that they should take everything from
us in the last stage of manufacture.

Were ever a people under such circumstances, that is, a people who were
to export raw, and to receive manufactured, and this, not a few
luxurious articles, but all articles, even to those of the grossest,
most vulgar, and necessary consumption, a people who were in the hands
of a general monopolist, were ever such a people suspected of a
possibility of becoming a just object of revenue? All the ends of their
foundation must be supposed utterly contradicted before they could
become such an object. Every trade law we have made must have been
eluded, and become useless, before they could be in such a condition.

The partisans of the new system, who, on most occasions, take credit for
full as much knowledge as they possess, think proper on this occasion to
counterfeit an extraordinary degree of ignorance, and in consequence of
it to assert, "that the balance (between the colonies and Great Britain)
is unknown, and that no important conclusion can be drawn from premises
so very uncertain."[88] Now to what can this ignorance be owing? were
the navigation laws made, that this balance should be unknown? is it
from the course of exchange that it is unknown, which all the world
knows to be greatly and perpetually against the colonies? is it from the
doubtful nature of the trade we carry on with the colonies? are not
these schemists well apprised that the colonists, particularly those of
the northern provinces, import more from Great Britain, ten times more,
than they send in return to us? that a great part of their foreign
balance is and must be remitted to London? I shall be ready to admit
that the colonies ought to be taxed to the revenues of this country,
when I know that they are out of debt to its commerce. This author will
furnish some ground to his theories, and communicate a discovery to the
public, if he can show this by any medium. But he tells us that "their
seas are covered with ships, and their rivers floating with
commerce."[89] This is true. But it is with _our_ ships that these seas
are covered; and their rivers float with British commerce. The American
merchants are our factors; all in reality, most even in name. The
Americans trade, navigate, cultivate, with English capitals; to their
own advantage, to be sure; for without these capitals their ploughs
would be stopped, and their ships wind-bound. But he who furnishes the
capital must, on the whole, be the person principally benefited; the
person who works upon it profits on his part too; but he profits in a
subordinate way, as our colonies do; that is, as the servant of a wise
and indulgent master, and no otherwise. We have all, except the
_peculium_; without which even slaves will not labor.

If the author's principles, which are the common notions, be right, that
the price of our manufactures is so greatly enhanced by our taxes; then
the Americans already pay in that way a share of our impositions. He is
not ashamed to assert, that "France and China may be said, on the same
principle, to bear a part of our charges, for they consume our
commodities."[90] Was ever such a method of reasoning heard of? Do not
the laws absolutely confine the colonies to buy from us, whether foreign
nations sell cheaper or not? On what other idea are all our
prohibitions, regulations, guards, penalties, and forfeitures, framed?
To secure to us, not a commercial preference, which stands in need of no
penalties to enforce it; it finds its own way; but to secure to us a
trade, which is a creature of law and institution. What has this to do
with the principles of a foreign trade, which is under no monopoly, and
in which we cannot raise the price of our goods, without hazarding the
demand for them? None but the authors of such measures could ever think
of making use of such arguments.

Whoever goes about to reason on any part of the policy of this country
with regard to America, upon the mere abstract principles of government,
or even upon those of our own ancient constitution, will be often
misled. Those who resort for arguments to the most respectable
authorities, ancient or modern, or rest upon the clearest maxims, drawn
from the experience of other states and empires, will be liable to the
greatest errors imaginable. The object is wholly new in the world. It is
singular; it is grown up to this magnitude and importance within the
memory of man; nothing in history is parallel to it. All the reasonings
about it, that are likely to be at all solid, must be drawn from its
actual circumstances. In this new system a principle of commerce, of
artificial commerce, must predominate. This commerce must be secured by
a multitude of restraints very alien from the spirit of liberty; and a
powerful authority must reside in the principal state, in order to
enforce them. But the people who are to be the subjects of these
restraints are descendants of Englishmen; and of a high and free spirit.
To hold over them a government made up of nothing but restraints and
penalties, and taxes in the granting of which they can have no share,
will neither be wise nor long practicable. People must be governed in a
manner agreeable to their temper and disposition; and men of free
character and spirit must be ruled with, at least, some condescension to
this spirit and this character. The British, colonist must see something
which will distinguish him from the colonists of other nations.

Those seasonings, which infer from the many restraints under which we
have already laid America, to our right to lay it under still more, and
indeed under all manner of restraints, are conclusive; conclusive as to
right; but the very reverse as to policy and practice. We ought rather
to infer from our having laid the colonies under many restraints, that
it is reasonable to compensate them by every indulgence that can by any
means be reconciled to our interest. We have a great empire to rule,
composed of a vast mass of heterogeneous governments, all more or less
free and popular in their forms, all to be kept in peace, and kept out
of conspiracy, with one another, all to be held in subordination to this
country; while the spirit of an extensive and intricate and trading
interest pervades the whole, always qualifying, and often controlling,
every general idea of constitution and government. It is a great and
difficult object; and I wish we may possess wisdom and temper enough to
manage it as we ought. Its importance is infinite. I believe the reader
will be struck, as I have been, with one singular fact. In the year
1704, but sixty-five years ago, the whole trade with our plantations was
but a few thousand pounds more in the export article, and a third less
in the import, than that which we now carry on with the single island of
Jamaica:--

                                      Exports.    Imports.
  Total English plantations in 1704  L488,265     L814,491
  Jamaica, 1767                       467,681    1,243,742


From the same information I find that our dealing with most of the
European nations is but little increased: these nations have been pretty
much at a stand since that time, and we have rivals in their trade. This
colony intercourse is a new world of commerce in a manner created; it
stands upon principles of its own; principles hardly worth endangering
for any little consideration of extorted revenue.

The reader sees, that I do not enter so fully into this matter as
obviously I might. I have already been led into greater lengths than I
intended. It is enough to say, that before the ministers of 1765 had
determined to propose the repeal of the Stamp Act in Parliament, they
had the whole of the American constitution and commerce very fully
before them. They considered maturely; they decided with wisdom: let me
add, with firmness. For they resolved, as a preliminary to that repeal,
to assert in the fullest and least equivocal terms the unlimited
legislative right of this country over its colonies; and, having done
this, to propose the repeal, on principles, not of constitutional right,
but on those of expediency, of equity, of lenity, and of the true
interests present and future of that great object for which alone the
colonies were founded, navigation and commerce. This plan I say,
required an uncommon degree of firmness, when we consider that some of
those persons who might be of the greatest use in promoting the repeal,
violently withstood the declaratory act; and they who agreed with
administration in the principles of that law, equally made, as well the
reasons on which the declaratory act itself stood, as those on which it
was opposed, grounds for an opposition to the repeal.

If the then ministry resolved first to declare the right, it was not
from any opinion they entertained of its future use in regular
taxation. Their opinions were full and declared against the ordinary use
of such a power. But it was plain, that the general reasonings which
were employed against that power went directly to our whole legislative
right; and one part of it could not be yielded to such arguments,
without a virtual surrender of all the rest. Besides, if that very
specific power of levying money in the colonies were not retained as a
sacred trust in the hands of Great Britain (to be used, not in the first
instance for supply, but in the last exigence for control), it is
obvious, that the presiding authority of Great Britain, as the head, the
arbiter, and director of the whole empire, would vanish into an empty
name, without operation or energy. With the habitual exercise of such a
power in the ordinary course of supply, no trace of freedom could remain
to America.[91] If Great Britain were stripped of this right, every
principle of unity and subordination in the empire was gone forever.
Whether all this can be reconciled in legal speculation, is a matter of
no consequence. It is reconciled in policy: and politics ought to be
adjusted, not to human reasonings, but to human nature; of which the
reason is but a part, and by no means the greatest part.

Founding the repeal on this basis, it was judged proper to lay before
Parliament the whole detail of the American affairs, as fully as it had
been laid before the ministry themselves. Ignorance of those affairs had
misled Parliament. Knowledge alone could bring it into the right road.
Every paper of office was laid upon the table of the two Houses; every
denomination of men, either of America, or connected with it by office,
by residence, by commerce, by interest, even by injury; men of civil and
military capacity, officers of the revenue, merchants, manufacturers of
every species, and from every town in England, attended at the bar. Such
evidence never was laid before Parliament. If an emulation arose among
the ministers and members of Parliament, as the author rightly
observes,[92] for the repeal of this act, as well as for the other
regulations, it was not on the confident assertions, the airy
speculations, or the vain promises of ministers, that it arose. It was
the sense of Parliament on the evidence before them. No one so much as
suspects that ministerial allurements or terrors had any share in it.

Our author is very much displeased, that so much credit was given to the
testimony of merchants. He has a habit of railing at them: and he may,
if he pleases, indulge himself in it. It will not do great mischief to
that respectable set of men. The substance of their testimony was, that
their debts in America were very great: that the Americans declined to
pay them, or to renew their orders, whilst this act continued: that,
under these circumstances, they despaired of the recovery of their
debts, or the renewal of their trade in that country: that they
apprehended a general failure of mercantile credit. The manufacturers
deposed to the same general purpose, with this addition, that many of
them had discharged several of their artificers; and, if the law and the
resistance to it should continue, must dismiss them all.

This testimony is treated with great contempt by our author. It must be,
I suppose, because it was contradicted by the plain nature of things.
Suppose then that the merchants had, to gratify this author, given a
contrary evidence; and had deposed, that while America remained in a
state of resistance, whilst four million of debt remained unpaid, whilst
the course of justice was suspended for want of stamped paper, so that
no debt could be recovered, whilst there was a total stop to trade,
because every ship was subject to seizure for want of stamped
clearances, and while the colonies were to be declared in rebellion, and
subdued by armed force, that in these circumstances they would still
continue to trade cheerfully and fearlessly as before: would not such
witnesses provoke universal indignation for their folly or their
wickedness, and be deservedly hooted from the bar:[93] would any human
faith have given credit to such assertions? The testimony of the
merchants was necessary for the detail, and to bring the matter home to
the feeling of the House; as to the general reasons, they spoke
abundantly for themselves.

Upon these principles was the act repealed, and it produced all the good
effect which was expected from it: quiet was restored; trade generally
returned to its ancient channels; time and means were furnished for the
better strengthening of government there, as well as for recovering, by
judicious measures, the affections of the people, had that ministry
continued, or had a ministry succeeded with dispositions to improve that
opportunity.

Such an administration did not succeed. Instead of profiting of that
season of tranquillity, in the very next year they chose to return to
measures of the very same nature with those which had been so solemnly
condemned; though upon a smaller scale. The effects have been
correspondent, America is again in disorder; not indeed in the same
degree as formerly, nor anything like it. Such good effects have
attended the repeal of the Stamp Act, that the colonies have actually
paid the taxes; and they have sought their redress (upon however
improper principles) not in their own violence, as formerly;[94] but in
the experienced benignity of Parliament. They are not easy indeed, nor
ever will be so, under this author's schemes of taxation; but we see no
longer the same general fury and confusion, which attended their
resistance to the Stamp Act. The author may rail at the repeal, and
those who proposed it, as he pleases. Those honest men suffer all his
obloquy with pleasure, in the midst of the quiet which they have been
the means of giving to their country; and would think his praises for
their perseverance in a pernicious scheme, a very bad compensation for
the disturbance of our peace, and the ruin of our commerce. Whether the
return to the system of 1764, for raising a revenue in America, the
discontents which have ensued in consequence of it, the general
suspension of the assemblies in consequence of these discontents, the
use of the military power, and the new and dangerous commissions which
now hang over them, will produce equally good effects, is greatly to be
doubted. Never, I fear, will this nation and the colonies fall back upon
their true centre of gravity, and natural point of repose, until the
ideas of 1766 are resumed, and steadily pursued.

As to the regulations, a great subject of the author's accusation, they
are of two sorts; one of a mixed nature, of revenue and trade; the other
simply relative to trade. With regard to the former I shall observe,
that, in all deliberations concerning America, the ideas of that
administration were principally these; to take trade as the primary end,
and revenue but as a very subordinate consideration. Where trade was
likely to suffer, they did not hesitate for an instant to prefer it to
taxes, whose produce at best was contemptible, in comparison of the
object which they might endanger. The other of their principles was, to
suit the revenue to the object. Where the difficulty of collection, from
the nature of the country, and of the revenue establishment, is so very
notorious, it was their policy to hold out as few temptations to
smuggling as possible, by keeping the duties as nearly as they could on
a balance with the risk. On these principles they made many alterations
in the port-duties of 1764, both in the mode and in the quantity. The
author has not attempted to prove them erroneous. He complains enough to
show that he is in an ill-humor, not that his adversaries have done
amiss.

As to the regulations which were merely relative to commerce, many were
then made; and they were all made upon this principle, that many of the
colonies, and those some of the most abounding in people, were so
situated as to have very few means of traffic with this country. It
became therefore our interest to let them into as much foreign trade as
could be given them without interfering with our own; and to secure by
every method the returns to the mother country. Without some such scheme
of enlargement, it was obvious that any benefit we could expect from
these colonies must be extremely limited. Accordingly many facilities
were given to their trade with the foreign plantations, and with the
southern parts of Europe. As to the confining the returns to this
country, administration saw the mischief and folly of a plan of
indiscriminate restraint. They applied their remedy to that part where
the disease existed, and to that only: on this idea they established
regulations, far more likely to check the dangerous, clandestine trade
with Hamburg and Holland, than this author's friends, or any of their
predecessors had ever done.

The friends of the author have a method surely a little whimsical in all
this sort of discussions. They have made an innumerable multitude of
commercial regulations, at which the trade of England exclaimed with one
voice, and many of which have been altered on the unanimous opinion of
that trade. Still they go on, just as before, in a sort of droning
panegyric on themselves, talking of these regulations as prodigies of
wisdom; and, instead of appealing to those who are most affected and the
best judges, they turn round in a perpetual circle of their own
reasonings and pretences; they hand you over from one of their own
pamphlets to another: "See," say they, "this demonstrated in the
'Regulations of the Colonies.'" "See this satisfactorily proved in 'The
Considerations.'" By and by we shall have another: "See for this 'The
State of the Nation.'" I wish to take another method in vindicating the
opposite system. I refer to the petitions of merchants for these
regulations; to their thanks when they were obtained; and to the strong
and grateful sense they have ever since expressed of the benefits
received under that administration.

All administrations have in their commercial regulations been generally
aided by the opinion of some merchants; too frequently by that of a few,
and those a sort of favorites: they have been directed by the opinion of
one or two merchants, who were to merit in flatteries, and to be paid in
contracts; who frequently advised, not for the general good of trade,
but for their private advantage. During the administration of which this
author complains, the meetings of merchants upon the business of trade
were numerous and public; sometimes at the house of the Marquis of
Rockingham; sometimes at Mr. Dowdeswell's; sometimes at Sir George
Savile's, a house always open to every deliberation favorable to the
liberty or the commerce of his country. Nor were these meetings confined
to the merchants of London. Merchants and manufacturers were invited
from all the considerable towns in England. They conferred with the
ministers and active members of Parliament. No private views, no local
interests prevailed. Never were points in trade settled upon a larger
scale of information. They who attended these meetings well know what
ministers they were who heard the most patiently, who comprehended the
most clearly, and who provided the most wisely. Let then this author and
his friends still continue in possession of the practice of exalting
their own abilities, in their pamphlets and in the newspapers. They
never will persuade the public, that the merchants of England were in a
general confederacy to sacrifice their own interests to those of North
America, and to destroy the vent of their own goods in favor of the
manufactures of France and Holland.

Had the friends of this author taken these means of information, his
extreme terrors of contraband in the West India islands would have been
greatly quieted, and his objections to the opening of the ports would
have ceased. He would have learned, from the most satisfactory analysis
of the West India trade, that we have the advantage in every essential
article of it; and that almost every restriction on our communication
with our neighbors there, is a restriction unfavorable to ourselves.

Such were the principles that guided, and the authority that sanctioned,
these regulations. No man ever said, that, in the multiplicity of
regulations made in the administration of their predecessors, none were
useful; some certainly were so; and I defy the author to show a
commercial regulation of that period, which he can prove, from any
authority except his own, to have a tendency beneficial to commerce,
that has been repealed. So far were that ministry from being guided by a
spirit of contradiction or of innovation.

The author's attack on that administration, for their neglect of our
claims on foreign powers, is by much the most astonishing instance he
has given, or that, I believe, any man ever did give, of an intrepid
effrontery. It relates to the Manilla ransom; to the Canada bills; and
to the Russian treaty. Could one imagine, that these very things, which
he thus chooses to object to others, have been the principal subject of
charge against his favorite ministry? Instead of clearing them of these
charges, he appears not so much as to have heard of them; but throws
them directly upon the administration which succeeded to that of his
friends.

It is not always very pleasant to be obliged to produce the detail of
this kind of transactions to the public view. I will content myself
therefore with giving a short state of facts, which, when the author
chooses to contradict, he shall see proved, more, perhaps, to his
conviction, than to his liking. The first fact then is, that the demand
for the Manilla ransom had been in the author's favorite administration
so neglected as to appear to have been little less than tacitly
abandoned. At home, no countenance was given to the claimants; and when
it was mentioned in Parliament, the then leader did not seem, at least,
_a very sanguine advocate in favor of the claim_. These things made it a
matter of no small difficulty to resume and press that negotiation with
Spain. However, so clear was our right, that the then ministers resolved
to revive it; and so little time was lost, that though that
administration was not completed until the 9th of July, 1765, on the
20th of the following August, General Conway transmitted a strong and
full remonstrance on that subject to the Earl of Rochfort. The argument,
on which the court of Madrid most relied, was the dereliction of that
claim by the preceding ministers. However, it was still pushed with so
much vigor, that the Spaniards, from a positive denial to pay, offered
to refer the demand to arbitration. That proposition was rejected; and
the demand being still pressed, there was all the reason in the world to
expect its being brought to a favorable issue; when it was thought
proper to change the administration. Whether under their circumstances,
and in the time they continued in power, more could be done, the reader
will judge; who will hear with astonishment a charge of remissness from
those very men, whose inactivity, to call it by no worse a name, laid
the chief difficulties in the way of the revived negotiation.

As to the Canada bills, this author thinks proper to assert, "that the
proprietors found themselves under a necessity of compounding their
demands upon the French court, and accepting terms which they had often
rejected, and which the Earl of Halifax had declared he would sooner
forfeit his hand than sign."[95] When I know that the Earl of Halifax
says so, the Earl of Halifax shall have an answer; but I persuade myself
that his Lordship has given no authority for this ridiculous rant. In
the mean time, I shall only speak of it as a common concern of that
ministry.

In the first place, then, I observe, that a convention, for the
liquidation of the Canada bills, was concluded under the administration
of 1766; when nothing was concluded under that of the favorites of this
author.

2. This transaction was, in every step of it, carried on in concert with
the persons interested, and was terminated to their entire satisfaction.
They would have acquiesced perhaps in terms somewhat lower than those
which were obtained. The author is indeed too kind to them. He will,
however, let them speak for themselves, and show what their own opinion
was of the measures pursued in their favor.[96] In what manner the
execution of the convention has been since provided for, it is not my
present business to examine.

3. The proprietors had absolutely despaired of being paid, at any time,
any proportion, of their demand, until the change of that ministry. The
merchants were checked and discountenanced; they had often been told, by
some in authority, of the cheap rate at which these Canada bills had
been procured; yet the author can talk of the composition of them as a
necessity induced by the change in administration. They found themselves
indeed, before that change, under a necessity of hinting somewhat of
bringing the matter into Parliament; but they were soon silenced, and
put in mind of the fate which the Newfoundland business had there met
with. Nothing struck them more than the strong contrast between the
spirit, and method of proceeding, of the two administrations.

4. The Earl of Halifax never did, nor could, refuse to sign this
convention; because this convention, as it stands, never was before
him.[97]

The author's last charge on that ministry, with regard to foreign
affairs, is the Russian treaty of commerce, which the author thinks fit
to assert, was concluded "on terms the Earl of Buckinghamshire had
refused to accept of, and which had been deemed by former ministers
disadvantageous to the nation, and by the merchants unsafe and
unprofitable."[98]

Both the assertions in this paragraph are equally groundless. The treaty
then concluded by Sir George Macartney was not on the terms which the
Earl of Buckinghamshire had refused. The Earl of Buckinghamshire never
did refuse terms, because the business never came to the point of
refusal, or acceptance; all that he did was, to receive the Russian
project for a treaty of commerce, and to transmit it to England. This
was in November, 1764; and he left Petersburg the January following,
before he could even receive an answer from his own court. The
conclusion of the treaty fell to his successor. Whoever will be at the
trouble to compare it with the treaty of 1734, will, I believe, confess,
that, if the former ministers could have obtained such terms, they were
criminal in not accepting them.

But the merchants "deemed them unsafe and unprofitable." What merchants?
As no treaty ever was more maturely considered, so the opinion of the
Russia merchants in London was all along taken; and all the instructions
sent over were in exact conformity to that opinion. Our minister there
made no step without having previously consulted our merchants resident
in Petersburg, who, before the signing of the treaty, gave the most full
and unanimous testimony in its favor. In their address to our minister
at that court, among other things they say, "It may afford some
additional satisfaction to your Excellency, to receive a public
acknowledgment of _the entire and unreserved approbation of every
article_ in this treaty, from us who are so immediately and so nearly
concerned in its consequences." This was signed by the consul-general,
and every British merchant in Petersburg.

The approbation of those immediately concerned in the consequences is
nothing to this author. He and his friends have so much tenderness for
people's interests, and understand them so much better than they do
themselves, that, whilst these politicians are contending for the best
of possible terms, the claimants are obliged to go without any terms at
all.

One of the first and justest complaints against the administration of
the author's friends, was the want of rigor in their foreign
negotiations. Their immediate successors endeavored to correct that
error, along with others; and there was scarcely a foreign court, in
which the new spirit that had arisen was not sensibly felt,
acknowledged, and sometimes complained of. On their coming into
administration, they found the demolition of Dunkirk entirely at a
stand: instead of demolition, they found construction; for the French
were then at work on the repair of the jettees. On the remonstrances of
General Conway, some parts of these jettees were immediately destroyed.
The Duke of Richmond personally surveyed the place, and obtained a
fuller knowledge of its true state and condition than any of our
ministers had done; and, in consequence, had larger offers from the Duke
of Choiseul than had ever been received. But, as these were short of our
just expectations under the treaty, he rejected them. Our then
ministers, knowing that, in their administration, the people's minds
were set at ease upon all the essential points of public and private
liberty, and that no project of theirs could endanger the concord of the
empire, were under no restraint from pursuing every just demand upon
foreign nations.

The author, towards the end of this work, falls into reflections upon
the state of public morals in this country: he draws use from this
doctrine, by recommending his friend to the king and the public, as
another Duke of Sully; and he concludes the whole performance with a
very devout prayer.

The prayers of politicians may sometimes be sincere; and as this prayer
is in substance, that the author, or his friends, may be soon brought
into power, I have great reason to believe it is very much from the
heart. It must be owned too that after he has drawn such a picture, such
a shocking picture, of the state of this country, he has great faith in
thinking the means he prays for sufficient to relieve us: after the
character he has given of its inhabitants of all ranks and classes, he
has great charity in caring much about them; and indeed no less hope, in
being of opinion, that such a detestable nation can ever become the care
of Providence. He has not even found five good men in our devoted city.

He talks indeed of men of virtue and ability. But where are his _men_ of
virtue and ability to be found? Are they in the present administration?
Never were a set of people more blackened by this author. Are they among
the party of those (no small body) who adhere to the system of 1766?
These it is the great purpose of this book to calumniate. Are they the
persons who acted with his great friend, since the change in 1762, to
his removal in 1765? Scarcely any of these are now out of employment;
and we are in possession of his desideratum. Yet I think he hardly means
to select, even some of the highest of them, as examples fit for the
reformation of a corrupt world.

He observes, that the virtue of the most exemplary prince that ever
swayed a sceptre "can never warm or illuminate the body of his people,
if foul mirrors are placed so near him as to refract and dissipate the
rays at their first emanation."[99] Without observing upon the
propriety of this metaphor, or asking how mirrors come to have lost
their old quality of reflecting, and to have acquired that of
refracting, and dissipating rays, and how far their foulness will
account for this change; the remark itself is common and true: no less
true, and equally surprising from him, is that which immediately
precedes it: "It is in vain to endeavor to check the progress of
irreligion and licentiousness, by punishing such crimes in _one
individual_, if others equally culpable are rewarded with the honors and
emoluments of the state."[100] I am not in the secret of the author's
manner of writing; but it appears to me, that he must intend these
reflections as a satire upon the administration of his happy years. Were
over the honors and emoluments of the state more lavishly squandered
upon persons scandalous in their lives than during that period? In these
scandalous lives, was there anything more scandalous than the mode of
punishing _one culpable individual_? In that individual, is anything
more culpable than his having been seduced by the example of some of
those very persons by whom he was thus persecuted?

The author is so eager to attack others, that he provides but
indifferently for his own defence. I believe, without going beyond the
page I have now before me, he is very sensible, that I have sufficient
matter of further, and, if possible, of heavier charge against his
friends, upon his own principle. But it is because the advantage is too
great, that I decline making use of it. I wish the author had not
thought that all methods are lawful in party. Above all he ought to have
taken care not to wound his enemies through the sides of his country.
This he has done, by making that monstrous and overcharged picture of
the distresses of our situation. No wonder that he, who finds this
country in the same condition with that of France at the time of Henry
the Fourth, could also find a resemblance between his political friend
and the Duke of Sully. As to those personal resemblances, people will
often judge of them from their affections: they may imagine in these
clouds whatsoever figures they please; but what is the conformation of
that eye which can discover a resemblance of this country and these
times to those with which the author compares them? France, a country
just recovered out of twenty-five years of the most cruel and desolating
civil war that perhaps was ever known. The kingdom, under the veil of
momentary quiet, full of the most atrocious political, operating upon
the most furious fanatical factions. Some pretenders even to the crown;
and those who did not pretend to the whole, aimed at the partition of
the monarchy. There were almost as many competitors as provinces; and
all abetted by the greatest, the most ambitious, and most enterprising
power in Europe. No place safe from treason; no, not the bosoms on which
the most amiable prince that ever lived reposed his head; not his
mistresses; not even his queen. As to the finances, they had scarce an
existence, but as a matter of plunder to the managers, and of grants to
insatiable and ungrateful courtiers.

How can our author have the heart to describe this as any sort of
parallel to our situation? To be sure, an April shower has some
resemblance to a waterspout; for they are both wet: and there is some
likeness between a summer evening's breeze and a hurricane; they are
both wind: but who can compare our disturbances, our situation, or our
finances, to those of France in the time of Henry? Great Britain is
indeed at this time wearied, but not broken, with the efforts of a
victorious foreign war; not sufficiently relieved by an inadequate
peace, but somewhat benefited by that peace, and infinitely by the
consequences of that war. The powers of Europe awed by our victories,
and lying in ruins upon every side of us. Burdened indeed we are with
debt, but abounding with resources. We have a trade, not perhaps equal
to our wishes, but more than ever we possessed. In effect, no pretender
to the crown; nor nutriment for such desperate and destructive factions
as have formerly shaken this kingdom.

As to our finances, the author trifles with us. When Sully came to those
of France, in what order was any part of the financial system? or what
system was there at all? There is no man in office who must not be
sensible that ours is, without the act of any parading minister, the
most regular and orderly system perhaps that was ever known; the best
secured against all frauds in the collection, and all misapplication in
the expenditure of public money.

I admit that, in this flourishing state of things, there are appearances
enough to excite uneasiness and apprehension. I admit there is a
cankerworm in the rose:

             Medio de fonte leporum
    Surgit amari aliquid, quod in ipsis floribus angat.

This is nothing else than a spirit of disconnection, of distrust, and of
treachery among public men. It is no accidental evil, nor has its effect
been trusted to the usual frailty of nature; the distemper has been
inoculated. The author is sensible of it, and we lament it together.
This distemper is alone sufficient to take away considerably from the
benefits of our constitution and situation, and perhaps to render their
continuance precarious. If these evil dispositions should spread much
farther, they must end in our destruction; for nothing can save a people
destitute of public and private faith. However, the author, for the
present state of things, has extended the charge by much too widely; as
men are but too apt to take the measure of all mankind from their own
particular acquaintance. Barren as this age may be in the growth of
honor and virtue, the country does not want, at this moment, as strong,
and those not a few examples, as were ever known, of an unshaken
adherence to principle, and attachment to connection, against every
allurement of interest. Those examples are not furnished by the great
alone; nor by those, whose activity in public affairs may render it
suspected that they make such a character one of the rounds in their
ladder of ambition; but by men more quiet, and more in the shade, on
whom an unmixed sense of honor alone could operate. Such examples indeed
are not furnished in great abundance amongst those who are the subjects
of the author's panegyric. He must look for them in another camp. He who
complains of the ill effects of a divided and heterogeneous
administration, is not justifiable in laboring to render odious in the
eyes of the public those men, whose principles, whose maxims of policy,
and whose personal character, can alone administer a remedy to this
capital evil of the age: neither is he consistent with himself, in
constantly extolling those whom he knows to be the authors of the very
mischief of which he complains, and which the whole nation feels so
deeply.

The persons who are the objects of his dislike and complaint are many
of them of the first families, and weightiest properties, in the
kingdom; but infinitely more distinguished for their untainted honor,
public and private, and their zealous, but sober attachment to the
constitution of their country, than they can be by any birth, or any
station. If they are the friends of any one great man rather than
another, it is not that they make his aggrandizement the end of their
union; or because they know him to be the most active in caballing for
his connections the largest and speediest emoluments. It is because they
know him, by personal experience, to have wise and enlarged ideas of the
public good, and an invincible constancy in adhering to it; because they
are convinced, by the whole tenor of his actions, that he will never
negotiate away their honor or his own: and that, in or out of power,
change of situation will make no alteration in his conduct. This will
give to such a person in such a body, an authority and respect that no
minister ever enjoyed among his venal dependents, in the highest
plenitude of his power; such as servility never can give, such as
ambition never can receive or relish.

This body will often be reproached by their adversaries, for want of
ability in their political transactions; they will be ridiculed for
missing many favorable conjunctures, and not profiting of several
brilliant opportunities of fortune; but they must be contented to endure
that reproach; for they cannot acquire the reputation of _that kind_ of
ability without losing all the other reputation they possess.

They will be charged too with a dangerous spirit of exclusion and
proscription, for being unwilling to mix in schemes of administration,
which have no bond of union, or principle of confidence. That charge too
they must suffer with patience. If the reason of the thing had not
spoken loudly enough, the miserable examples of the several
administrations constructed upon the idea of systematic discord would be
enough to frighten them from such, monstrous and ruinous conjunctions.
It is however false, that the idea of an united administration carries
with it that of a proscription of any other party. It does indeed imply
the necessity of having the great strongholds of government in
well-united hands, in order to secure the predominance of right and
uniform principles; of having the capital offices of deliberation and
execution of those who can deliberate with mutual confidence, and who
will execute what is resolved with firmness and fidelity. If this system
cannot be rigorously adhered to in practice, (and what system can be
so?) it ought to be the constant aim of good men to approach as nearly
to it as possible. No system of that kind can be formed, which will not
leave room fully sufficient for healing coalitions: but no coalition,
which, under the specious name of independency, carries in its bosom the
unreconciled principles of the original discord of parties, ever was, or
will be, an healing coalition. Nor will the mind of our sovereign ever
know repose, his kingdom settlement, or his business order, efficiency,
or grace with his people, until things are established upon the basis of
some set of men, who are trusted by the public, and who can trust one
another.

This comes rather nearer to the mark than the author's description of a
proper administration, under the name of _men of ability and virtue_,
which conveys no definite idea at all; nor does it apply specifically
to our grand national distemper. All parties pretend to these qualities.
The present ministry, no favorites of the author, will be ready enough
to declare themselves persons of virtue and ability; and if they choose
a vote for that purpose, perhaps it would not be quite impossible for
them to procure it. But, if the disease be this distrust and
disconnection, it is easy to know who are sound and who are tainted; who
are fit to restore us to health, who to continue, and to spread the
contagion. The present ministry being made up of draughts from all
parties in the kingdom, if they should profess any adherence to the
connections they have left, they must convict themselves of the blackest
treachery. They therefore choose rather to renounce the principle
itself, and to brand it with the name of pride and faction. This test
with certainty discriminates the opinions of men. The other is a
description vague and unsatisfactory.

As to the unfortunate gentlemen who may at any time compose that system,
which, under the plausible title of an administration, subsists but for
the establishment of weakness and confusion; they fall into different
classes, with different merits. I think the situation of some people in
that state may deserve a certain degree of compassion; at the same time
that they furnish an example, which, it is to be hoped, by being a
severe one, will have its effect, at least, on the growing generation;
if an original seduction, on plausible but hollow pretences, into loss
of honor, friendship, consistency, security, and repose, can furnish it.
It is possible to draw, even from the very prosperity of ambition,
examples of terror, and motives to compassion.

I believe the instances are exceedingly rare of men immediately passing
over a clear, marked line of virtue into declared vice and corruption.
There are a sort of middle tints and shades between the two extremes;
there is something uncertain on the confines of the two empires which
they first pass through, and which renders the change easy and
imperceptible. There are even a sort of splendid impositions so well
contrived, that, at the very time the path of rectitude is quitted
forever, men seem to be advancing into some higher and nobler road of
public conduct. Not that such impositions are strong enough in
themselves; but a powerful interest, often concealed from those whom it
affects, works at the bottom, and secures the operation. Men are thus
debauched away from those legitimate connections, which they had formed
on a judgment, early perhaps, but sufficiently mature, and wholly
unbiassed. They do not quit them upon any ground of complaint, for
grounds of just complaint may exist, but upon the flattering and most
dangerous of all principles, that of mending what is well. Gradually
they are habituated to other company; and a change in their habitudes
soon makes a way for a change in their opinions. Certain persons are no
longer so very frightful, when they come to be known and to be
serviceable. As to their old friends, the transition is easy; from
friendship to civility; from civility to enmity: few are the steps from
dereliction to persecution.

People not very well grounded in the principles of public morality find
a set of maxims in office ready made for them, which they assume as
naturally and inevitably, as any of the insignia or instruments of the
situation. A certain tone of the solid and practical is immediately
acquired. Every former profession of public spirit is to be considered
as a debauch of youth, or, at best, as a visionary scheme of
unattainable perfection. The very idea of consistency is exploded. The
convenience of the business of the day is to furnish the principle for
doing it. Then the whole ministerial cant is quickly got by heart. The
prevalence of faction is to be lamented. All opposition is to be
regarded as the effect of envy and disappointed ambition. All
administrations are declared to be alike. The same necessity justifies
all their measures. It is no longer a matter of discussion, who or what
administration is; but that administration is to be supported, is a
general maxim. Flattering themselves that their power is become
necessary to the support of all order and government; everything which
tends to the support of that power is sanctified, and becomes a part of
the public interest.

Growing every day more formed to affairs, and better knit in their
limbs, when the occasion (now the only rule) requires it, they become
capable of sacrificing those very persons to whom they had before
sacrificed their original friends. It is now only in the ordinary course
of business to alter an opinion, or to betray a connection. Frequently
relinquishing one set of men and adopting another, they grow into a
total indifference to human feeling, as they had before to moral
obligation; until at length, no one original impression remains upon
their minds: every principle is obliterated; every sentiment effaced.

In the mean time, that power, which all these changes aimed at securing,
remains still as tottering and as uncertain as ever. They are delivered
up into the hands of those who feel neither respect for their persons,
nor gratitude for their favors; who are put about them in appearance to
serve, in reality to govern them; and, when the signal is given, to
abandon and destroy them in order to set up some new dupe of ambition,
who in his turn is to be abandoned and destroyed. Thus living in a state
of continual uneasiness and ferment, softened only by the miserable
consolation of giving now and then preferments to those for whom they
have no value; they are unhappy in their situation, yet find it
impossible to resign. Until, at length, soured in temper, and
disappointed by the very attainment of their ends, in some angry, in
some haughty, or some negligent moment, they incur the displeasure of
those upon whom they have rendered their very being dependent. Then
_perierunt tempora longi servitii;_ they are cast off with scorn; they
are turned out, emptied of all natural character, of all intrinsic
worth, of all essential dignity, and deprived of every consolation of
friendship. Having rendered all retreat to old principles ridiculous,
and to old regards impracticable, not being able to counterfeit
pleasure, or to discharge discontent, nothing being sincere, or right,
or balanced in their minds, it is more than a chance, that, in the
delirium of the last stage of their distempered power, they make an
insane political testament, by which they throw all their remaining
weight and consequence into the scale of their declared enemies, and the
avowed authors of their destruction. Thus they finish their course. Had
it been possible that the whole, or even a great part of these effects
on their minds, I say nothing of the effect upon their fortunes, could
have appeared to them in their first departure from the right line, it
is certain they would have rejected every temptation with horror. The
principle of these remarks, like every good principle in morality, is
trite; but its frequent application is not the less necessary.

As to others, who are plain practical men, they have been guiltless at
all times of all public pretence. Neither the author nor any one else
has reason to be angry with them. They belonged to his friend for their
interest; for their interest they quitted him; and when it is their
interest, he may depend upon it, they will return to their former
connection. Such people subsist at all times, and, though the nuisance
of all, are at no time a worthy subject of discussion. It is false
virtue and plausible error that do the mischief.

If men come to government with right dispositions, they have not that
unfavorable subject which this author represents to work upon. Our
circumstances are indeed critical; but then they are the critical
circumstances of a strong and mighty nation. If corruption and meanness
are greatly spread, they are not spread universally. Many public men are
hitherto examples of public spirit and integrity. Whole parties, as far
as large bodies can be uniform, have preserved character. However they
may be deceived in some particulars, I know of no set of men amongst us,
which does not contain persons on whom the nation, in a difficult
exigence, may well value itself. Private life, which is the nursery of
the commonwealth, is yet in general pure, and on the whole disposed to
virtue; and the people at large want neither generosity nor spirit. No
small part of that very luxury, which is so much the subject of the
author's declamation, but which, in most parts of life, by being well
balanced and diffused, is only decency and convenience, has perhaps as
many, or more good than evil consequences attending it. It certainly
excites industry, nourishes emulation, and inspires some sense of
personal value into all ranks of people. What we want is to establish
more fully an opinion of uniformity, and consistency of character, in
the leading men of the state; such as will restore some confidence to
profession and appearance, such as will fix subordination upon esteem.
Without this, all schemes are begun at the wrong end. All who join in
them are liable to their consequences. All men who, under whatever
pretext, take a part in the formation or the support of systems
constructed in such a manner as must, in their nature, disable them from
the execution of their duty, have made themselves guilty of all the
present distraction, and of the future ruin, which they may bring upon
their country.

It is a serious affair, this studied disunion in government. In cases
where union is most consulted in the constitution of a ministry, and
where persons are best disposed to promote it, differences, from the
various ideas of men, will arise; and from their passions will often
ferment into violent heats, so as greatly to disorder all public
business. What must be the consequence, when the very distemper is made
the basis of the constitution; and the original weakness of human nature
is still further enfeebled by art and contrivance? It must subvert
government from the very foundation. It turns our public councils into
the most mischievous cabals; where the consideration is, not how the
nation's business shall be carried on, but how those who ought to carry
it on shall circumvent each other. In such a state of things, no order,
uniformity, dignity, or effect, can appear in our proceedings, either at
home or abroad. Nor will it make much difference, whether some of the
constituent parts of such an administration are men of virtue or
ability, or not; supposing it possible that such men, with their eyes
open, should choose to make a part in such a body.

The effects of all human contrivances are in the hand of Providence. I
do not like to answer, as our author so readily does, for the event of
any speculation. But surely the nature of our disorders, if anything,
must indicate the proper remedy. Men who act steadily on the principles
I have stated may in all events be very serviceable to their country; in
one case, by furnishing (if their sovereign should be so advised) an
administration formed upon ideas very different from those which have
for some time been unfortunately fashionable. But, if this should not be
the case, they may be still serviceable; for the example of a large body
of men, steadily sacrificing ambition to principle, can never be without
use. It will certainly be prolific, and draw others to an imitation.
_Vera gloria radices agit, atque etiam propagatur_.

I do not think myself of consequence enough to imitate my author, in
troubling the world with the prayers or wishes I may form for the
public: full as little am I disposed to imitate his professions; those
professions are long since worn out in the political service. If the
work will not speak for the author, his own declarations deserve but
little credit.

FOOTNOTES:

[38] History of the Minority. History of the Repeal of the Stamp Act.
Considerations on Trade and Finance. Political Register, &c., &c.

[39] Pages 6-10.

[40] Pages 9, 10.

[41] Page 9.

[42] Page 9.

[43] Page 6.

[44] Page 9.

[45]
  Total imports from the West Indies in 1764    L2,909,411
  Exports to ditto in ditto                        896,511
                                                ----------
  Excess of imports                             L2,012,900

In this, which is the common way of stating the balance, it will appear
upwards of two millions against us, which is ridiculous.

[46] Page 6.

[47]
            1754.                           L     _s.  d._
  Total export of British goods  value, 8,317,506  15   3
  Ditto of foreign goods in time        2,910,836  14   9
  Ditto of ditto out of time              559,485   2  10
                                       ------------------
  Total exports of all kinds           11,787,828  12  10
  Total imports                         8,093,479  15   0
                                       ------------------
  Balance in favor of England          L3,094,355  17  10
                                       ------------------

            1761.                           L      _s.  d._
  Total export of British goods        10,649,581  12   6
  Ditto of foreign goods in time        3,553,692   7   1
  Ditto of ditto out of time              355,015   0   2
                                       ------------------
  Total exports of all kinds           14,558,288  19   9
  Total imports                         9,294,915   1   6
                                       ------------------
  Balance in favor of England          L5,263,373  18   3
                                       ------------------

Here is the state of our trade in 1761, compared with a very good year
of profound peace: both are taken from the authentic entries at the
custom-house. How the author can contrive to make this increase of the
export of English produce agree with his account of the dreadful want of
hands in England, page 9, unless he supposes manufactures to be made
without hands, I really do not see. It is painful to be so frequently
obliged to set this author right in matters of fact. This state will
fully refute all that he has said or insinuated upon the difficulties
and decay of our trade, pages 6, 7, and 9.

[48] Page 7. See also page 13.

[49] Pages 12, 13.

[50] Page 17.

[51] Page 6.

[52] "Our merchants suffered by the detention of the galleons, as their
correspondents in Spain were disabled from paying them for their goods
sent to America."--State of the Nation, p. 7.

[53] Pages 12, 13.

[54] Page 6.

[55] Something however has transpired in the quarrels among those
concerned in that transaction. It seems the _good Genius_ of Britain, so
much vaunted by our author, did his duty nobly. Whilst we were gaining
such advantages, the court of France was astonished at our concessions.
"J'ai apporte a Versailles, il est vrai, les Ratifications du Roi
d'Angleterre, _a vostre grand etonnement, et a celui de bien d'autres_.
Je dois cela au bontes du Roi d'Angleterre, a celles de Milord Bute, a
Mons. le Comte de Viry, a Mons. le Duc de Nivernois, et en fin a mon
scavoir faire."--Lettres, &c., du Chev. D'Eon, p. 51.

[56] "The navy bills are not due till six months after they have been
issued; six months also of the seamen's wages by act of Parliament must
be, and in consequence of the rules prescribed by that act, twelve
months' wages generally, and often much more are retained; and there has
been besides at all times a large arrear of pay, which, though kept in
the account, could never be claimed, the persons to whom it was due
having left neither assignees nor representatives. The precise amount of
such sums cannot be ascertained; but they can hardly be reckoned less
than thirteen or fourteen hundred thousand pounds. On 31st Dec, 1754,
when the navy debt was reduced nearly as low as it could be, it still
amounted to 1,296,567_l._ 18_s._ 11-3/4_d._ consisting chiefly of
articles which could not then be discharged; such articles will be
larger now, in proportion to the increase of the establishment; and an
allowance must always be made for them in judging of the state of the
navy debt, though they are not distinguishable in the account. In
providing for that which is payable, the principal object of the
legislature is always to discharge the bills, for they are the greatest
article; they bear an interest of 4 per cent; and, when the quantity of
them is large, they are a heavy incumbrance upon all money transactions"

[57]
  Navy                                            L1,450,900
  Army                                             1,268,500
  Ordnance                                           174,600
  The four American governments                       19,200
  General surveys in America                           1,600
  Foundling Hospital                                  38,000
  To the African committee                            13,000
  For the civil establishment on the coast of Africa   5,500
  Militia                                            100,000
  Deficiency of land and malt                        300,000
  Deficiency of funds                                202,400
  Extraordinaries of the army and navy                35,000
                                                  ----------
                                   Total          L3,609,700

[58] Upon the money borrowed in 1760, the premium of one per cent was
for twenty-one years, not for twenty; this annuity has been paid eight
years instead of seven; the sum paid is therefore 640,000_l._ instead of
560,000_l._; the remaining term is worth, ten years and a quarter
instead of eleven years;[59] its value is 820,000_l._ instead of
880,000_l._; and the whole value of that premium is 1,460,000_l._
instead of 1,440,000_l._ The like errors are observable in his
computation on the additional capital of three per cent on the loan of
that year. In like manner, on the loan of 1762, the author computes on
five years' payment instead of six; and says in express terms, that take
5 from 19, and there remain 13. These are not errors of the pen or the
press; the several computations pursued in this part of the work with
great diligence and earnestness prove them errors upon much
deliberation. Thus the premiums in 1759 are cast up 90,000_l._ too
little, an error in the first rule of arithmetic. "The annuities
borrowed in 1756 and 1758 are," says he, "to continue till redeemed by
Parliament." He does not take notice that the first are irredeemable
till February, 1771, the other till July, 1782. In this the amount of
the premiums is computed on the time which they have run. Weakly and
ignorantly; for he might have added to this, and strengthened his
argument, such as it is, by charging also the value of the additional
one per cent from the day on which he wrote, to at least that day on
which these annuities become redeemable. To make ample amends, however,
he has added to the premiums of 15 per cent in 1759, and three per cent
in 1760, the annuity paid for them since their commencement; the fallacy
of which is manifest; for the premiums in these cases can he neither
more nor less than the additional capital for which the public stands
engaged, and is just the same whether five or five hundred years'
annuity has been paid for it. In private life, no man persuades himself
that he has borrowed 200_l._ because he happens to have paid twenty
years' interest on a loan of 100_l._

[59] See Smart and Demoivre.

[60] Pages 30-32.

[61] In a course of years a few manufacturers have been tempted abroad,
not by cheap living, but by immense premiums, to set up as masters, and
to introduce the manufacture. This must happen in every country eminent
for the skill of its artificers, and has nothing to do with taxes and
the price of provisions.

[62] Although the public brewery has considerably increased in this
latter period, the produce of the malt-tax has been something less than
in the former; this cannot be attributed to the new malt-tax. Had this
been the cause of the lessened consumption, the public brewery, so much
more burdened, must have felt it more. The cause of this diminution of
the malt-tax I take to have been principally owing to the greater
dearness of corn in the second period than in the first, which, in all
its consequences, affected the people in the country much more than
those in the towns. But the revenue from consumption was not, on the
whole, impaired; as we have seen in the foregoing page.

[63]
         Total Imports, value,                Exports, ditto.
  1752           L7,889,369                    L11,694,912
  1753            8,625,029                     12,243,604
  1754            8,093,472                     11,787,828
                  ---------                     ----------
  Total         L24,607,870                     35,726,344
                                                24,607,870
                                                ----------
           Exports exceed imports               11,118,474
                                                ----------
           Medium balance                       L3,706,158
                                                ----------

         Total Imports, value,                Exports, ditto.
  1764          L10,818,946                    L16,104,532
  1765           10,889,742                     14,550,507
  1766           11,475,825                     14,024,964
                -----------                    -----------
  Total         L32,685,513                     44,740,003
                -----------                     32,683,613
                                               -----------
           Exports exceed                       12,054,490
                                               -----------
  Medium balance for three last years           L4,018,163


[64] It is dearer in some places, and rather cheaper in others; but it
must soon all come to a level.

[65] A tax rated by the intendant in each generality, on the presumed
fortune of every person below the degree of a gentleman.

[66] Before the war it was sold to, or rather forced on, the consumer at
11 sous, or about 5_d._ the pound. What it is at present, I am not
informed. Even this will appear no trivial imposition. In London, salt
may be had at a penny farthing per pound from the last retailer.

[67] Page 31.

[68] Page 33.

[69] Page 33.

[70] Page 33.

[71] The figures in the "Considerations" are wrongly cast up; it should
be 3,608,700_l._

[72] "Considerations," p. 43. "State of the Nation," p. 33.

[73] Ibid.

[74] Page 34.

[75] The author of the "State of the Nation," p. 34, informs us, that
the sum of 75,000_l._ allowed by him for the extras of the army and
ordnance, is far less than was allowed for the same service in the years
1767 and 1768. It is so undoubtedly, and by at least 200,000_l._ He sees
that he cannot abide by the plan of the "Considerations" in this point,
nor is he willing wholly to give it up. Such an enormous difference as
that between 35,000_l._ and 300,000_l._ puts him to a stand. Should he
adopt the latter plan of increased expense, he must then confess that he
had, on a former occasion, egregiously trifled with the public; at the
same time all his future promises of reduction must fall to the ground.
If he stuck to the 35,000_l._ he was sure that every one must expect
from him some account how this monstrous charge came to continue ever
since the war, when it was clearly unnecessary; how all those
successions of ministers (his own included) came to pay it, and why his
great friend in Parliament, and his partisans without doors, came not to
pursue to ruin, at least to utter shame, the authors of so groundless
and scandalous a profusion. In this strait he took a middle way; and, to
come nearer the real state of the service, he outbid the
"Considerations," at one stroke, 40,000_l._; at the same time he hints
to you, that you may _expect_ some benefit also from the original plan.
But the author of the "Considerations" will not suffer him to escape it.
He has pinned him down to his 35,000_l._; for that is the sum he has
chosen, not as what he thinks will probably be required, but as making
the most ample allowance for every possible contingency. See that
author, p. 42 and 43.

[76] He has done great injustice to the establishment of 1768; but I
have not here time for this discussion; nor is it necessary to this
argument.

[77] Page 34.

[78] In making up this account, he falls into a surprising error of
arithmetic. "The deficiency of the land-tax in the year 1754 and
1755,[80] when it was at 2_s._, amounted to no more, on a medium, than
49,372_l._; to which, if we add _half the sum_, it will give us
79,058_l._ as the peace deficiency at 3_s._"

            Total                                 L49,372
            Add the half                           24,686
                                                  -------
                                                  L74,058

Which he makes 79,058_l._ This is indeed in disfavor of his argument;
but we shall see that he has ways, by other errors, of reimbursing
himself.

[79] Page 34.

[80] Page 33.

[81] Page 43.

[82] Page 35.

[83] Page 37.

[84] Pages 37, 38.

[85] Pages 39, 40.

[86] Page 39.

[87] It is observable, that the partisans of American taxation, when
they have a mind to represent this tax as wonderfully beneficial to
England, state it as worth 100,000_l._ a year; when they are to
represent it as very light on the Americans, it dwindles to 60,000_l._
Indeed it is very difficult to compute what its produce might have been.

[88] "Considerations," p. 74.

[89] "Considerations," p. 79.

[90] Ibid., p. 74.

[91] I do not here enter into the unsatisfactory disquisition concerning
representation real or presumed. I only say, that a great people who
have their property, without any reserve, in all cases, disposed of by
another people, at an immense distance from them, will not think
themselves in the enjoyment of freedom. It will be hard to show to those
who are in such a state, which of the usual parts of the definition or
description of a free people are applicable to them; and it is neither
pleasant nor wise to attempt to prove that they have no right to be
comprehended in such a description.

[92] Page 21.

[93] Here the author has a note altogether in his usual strain of
reasoning; he finds out that somebody, in the course of this
multifarious evidence, had said, "that a very considerable part of the
orders of 1765 transmitted from America had been afterwards suspended;
but that in case the Stamp Act was repealed, those orders were to be
executed in the present year, 1766"; and that, on the repeal of the
Stamp Act, "the exports to the colonies would be at least double the
value of the exports of the past year." He then triumphs exceedingly on
their having fallen short of it on the state of the custom-house
entries. I do not well know what conclusion he draws applicable to his
purpose from these facts. He does not deny that all the orders which
came from America subsequent to the disturbances of the Stamp Act were
on the condition of that act being repealed; and he does not assert
that, notwithstanding that act should be enforced by a strong hand,
still the orders would be executed. Neither does he quite venture to say
that this decline of the trade in 1766 was owing to the repeal. What
does he therefore infer from it, favorable to the enforcement of that
law? It only comes to this, and no more; those merchants, who thought
our trade would be doubled in the subsequent year, were mistaken in
their speculations. So that the Stamp Act was not to be repealed unless
this speculation of theirs was a probable event. But it was not repealed
in order to double our trade in that year, as everybody knows (whatever
some merchants might have said), but lest in that year we should have no
trade at all. The fact is, that during the greatest part of the year
1755, that is, until about the month of October, when the accounts of
the disturbances came thick upon us, the American trade went on as
usual. Before this time, the Stamp Act could not affect it. Afterwards,
the merchants fell into a great consternation; a general stagnation in
trade ensued. But as soon as it was known that the ministry favored the
repeal of the Stamp Act, several of the bolder merchants ventured to
execute their orders; others more timid hung back; in this manner the
trade continued in a state of dreadful fluctuation between the fears of
those who had ventured, for the event of their boldness, and the anxiety
of those whose trade was suspended, until the royal assent was finally
given to the bill of repeal. That the trade of 1766 was not equal to
that of 1765, could not be owing to the repeal; it arose from quite
different causes, of which the author seems not to be aware: 1st, Our
conquests during the war had laid open the trade of the French and
Spanish West Indies to our colonies much more largely than they had ever
enjoyed it; this continued for some time after the peace; but at length
it was extremely contracted, and in some places reduced to nothing. Such
in particular was the state of Jamaica. On the taking the Havannah all
the stores of that island were emptied into that place, which produced
unusual orders for goods, for supplying their own consumption, as well
as for further speculations of trade. These ceasing, the trade stood on
its own bottom. This is one cause of the diminished export to Jamaica,
and not the childish idea of the author, of an impossible contraband
from the opening of the ports.--2nd, The war had brought a great influx
of cash into America, for the pay and provision of the troops; and this
an unnatural increase of trade, which, as its cause failed, must in some
degree return to its ancient and natural bounds.--3rd, When the
merchants met from all parts, and compared their accounts, they were
alarmed at the immensity of the debt due to them from America. They
found that the Americans had over-traded their abilities. And, as they
found too that several of them were capable of making the state of
political events an excuse for their failure in commercial punctuality,
many of our merchants in some degree contracted their trade from that
moment. However, it is idle, in such an immense mass of trade, so liable
to fluctuation, to infer anything from such a deficiency as one or even
two hundred thousand pounds. In 1767, when the disturbances subsided,
this deficiency was made up again.

[94] The disturbances have been in Boston only; and were not in
consequence of the late duties.

[95] Page 24.

[96] "They are happy in having found, in your zeal for the dignity of
this nation, the means of liquidating their claims, and of concluding
with the court of France a convention for the final satisfaction of
their demands; and have given us commission, in their names, and on
their behalf, most earnestly to entreat your acceptance of their
grateful acknowledgments. Whether they consider themselves as Britons,
or as men more particularly profiting by your generous and spirited
interposition, they see great reasons to be thankful, for having been
supported by a minister, in whose public affections, in whose wisdom and
activity, both the national honor, and the interests of individuals,
have been at once so well supported and secured."--Thanks of the Canada
merchants to General Conway, London, April 28, 1766.

[97] See the Convention itself, printed by Owen and Harrison,
Warwick-lane, 1766; particularly the articles two and thirteen.

[98] Page 23.

[99] Page 46.

[100] Page 46.




APPENDIX.


So much misplaced industry has been used by the author of "The State of
the Nation," as well as by other writers, to infuse discontent into the
people, on account of the late war, and of the effects of our national
debt; that nothing ought to be omitted which may tend to disabuse the
public upon these subjects. When I had gone through the foregoing
sheets, I recollected, that, in pages 58, 59, 60, I only gave the
comparative states of the duties collected by the excise at large;
together with the quantities of strong beer brewed in the two periods
which are there compared. It might be still thought, that some other
articles of popular consumption, of general convenience, and connected
with our manufactures, might possibly have declined. I therefore now
think it right to lay before the reader the state of the produce of
three capital duties on such articles; duties which have frequently been
made the subject of popular complaint. The duty on candles; that on
soap, paper, &c.; and that on hides.

  Average of net produce of duty on soap,
    &c., for eight years ending 1767              L264,902
  Average of ditto for eight years ending 1754     228,114
                                                  --------
                    Average increase               L36,788

  Average of net produce of duty on candles
    for eight years ending 1767                   L155,789
  Average of ditto for eight years ending 1754     136,716
                                                  --------
                    Average increase               L19,073

  Average net produce of duty on hides,
    eight years, ending 1767                      L189,216
  Ditto eight years, ending 1754                   168,200
                                                  --------
                    Average increase               L21,016

This increase has not arisen from any additional duties. None have been
imposed on these articles during the war. Notwithstanding the burdens of
the war, and the late dearness of provisions, the consumption of all
these articles has increased, and the revenue along with it.

There is another point in "The State of the Nation," to which, I fear, I
have not been so full in my answer as I ought to have been, and as I am
well warranted to be. The author has endeavored to throw a suspicion, or
something more, on that salutary, and indeed necessary measure of
opening the ports in Jamaica. "Orders were given," says he, "in
_August_, 1765, for the free admission of Spanish vessels into all the
colonies."[101] He then observes, that the exports to Jamaica fell
40,904_l._ short of those of 1764; and that the exports of the
succeeding year, 1766, fell short of those of 1765, about eighty pounds;
from whence he wisely infers, that this decline of exports being _since_
the relaxation of the laws of trade, there is a just ground of
suspicion, that the colonies have been supplied with foreign commodities
instead of British.

Here, as usual with him, the author builds on a fact which is
absolutely false; and which, being so, renders his whole hypothesis
absurd and impossible. He asserts, that the order for admitting Spanish
vessels was given in _August_, 1765. That order was not _signed at the
treasury board until the 15th day of the November following_; and
therefore so far from affecting the exports of the year 1765, that,
supposing all possible diligence in the commissioners of the customs in
expediting that order, and every advantage of vessels ready to sail, and
the most favorable wind, it would hardly even arrive in Jamaica, within
the limits of that year.

This order could therefore by no possibility be a cause of the decrease
of exports in 1765. If it had any mischievous operation, it could not be
before 1766. In that year, according to our author, the exports fell
short of the preceding, just _eighty_ pounds. He is welcome to that
diminution; and to all the consequences he can draw from it.

But, as an auxiliary to account for this dreadful loss, he brings in the
Free-port Act, which he observes (for his convenience) to have been made
in spring, 1766; but (for his convenience likewise) he forgets, that, by
the express provision of the act, the regulation was not to be in force
in Jamaica until the November following. Miraculous must be the activity
of that contraband whose operation in America could, before the end of
that year, have reacted upon England, and checked the exportation from
hence! Unless he chooses to suppose, that the merchants at whose
solicitation this act had been obtained, were so frightened at the
accomplishment of their own most earnest and anxious desire, that,
before any good or evil effect from it could happen, they immediately
put a stop to all further exportation.

It is obvious that we must look for the true effect of that act at the
time of its first possible operation, that is, in the year 1767. On this
idea how stands the account?

  1764, Exports to Jamaica                       L 456,528
  1765                                             415,624
  1766                                             415,544
  1767  (first year of the Free-port Act)          467,681

This author, for the sake of a present momentary credit, will hazard any
future and permanent disgrace. At the time he wrote, the account of 1767
could not be made up. This was the very first year of the trial of the
Free-port Act; and we find that the sale of British commodities is so
far from being lessened by that act, that the export of 1767 amounts to
52,000_l._ more than that of either of the two preceding years, and is
11,000_l._ above that of his standard year 1764. If I could prevail on
myself to argue in favor of a great commercial scheme from the
appearance of things in a single year, I should from this increase of
export infer the beneficial effects of that measure. In truth, it is not
wanting. Nothing but the thickest ignorance of the Jamaica trade could
have made any one entertain a fancy, that the least ill effect on our
commerce could follow from this opening of the ports. But, if the author
argues the effect of regulations in the American trade from the export
of the year in which they are made, or even of the following; why did he
not apply this rule to his own? He had the same paper before him which I
have now before me. He must have seen that in his standard year (the
year 1764), the principal year of his new regulations, the export fell
no less than 128,450_l._ short of that in 1763! Did the export trade
revive by these regulations in 1765, during which year they continued in
their full force? It fell about 40,000_l._ still lower. Here is a fall
of 168,000_l._; to account for which, would have become the author much
better than piddling for an 80_l._ fall in the year 1766 (the only year
in which _the order_ he objects to could operate), or in presuming a
fall of exports from a regulation which took place only in November,
1766; whose effects could not appear until the following year; and
which, when they do appear, utterly overthrow all his flimsy reasons and
affected suspicions upon the effect of opening the ports.

This author, in the same paragraph, says, that "it was asserted by _the
American factors and agents_, that the commanders of our ships of war
and tenders, having custom-house commissions, and the strict orders
given in 1764 for a due execution of the laws of trade in the colonies,
had deterred the Spaniards from trading with us; that the sale of
British manufactures in the West Indies had been greatly lessened, and
the receipt of large sums of specie prevented."

If the _American factors and agents_ asserted this, they had good ground
for their assertion. They knew that the Spanish vessels had been driven
from our ports. The author does not positively deny the fact. If he
should, it will be proved. When the factors connected this measure, and
its natural consequences, with an actual fall in the exports to Jamaica,
to no less an amount than 128,460_l._ in one year, and with a further
fall in the next, is their assertion very wonderful? The author himself
is full as much alarmed by a fall of only 40,000_l._; for giving him
the facts which he chooses to coin, it is no more. The expulsion of the
Spanish vessels must certainly have been one cause, if not of the first
declension of the exports, yet of their continuance in their reduced
state. Other causes had their operation, without doubt. In what degree
each cause produced its effect, it is hard to determine. But the fact of
a fall of exports upon the restraining plan, and of a rise upon the
taking place of the enlarging plan, is established beyond all
contradiction.

This author says, that the facts relative to the Spanish trade were
asserted by _American factors and agents_; insinuating, that the
ministry of 1766 had no better authority for their plan of enlargement
than such assertions. The moment he chooses it, he shall see the very
same thing asserted by governors of provinces, by commanders of
men-of-war, and by officers of the customs; persons the most bound in
duty to prevent contraband, and the most interested in the seizures to
be made in consequence of strict regulation. I suppress them for the
present; wishing that the author may not drive me to a more full
discussion of this matter than it may be altogether prudent to enter
into. I wish he had not made any of these discussions necessary.

FOOTNOTES:

[101] His note, p. 22.




THOUGHTS

ON

THE CAUSE OF THE PRESENT DISCONTENTS.

     Hoc vero occultum, intestinum, domesticum malum, non modo non
     existit, verum etiam opprimit, antequam perspicere atque explorare
     potueris.
                                        CIC.

1770.



It is an undertaking of some degree of delicacy to examine into the
cause of public disorders. If a man happens not to succeed in such an
inquiry, he will be thought weak and visionary; if he touches the true
grievance, there is a danger that he may come near to persons of weight
and consequence, who will rather be exasperated at the discovery of
their errors, than thankful for the occasion of correcting them. If he
should be obliged to blame the favorites of the people, he will be
considered as the tool of power; if he censures those in power, he will
be looked on as an instrument of faction. But in all exertions of duty
something is to be hazarded. In cases of tumult and disorder, our law
has invested every man, in some sort, with the authority of a
magistrate. When the affairs of the nation are distracted, private
people are, by the spirit of that law, justified in stepping a little
out of their ordinary sphere. They enjoy a privilege, of somewhat more
dignity and effect, than that of idle lamentation over the calamities of
their country. They may look into them narrowly; they may reason upon
them liberally; and if they should be so fortunate as to discover the
true source of the mischief, and to suggest any probable method of
removing it, though they may displease the rulers for the day, they are
certainly of service to the cause of government. Government is deeply
interested in everything which, even through the medium of some
temporary uneasiness, may tend finally to compose the minds of the
subject, and to conciliate their affections. I have nothing to do here
with the abstract value of the voice of the people. But as long as
reputation, the most precious possession of every individual, and as
long as opinion, the great support of the state, depend entirely upon
that voice, it can never be considered as a thing of little consequence
either to individuals or to governments. Nations are not primarily ruled
by laws: less by violence. Whatever original energy may be supposed
either in force or regulation, the operation of both is, in truth,
merely instrumental. Nations are governed by the same methods, and on
the same principles, by which an individual without authority is often
able to govern those who are his equals or his superiors; by a knowledge
of their temper, and by a judicious management of it; I mean,--when
public affairs are steadily and quietly conducted; not when government
is nothing but a continued scuffle between the magistrate and the
multitude; in which sometimes the one and sometimes the other is
uppermost; in which they alternately yield and prevail, in a series of
contemptible victories, and scandalous submissions. The temper of the
people amongst whom he presides ought therefore to be the first study of
a statesman. And the knowledge of this temper it is by no means
impossible for him to attain, if he has not an interest in being
ignorant of what it is his duty to learn.

To complain of the age we live in, to murmur at the present possessors
of power, to lament the past, to conceive extravagant hopes of the
future, are the common dispositions of the greatest part of mankind;
indeed the necessary effects of the ignorance and levity of the vulgar.
Such complaints and humors have existed in all times; yet as all times
have _not_ been alike, true political sagacity manifests itself in
distinguishing that complaint which only characterizes the general
infirmity of human nature, from those which are symptoms of the
particular distemperature of our own air and season.

Nobody, I believe, will consider it merely as the language of spleen or
disappointment, if I say, that there is something particularly alarming
in the present conjuncture. There is hardly a man, in or out of power,
who holds any other language. That government is at once dreaded and
contemned; that the laws are despoiled of all their respected and
salutary terrors; that their inaction is a subject of ridicule, and
their exertion of abhorrence; that rank, and office and title, and all
the solemn plausibilities of the world, have lost their reverence and
effect; that our foreign politics are as much deranged as our domestic
economy; that our dependencies are slackened in their affection, and
loosened from their obedience; that we know neither how to yield nor how
to enforce; that hardly anything above or below, abroad or at home, is
sound and entire; but that disconnection and confusion, in offices, in
parties, in families, in Parliament, in the nation, prevail beyond the
disorders of any former time: these are facts universally admitted and
lamented.

This state of things is the more extraordinary, because the great
parties which formerly divided and agitated the kingdom are known to be
in a manner entirely dissolved. No great external calamity has visited
the nation; no pestilence or famine. We do not labor at present under
any scheme of taxation new or oppressive in the quantity or in the mode.
Nor are we engaged in unsuccessful war; in which, our misfortunes might
easily pervert our judgment; and our minds, sore from the loss of
national glory, might feel every blow of fortune as a crime in
government.

It is impossible that the cause of this strange distemper should not
sometimes become a subject of discourse. It is a compliment due, and
which I willingly pay, to those who administer our affairs, to take
notice in the first place of their speculation. Our ministers are of
opinion, that the increase of our trade and manufactures, that our
growth by colonization, and by conquest, have concurred to accumulate
immense wealth in the hands of some individuals; and this again being
dispersed among the people, has rendered them universally proud,
ferocious, and ungovernable; that the insolence of some from their
enormous wealth, and the boldness of others from a guilty poverty, have
rendered them capable of the most atrocious attempts; so that they have
trampled upon all subordination, and violently borne down the unarmed
laws of a free government; barriers too feeble against the fury of a
populace so fierce and licentious as ours. They contend, that no
adequate provocation has been given for so spreading a discontent; our
affairs having been conducted throughout with remarkable temper and
consummate wisdom. The wicked industry of some libellers, joined to the
intrigues of a few disappointed politicians, have, in their opinion,
been able to produce this unnatural ferment in the nation.

Nothing indeed can be more unnatural than the present convulsions of
this country, if the above account be a true one. I confess I shall
assent to it with great reluctance, and only on the compulsion of the
clearest and firmest proofs; because their account resolves itself into
this short, but discouraging proposition, "That we have a very good
ministry, but that we are a very bad people"; that we set ourselves to
bite the hand that feeds us; that with a malignant insanity, we oppose
the measures, and ungratefully vilify the persons, of those whose sole
object is our own peace and prosperity. If a few puny libellers, acting
under a knot of factious politicians, without virtue, parts, or
character, (such they are constantly represented by these gentlemen,)
are sufficient to excite this disturbance, very perverse must be the
disposition of that people, amongst whom such a disturbance can be
excited by such means. It is besides no small aggravation of the public
misfortune, that the disease, on this hypothesis, appears to be without
remedy. If the wealth of the nation be the cause of its turbulence, I
imagine it is not proposed to introduce poverty, as a constable to keep
the peace. If our dominions abroad are the roots which feed all this
rank luxuriance of sedition, it is not intended to cut them off in order
to famish the fruit. If our liberty has enfeebled the executive power,
there is no design, I hope, to call in the aid of despotism, to fill up
the deficiencies of law. Whatever may be intended, these things are not
yet professed. We seem therefore to be driven to absolute despair; for
we have no other materials to work upon, but those out of which God has
been pleased to form the inhabitants of this island. If these be
radically and essentially vicious, all that can be said is, that those
men are very unhappy, to whose fortune or duty it falls to administer
the affairs of this untoward people. I hear it indeed sometimes
asserted, that a steady perseverance in the present measures, and a
rigorous punishment of those who oppose them, will in course of time
infallibly put an end to these disorders. But this, in my opinion, is
said without much observation of our present disposition, and without
any knowledge at all of the general nature of mankind. If the matter of
which this nation is composed be so very fermentable as these gentlemen
describe it, leaven never will be wanting to work it up, as long as
discontent, revenge, and ambition, have existence in the world.
Particular punishments are the cure for accidental distempers in the
state; they inflame rather than allay those heats which arise from the
settled mismanagement of the government, or from a natural indisposition
in the people. It is of the utmost moment not to make mistakes in the
use of strong measures; and firmness is then only a virtue when it
accompanies the most perfect wisdom. In truth, inconstancy is a sort of
natural corrective of folly and ignorance.

I am not one of those who think that the people are never in the wrong.
They have been so, frequently and outrageously, both in other countries
and in this. But I do say, that in all disputes between them and their
rulers, the presumption is at least upon a par in favor of the people.
Experience may perhaps justify me in going further. When popular
discontents have been very prevalent, it may well be affirmed and
supported, that there has been generally something found amiss in the
constitution, or in the conduct of government. The people have no
interest in disorder. When they do wrong, it is their error, and not
their crime. But with the governing part of the state, it is for
otherwise. They certainly may act ill by design, as well as by mistake.
"_Les revolutions qui arrivent dans les grands etats ne sont point un
effect du hazard, ni du caprice des peuples. Rien ne revolte _les
grands_ d'un royaume comme _un gouvernement foible et derange_. Pour la
_populace_, ce n'est jamais par envie d'attaquer qu'elle se souleve,
mais par impatience de souffrir._"[102] These are the words of a great
man; of a minister of state; and a zealous assertor of monarchy. They
are applied to the _system of favoritism_ which was adopted by Henry the
Third of France, and to the dreadful consequences it produced. What he
says of revolutions, is equally true of all great disturbances. If this
presumption in favor of the subjects against the trustees of power be
not the more probable, I am sure it is the more comfortable speculation;
because it is more easy to change an administration, than to reform a
people.

Upon a supposition, therefore, that, in the opening of the cause, the
presumptions stand equally balanced between the parties, there seems
sufficient ground to entitle any person to a fair hearing, who attempts
some other scheme beside that easy one which is fashionable in some
fashionable companies, to account for the present discontents. It is not
to be argued that we endure no grievance, because our grievances are not
of the same sort with those under which we labored formerly; not
precisely those which we bore from the Tudors, or vindicated on the
Stuarts. A great change has taken place in the affairs of this country.
For in the silent lapse of events as material alterations have been
insensibly brought about in the policy and character of governments and
nations, as those which have been marked by the tumult of public
revolutions.

It is very rare indeed for men to be wrong in their feelings concerning
public misconduct; as rare to be right in their speculation upon the
cause of it. I have constantly observed, that the generality of people
are fifty years, at least, behindhand in their politics. There are but
very few who are capable of comparing and digesting what passes before
their eyes at different times and occasions, so as to form the whole
into a distinct system. But in books everything is settled for them,
without the exertion of any considerable diligence or sagacity. For
which reason men are wise with but little reflection, and good with
little self-denial, in the business of all times except their own. We
are very uncorrupt and tolerably enlightened judges of the transactions
of past ages; where no passions deceive, and where the whole train of
circumstances, from the trifling cause to the tragical event, is set in
an orderly series before us. Few are the partisans of departed tyranny;
and to be a Whig on the business of an hundred years ago, is very
consistent with every advantage of present servility. This retrospective
wisdom, and historical patriotism, are things of wonderful convenience,
and serve admirably to reconcile the old quarrel between speculation and
practice. Many a stern republican, after gorging himself with a full
feast of admiration of the Grecian commonwealths and of our true Saxon
constitution, and discharging all the splendid bile of his virtuous
indignation on King John and King James, sits down perfectly satisfied
to the coarsest work and homeliest job of the day he lives in. I believe
there was no professed admirer of Henry the Eighth among the instruments
of the last King James; nor in the court of Henry the Eighth was there,
I dare say, to be found a single advocate for the favorites of Richard
the Second.

No complaisance to our court, or to our age, can make me believe nature
to be so changed, but that public liberty will be among us as among our
ancestors, obnoxious to some person or other; and that opportunities
will be furnished for attempting, at least, some alteration to the
prejudice of our constitution. These attempts will naturally vary in
their mode according to times and circumstances. For ambition, though it
has ever the same general views, has not at all times the same means,
nor the same particular objects. A great deal of the furniture of
ancient tyranny is worn to rags; the rest is entirely out of fashion.
Besides, there are few statesmen so very clumsy and awkward in their
business, as to fall into the identical snare which has proved fatal to
their predecessors. When an arbitrary imposition is attempted upon the
subject, undoubtedly it will not bear on its forehead the name of
_Ship-money_. There is no danger that an extension of the _Forest laws_
should be the chosen mode of oppression in this age. And when we hear
any instance of ministerial rapacity, to the prejudice of the rights of
private life, it will certainly not be the exaction of two hundred
pullets, from a woman of fashion, for leave to lie with her own
husband.[103]

Every age has its own manners, and its politics dependent upon them;
and the same attempts will not be made against a constitution fully
formed and matured, that were used to destroy it in the cradle, or to
resist its growth during its infancy.

Against the being of Parliament, I am satisfied, no designs have ever
been entertained since the revolution. Every one must perceive, that it
is strongly the interest of the court, to have some second cause
interposed between the ministers and the people. The gentlemen of the
House of Commons have an interest equally strong in sustaining the part
of that intermediate cause. However they may hire out the _usufruct_ of
their voices, they never will part with the _fee and inheritance_.
Accordingly those who have been of the most known devotion to the will
and pleasure of a court have, at the same time, been most forward in
asserting a high authority in the House of Commons. When they knew who
were to use that authority, and how it was to be employed, they thought
it never could be carried too far. It must be always the wish of an
unconstitutional statesman, that a House of Commons, who are entirely
dependent upon him, should have every right of the people entirely
dependent upon their pleasure. It was soon discovered, that the forms of
a free, and the ends of an arbitrary government, were things not
altogether incompatible.

The power of the crown, almost dead and rotten as Prerogative, has grown
up anew, with much more strength, and far less odium, under the name of
Influence. An influence, which operated without noise and without
violence; an influence, which converted the very antagonist into the
instrument of power; which contained in itself a perpetual principle of
growth and renovation; and which the distresses and the prosperity of
the country equally tended to augment, was an admirable substitute for a
prerogative, that, being only the offspring of antiquated prejudices,
had moulded in its original stamina irresistible principles of decay and
dissolution. The ignorance of the people is a bottom but for a temporary
system; the interest of active men in the state is a foundation
perpetual and infallible. However, some circumstances, arising, it must
be confessed, in a great degree from accident, prevented the effects of
this influence for a long time from breaking out in a manner capable of
exciting any serious apprehensions. Although government was strong and
flourished exceedingly, the _court_ had drawn far less advantage than
one would imagine from this great source of power.

At the revolution, the crown, deprived, for the ends of the revolution
itself, of many prerogatives, was found too weak to struggle against all
the difficulties which pressed so new and unsettled a government. The
court was obliged therefore to delegate a part of its powers to men of
such interest as could support, and of such fidelity as would adhere to,
its establishment. Such men were able to draw in a greater number to a
concurrence in the common defence. This connection, necessary at first,
continued long after convenient; and properly conducted might indeed, in
all situations, be an useful instrument of government. At the same time,
through the intervention of men of popular weight and character, the
people possessed a security for their just proportion of importance in
the state. But as the title to the crown grew stronger by long
possession, and by the constant increase of its influence, these helps
have of late seemed to certain persons no better than incumbrances. The
powerful managers for government were not sufficiently submissive to the
pleasure of the possessors of immediate and personal favor, sometimes
from a confidence in their own strength, natural and acquired; sometimes
from a fear of offending their friends, and weakening that lead in the
country which gave them a consideration independent of the court. Men
acted as if the court could receive, as well as confer, an obligation.
The influence of government, thus divided in appearance between the
court and the leaders of parties, became in many cases an accession
rather to the popular than to the royal scale; and some part of that
influence, which would otherwise have been possessed as in a sort of
mortmain and unalienable domain, returned again to the great ocean from
whence it arose, and circulated among the people. This method,
therefore, of governing by men of great natural interest or great
acquired consideration was viewed in a very invidious light by the true
lovers of absolute monarchy. It is the nature of despotism to abhor
power held by any means but its own momentary pleasure; and to
annihilate all intermediate situations between boundless strength on its
own part, and total debility on the part of the people.

To get rid of all this intermediate and independent importance, and _to
secure to the court the unlimited and uncontrolled use of its own vast
influence, under the sole direction of its own private favor_, has for
some years past been the great object of policy. If this were
compassed, the influence of the crown must of course produce all the
effects which the most sanguine partisans of the court could possibly
desire. Government might then be carried on without any concurrence on
the part of the people; without any attention to the dignity of the
greater, or to the affections of the lower sorts. A new project was
therefore devised by a certain set of intriguing men, totally different
from the system of administration which had prevailed since the
accession of the House of Brunswick. This project, I have heard, was
first conceived by some persons in the court of Frederick Prince of
Wales.

The earliest attempt in the execution of this design was to set up for
minister, a person, in rank indeed respectable, and very ample in
fortune; but who, to the moment of this vast and sudden elevation, was
little known or considered in the kingdom. To him the whole nation was
to yield an immediate and implicit submission. But whether it was from
want of firmness to bear up against the first opposition; or that things
were not yet fully ripened, or that this method was not found the most
eligible; that idea was soon abandoned. The instrumental part of the
project was a little altered, to accommodate it to the time and to bring
things more gradually and more surely to the one great end proposed.

The first part of the reformed plan was to draw _a line which should
separate the court from the ministry_. Hitherto these names had been
looked upon as synonymous; but for the future, court and administration
were to be considered as things totally distinct. By this operation, two
systems of administration were to be formed; one which should be in the
real secret and confidence; the other merely ostensible to perform the
official and executory duties of government. The latter were alone to be
responsible; whilst the real advisers, who enjoyed all the power, were
effectually removed from all the danger.

Secondly, _A party under these leaders was to be formed in favor of the
court against the ministry_: this party was to have a large share in the
emoluments of government, and to hold it totally separate from, and
independent of, ostensible administration.

The third point, and that on which the success of the whole scheme
ultimately depended, was _to bring Parliament to an acquiescence in this
project_. Parliament was therefore to be taught by degrees a total
indifference to the persons, rank, influence, abilities, connections,
and character of the ministers of the crown. By means of a discipline,
on which I shall say more hereafter, that body was to be habituated to
the most opposite interests, and the most discordant politics. All
connections and dependencies among subjects were to be entirely
dissolved. As, hitherto, business had gone through the hands of leaders
of Whigs or Tories, men of talents to conciliate the people, and to
engage their confidence; now the method was to be altered: and the lead
was to be given to men of no sort of consideration or credit in the
country. This want of natural importance was to be their very title to
delegated power. Members of Parliament were to be hardened into an
insensibility to pride as well as to duty. Those high and haughty
sentiments, which are the great support of independence, were to be let
down gradually. Points of honor and precedence were no more to be
regarded in Parliamentary decorum than in a Turkish army. It was to be
avowed, as a constitutional maxim, that the king might appoint one of
his footmen, or one of your footmen for minister; and that he ought to
be, and that he would be, as well followed as the first name for rank or
wisdom in the nation. Thus Parliament was to look on as if perfectly
unconcerned, while a cabal of the closet and back-stairs was substituted
in the place of a national administration.

With such a degree of acquiescence, any measure of any court might well
be deemed thoroughly secure. The capital objects, and by much the most
flattering characteristics of arbitrary power, would be obtained.
Everything would be drawn from its holdings in the country to the
personal favor and inclination of the prince. This favor would be the
sole introduction to power, and the only tenure by which it was to be
held; so that no person looking towards another, and all looking towards
the court, it was impossible but that the motive which solely influenced
every man's hopes must come in time to govern every man's conduct; till
at last the servility became universal, in spite of the dead letter of
any laws or institutions whatsoever.

How it should happen that any man could be tempted to venture upon such
a project of government, may at first view appear surprising. But the
fact is that opportunities very inviting to such an attempt have
offered; and the scheme itself was not destitute of some arguments, not
wholly unplausible, to recommend it. These opportunities and these
arguments, the use that has been made of both, the plan for carrying
this new scheme of government into execution, and the effects which it
has produced, are, in my opinion, worthy of our serious consideration.

His Majesty came to the throne of these kingdoms with more advantages
than any of his predecessors since the revolution. Fourth in descent,
and third in succession of his royal family, even the zealots of
hereditary right, in him, saw something to flatter their favorite
prejudices; and to justify a transfer of their attachments, without a
change in their principles. The person and cause of the Pretender were
become contemptible; his title disowned throughout Europe; his party
disbanded in England. His Majesty came, indeed, to the inheritance of a
mighty war; but, victorious in every part of the globe, peace was always
in his power, not to negotiate, but to dictate. No foreign habitudes or
attachments withdrew him from the cultivation of his power at home. His
revenue for the civil establishment, fixed (as it was then thought) at a
large, but definite sum, was ample without being invidious. His
influence, by additions from conquest, by an augmentation of debt, by an
increase of military and naval establishment, much strengthened and
extended. And coming to the throne in the prime and full vigor of youth,
as from affection there was a strong dislike, so from dread there seemed
to be a general averseness, from giving anything like offence to a
monarch, against whose resentment opposition could not look for a refuge
in any sort of reversionary hope.

These singular advantages inspired his Majesty only with a more ardent
desire to preserve unimpaired the spirit of that national freedom, to
which he owed a situation so full of glory. But to others it suggested
sentiments of a very different nature. They thought they now beheld an
opportunity (by a certain sort of statesmen never long undiscovered or
unemployed) of drawing to themselves by the aggrandizement of a court
faction, a degree of power which they could never hope to derive from
natural influence or from honorable service; and which it was impossible
they could hold with the least security, whilst the system of
administration rested upon its former bottom. In order to facilitate the
execution of their design, it was necessary to make many alterations in
political arrangement, and a signal change in the opinions, habits, and
connections of the greatest part of those who at that time acted in
public.

In the first place, they proceeded gradually, but not slowly, to destroy
everything of strength which did not derive its principal nourishment
from the immediate pleasure of the court. The greatest weight of popular
opinion and party connection were then with the Duke of Newcastle and
Mr. Pitt. Neither of these held their importance by the _new tenure_ of
the court; they were not therefore thought to be so proper as others for
the services which were required by that tenure. It happened very
favorably for the new system, that under a forced coalition there
rankled an incurable alienation and disgust between the parties which
composed the administration. Mr. Pitt was first attacked. Not satisfied
with removing him from power, they endeavored by various artifices to
ruin his character. The other party seemed rather pleased to get rid of
so oppressive a support; not perceiving, that their own fall was
prepared by his, and involved in it. Many other reasons prevented them
from daring to look their true situation in the face. To the great Whig
families it was extremely disagreeable, and seemed almost unnatural, to
oppose the administration of a prince of the House of Brunswick. Day
after day they hesitated, and doubted, and lingered, expecting that
other counsels would take place; and were slow to be persuaded, that all
which had been done by the cabal was the effect not of humor, but of
system. It was more strongly and evidently the interest of the new court
faction, to get rid of the great Whig connections, than to destroy Mr.
Pitt. The power of that gentleman was vast indeed and merited; but it
was in a great degree personal, and therefore transient. Theirs was
rooted in the country. For, with a good deal less of popularity, they
possessed a far more natural and fixed influence. Long possession of
government; vast property; obligations of favors given and received;
connection of office; ties of blood, of alliance, of friendship (things
at that time supposed of some force); the name of Whig, dear to the
majority of the people; the zeal early begun and steadily continued to
the royal family: all these together formed a body of power in the
nation, which was criminal and devoted. The great ruling principle of
the cabal, and that which animated and harmonized all their proceedings,
how various soever they may have been, was to signify to the world that
the court would proceed upon its own proper forces only; and that the
pretence of bringing any other into its service was an affront to it,
and not a support. Therefore when the chiefs were removed, in order to
go to the root, the whole party was put under a proscription, so general
and severe, as to take their hard-earned bread from the lowest officers,
in a manner which had never been known before, even in general
revolutions. But it was thought necessary effectually to destroy all
dependencies but one; and to show an example of the firmness and rigor
with which the new system was to be supported.

Thus for the time were pulled down, in the persons of the Whig leaders
and of Mr. Pitt (in spite of the services of the one at the accession of
the royal family, and the recent services of the other in the war), the
_two only securities for the importance of the people; power arising
from popularity; and power arising from connection_. Here and there
indeed a few individuals were left standing, who gave security for their
total estrangement from the odious principles of party connection and
personal attachment; and it must be confessed that most of them have
religiously kept their faith. Such a change could not however be made
without a mighty shock to government.

To reconcile the minds of the people to all these movements, principles
correspondent to them had been preached up with great zeal. Every one
must remember that the cabal set out with the most astonishing prudery,
both moral and political. Those, who in a few months after soused over
head and ears into the deepest and dirtiest pits of corruption, cried
out violently against the indirect practices in the electing and
managing of Parliaments, which had formerly prevailed. This marvellous
abhorrence which the court had suddenly taken to all influence, was not
only circulated in conversation through the kingdom, but pompously
announced to the public, with many other extraordinary things, in a
pamphlet[104] which had all the appearance of a manifesto preparatory to
some considerable enterprise. Throughout it was a satire, though in
terms managed and decent enough, on the politics of the former reign.
It was indeed written with no small art and address.

In this piece appeared the first dawning of the new system: there first
appeared the idea (then only in speculation) of _separating the court
from the administration_; of carrying everything from national
connection to personal regards; and of forming a regular party for that
purpose, under the name of _king's men_.

To recommend this system to the people, a perspective view of the court,
gorgeously painted, and finely illuminated from within, was exhibited to
the gaping multitude. Party was to be totally done away, with all its
evil works. Corruption was to be cast down from court, as _Ate_ was from
heaven. Power was thenceforward to be the chosen residence of public
spirit; and no one was to be supposed under any sinister influence,
except those who had the misfortune to be in disgrace at court, which
was to stand in lieu of all vices and all corruptions. A scheme of
perfection to be realized in a monarchy far beyond the visionary
republic of Plato. The whole scenery was exactly disposed to captivate
those good souls, whose credulous morality is so invaluable a treasure
to crafty politicians. Indeed there was wherewithal to charm everybody,
except those few who are not much pleased with professions of
supernatural virtue, who know of what stuff such professions are made,
for what purposes they are designed, and in what they are sure
constantly to end. Many innocent gentlemen, who had been talking prose
all their lives without knowing anything of the matter, began at last to
open their eyes upon their own merits, and to attribute their not having
been lords of the treasury and lords of trade many years before, merely
to the prevalence of party, and to the ministerial power, which had
frustrated the good intentions of the court in favor of their abilities.
Now was the time to unlock the sealed fountain of royal bounty, which
had been infamously monopolized and huckstered, and to let it flow at
large upon the whole people. The time was come, to restore royalty to
its original splendor. _Mettre le Roy hors de page_, became a sort of
watchword. And it was constantly in the mouths of all the runners of the
court, that nothing could preserve the balance of the constitution from
being overturned by the rabble, or by a faction of the nobility, but to
free the sovereign effectually from that ministerial tyranny under which
the royal dignity had been oppressed in the person of his Majesty's
grandfather.

These were some of the many artifices used to reconcile the people to
the great change which was made in the persons who composed the
ministry, and the still greater which was made and avowed in its
constitution. As to individuals, other methods were employed with them;
in order so thoroughly to disunite every party, and even every family,
that _no concert, order, or effect, might appear in any future
opposition_. And in this manner an administration without connection
with the people, or with one another, was first put in possession of
government. What good consequences followed from it, we have all seen;
whether with regard to virtue, public or private; to the ease and
happiness of the sovereign; or to the real strength of government. But
as so much stress was then laid on the necessity of this new project, it
will not be amiss to take a view of the effects of this royal servitude
and vile durance, which was so deplored in the reign of the late
monarch, and was so carefully to be avoided in the reign of his
successor. The effects were these.

In times full of doubt and danger to his person and family, George II.
maintained the dignity of his crown connected with the liberty of his
people, not only unimpaired, but improved, for the space of thirty-three
years. He overcame a dangerous rebellion, abetted by foreign force, and
raging in the heart of his kingdoms; and thereby destroyed the seeds of
all future rebellion that could arise upon the same principle. He
carried the glory, the power, the commerce of England, to a height
unknown even to this renowned nation in the times of its greatest
prosperity: and he left his succession resting on the true and only true
foundations of all national and all regal greatness; affection at home,
reputation abroad, trust in allies, terror in rival nations. The most
ardent lover of his country cannot wish for Great Britain a happier fate
than to continue as she was then left. A people, emulous as we are in
affection to our present sovereign, know not how to form a prayer to
heaven for a greater blessing upon his virtues, or a higher state of
felicity and glory, than that he should live, and should reign, and when
Providence ordains it, should die, exactly like his illustrious
predecessor.

A great prince may be obliged (though such a thing cannot happen very
often) to sacrifice his private inclination to his public interest. A
wise prince will not think that such a restraint implies a condition of
servility; and truly, if such was the condition of the last reign, and
the effects were also such as we have described, we ought, no less for
the sake of the sovereign whom we love, than for our own, to hear
arguments convincing indeed, before we depart from the maxims of that
reign, or fly in the face of this great body of strong and recent
experience.

One of the principal topics which was then, and has been since, much
employed by that political[105] school, is an affected terror of the
growth of an aristocratic power, prejudicial to the rights of the crown,
and the balance of the constitution. Any new powers exercised in the
House of Lords, or in the House of Commons, or by the crown, ought
certainly to excite the vigilant and anxious jealousy of a free people.
Even a new and unprecedented course of action in the whole legislature,
without great and evident reason, may be a subject of just uneasiness. I
will not affirm, that there may not have lately appeared in the House of
Lords, a disposition to some attempts derogatory to the legal rights of
the subject. If any such have really appeared, they have arisen, not
from a power properly aristocratic, but from the same influence which is
charged with having excited attempts of a similar nature in the House of
Commons; which House, if it should have been betrayed into an
unfortunate quarrel with its constituents, and involved in a charge of
the very same nature, could have neither power nor inclination to repel
such attempts in others. Those attempts in the House of Lords can no
more be called aristocratic proceedings, than the proceedings with
regard to the county of Middlesex in the House of Commons can with any
sense be called democratical.

It is true, that the peers have a great influence in the kingdom, and
in every part of the public concerns. While they are men of property, it
is impossible to prevent it, except by such means as must prevent all
property from its natural operation: an event not easily to be
compassed, while property is power; nor by any means to be wished, while
the least notion exists of the method by which the spirit of liberty
acts, and of the means by which it is preserved. If any particular
peers, by their uniform, upright, constitutional conduct, by their
public and their private virtues, have acquired an influence in the
country; the people, on whose favor that influence depends, and from
whom it arose, will never be duped into an opinion, that such greatness
in a peer is the despotism of an aristocracy, when they know and feel it
to be the effect and pledge of their own importance.

I am no friend to aristocracy, in the sense at least in which that word
is usually understood. If it were not a bad habit to moot cases on the
supposed ruin of the constitution, I should be free to declare, that if
it must perish, I would rather by far see it resolved into any other
form, than lost in that austere and insolent domination. But, whatever
my dislikes may be, my fears are not upon that quarter. The question, on
the influence of a court, and of a peerage, is not, which of the two
dangers is the more eligible, but which is the more imminent. He is but
a poor observer, who has not seen, that the generality of peers, far
from supporting themselves in a state of independent greatness, are but
too apt to fall into an oblivion of their proper dignity, and to run
headlong into an abject servitude. Would to God it were true, that the
fault of our peers were too much spirit. It is worthy of some
observation that these gentlemen, so jealous of aristocracy, make no
complaints of the power of those peers (neither few nor inconsiderable)
who are always in the train of a court, and whose whole weight must be
considered as a portion of the settled influence of the crown. This is
all safe and right; but if some peers (I am very sorry they are not as
many as they ought to be) set themselves, in the great concern of peers
and commons, against a back-stairs influence and clandestine government,
then the alarm begins; then the constitution is in danger of being
forced into an aristocracy.

I rest a little the longer on this court topic, because it was much
insisted upon at the time of the great change, and has been since
frequently revived by many of the agents of that party; for, whilst they
are terrifying the great and opulent with the horrors of mob-government,
they are by other managers attempting (though hitherto with little
success) to alarm the people with a phantom of tyranny in the nobles.
All this is done upon their favorite principle of disunion, of sowing
jealousies amongst the different orders of the state, and of disjointing
the natural strength of the kingdom; that it may be rendered incapable
of resisting the sinister designs of wicked men, who have engrossed the
royal power.

Thus much of the topics chosen by the courtiers to recommend their
system; it will be necessary to open a little more at large the nature
of that party which was formed for its support. Without this, the whole
would have been no better than a visionary amusement, like the scheme of
Harrington's political club, and not a business in which the nation had
a real concern. As a powerful party, and a party constructed on a new
principle, it is a very inviting object of curiosity.

It must be remembered, that since the revolution, until the period we
are speaking of, the influence of the crown had been always employed in
supporting the ministers of state, and in carrying on the public
business according to their opinions. But the party now in question is
formed upon a very different idea. It is to intercept the favor,
protection, and confidence of the crown in the passage to its ministers;
it is to come between them and their importance in Parliament; it is to
separate them from all their natural and acquired dependencies; it is
intended as the control, not the support, of administration. The
machinery of this system is perplexed in its movements, and false in its
principle. It is formed on a supposition that the king is something
external to his government; and that he may be honored and aggrandized,
even by its debility and disgrace. The plan proceeds expressly on the
idea of enfeebling the regular executory power. It proceeds on the idea
of weakening the state in order to strengthen the court. The scheme
depending entirely on distrust, on disconnection, on mutability by
principle, on systematic weakness in every particular member; it is
impossible that the total result should be substantial strength of any
kind.

As a foundation of their scheme, the cabal have established a sort of
_rota_ in the court. All sorts of parties, by this means, have been
brought into administration; from whence few have had the good fortune
to escape without disgrace; none at all without considerable losses. In
the beginning of each arrangement no professions of confidence and
support are wanting, to induce the leading men to engage. But while the
ministers of the day appear in all the pomp and pride of power, while
they have all their canvas spread out to the wind, and every sail filled
with the fair and prosperous gale of royal favor, in a short time they
find, they know not how, a current, which sets directly against them:
which prevents all progress; and even drives them backwards. They grow
ashamed and mortified in a situation, which, by its vicinity to power,
only serves to remind them the more strongly of their insignificance.
They are obliged either to execute the orders of their inferiors, or to
see themselves opposed by the natural instruments of their office. With
the loss of their dignity they lose their temper. In their turn they
grow troublesome to that cabal which, whether it supports or opposes,
equally disgraces and equally betrays them. It is soon found necessary
to get rid of the heads of administration; but it is of the heads only.
As there always are many rotten members belonging to the best
connections, it is not hard to persuade several to continue in office
without their leaders. By this means the party goes out much thinner
than it came in; and is only reduced in strength by its temporary
possession of power. Besides, if by accident, or in course of changes,
that power should be recovered, the junto have thrown up a retrenchment
of these carcasses, which may serve to cover themselves in a day of
danger. They conclude, not unwisely, that such rotten members will
become the first objects of disgust and resentment to their ancient
connections.

They contrive to form in the outward administration two parties at the
least; which, whilst they are tearing one another to pieces, are both
competitors for the favor and protection of the cabal; and, by their
emulation, contribute to throw everything more and more into the hands
of the interior managers.

A minister of state will sometimes keep himself totally estranged from
all his colleagues; will differ from them in their councils, will
privately traverse, and publicly oppose, their measures. He will,
however, continue in his employment. Instead of suffering any mark of
displeasure, he will be distinguished by an unbounded profusion of court
rewards and caresses; because he does what is expected, and all that is
expected, from men in office. He helps to keep some form of
administration in being, and keeps it at the same time as weak and
divided as possible.

However, we must take care not to be mistaken, or to imagine that such
persons have any weight in their opposition. When, by them,
administration is convinced of its insignificancy, they are soon to be
convinced of their own. They never are suffered to succeed in their
opposition. They and the world are to be satisfied, that neither office,
nor authority, nor property, nor ability, eloquence, counsel, skill, or
union, are of the least importance; but that the mere influence of the
court, naked of all support, and destitute of all management, is
abundantly sufficient for all its own purposes.

When any adverse connection is to be destroyed, the cabal seldom appear
in the work themselves. They find out some person of whom the party
entertains a high opinion. Such a person they endeavor to delude with
various pretences. They teach him first to distrust, and then to quarrel
with his friends; among whom, by the same arts, they excite a similar
diffidence of him; so that in this mutual fear and distrust, he may
suffer himself to be employed as the instrument in the change which is
brought about. Afterwards they are sure to destroy him in his turn, by
setting up in his place some person in whom he had himself reposed the
greatest confidence, and who serves to carry off a considerable part of
his adherents.

When such a person has broke in this manner with his connections, he is
soon compelled to commit some flagrant act of iniquitous, personal
hostility against some of them (such as an attempt to strip a particular
friend of his family estate), by which the cabal hope to render the
parties utterly irreconcilable. In truth, they have so contrived
matters, that people have a greater hatred to the subordinate
instruments than to the principal movers.

As in destroying their enemies they make use of instruments not
immediately belonging to their corps, so in advancing their own friends
they pursue exactly the same method. To promote any of them to
considerable rank or emolument, they commonly take care that the
recommendation shall pass through the hands of the ostensible ministry:
such a recommendation might however appear to the world, as some proof
of the credit of ministers, and some means of increasing their strength.
To prevent this, the persons so advanced are directed, in all companies,
industriously to declare, that they are under no obligations whatsoever
to administration; that they have received their office from another
quarter; that they are totally free and independent.

When the faction has any job of lucre to obtain, or of vengeance to
perpetrate, their way is, to select, for the execution, those very
persons to whose habits, friendships, principles, and declarations, such
proceedings are publicly known to be the most adverse; at once to
render the instruments the more odious, and therefore the more
dependent, and to prevent the people from ever reposing a confidence in
any appearance of private friendship or public principle.

If the administration seem now and then, from remissness, or from fear
of making themselves disagreeable, to suffer any popular excesses to go
unpunished, the cabal immediately sets up some creature of theirs to
raise a clamor against the ministers, as having shamefully betrayed the
dignity of government. Then they compel the ministry to become active in
conferring rewards and honors on the persons who have been the
instruments of their disgrace; and, after having first vilified them
with the higher orders for suffering the laws to sleep over the
licentiousness of the populace, they drive them (in order to make amends
for their former inactivity) to some act of atrocious violence, which
renders them completely abhorred by the people. They, who remember the
riots which attended the Middlesex election, the opening of the present
Parliament, and the transactions relative to Saint George's Fields, will
not be at a loss for an application of these remarks.

That this body may be enabled to compass all the ends of its
institution, its members are scarcely ever to aim at the high and
responsible offices of the state. They are distributed with art and
judgment through all the secondary, but efficient, departments of
office, and through the households of all the branches of the royal
family: so as on one hand to occupy all the avenues to the throne; and
on the other to forward or frustrate the execution of any measure,
according to their own interests. For with the credit and support which
they are known to have, though for the greater part in places which are
only a genteel excuse for salary, they possess all the influence of the
highest posts; and they dictate publicly in almost everything, even with
a parade of superiority. Whenever they dissent (as it often happens)
from their nominal leaders, the trained part of the senate,
instinctively in the secret, is sure to follow them: provided the
leaders, sensible of their situation, do not of themselves recede in
time from their most declared opinions. This latter is generally the
case. It will not be conceivable to any one who has not seen it, what
pleasure is taken by the cabal in rendering these heads of office
thoroughly contemptible and ridiculous. And when they are become so,
they have then the best chance for being well supported.

The members of the court faction are fully indemnified for not holding
places on the slippery heights of the kingdom, not only by the lead in
all affairs, but also by the perfect security in which they enjoy less
conspicuous, but very advantageous situations. Their places are in
express legal tenure, or, in effect, all of them for life. Whilst the
first and most respectable persons in the kingdom are tossed about like
tennis-balls, the sport of a blind and insolent caprice, no minister
dares even to cast an oblique glance at the lowest of their body. If an
attempt be made upon one of this corps, immediately he flies to
sanctuary, and pretends to the most inviolable of all promises. No
conveniency of public arrangement is available to remove any one of them
from the specific situation he holds; and the slightest attempt upon one
of them, by the most powerful minister, is a certain preliminary to his
own destruction.

Conscious of their independence, they bear themselves with a lofty air
to the exterior ministers. Like janissaries, they derive a kind of
freedom from the very condition of their servitude. They may act just as
they please; provided they are true to the great ruling principle of
their institution. It is, therefore, not at all wonderful, that people
should be so desirous of adding themselves to that body, in which they
may possess and reconcile satisfactions the most alluring, and seemingly
the most contradictory; enjoying at once all the spirited pleasure of
independence, and all the gross lucre and fat emoluments of servitude.

Here is a sketch, though a slight one, of the constitution, laws, and
policy of this new court corporation. The name by which they choose to
distinguish themselves, is that of _king's men_ or the _king's friends_,
by an invidious exclusion of the rest of his Majesty's most loyal and
affectionate subjects. The whole system, comprehending the exterior and
interior administrations, is commonly called, in the technical language
of the court, _double cabinet_; in French or English, as you choose to
pronounce it.

Whether all this be a vision of a distracted brain, or the invention of
a malicious heart, or a real faction in the country, must be judged by
the appearances which things have worn for eight years past. Thus far I
am certain, that there is not a single public man, in or out of office,
who has not, at some time or other, borne testimony to the truth of what
I have now related. In particular, no persons have been more strong in
their assertions, and louder and more indecent in their complaints, than
those who compose all the exterior part of the present administration;
in whose time that faction has arrived at such an height of power, and
of boldness in the use of it, as may, in the end, perhaps bring about
its total destruction.

It is true, that about four years ago, during the administration of the
Marquis of Rockingham, an attempt was made to carry on government
without their concurrence. However, this was only a transient cloud;
they were hid but for a moment; and their constellation blazed out with
greater brightness, and a far more vigorous influence, some time after
it was blown over. An attempt was at that time made (but without any
idea of proscription) to break their corps, to discountenance their
doctrines, to revive connections of a different kind, to restore the
principles and policy of the Whigs, to reanimate the cause of liberty by
ministerial countenance; and then for the first time were men seen
attached in office to every principle they had maintained in opposition.
No one will doubt, that such men were abhorred and violently opposed by
the court faction, and that such a system could have but a short
duration.

It may appear somewhat affected, that in so much discourse upon this
extraordinary party, I should say so little of the Earl of Bute, who is
the supposed head of it. But this was neither owing to affectation nor
inadvertence. I have carefully avoided the introduction of personal
reflections of any kind. Much the greater part of the topics which have
been used to blacken this nobleman are either unjust or frivolous. At
best, they have a tendency to give the resentment of this bitter
calamity a wrong direction, and to turn a public grievance into a mean,
personal, or a dangerous national quarrel. Where there is a regular
scheme of operations carried on, it is the system, and not any
individual person who acts in it, that is truly dangerous. This system
has not arisen solely from the ambition of Lord Bute, but from the
circumstances which favored it, and from an indifference to the
constitution which had been for some time growing among our gentry. We
should have been tried with it, if the Earl of Bute had never existed;
and it will want neither a contriving head nor active members, when the
Earl of Bute exists no longer. It is not, therefore, to rail at Lord
Bute, but firmly to embody against this court party and its practices,
which can afford us any prospect of relief in our present condition.

Another motive induces me to put the personal consideration of Lord Bute
wholly out of the question. He communicates very little in a direct
manner with the greater part of our men of business. This has never been
his custom. It is enough for him that he surrounds them with his
creatures. Several imagine, therefore, that they have a very good excuse
for doing all the work of this faction, when they have no personal
connection with Lord Bute. But whoever becomes a party to an
administration, composed of insulated individuals, without faith
plighted, tie, or common principle; an administration constitutionally
impotent, because supported by no party in the nation; he who
contributes to destroy the connections of men and their trust in one
another, or in any sort to throw the dependence of public counsels upon
private will and favor, possibly may have nothing to do with the Earl of
Bute. It matters little whether he be the friend or the enemy of that
particular person. But let him be who or what he will, he abets a
faction that is driving hard to the ruin of his country. He is sapping
the foundation of its liberty, disturbing the sources of its domestic
tranquillity, weakening its government over its dependencies, degrading
it from all its importance in the system of Europe.

It is this unnatural infusion of a _system of favoritism_ into a
government which in a great part of its constitution is popular, that
has raised the present ferment in the nation. The people, without
entering deeply into its principles, could plainly perceive its effects,
in much violence, in a great spirit of innovation, and a general
disorder in all the functions of government. I keep my eye solely on
this system; if I speak of those measures which have arisen from it, it
will be so far only as they illustrate the general scheme. This is the
fountain of all those bitter waters of which, through an hundred
different conduits, we have drunk until we are ready to burst. The
discretionary power of the crown in the formation of ministry, abused by
bad or weak men, has given rise to a system, which, without directly
violating the letter of any law, operates against the spirit of the
whole constitution.

A plan of favoritism for our executory government is essentially at
variance with the plan of our legislature. One great end undoubtedly of
a mixed government like ours, composed of monarchy, and of controls, on
the part of the higher people and the lower, is that the prince shall
not be able to violate the laws. This is useful indeed and fundamental.
But this, even at first view, is no more than a negative advantage; an
armor merely defensive. It is therefore next in order, and equal in
importance, _that the discretionary powers which are necessarily vested
in the monarch, whether for the execution of the laws, or for the
nomination to magistracy and office, or for conducting the affairs of
peace and war, or for ordering the revenue, should all be exercised upon
public principles and national grounds, and, not on the likings or
prejudices, the intrigues or policies, of a court_. This, I said, is
equal in importance to the securing a government according to law. The
laws reach but a very little way. Constitute government how you please,
infinitely the greater part of it must depend upon the exercise of the
powers which are left at large to the prudence and uprightness of
ministers of state. Even all the use and potency of the laws depends
upon them. Without them, your commonwealth is no better than a scheme
upon paper; and not a living, active, effective constitution. It is
possible that through negligence, or ignorance, or design artfully
conducted, ministers may suffer one part of government to languish,
another to be perverted from its purposes, and every valuable interest
of the country to fall into ruin and decay, without possibility of
fixing any single act on which a criminal prosecution can be justly
grounded. The due arrangement of men in the active part of the state,
far from being foreign to the purposes of a wise government, ought to be
among its very first and dearest objects. When, therefore, the abettors
of the new system tell us, that between them and their opposers there is
nothing but a struggle for power, and that therefore we are no ways
concerned in it; we must tell those who have the impudence to insult us
in this manner, that, of all things, we ought to be the most concerned
who, and what sort of men they are that hold the trust of everything
that is dear to us. Nothing can render this a point of indifference to
the nation, but what must either render us totally desperate, or soothe
us into the security of idiots. We must soften into a credulity below
the milkiness of infancy to think all men virtuous. We must be tainted
with a malignity truly diabolical to believe all the world to be equally
wicked and corrupt. Men are in public life as in private, some good,
some evil. The elevation of the one, and the depression of the other,
are the first objects of all true policy. But that form of government,
which, neither in its direct institutions, nor in their immediate
tendency, has contrived to throw its affairs into the most trustworthy
hands, but has left its whole executory system to be disposed of
agreeably to the uncontrolled pleasure of any one man, however excellent
or virtuous, is a plan of polity defective not only in that member, but
consequentially erroneous in every part of it.

In arbitrary governments, the constitution of the ministry follows the
constitution of the legislature. Both the law and the magistrate are the
creatures of will. It must be so. Nothing, indeed, will appear more
certain, on any tolerable consideration of this matter, than that _every
sort of government ought to have its administration correspondent to its
legislature_. If it should be otherwise, things must fall into an
hideous disorder. The people of a free commonwealth, who have taken such
care that their laws should be the result of general consent, cannot be
so senseless as to suffer their executory system to be composed of
persons on whom they have no dependence, and whom no proofs of the
public love and confidence have recommended to those powers, upon the
use of which the very being of the state depends.

The popular election of magistrates, and popular disposition of rewards
and honors, is one of the first advantages of a free state. Without it,
or something equivalent to it, perhaps the people cannot long enjoy the
substance of freedom; certainly none of the vivifying energy of good
government. The frame of our commonwealth did not admit of such an
actual election: but it provided as well, and (while the spirit of the
constitution is preserved) better for all the effects of it than by the
method of suffrage in any democratic state whatsoever. It had always,
until of late, been held the first duty of Parliament _to refuse to
support government, until power was in the hands of persons who were
acceptable to the people, or while factions predominated in the court in
which the nation had no confidence_. Thus all the good effects of
popular election were supposed to be secured to us, without the
mischiefs attending on perpetual intrigue, and a distinct canvass for
every particular office throughout the body of the people. This was the
most noble and refined part of our constitution. The people, by their
representatives and grandees, were intrusted with a deliberative power
in making laws; the king with the control of his negative. The king was
intrusted with the deliberative choice and the election to office; the
people had the negative in a Parliamentary refusal to support. Formerly
this power of control was what kept ministers in awe of Parliaments, and
Parliaments in reverence with the people. If the use of this power of
control on the system and persons of administration is gone, everything
is lost, Parliament and all. We may assure ourselves, that if Parliament
will tamely see evil men take possession of all the strongholds of their
country, and allow them time and means to fortify themselves, under a
pretence of giving them a fair trial, and upon a hope of discovering,
whether they will not be reformed by power, and whether their measures
will not be better than their morals; such a Parliament will give
countenance to their measures also, whatever that Parliament may
pretend, and whatever those measures may be.

Every good political institution must have a preventive operation as
well as a remedial. It ought to have a natural tendency to exclude bad
men from government, and not to trust for the safety of the state to
subsequent punishment alone; punishment, which has ever been tardy and
uncertain; and which, when power is suffered in bad hands, may chance to
fall rather on the injured than the criminal.

Before men are put forward into the great trusts of the state, they
ought by their conduct to have obtained such a degree of estimation in
their country, as may be some sort of pledge and security to the public,
that they will not abuse those trusts. It is no mean security for a
proper use of power, that a man has shown by the general tenor of his
actions, that the affection, the good opinion, the confidence of his
fellow-citizens have been among the principal objects of his life; and
that he has owed none of the gradations of his power or fortune to a
settled contempt, or occasional forfeiture of their esteem.

That man who before he comes into power has no friends, or who coming
into power is obliged to desert his friends, or who losing it has no
friends to sympathize with him; he who has no sway among any part of the
landed or commercial interest, but whose whole importance has begun with
his office, and is sure to end with it, is a person who ought never to
be suffered by a controlling Parliament to continue in any of those
situations which confer the lead and direction of all our public
affairs; because such a man _has no connection with the interest of the
people_.

Those knots or cabals of men who have got together, avowedly without any
public principle, in order to sell their conjunct iniquity at the higher
rate, and are therefore universally odious, ought never to be suffered
to domineer in the state; because they have _no connection with the
sentiments and opinions of the people_.

These are considerations which in my opinion enforce the necessity of
having some better reason, in a free country, and a free Parliament, for
supporting the ministers of the crown, than that short one, _That the
king has thought proper to appoint them_. There is something very
courtly in this. But it is a principle pregnant with all sorts of
mischief, in a constitution like ours, to turn the views of active men
from the country to the court. Whatever be the road to power, that is
the road which will be trod. If the opinion of the country be of no use
as a means of power or consideration, the qualities which usually
procure that opinion will be no longer cultivated. And whether it will
be right, in a state so popular in its constitution as ours, to leave
ambition without popular motives, and to trust all to the operation of
pure virtue in the minds of kings, and ministers, and public men, must
be submitted to the judgment and good sense of the people of England.

Cunning men are here apt to break in, and, without directly
controverting the principle, to raise objections from the difficulty
under which the sovereign labors, to distinguish the genuine voice and
sentiments of his people, from the clamor of a faction, by which it is
so easily counterfeited. The nation, they say, is generally divided into
parties, with views and passions utterly irreconcilable. If the king
should put his affairs into the hands of any one of them, he is sure to
disgust the rest; if he select particular men from among them all, it is
a hazard that he disgusts them all. Those who are left out, however
divided before, will soon run into a body of opposition; which, being a
collection of many discontents into one focus, will without doubt be hot
and violent enough. Faction will make its cries resound through the
nation, as if the whole were in an uproar, when by far the majority, and
much the better part, will seem for a while as it were annihilated by
the quiet in which their virtue and moderation incline them to enjoy the
blessings of government. Besides that the opinion of the mere vulgar is
a miserable rule even with regard to themselves, on account of their
violence and instability. So that if you were to gratify them in their
humor to-day, that very gratification would be a ground of their
dissatisfaction on the next. Now as all these rules of public opinion
are to be collected with great difficulty, and to be applied with equal
uncertainty as to the effect, what better can a king of England do, than
to employ such men as he finds to have views and inclinations most
conformable to his own; who are least infected with pride and self-will;
and who are least moved by such popular humors as are perpetually
traversing his designs, and disturbing his service; trusting that, when
he means no ill to his people, he will be supported in his appointments,
whether he chooses to keep or to change, as his private judgment or his
pleasure leads him? He will find a sure resource in the real weight and
influence of the crown, when it is not suffered to become an instrument
in the hands of a faction.

I will not pretend to say, that there is nothing at all in this mode of
reasoning; because I will not assert that there is no difficulty in the
art of government. Undoubtedly the very best administration must
encounter a great deal of opposition; and the very worst will find more
support than it deserves. Sufficient appearances will never be wanting
to those who have a mind to deceive themselves. It is a fallacy in
constant use with those who would level all things, and confound right
with wrong, to insist upon the inconveniences which are attached to
every choice, without taking into consideration the different weight and
consequence of those inconveniences. The question is not concerning
_absolute_ discontent or _perfect_ satisfaction in government; neither
of which can be pure and unmixed at any time, or upon any system. The
controversy is about that degree of good humor in the people, which may
possibly be attained, and ought certainly to be looked for. While some
politicians may be waiting to know whether the sense of every individual
be against them, accurately distinguishing the vulgar from the better
sort, drawing lines between the enterprises of a faction and the efforts
of a people, they may chance to see the government, which they are so
nicely weighing, and dividing, and distinguishing, tumble to the ground
in the midst of their wise deliberation. Prudent men, when so great an
object as the security of government, or even its peace, is at stake,
will not run the risk of a decision which may be fatal to it. They who
can read the political sky will see a hurricane in a cloud no bigger
than a hand at the very edge of the horizon, and will run into the first
harbor. No lines can be laid down for civil or political wisdom. They
are a matter incapable of exact definition. But, though no man can draw
a stroke between the confines of day and night, yet light and darkness
are upon the whole tolerably distinguishable. Nor will it be impossible
for a prince to find out such a mode of government, and such persons to
administer it, as will give a great degree of content to his people;
without any curious and anxious research for that abstract, universal,
perfect harmony, which while he is seeking, he abandons those means of
ordinary tranquillity which are in his power without any research at
all.

It is not more the duty than it is the interest of a prince, to aim at
giving tranquillity to his government. But those who advise him may have
an interest in disorder and confusion. If the opinion of the people is
against them, they will naturally wish that it should have no
prevalence. Here it is that the people must on their part show
themselves sensible of their own value. Their whole importance, in the
first instance, and afterwards their whole freedom, is at stake. Their
freedom cannot long survive their importance. Here it is that the
natural strength of the kingdom, the great peers, the leading landed
gentlemen, the opulent merchants and manufacturers, the substantial
yeomanry, must interpose, to rescue their prince, themselves, and their
posterity.

We are at present at issue upon this point. We are in the great crisis
of this contention; and the part which men take, one way or other, will
serve to discriminate their characters and their principles. Until the
matter is decided, the country will remain in its present confusion. For
while a system of administration is attempted, entirely repugnant to the
genius of the people, and not conformable to the plan of their
government, everything must necessarily be disordered for a time, until
this system destroys the constitution, or the constitution gets the
better of this system.

There is, in my opinion, a peculiar venom and malignity in this
political distemper beyond any that I have heard or read of. In former
times the projectors of arbitrary government attacked only the liberties
of their country; a design surely mischievous enough to have satisfied a
mind of the most unruly ambition. But a system unfavorable to freedom
may be so formed, as considerably to exalt the grandeur of the state;
and men may find, in the pride and splendor of that prosperity, some
sort of consolation for the loss of their solid privileges. Indeed the
increase of the power of the state has often been urged by artful men,
as a pretext for some abridgment of the public liberty. But the scheme
of the junto under consideration, not only strikes a palsy into every
nerve of our free constitution, but in the same degree benumbs and
stupefies the whole executive power: rendering government in all its
grand operations languid, uncertain, ineffective; making ministers
fearful of attempting, and incapable of executing any useful plan of
domestic arrangement, or of foreign politics. It tends to produce
neither the security of a free government, nor the energy of a monarchy
that is absolute. Accordingly the crown has dwindled away, in proportion
to the unnatural and turgid growth of this excrescence on the court.

The interior ministry are sensible, that war is a situation which sets
in its full light the value of the hearts of a people; and they well
know, that the beginning of the importance of the people must be the end
of theirs. For this reason they discover upon all occasions the utmost
fear of everything, which by possibility may lead to such an event. I do
not mean that they manifest any of that pious fear which is backward to
commit the safety of the country to the dubious experiment of war. Such
a fear, being the tender sensation of virtue, excited, as it is
regulated, by reason, frequently shows itself in a seasonable boldness,
which keeps danger at a distance, by seeming to despise it. Their fear
betrays to the first glance of the eye, its true cause, and its real
object. Foreign powers, confident in the knowledge of their character,
have not scrupled to violate the most solemn treaties; and, in defiance
of them, to make conquests in the midst of a general peace, and in the
heart of Europe. Such was the conquest of Corsica, by the professed
enemies of the freedom of mankind, in defiance of those who were
formerly its professed defenders. We have had just claims upon the same
powers: rights which ought to have been sacred to them as well as to us,
as they had their origin in our lenity and generosity towards France and
Spain in the day of their great humiliation. Such I call the ransom of
Manilla, and the demand on France for the East India prisoners. But
these powers put a just confidence in their resource of the _double
cabinet_. These demands (one of them at least) are hastening fast
towards an acquittal by prescription. Oblivion begins to spread her
cobwebs over all our spirited remonstrances. Some of the most valuable
branches of our trade are also on the point of perishing from the same
cause. I do not mean those branches which bear without the hand of the
vine-dresser; I mean those which the policy of treaties had formerly
secured to us; I mean to mark and distinguish the trade of Portugal, the
loss of which, and the power of the cabal, have one and the same era.

If by any chance, the ministers who stand before the curtain possess or
affect any spirit, it makes little or no impression. Foreign courts and
ministers, who were among the first to discover and to profit by this
invention of the _double cabinet_, attend very little to their
remonstrances. They know that those shadows of ministers have nothing to
do in the ultimate disposal of things. Jealousies and animosities are
sedulously nourished in the outward administration, and have been even
considered as a _causa sine qua non_ in its constitution: thence foreign
courts have a certainty, that nothing can be done by common counsel in
this nation. If one of those ministers officially takes up a business
with spirit, it serves only the better to signalize the meanness of the
rest, and the discord of them all. His colleagues in office are in haste
to shake him off, and to disclaim the whole of his proceedings. Of this
nature was that astonishing transaction, in which Lord Rochford, our
ambassador at Paris, remonstrated against the attempt upon Corsica, in
consequence of a direct authority from Lord Shelburne. This remonstrance
the French minister treated with the contempt that was natural: as he
was assured, from the ambassador of his court to ours, that these orders
of Lord Shelburne were not supported by the rest of the (I had like to
have said British) administration. Lord Rochford, a man of spirit,
could not endure this situation. The consequences were, however,
curious. He returns from Paris, and comes home full of anger. Lord
Shelburne, who gave the orders, is obliged to give up the seals. Lord
Rochford, who obeyed these orders, receives them. He goes, however, into
another department of the same office, that he might not be obliged
officially to acquiesce, in one situation, under what he had officially
remonstrated against, in another. At Paris, the Duke of Choiseul
considered this office arrangement as a compliment to him: here it was
spoken of as an attention to the delicacy of Lord Rochford. But whether
the compliment was to one or both, to this nation it was the same. By
this transaction the condition of our court lay exposed in all its
nakedness. Our office correspondence has lost all pretence to
authenticity: British policy is brought into derision in those nations,
that a while ago trembled at the power of our arms, whilst they looked
up with confidence to the equity, firmness, and candor, which shone in
all our negotiations. I represent this matter exactly in the light in
which it has been universally received.

Such has been the aspect of our foreign politics, under the influence of
a _double cabinet_. With such an arrangement at court, it is impossible
it should have been otherwise. Nor is it possible that this scheme
should have a better effect upon the government of our dependencies, the
first, the dearest, and most delicate objects, of the interior policy of
this empire. The colonies know, that administration is separated from
the court, divided within itself, and detested by the nation. The
_double cabinet_ has, in both the parts of it, shown the most malignant
dispositions towards them, without being able to do them the smallest
mischief.

They are convinced, by sufficient experience, that no plan, either of
lenity, or rigor, can be pursued with uniformity and perseverance.
Therefore they turn their eyes entirely from Great Britain, where they
have neither dependence on friendship, nor apprehension from enmity.
They look to themselves, and their own arrangements. They grow every day
into alienation from this country; and whilst they are becoming
disconnected with our government, we have not the consolation to find,
that they are even friendly in their new independence. Nothing can equal
the futility, the weakness, the rashness, the timidity, the perpetual
contradiction in the management of our affairs in that part of the
world. A volume might be written on this melancholy subject; but it were
better to leave it entirely to the reflections of the reader himself,
than not to treat it in the extent it deserves.

In what manner our domestic economy is affected by this system, it is
needless to explain. It is the perpetual subject of their own
complaints.

The court party resolve the whole into faction Having said something
before upon this subject, I shall only observe here, that, when they
give this account of the prevalence of faction, they present no very
favorable aspect of the confidence of the people in their own
government. They may be assured, that however they amuse themselves with
a variety of projects for substituting something else in the place of
that great and only foundation of government, the confidence of the
people, every attempt will but make their condition worse. When men
imagine that their food is only a cover for poison, and when they
neither love nor trust the hand that serves it, it is not the name of
the roast beef of Old England, that will persuade them to sit down to
the table that is spread for them. When the people conceive that laws,
and tribunals, and even popular assemblies, are perverted from the ends
of their institution, they find in those names of degenerated
establishments only new motives to discontent. Those bodies, which, when
full of life and beauty, lay in their arms, and were their joy and
comfort, when dead and putrid, become but the more loathsome from
remembrance of former endearments. A sullen gloom and furious disorder
prevail by fits; the nation loses its relish for peace and prosperity;
as it did in that season of fulness which opened our troubles in the
time of Charles the First. A species of men to whom a state of order
would become a sentence of obscurity are nourished into a dangerous
magnitude by the heat of intestine disturbances; and it is no wonder
that, by a sort of sinister piety, they cherish, in their turn, the
disorders which are the parents of all their consequence. Superficial
observers consider such persons as the cause of the public uneasiness,
when, in truth, they are nothing more than the effect of it. Good men
look upon this distracted scene with sorrow and indignation. Their hands
are tied behind them. They are despoiled of all the power which might
enable them to reconcile the strength of government with the rights of
the people. They stand in a most distressing alternative. But in the
election among evils they hope better things from temporary confusion,
than from established servitude. In the mean time, the voice of law is
not to be heard. Fierce licentiousness begets violent restraints. The
military arm is the sole reliance; and then, call your constitution what
you please, it is the sword that governs. The civil power, like every
other that calls in the aid of an ally stronger than itself, perishes by
the assistance it receives. But the contrivers of this scheme of
government will not trust solely to the military power; because they are
cunning men. Their restless and crooked spirit drives them to rake in
the dirt of every kind of expedient. Unable to rule the multitude, they
endeavor to raise divisions amongst them. One mob is hired to destroy
another; a procedure which at once encourages the boldness of the
populace, and justly increases their discontent. Men become pensioners
of state on account of their abilities in the array of riot, and the
discipline of confusion. Government is put under the disgraceful
necessity of protecting from the severity of the laws that very
licentiousness, which the laws had been before violated to repress.
Everything partakes of the original disorder. Anarchy predominates
without freedom, and servitude without submission or subordination.
These are the consequences inevitable to our public peace, from the
scheme of rendering the executory government at once odious and feeble;
of freeing administration from the constitutional and salutary control
of Parliament, and inventing for it a _new control_, unknown to the
constitution, an _interior cabinet_; which brings the whole body of
government into confusion and contempt.

After having stated, as shortly as I am able, the effects of this system
on our foreign affairs, on the policy of our government with regard to
our dependencies, and on the interior economy of the commonwealth;
there remains only, in this part of my design, to say something of the
grand principle which first recommended this system at court. The
pretence was, to prevent the king from being enslaved by a faction, and
made a prisoner in his closet. This scheme might have been expected to
answer at least its own end, and to indemnify the king, in his personal
capacity, for all the confusion into which it has thrown his government.
But has it in reality answered this purpose? I am sure, if it had, every
affectionate subject would have one motive for enduring with patience
all the evils which attend it.

In order to come at the truth in this matter, it may not be amiss to
consider it somewhat in detail. I speak here of the king, and not of the
crown; the interests of which we have already touched. Independent of
that greatness which a king possesses merely by being a representative
of the national dignity, the things in which he may have an individual
interest seem to be these:--wealth accumulated; wealth spent in
magnificence, pleasure, or beneficence; personal respect and attention;
and, above all, private ease and repose of mind. These compose the
inventory of prosperous circumstances, whether they regard a prince or a
subject; their enjoyments differing only in the scale upon which they
are formed.

Suppose then we were to ask, whether the king has been richer than his
predecessors in accumulated wealth, since the establishment of the plan
of favoritism? I believe it will be found that the picture of royal
indigence, which our court has presented until this year, has been truly
humiliating. Nor has it been relieved from this unseemly distress, but
by means which have hazarded the affection of the people, and shaken
their confidence in Parliament. If the public treasures had been
exhausted in magnificence and splendor, this distress would have been
accounted for, and in some measure justified. Nothing would be more
unworthy of this nation, than with a mean and mechanical rule, to mete
out the splendor of the crown. Indeed I have found very few persons
disposed to so ungenerous a procedure. But the generality of people, it
must be confessed, do feel a good deal mortified, when they compare the
wants of the court with its expenses. They do not behold the cause of
this distress in any part of the apparatus of royal magnificence. In all
this, they see nothing but the operations of parsimony, attended with
all the consequences of profusion. Nothing expended, nothing saved.
Their wonder is increased by their knowledge, that besides the revenue
settled on his Majesty's civil list to the amount of 800,000_l._ a year,
he has a farther aid from a large pension list, near 90,000_l._ a year,
in Ireland; from the produce of the duchy of Lancaster (which we are
told has been greatly improved); from the revenue of the duchy of
Cornwall; from the American quit-rents; from the four and a half per
cent duty in the Leeward Islands; this last worth to be sure
considerably more than 40,000_l._ a year. The whole is certainly not
much short of a million annually.

These are revenues within the knowledge and cognizance of our national
councils. We have no direct right to examine into the receipts from his
Majesty's German dominions, and the bishopric of Osnaburg. This is
unquestionably true. But that which is not within the province of
Parliament, is yet within the sphere of every man's own reflection. If
a foreign prince resided amongst us, the state of his revenues could not
fail of becoming the subject of our speculation. Filled with an anxious
concern for whatever regards the welfare of our sovereign, it is
impossible, in considering the miserable circumstances into which he has
been brought, that this obvious topic should be entirely passed over.
There is an opinion universal, that these revenues produce something not
inconsiderable, clear of all charges and establishments. This produce
the people do not believe to be hoarded, nor perceive to be spent. It is
accounted for in the only manner it can, by supposing that it is drawn
away, for the support of that court faction, which, whilst it distresses
the nation, impoverishes the prince in every one of his resources. I
once more caution the reader, that I do not urge this consideration
concerning the foreign revenue, as if I supposed we had a direct right
to examine into the expenditure of any part of it; but solely for the
purpose of showing how little this system of favoritism has been
advantageous to the monarch himself; which, without magnificence, has
sunk him into a state of unnatural poverty; at the same time that he
possessed every means of affluence, from ample revenues, both in this
country, and in other parts of his dominions.

Has this system provided better for the treatment becoming his high and
sacred character, and secured the king from those disgusts attached to
the necessity of employing men who are not personally agreeable? This is
a topic upon which for many reasons I could wish to be silent; but the
pretence of securing against such causes of uneasiness, is the
corner-stone of the court-party. It has however so happened, that if I
were to fix upon any one point, in which this system has been more
particularly and shamefully blamable, the effects which it has produced
would justify me in choosing for that point its tendency to degrade the
personal dignity of the sovereign, and to expose him to a thousand
contradictions and mortifications. It is but too evident in what manner
these projectors of royal greatness have fulfilled all their magnificent
promises. Without recapitulating all the circumstances of the reign,
every one of which is, more or less, a melancholy proof of the truth of
what I have advanced, let us consider the language of the court but a
few years ago, concerning most of the persons now in the external
administration: let me ask, whether any enemy to the personal feelings
of the sovereign could possibly contrive a keener instrument of
mortification, and degradation of all dignity, than almost every part
and member of the present arrangement? Nor, in the whole course of our
history, has any compliance with the will of the people ever been known
to extort from any prince a greater contradiction to all his own
declared affections and dislikes, than that which is now adopted, in
direct opposition to everything the people approve and desire.

An opinion prevails, that greatness has been more than once advised to
submit to certain condescensions towards individuals, which have been
denied to the entreaties of a nation. For the meanest and most dependent
instrument of this system knows, that there are hours when its existence
may depend upon his adherence to it; and he takes his advantage
accordingly. Indeed it is a law of nature, that whoever is necessary to
what we have made our object is sure, in some way, or in some time or
other, to become our master. All this however is submitted to, in order
to avoid that monstrous evil of governing in concurrence with the
opinion of the people. For it seems to be laid down as a maxim, that a
king has some sort of interest in giving uneasiness to his subjects:
that all who are pleasing to them, are to be of course disagreeable to
him: that as soon as the persons who are odious at court are known to be
odious to the people, it is snatched at as a lucky occasion of showering
down upon them all kinds of emoluments and honors. None are considered
as well-wishers to the crown, but those who advise to some unpopular
course of action; none capable of serving it, but those who are obliged
to call at every instant upon all its power for the safety of their
lives. None are supposed to be fit priests in the temple of government,
but the persons who are compelled to fly into it for sanctuary. Such is
the effect of this refined project; such is ever the result of all the
contrivances, which are used to free men from the servitude of their
reason, and from the necessity of ordering their affairs according to
their evident interests. These contrivances oblige them to run into a
real and ruinous servitude, in order to avoid a supposed restraint, that
might be attended with advantage.

If therefore this system has so ill answered its own grand pretence of
saving the king from the necessity of employing persons disagreeable to
him, has it given more peace and tranquillity to his Majesty's private
hours? No, most certainly. The father of his people cannot possibly
enjoy repose, while his family is in such a state of distraction. Then
what has the crown or the king profited by all this fine-wrought scheme?
Is he more rich, or more splendid, or more powerful, or more at his
ease, by so many labors and contrivances? Have they not beggared his
exchequer, tarnished the splendor of his court, sunk his dignity, galled
his feelings, discomposed the whole order and happiness of his private
life?

It will be very hard, I believe, to state in what respect the king has
profited by that faction which presumptuously choose to call themselves
_his friends_.

If particular men had grown into an attachment, by the distinguished
honor of the society of their sovereign; and, by being the partakers of
his amusements, came sometimes to prefer the gratification of his
personal inclinations to the support of his high character, the thing
would be very natural, and it would be excusable enough. But the
pleasant part of the story is, that these _king's friends_ have no more
ground for usurping such a title, than a resident freeholder in
Cumberland or in Cornwall. They are only known to their sovereign by
kissing his hand, for the offices, pensions, and grants, into which they
have deceived his benignity. May no storm ever come, which will put the
firmness of their attachment to the proof; and which, in the midst of
confusions, and terrors, and sufferings, may demonstrate the eternal
difference between a true and severe friend to the monarchy, and a
slippery sycophant of the court! _Quantum infido scurrae distabit
amicus._

So far I have considered the effect of the court system, chiefly as it
operates upon the executive government, on the temper of the people, and
on the happiness of the sovereign. It remains that we should consider,
with a little attention, its operation upon Parliament.

Parliament was indeed the great object of all these politics, the end
at which they aimed, as well as the instrument by which they were to
operate. But, before Parliament could be made subservient to a system,
by which it was to be degraded from the dignity of a national council
into a mere member of the court, it must be greatly changed from its
original character.

In speaking of this body, I have my eye chiefly on the House of Commons.
I hope I shall be indulged in a few observations on the nature and
character of that assembly; not with regard to its _legal form and
power_, but to its _spirit_, and to the purposes it is meant to answer
in the constitution.

The House of Commons was supposed originally to be _no part of the
standing government of this country_. It was considered as a _control_
issuing _immediately_ from the people, and speedily to be resolved into
the mass from whence it arose. In this respect it was in the higher part
of government what juries are in the lower. The capacity of a magistrate
being transitory, and that of a citizen permanent, the latter capacity
it was hoped would of course preponderate in all discussions, not only
between the people and the standing authority of the crown, but between
the people and the fleeting authority of the House of Commons itself. It
was hoped that, being of a middle nature between subject and government,
they would feel with a more tender and a nearer interest everything that
concerned the people, than the other remoter and more permanent parts of
legislature.

Whatever alterations time and the necessary accommodation of business
may have introduced, this character can never be sustained, unless the
House of Commons shall be made to bear some stamp of the actual
disposition of the people at large. It would (among public misfortunes)
be an evil more natural and tolerable, that the House of Commons should
be infected with every epidemical frenzy of the people, as this would
indicate some consanguinity, some sympathy of nature with their
constituents, than that they should in all cases be wholly untouched by
the opinions and feelings of the people out of doors. By this want of
sympathy they would cease to be a House of Commons. For it is not the
derivation of the power of that House from the people, which makes it in
a distinct sense their representative. The king is the representative of
the people; so are the lords; so are the judges. They all are trustees
for the people, as well as the commons; because no power is given for
the sole sake of the holder; and although government certainly is an
institution of divine authority, yet its forms, and the persons who
administer it, all originate from the people.

A popular origin cannot therefore be the characteristical distinction of
a popular representative. This belongs equally to all parts of
government and in all forms. The virtue, spirit, and essence of a House
of Commons consists in its being the express image of the feelings of
the nation. It was not instituted to be a control _upon_ the people, as
of late it has been taught, by a doctrine of the most pernicious
tendency. It was designed as a control _for_ the people. Other
institutions have been formed for the purpose of checking popular
excesses; and they are, I apprehend, fully adequate to their object. If
not, they ought to be made so. The House of Commons, as it was never
intended for the support of peace and subordination, is miserably
appointed for that service; having no stronger weapon than its mace,
and no better officer than its serjeant-at-arms, which it can command of
its own proper authority. A vigilant and jealous eye over executory and
judicial magistracy; an anxious care of public money; an openness,
approaching towards facility, to public complaint: these seem to be the
true characteristics of a House of Commons. But an addressing House of
Commons, and a petitioning nation; a House of Commons full of
confidence, when the nation is plunged in despair; in the utmost harmony
with ministers, whom the people regard with the utmost abhorrence; who
vote thanks, when the public opinion calls upon them for impeachments;
who are eager to grant, when the general voice demands account; who, in
all disputes between the people and administration, presume against the
people; who punish their disorders, but refuse even to inquire into the
provocations to them; this is an unnatural, a monstrous state of things
in this constitution. Such an assembly may be a great, wise, awful
senate; but it is not, to any popular purpose, a House of Commons. This
change from an immediate state of procuration and delegation to a course
of acting as from original power, is the way in which all the popular
magistracies in the world have been perverted from their purposes. It is
indeed their greatest and sometimes their incurable corruption. For
there is a material distinction between that corruption by which
particular points are carried against reason, (this is a thing which
cannot be prevented by human wisdom, and is of loss consequence,) and
the corruption of the principle itself For then the evil is not
accidental, but settled. The distemper becomes the natural habit.

For my part, I shall be compelled to conclude the principle of
Parliament to be totally corrupted, and therefore its ends entirely
defeated, when I see two symptoms: first, a rule of indiscriminate
support to all ministers; because this destroys the very end of
Parliament as a control, and is a general, previous sanction to
misgovernment: and secondly, the setting up any claims adverse to the
right of free election; for this tends to subvert the legal authority by
which the House of Commons sits.

I know that, since the Revolution, along with many dangerous, many
useful powers of government have been weakened. It is absolutely
necessary to have frequent recourse to the legislature. Parliaments must
therefore sit every year, and for great part of the year. The dreadful
disorders of frequent elections have also necessitated a septennial
instead of a triennial duration. These circumstances, I mean the
constant habit of authority, and the unfrequency of elections, have
tended very much to draw the House of Commons towards the character of a
standing senate. It is a disorder which has arisen from the cure of
greater disorders; it has arisen from the extreme difficulty of
reconciling liberty under a monarchical government, with external
strength and with internal tranquillity.

It is very clear that we cannot free ourselves entirely from this great
inconvenience; but I would not increase an evil, because I was not able
to remove it; and because it was not in my power to keep the House of
Commons religiously true to its first principles, I would not argue for
carrying it to a total oblivion of them. This has been the great scheme
of power in our time. They, who will not conform their conduct to the
public good, and cannot support it by the prerogative of the crown, have
adopted a new plan. They have totally abandoned the shattered and
old-fashioned fortress of prerogative, and made a lodgment in the
stronghold of Parliament itself. If they have any evil design to which
there is no ordinary legal power commensurate, they bring it into
Parliament. In Parliament the whole is executed from the beginning to
the end. In Parliament the power of obtaining their object is absolute;
and the safety in the proceeding perfect: no rules to confine, no
after-reckonings to terrify. Parliament cannot, with any great
propriety, punish others for things in which they themselves have been
accomplices. Thus the control of Parliament upon the executory power is
lost; because Parliament is made to partake in every considerable act of
government. _Impeachment, that great guardian of the purity of the
constitution, is in danger of being lost, even to the idea of it._

By this plan several important ends are answered to the cabal. If the
authority of Parliament supports itself, the credit of every act of
government, which they contrive, is saved; but if the act be so very
odious that the whole strength of Parliament is insufficient to
recommend it, then Parliament is itself discredited; and this discredit
increases more and more that indifference to the constitution, which it
is the constant aim of its enemies, by their abuse of Parliamentary
powers, to render general among the people. Whenever Parliament is
persuaded to assume the offices of executive government, it will lose
all the confidence, love, and veneration, which it has ever enjoyed
whilst it was supposed the _corrective and control_ of the acting powers
of the state. This would be the event, though its conduct in such a
perversion of its functions should be tolerably just and moderate; but
if it should be iniquitous, violent, full of passion, and full of
faction, it would be considered as the most intolerable of all the modes
of tyranny.

For a considerable time this separation of the representatives from
their constituents went on with a silent progress; and had those, who
conducted the plan for their total separation, been persons of temper
and abilities any way equal to the magnitude of their design, the
success would have been infallible: but by their precipitancy they have
laid it open in all its nakedness; the nation is alarmed at it: and the
event may not be pleasant to the contrivers of the scheme. In the last
session, the corps called the _king's friends_ made a hardy attempt, all
at once, _to alter the right of election itself_; to put it into the
power of the House of Commons to disable any person disagreeable to them
from sitting in Parliament, without any other rule than their own
pleasure; to make incapacities, either general for descriptions of men,
or particular for individuals; and to take into their body, persons who
avowedly had never been chosen by the majority of legal electors, nor
agreeably to any known rule of law.

The arguments upon which this claim was founded and combated, are not my
business here. Never has a subject been more amply and more learnedly
handled, nor upon one side, in my opinion, more satisfactorily; they who
are not convinced by what is already written would not receive
conviction _though, one arose from the dead_.

I too have thought on this subject: but my purpose here, is only to
consider it as a part of the favorite project of government; to observe
on the motives which led to it; and to trace its political consequences.

A violent rage for the punishment of Mr. Wilkes was the pretence of the
whole. This gentleman, by setting himself strongly in opposition to the
court cabal, had become at once an object of their persecution, and of
the popular favor. The hatred of the court party pursuing, and the
countenance of the people protecting him, it very soon became not at all
a question on the man, but a trial of strength between the two parties.
The advantage of the victory in this particular contest was the present,
but not the only, nor by any means the principal object. Its operation
upon the character of the House of Commons was the great point in view.
The point to be gained by the cabal was this; that a precedent should be
established, tending to show, _That the favor of the people was not so
sure a road as the favor of the court even to popular honors and popular
trusts_. A strenuous resistance to every appearance of lawless power; a
spirit of independence carried to some degree of enthusiasm; an
inquisitive character to discover, and a bold one to display, every
corruption and every error of government; these are the qualities which
recommend a man to a seat in the House of Commons, in open and merely
popular elections. An indolent and submissive disposition; a disposition
to think charitably of all the actions of men in power, and to live in a
mutual intercourse of favors with them; an inclination rather to
countenance a strong use of authority, than to bear any sort of
licentiousness on the part of the people; these are unfavorable
qualities in an open election for members of Parliament.

The instinct which carries the people towards the choice of the former,
is justified by reason; because a man of such a character, even in its
exorbitances, does not directly contradict the purposes of a trust, the
end of which is a control on power. The latter character, even when it
is not in its extreme, will execute this trust but very imperfectly;
and, if deviating to the least excess, will certainly frustrate instead
of forwarding the purposes of a control on government. But when the
House of Commons was to be new modelled, this principle was not only to
be changed but reversed. Whilst any errors committed in support of power
were left to the law, with every advantage of favorable construction, of
mitigation, and finally of pardon; all excesses on the side of liberty,
or in pursuit of popular favor, or in defence of popular rights and
privileges, were not only to be punished by the rigor of the known law,
but by a _discretionary_ proceeding, which brought on _the loss of the
popular object itself_. Popularity was to be rendered, if not directly
penal, at least highly dangerous. The favor of the people might lead
even to a disqualification of representing them. Their odium might
become, strained through the medium of two or three constructions, the
means of sitting as the trustee of all that was dear to them. This is
punishing the offence in the offending part. Until this time, the
opinion of the people, through the power of an assembly, still in some
sort popular, led to the greatest honors and emoluments in the gift of
the crown. Now the principle is reversed; and the favor of the court is
the only sure way of obtaining and holding those honors which ought to
be in the disposal of the people.

It signifies very little how this matter may be quibbled away. Example,
the only argument of effect in civil life, demonstrates the truth of my
proposition. Nothing can alter my opinion concerting the pernicious
tendency of this example, until I see some man for his indiscretion in
the support of power, for his violent and intemperate servility,
rendered incapable of sitting in Parliament. For as it now stands, the
fault of overstraining popular qualities, and, irregularly if you
please, asserting popular privileges, has led to disqualification; the
opposite fault never has produced the slightest punishment. Resistance
to power has shut the door of the House of Commons to one man;
obsequiousness and servility, to none.

Not that I would encourage popular disorder, or any disorder. But I
would leave such offences to the law, to be punished in measure and
proportion. The laws of this country are for the most part constituted,
and wisely so, for the general ends of government, rather than for the
preservation of our particular liberties. Whatever therefore is done in
support of liberty, by persons not in public trust, or not acting merely
in that trust, is liable to be more or less out of the ordinary course
of the law; and the law itself is sufficient to animadvert upon it with
great severity. Nothing indeed can hinder that severe letter from
crushing us, except the temperaments it may receive from a trial by
jury. But if the habit prevails of _going beyond the law_, and
superseding this judicature, of carrying offences, real or supposed,
into the legislative bodies, who shall establish themselves into _courts
of criminal equity_ (so the _Star Chamber_ has been called by Lord
Bacon), all the evils of the _Star Chamber_ are revived. A large and
liberal construction in ascertaining offences, and a discretionary
power in punishing them, is the idea of _criminal equity_; which is in
truth a monster in jurisprudence. It signifies nothing whether a court
for this purpose be a committee of council, or a House of Commons, or a
House of Lords; the liberty of the subject will be equally subverted by
it. The true end and purpose of that House of Parliament, which
entertains such a jurisdiction, will be destroyed by it.

I will not believe, what no other man living believes, that Mr. Wilkes
was punished for the indecency of his publications, or the impiety of
his ransacked closet. If he had fallen in a common slaughter of
libellers and blasphemers, I could well believe that nothing more was
meant than was pretended. But when I see, that, for years together, full
as impious, and perhaps more dangerous writings to religion, and virtue,
and order, have not been punished, nor their authors discountenanced;
that the most audacious libels on royal majesty have passed without
notice; that the most treasonable invectives against the laws,
liberties, and constitution of the country, have not met with the
slightest animadversion; I must consider this as a shocking and
shameless pretence. Never did an envenomed scurrility against everything
sacred and civil, public and private, rage through the kingdom with such
a furious and unbridled license. All this while the peace of the nation
must be shaken, to ruin one libeller, and to tear from the populace a
single favorite.

Nor is it that vice merely skulks in an obscure and contemptible
impunity. Does not the public behold with indignation, persons not only
generally scandalous in their lives, but the identical persons who, by
their society, their instruction, their example, their encouragement,
have drawn this man into the very faults which have furnished the cabal
with a pretence for his persecution, loaded with every kind of favor,
honor, and distinction, which a court can bestow? Add but the crime of
servility (the _foedum crimen servitutis_) to every other crime, and the
whole mass is immediately transmuted into virtue, and becomes the just
subject of reward and honor. When therefore I reflect upon this method
pursued by the cabal in distributing rewards and punishments, I must
conclude that Mr. Wilkes is the object of persecution, not on account of
what he has done in common with others who are the objects of reward,
but for that in which he differs from many of them: that he is pursued
for the spirited dispositions which are blended with his vices; for his
unconquerable firmness, for his resolute, indefatigable, strenuous
resistance against oppression.

In this case, therefore, it was not the man that was to be punished, nor
his faults that were to be discountenanced. Opposition to acts of power
was to be marked by a kind of civil proscription. The popularity which
should arise from such an opposition was to be shown unable to protect
it. The qualities by which court is made to the people, were to render
every fault inexpiable, and every error irretrievable. The qualities by
which court is made to power, were to cover and to sanctify everything.
He that will have a sure and honorable seat in the House of Commons must
take care how he adventures to cultivate popular qualities; otherwise he
may remember the old maxim, _Breves et infaustos populi Romani amores_.
If, therefore, a pursuit of popularity expose a man to greater dangers
than a disposition to servility, the principle which is the life and
soul of popular elections will perish out of the constitution.

It behoves the people of England to consider how the House of Commons,
under the operation of these examples, must of necessity be constituted.
On the side of the court will be, all honors, offices, emoluments; every
sort of personal gratification to avarice or vanity; and, what is of
more moment to most gentlemen, the means of growing, by innumerable
petty services to individuals, into a spreading interest in their
country. On the other hand, let us suppose a person unconnected with the
court, and in opposition to its system. For his own person, no office,
or emolument, or title; no promotion, ecclesiastical, or civil, or
military, or naval, for children, or brothers, or kindred. In vain an
expiring interest in a borough calls for offices, or small livings, for
the children of mayors, and aldermen, and capital burgesses. His court
rival has them all. He can do an infinite number of acts of generosity
and kindness, and even of public spirit. He can procure indemnity from
quarters. He can procure advantages in trade. He can get pardons for
offences. He can obtain a thousand favors, and avert a thousand evils.
He may, while he betrays every valuable interest of the kingdom, be a
benefactor, a patron, a father, a guardian angel to his borough. The
unfortunate independent member has nothing to offer, but harsh refusal,
or pitiful excuse, or despondent representation of a hopeless interest.
Except from his private fortune, in which he may be equalled, perhaps
exceeded, by his court competitor, he has no way of showing any one good
quality, or of making a single friend. In the House, he votes forever in
a dispirited minority. If he speaks, the doors are locked. A body of
loquacious placemen go out to tell the world that all he aims at is to
get into office. If he has not the talent of elocution, which is the
case of many as wise and knowing men as any in the House, he is liable
to all these inconveniences, without the _eclat_ which attends upon any
tolerably successful exertion of eloquence. Can we conceive a more
discouraging post of duty than this? Strip it of the poor reward of
popularity; suffer even the excesses committed in defence of the popular
interest to become a ground for the majority of that House to form a
disqualification out of the line of the law, and at their pleasure,
attended not only with the loss of the franchise, but with every kind of
personal disgrace.--If this shall happen, the people of this kingdom may
be assured that they cannot be firmly or faithfully served by any man.
It is out of the nature of men and things that they should; and their
presumption will be equal to their folly if they expect it. The power of
the people, within the laws, must show itself sufficient to protect
every representative in the animated performance of his duty, or that
duty cannot be performed. The House of Commons can never be a control on
other parts of government, unless they are controlled themselves by
their constituents; and unless those constituents possess some right in
the choice of that House, which it is not in the power of that House to
take away. If they suffer this power of arbitrary incapacitation to
stand, they have utterly perverted every other power of the House of
Commons. The late proceeding I will not say _is_ contrary to law; it
_must_ be so; for the power which is claimed cannot, by any possibility,
be a legal power in any limited member of government.

The power which they claim, of declaring incapacities, would not be
above the just claims of a final judicature, if they had not laid it
down as a leading principle, that they had no rule in the exercise of
this claim, but their own _discretion_. Not one of their abettors has
ever undertaken to assign the principle of unfitness, the species or
degree of delinquency, on which the House of Commons will expel, nor the
mode of proceeding upon it, nor the evidence upon which it is
established. The direct consequence of which is, that the first
franchise of an Englishman, and that on which all the rest vitally
depend, is to be forfeited for some offence which no man knows, and
which is to be proved by no known rule whatsoever of legal evidence.
This is so anomalous to our whole constitution, that I will venture to
say, the most trivial right, which the subject claims, never was, nor
can be, forfeited in such a manner.

The whole of their usurpation is established upon this method of
arguing. We do not _make_ laws. No; we do not contend for this power. We
only _declare_ law; and as we are a tribunal both competent and supreme,
what we declare to be law becomes law, although it should not have been
so before. Thus the circumstance of having no _appeal_ from their
jurisdiction is made to imply that they have no _rule_ in the exercise
of it: the judgment does not derive its validity from its conformity to
the law; but preposterously the law is made to attend on the judgment;
and the rule of the judgment is no other than the _occasional will of
the House_. An arbitrary discretion leads, legality follows; which is
just the very nature and description of a legislative act.

This claim in their hands was no barren theory. It was pursued into its
utmost consequences; and a dangerous principle has begot a correspondent
practice. A systematic spirit has been shown upon both sides. The
electors of Middlesex chose a person whom the House of Commons had voted
incapable; and the House of Commons has taken in a member whom the
electors of Middlesex had not chosen. By a construction on that
legislative power which had been assumed, they declared that the true
legal sense of the country was contained in the minority, on that
occasion; and might, on a resistance to a vote of incapacity, be
contained in any minority.

When any construction of law goes against the spirit of the privilege it
was meant to support, it is a vicious construction. It is material to us
to be represented really and _bona fide_, and not in forms, in types,
and shadows, and fictions of law. The right of election was not
established merely as a _matter of form_, to satisfy some method and
rule of technical reasoning; it was not a principle which might
substitute a _Titius_ or a _Maevius_, a _John Doe_ or _Richard Roe_, in
the place of a man specially chosen; not a principle which was just as
well satisfied with one man as with another. It is a right, the effect
of which is to give to the people that man, and _that man only_, whom,
by their voices actually, not constructively given, they declare that
they know, esteem, love, and trust. This right is a matter within their
own power of judging and feeling; not an _ens rationis_ and creature of
law: nor can those devices, by which anything else is substituted in the
place of such an actual choice, answer in the least degree the end of
representation.

I know that the courts of law have made as strained constructions in
other cases. Such is the construction in common recoveries. The method
of construction which in that case gives to the persons in remainder,
for their security and representative, the door-keeper, crier, or
sweeper of the court, or some other shadowy being without substance or
effect, is a fiction of a very coarse texture. This was however suffered
by the acquiescence of the whole kingdom, for ages; because the evasion
of the old statute of Westminster, which authorized perpetuities, had
more sense and utility than the law which was evaded. But an attempt to
turn the right of election into such a farce and mockery as a fictitious
fine and recovery, will, I hope, have another fate; because the laws
which give it are infinitely dear to us, and the evasion is infinitely
contemptible.

The people indeed have been told, that this power of discretionary
disqualification is vested in hands that they may trust, and who will be
sure not to abuse it to their prejudice. Until I find something in this
argument differing from that on which every mode of despotism has been
defended, I shall not be inclined to pay it any great compliment. The
people are satisfied to trust themselves with the exercise of their own
privileges, and do not desire this kind intervention of the House of
Commons to free them from the burden. They are certainly in the right.
They ought not to trust the House of Commons with a power over their
franchises; because the constitution, which placed two other co-ordinate
powers to control it, reposed no such confidence in that body. It were a
folly well deserving servitude for its punishment, to be full of
confidence where the laws are full of distrust; and to give to a House
of Commons, arrogating to its sole resolution the most harsh and odious
part of legislative authority, that degree of submission which is due
only to the legislature itself.

When the House of Commons, in an endeavor to obtain new advantages at
the expense of the other orders of the state, for the benefit of the
_commons at large_, have pursued strong measures; if it were not just,
it was at least natural, that the constituents should connive at all
their proceedings; because we were ourselves ultimately to profit. But
when this submission is urged to us, in a contest between the
representatives and ourselves, and where nothing can be put into their
scale which is not taken from ours, they fancy us to be children when
they tell us they are our representatives, our own flesh and blood, and
that all the stripes they give us are for our good. The very desire of
that body to have such a trust contrary to law reposed in them, shows
that they are not worthy of it. They certainly will abuse it; because
all men possessed of an uncontrolled discretionary power leading to the
aggrandizement and profit of their own body have always abused it: and I
see no particular sanctity in our times, that is at all likely, by a
miraculous operation, to overrule the course of nature.

But we must purposely shut our eyes, if we consider this matter merely
as a contest between the House of Commons and the electors. The true
contest is between the electors of the kingdom and the crown; the crown
acting by an instrumental House of Commons. It is precisely the same,
whether the ministers of the crown can disqualify by a dependent House
of Commons, or by a dependent Court of _Star Chamber_, or by a dependent
Court of King's Bench If once members of Parliament can be practically
convinced that they do not depend on the affection or opinion of the
people for their political being, they will give themselves over,
without even an appearance of reserve, to the influence of the court.

Indeed a Parliament unconnected with the people is essential to a
ministry unconnected with the people; and therefore those who saw
through what mighty difficulties the interior ministry waded, and the
exterior were dragged, in this business, will conceive of what
prodigious importance, the new corps of _king's men_ held this principle
of occasional and personal incapacitation, to the whole body of their
design.

When the House of Commons was thus made to consider itself as the master
of its constituents, there wanted but one thing to secure that House
against all possible future deviation towards popularity: an _unlimited_
fund of money to be laid out according to the pleasure of the court.

To complete the scheme of bringing our court to a resemblance to the
neighboring monarchies, it was necessary, in effect, to destroy those
appropriations of revenue, which seem to limit the property, as the
other laws had done the powers, of the crown. An opportunity for this
purpose was taken, upon an application to Parliament for payment of the
debts of the civil list; which in 1769 had amounted to 513,000_l._ Such
application had been made upon former occasions; but to do it in the
former manner would by no means answer the present purpose.

Whenever the crown had come to the commons to desire a supply for the
discharging of debts due on the civil list, it was always asked and
granted with one of the three following qualifications; sometimes with
all of them. Either it was stated, that the revenue had been diverted
from its purposes by Parliament; or that those duties had fallen short
of the sum for which they were given by Parliament, and that the
intention of the legislature had not been fulfilled; or that the money
required to discharge the civil list debt was to be raised chargeable on
the civil list duties. In the reign of Queen Anne, the crown was found
in debt. The lessening and granting away some part of her revenue by
Parliament was alleged as the cause of that debt, and pleaded as an
equitable ground, such it certainly was, for discharging it. It does not
appear that the duties which were then applied to the ordinary
government produced clear above 580,000_l._ a year; because, when they
were afterwards granted to George the First, 120,000_l._ was added to
complete the whole to 700,000_l._ a year. Indeed it was then asserted,
and, I have no doubt, truly, that for many years the net produce did not
amount to above 550,000_l._ The queen's extraordinary charges were
besides very considerable; equal, at least, to any we have known in our
time. The application to Parliament was not for an absolute grant of
money; but to empower the queen to raise it by borrowing upon the civil
list funds.

The civil list debt was twice paid in the reign of George the First. The
money was granted upon the same plan which had been followed in the
reign of Queen Anne. The civil list revenues were then mortgaged for the
sum to be raised, and stood charged with the ransom of their own
deliverance.

George the Second received an addition to his civil list. Duties were
granted for the purpose of raising 800,000_l._ a year. It was not until
he had reigned nineteen years, and after the last rebellion, that he
called upon Parliament for a discharge of the civil list debt. The
extraordinary charges brought on by the rebellion, account fully for the
necessities of the crown. However, the extraordinary charges of
government were not thought a ground fit to be relied on.

A deficiency of the civil list duties for several years before was
stated as the principal, if not the sole ground on which an application
to Parliament could be justified. About this time the produce of these
duties had fallen pretty low; and even upon an average of the whole
reign they never produced 800,000_l._ a year clear to the treasury.

That prince reigned fourteen years afterwards: not only no new demands
were made; but with so much good order were his revenues and expenses
regulated, that, although many parts of the establishment of the court
were upon a larger and more liberal scale than they have been since,
there was a considerable sum in hand, on his decease, amounting to about
170,000_l._ applicable to the service of the civil list of his present
Majesty. So that, if this reign commenced with a greater charge than
usual, there was enough and more than enough, abundantly to supply all
the extraordinary expense. That the civil list should have been exceeded
in the two former reigns, especially in the reign of George the First,
was not at all surprising. His revenue was but 700,000_l._ annually; if
it ever produced so much clear. The prodigious and dangerous
disaffection to the very being of the establishment, and the cause of a
pretender then powerfully abetted from abroad, produced many demands of
an extraordinary nature both abroad and at home. Much management and
great expenses were necessary. But the throne of no prince has stood
upon more unshaken foundations than that of his present Majesty.

To have exceeded the sum given for the civil list, and to have incurred
a debt without special authority of Parliament, was _prima facie_, a
criminal act: as such, ministers ought naturally rather to have
withdrawn it from the inspection, than to have exposed it to the
scrutiny of Parliament. Certainly they ought, of themselves, officially
to have come armed with every sort of argument, which, by explaining,
could excuse, a matter in itself of presumptive guilt. But the terrors
of the House of Commons are no longer for ministers.

On the other hand, the peculiar character of the House of Commons, as
trustee of the public purse, would have led them to call with a
punctilious solicitude for every public account, and to have examined
into them with the most rigorous accuracy.

The capital use of an account is, that the reality of the charge, the
reason of incurring it, and the justice and necessity of discharging it,
should all appear antecedent to the payment. No man ever pays first, and
calls for his account afterwards; because he would thereby let out of
his hands the principal, and indeed only effectual, means of compelling
a full and fair one. But, in national business, there is an additional
reason for a previous production of every account. It is a check,
perhaps the only one, upon a corrupt and prodigal use of public money.
An account after payment is to no rational purpose an account. However,
the House of Commons thought all these to be antiquated principles:
they were of opinion, that the most Parliamentary way of proceeding was,
to pay first what the court thought proper to demand, and to take its
chance for an examination into accounts at some time of greater leisure.

The nation had settled 800,000_l._ a year on the crown, as sufficient
for the support of its dignity, upon the estimate of its own ministers.
When ministers came to Parliament, and said that this allowance had not
been sufficient for the purpose, and that they had incurred a debt of
500,000_l._, would it not have been natural for Parliament first to have
asked how, and by what means, their appropriated allowance came to be
insufficient? Would it not have savored of some attention to justice, to
have seen in what periods of administration this debt had been
originally incurred; that they might discover, and if need were,
animadvert on the persons who were found the most culpable? To put their
hands upon such articles of expenditure as they thought improper or
excessive, and to secure, in future, against such misapplication or
exceeding? Accounts for any other purposes are but a matter of
curiosity, and no genuine Parliamentary object. All the accounts which
could answer any Parliamentary end were refused, or postponed by
previous questions. Every idea of prevention was rejected, as conveying
an improper suspicion of the ministers of the crown.

When every loading account had been refused, many others were granted
with sufficient facility.

But with great candor also, the House was informed, that hardly any of
them could be ready until the next session; some of them perhaps not so
soon. But, in order firmly to establish the precedent of _payment
previous to account_, and to form it into a settled rule of the House,
the god in the machine was brought down, nothing less than the
wonder-working _law of Parliament_. It was alleged, that it is the law
of Parliament, when any demand comes from the crown, that the House must
go immediately into the committee of supply; in which committee it was
allowed, that the production and examination of accounts would be quite
proper and regular. It was therefore carried, that they should go into
the committee without delay, and without accounts, in order to examine
with great order and regularity things that could not possibly come
before them. After this stroke of orderly and Parliamentary wit and
humor, they went into the committee; and very generously voted the
payment.

There was a circumstance in that debate too remarkable to be overlooked.
This debt of the civil list was all along argued upon the same footing
as a debt of the state, contracted upon national authority. Its payment
was urged as equally pressing upon the public faith and honor; and when
the whole year's account was stated, in what is called _the budget_, the
ministry valued themselves on the payment of so much public debt, just
as if they had discharged 500,000_l._ of navy or exchequer bills.
Though, in truth, their payment, from the sinking fund, of debt which
was never contracted by Parliamentary authority, was, to all intents and
purposes, so much debt incurred. But such is the present notion of
public credit, and payment of debt. No wonder that it produces such
effects.

Nor was the House at all more attentive to a provident security against
future, than it had been to a vindictive retrospect to past
mismanagements. I should have thought indeed that a ministerial promise,
during their own continuance in office, might have been given, though
this would have been but a poor security for the public. Mr. Pelham gave
such an assurance, and he kept his word. But nothing was capable of
extorting from our ministers anything which had the least resemblance to
a promise of confining the expenses of the civil list within the limits
which had been settled by Parliament. This reserve of theirs I look upon
to be equivalent to the clearest declaration, that they were resolved
upon a contrary course.

However, to put the matter beyond all doubt, in the speech from the
throne, after thanking Parliament for the relief so liberally granted,
the ministers inform the two Houses, that they will _endeavor_ to
confine the expenses of the civil government--within what limits, think
you? those which the law had prescribed? Not in the least--"such limits
as the _honor of the crown_ can possibly admit."

Thus they established an _arbitrary_ standard for that dignity which
Parliament had defined and limited to a _legal_ standard. They gave
themselves, under the lax and indeterminate idea of the _honor of the
crown_, a full loose for all manner of dissipation, and all manner of
corruption. This arbitrary standard they were not afraid to hold out to
both Houses; while an idle and unoperative act of Parliament, estimating
the dignity of the crown at 800,000_l._ and confining it to that sum,
adds to the number of obsolete statutes which load the shelves of
libraries, without any sort of advantage to the people.

After this proceeding, I suppose that no man can be so weak as to think
that the crown is limited to any settled allowance whatsoever. For if
the ministry has 800,000_l._ a year by the law of the land; and if by
the law of Parliament all the debts which exceed it are to be paid
previously to the production of any account; I presume that this is
equivalent to an income with no other limits than the abilities of the
subject and the moderation of the court; that is to say, it is such an
income as is possessed by every absolute monarch in Europe. It amounts,
as a person of great ability said in the debate, to an unlimited power
of drawing upon the sinking fund. Its effect on the public credit of
this kingdom must be obvious; for in vain is the sinking fund the great
buttress of all the rest, if it be in the power of the ministry to
resort to it for the payment of any debts which they may choose to
incur, under the name of the civil list, and through the medium of a
committee, which thinks itself obliged by law to vote supplies without
any other account than that of the mere existence of the debt.

Five hundred thousand pounds is a serious sum. But it is nothing to the
prolific principle upon which the sum was voted: a principle that may be
well called, _the fruitful mother of an hundred more_. Neither is the
damage to public credit of very great consequence, when compared with
that which results to public morals and to the safety of the
constitution, from the exhaustless mine of corruption opened by the
precedent, and to be wrought by the principle, of the late payment of
the debts of the civil list. The power of discretionary disqualification
by one law of Parliament, and the necessity of paying every debt of the
civil list by another law of Parliament, if suffered to pass unnoticed,
must establish such a fund of rewards and terrors as will make
Parliament the best appendage and support of arbitrary power that ever
was invented by the wit of man. This is felt. The quarrel is begun
between the representatives and the people. The court faction have at
length committed them.

In such a strait the wisest may well be perplexed, and the boldest
staggered. The circumstances are in a great measure new. We have hardly
any landmarks from the wisdom of our ancestors, to guide us. At best we
can only follow the spirit of their proceeding in other cases. I know
the diligence with which my observations on our public disorders have
been made; I am very sure of the integrity of the motives on which they
are published; I cannot be equally confident in any plan for the
absolute cure of those disorders, or for their certain future
prevention. My aim is to bring this matter into more public discussion.
Let the sagacity of others work upon it. It is not uncommon for medical
writers to describe histories of diseases very accurately, on whose cure
they can say but very little.

The first ideas which generally suggest themselves, for the cure of
Parliamentary disorders, are, to shorten the duration of Parliaments;
and to disqualify all, or a great number of placemen, from a seat in the
House of Commons. Whatever efficacy there may be in those remedies, I am
sure in the present state of things it is impossible to apply them. A
restoration of the right of free election is a preliminary indispensable
to every other reformation. What alterations ought afterwards to be made
in the constitution, is a matter of deep and difficult research.

If I wrote merely to please the popular palate, it would indeed be as
little troublesome to me as to another, to extol these remedies, so
famous in speculation, but to which their greatest admirers have never
attempted seriously to resort in practice. I confess then, that I have
no sort of reliance upon either a triennial Parliament, or a place-bill.
With regard to the former, perhaps it might rather serve to counteract,
than to promote the ends that are proposed by it. To say nothing of the
horrible disorders among the people attending frequent elections, I
should be fearful of committing, every three years, the independent
gentlemen of the country into a contest with the treasury. It is easy to
see which of the contending parties would be ruined first. Whoever has
taken a careful view of public proceedings, so as to endeavor to ground
his speculations on his experience, must have observed how prodigiously
greater the power of ministry is in the first and last session of a
Parliament, than it is in the intermediate period, when members sit a
little firm on their seats. The persons of the greatest Parliamentary
experience, with whom I have conversed, did constantly, in canvassing
the fate of questions, allow something to the court side, upon account
of the elections depending or imminent. The evil complained of, if it
exists in the present state of things, would hardly be removed by a
triennial Parliament: for, unless the influence of government in
elections can be entirely taken away, the more frequently they return,
the more they will harass private independence; the more generally men
will be compelled to fly to the settled systematic interest of
government, and to the resources of a boundless civil list. Certainly
something may be done, and ought to be done, towards lessening that
influence in elections; and this will be necessary upon a plan either
of longer or shorter duration of Parliament. But nothing can so
perfectly remove the evil, as not to render such contentions, too
frequently repeated, utterly ruinous, first to independence of fortune,
and then to independence of spirit. As I am only giving an opinion on
this point, and not at all debating it in an adverse line, I hope I may
be excused in another observation. With great truth I may aver, that I
never remember to have talked on this subject with any man much
conversant with public business, who considered short Parliaments as a
real improvement of the constitution. Gentlemen, warm in a popular
cause, are ready enough to attribute all the declarations of such
persons to corrupt motives. But the habit of affairs, if, on one hand,
it tends to corrupt the mind, furnishes it, on the other, with the means
of better information. The authority of such persons will always have
some weight. It may stand upon a par with the speculations of those who
are less practised in business; and who, with perhaps purer intentions,
have not so effectual means of judging. It is besides an effect of
vulgar and puerile malignity to imagine, that every statesman is of
course corrupt; and that his opinion, upon every constitutional point,
is solely formed upon some sinister interest.

The next favorite remedy is a place-bill. The same principle guides in
both; I mean, the opinion which is entertained by many, of the
infallibility of laws and regulations, in the cure of public distempers.
Without being as unreasonably doubtful as many are unwisely confident, I
will only say, that this also is a matter very well worthy of serious
and mature reflection. It is not easy to foresee, what the effect would
be, of disconnecting with Parliament the greatest part of those who hold
civil employments, and of such mighty and important bodies as the
military and naval establishments. It were better, perhaps, that they
should have a corrupt interest in the forms of the constitution, than
that they should have none at all. This is a question altogether
different from the disqualification of a particular description of
revenue-officers from seats in Parliament; or, perhaps, of all the lower
sorts of them from votes in elections. In the former case, only the few
are affected; in the latter, only the inconsiderable. But a great
official, a great professional, a great military and naval interest, all
necessarily comprehending many people of the first weight, ability,
wealth, and spirit, has been gradually formed in the kingdom. These new
interests must be let into a share of representation, else possibly they
may be inclined to destroy those institutions of which they are not
permitted to partake. This is not a thing to be trifled with; nor is it
every well-meaning man that is fit to put his hands to it. Many other
serious considerations occur. I do not open them here, because they are
not directly to my purpose; proposing only to give the reader some taste
of the difficulties that attend all capital changes in the constitution;
just to hint the uncertainty, to say no worse, of being able to prevent
the court, as long as it has the means of influence abundantly in its
power, of applying that influence to Parliament; and perhaps, if the
public method were precluded, of doing it in some worse and more
dangerous method. Underhand and oblique ways would be studied. The
science of evasion, already tolerably understood, would then be brought
to the greatest perfection. It is no inconsiderable part of wisdom, to
know how much of an evil ought to be tolerated; lest, by attempting a
degree of purity impracticable in degenerate times and manners, instead
of cutting off the subsisting ill-practices, new corruptions might be
produced for the concealment and security of the old. It were better,
undoubtedly, that no influence at all could affect the mind of a member
of Parliament. But of all modes of influence, in my opinion, a place
under the government is the least disgraceful to the man who holds it,
and by far the most safe to the country. I would not shut out that sort
of influence which is open and visible, which is connected with the
dignity and the service of the state, when it is not in my power to
prevent the influence of contracts, of subscriptions, of direct bribery,
and those innumerable methods of clandestine corruption, which are
abundantly in the hands of the court, and which will be applied as long
as these means of corruption, and the disposition to be corrupted, have
existence amongst us. Our constitution stands on a nice equipoise, with
steep precipices and deep waters upon all sides of it. In removing it
from a dangerous leaning towards one side, there may be a risk of
oversetting it on the other. Every project of a material change in a
government so complicated as ours, combined at the same time with
external circumstances still more complicated, is a matter full of
difficulties: in which a considerate man will not be too ready to
decide; a prudent man too ready to undertake; or an honest man too ready
to promise. They do not respect the public nor themselves, who engage
for more than they are sure that they ought to attempt, or that they are
able to perform. These are my sentiments, weak perhaps, but honest and
unbiassed; and submitted entirely to the opinion of grave men,
well-affected to the constitution of their country, and of experience in
what may best promote or hurt it.

Indeed, in the situation in which we stand, with an immense revenue, an
enormous debt, mighty establishments, government itself a great banker
and a great merchant, I see no other way for the preservation of a
decent attention to public interest in the representatives, but _the
interposition of the body of the people itself_, whenever it shall
appear, by some flagrant and notorious act, by some capital innovation,
that these representatives are going to overleap the fences of the law,
and to introduce an arbitrary power. This interposition is a most
unpleasant remedy. But, if it be a legal remedy, it is intended on some
occasion to be used; to be used then only, when it is evident that
nothing else can hold the constitution to its true principles.

The distempers of monarchy were the great subjects of apprehension and
redress, in the last century; in this the distempers of Parliament. It
is not in Parliament alone that the remedy for Parliamentary disorders
can be completed; hardly indeed can it begin there. Until a confidence
in government is re-established, the people ought to be excited to a
more strict and detailed attention to the conduct of their
representatives. Standards for judging more systematically upon their
conduct ought to be settled in the meetings of counties and
corporations. Frequent and correct lists of the voters in all important
questions ought to be procured.

By such means something may be done. By such means it may appear who
those are, that, by an indiscriminate support of all administrations,
have totally banished all integrity and confidence out of public
proceedings; have confounded the best men with the worst; and weakened
and dissolved, instead of strengthening and compacting, the general
frame of government. If any person is more concerned for government and
order, than for the liberties of his country; even he is equally
concerned to put an end to this course of indiscriminate support. It is
this blind and undistinguishing support, that feeds the spring of those
very disorders, by which he is frightened into the arms of the faction
which contains in itself the source of all disorders, by enfeebling all
the visible and regular authority of the state. The distemper is
increased by his injudicious and preposterous endeavors, or pretences,
for the cure of it.

An exterior administration, chosen for its impotency, or after it is
chosen purposely rendered impotent, in order to be rendered subservient,
will not be obeyed. The laws themselves will not be respected, when
those who execute them are despised: and they will be despised, when
their power is not immediate from the crown, or natural in the kingdom.
Never were ministers better supported in Parliament. Parliamentary
support comes and goes with office, totally regardless of the man, or
the merit. Is government strengthened? It grows weaker and weaker. The
popular torrent gains upon it every hour. Let us learn from our
experience. It is not support that is wanting to government, but
reformation. When ministry rests upon public opinion, it is not indeed
built upon a rock of adamant; it has, however, some stability. But when
it stands upon private humor, its structure is of stubble, and its
foundation is on quicksand. I repeat it again,--He that supports every
administration subverts all government. The reason is this: The whole
business in which a court usually takes an interest goes on at present
equally well, in whatever hands, whether high or low, wise or foolish,
scandalous or reputable; there is nothing therefore to hold it firm to
any one body of men, or to any one consistent scheme of politics.
Nothing interposes, to prevent the full operation of all the caprices
and all the passions of a court upon the servants of the public. The
system of administration is open to continual shocks and changes, upon
the principles of the meanest cabal, and the most contemptible intrigue.
Nothing can be solid and permanent. All good men at length fly with
horror from such a service. Men of rank and ability, with the spirit
which ought to animate such men in a free state, while they decline the
jurisdiction of dark cabal on their actions and their fortunes, will,
for both, cheerfully put themselves upon their country. They will trust
an inquisitive and distinguishing Parliament; because it does inquire,
and does distinguish. If they act well, they know, that, in such a
Parliament they will be supported against any intrigue; if they act ill,
they know that no intrigue can protect them. This situation, however
awful, is honorable. But in one hour, and in the self-same assembly,
without any assigned or assignable cause, to be precipitated from the
highest authority to the most marked neglect, possibly into the greatest
peril of life and reputation, is a situation full of danger, and
destitute of honor. It will be shunned equally by every man of prudence,
and every man of spirit.

Such are the consequences of the division of court from the
administration; and of the division of public men among themselves. By
the former of these, lawful government is undone; by the latter, all
opposition to lawless power is rendered impotent. Government may in a
great measure be restored, if any considerable bodies of men have
honesty and resolution enough never to accept administration, unless
this garrison of _king's men_, which is stationed, as in a citadel, to
control and enslave it, be entirely broken and disbanded, and every work
they have thrown up be levelled with the ground. The disposition of
public men to keep this corps together, and to act under it, or to
co-operate with it, is a touchstone by which every administration ought
in future to be tried. There has not been one which has not sufficiently
experienced the utter incompatibility of that faction with the public
peace, and with all the ends of good government: since, if they opposed
it, they soon lost every power of serving the crown; if they submitted
to it, they lost all the esteem of their country. Until ministers give
to the public a full proof of their entire alienation from that system,
however plausible their pretences, we may be sure they are more intent
on the emoluments than the duties of office. If they refuse to give this
proof, we know of what stuff they are made. In this particular, it ought
to be the electors' business to look to their representatives. The
electors ought to esteem it no less culpable in their member to give a
single vote in Parliament to such an administration, than to take an
office under it; to endure it, than to act in it. The notorious
infidelity and versatility of members of Parliament, in their opinions
of men and things, ought in a particular manner to be considered by the
electors in the inquiry which is recommended to them. This is one of
the principal holdings of that destructive system, which has endeavored
to unhinge all the virtuous, honorable, and useful connections in the
kingdom.

This cabal has, with great success, propagated a doctrine which serves
for a color to those acts of treachery; and whilst it receives any
degree of countenance it will be utterly senseless to look for a
vigorous opposition to the court party. The doctrine is this: That all
political connections are in their nature factious, and as such ought to
be dissipated and destroyed; and that the rule for forming
administrations is more personal ability, rated by the judgment of this
cabal upon it, and taken by draughts from every division and
denomination of public men. This decree was solemnly promulgated by the
head of the court corps, the Earl of Bute himself, in a speech which he
made, in the year 1766, against the then administration, the only
administration which he has ever been known directly and publicly to
oppose.

It is indeed in no way wonderful, that such persons should make such
declarations. That connection and faction are equivalent terms, is an
opinion which has been carefully inculcated at all times by
unconstitutional statesmen. The reason is evident. Whilst men are linked
together, they easily and speedily communicate the alarm of any evil
design. They are enabled to fathom it with common counsel, and to oppose
it with united strength. Whereas, when they lie dispersed, without
concert, order, or discipline, communication is uncertain, counsel
difficult, and resistance impracticable. Where men are not acquainted
with each other's principles, nor experienced in each other's talents,
nor at all practised in their mutual habitudes and dispositions by
joint efforts in business; no personal confidence, no friendship, no
common interest, subsisting among them; it is evidently impossible that
they can act a public part with uniformity, perseverance, or efficacy.
In a connection, the most inconsiderable man, by adding to the weight of
the whole, has his value, and his use; out of it, the greatest talents
are wholly unserviceable to the public. No man, who is not inflamed by
vainglory into enthusiasm, can flatter himself that his single,
unsupported, desultory, unsystematic endeavors are of power to defeat
the subtle designs and united cabals of ambitious citizens. When bad men
combine, the good must associate; else they will fall, one by one, an
unpitied sacrifice in a contemptible struggle.

It is not enough in a situation of trust in the commonwealth, that a man
means well to his country; it is not enough that in his single person he
never did an evil act, but always voted according to his conscience, and
even harangued against every design which he apprehended to be
prejudicial to the interests of his country. This innoxious and
ineffectual character, that seems formed upon a plan of apology and
disculpation, falls miserably short of the mark of public duty. That
duty demands and requires, that what is right should not only be made
known, but made prevalent; that what is evil should not only be
detected, but defeated. When the public man omits to put himself in a
situation of doing his duty with effect, it is an omission that
frustrates the purposes of his trust almost as much as if he had
formally betrayed it. It is surely no very rational account of a man's
life, that he has always acted right; but has taken special care, to act
in such a manner that his endeavors could not possibly be productive of
any consequence.

I do not wonder that the behavior of many parties should have made
persons of tender and scrupulous virtue somewhat out of humor with all
sorts of connection in politics. I admit that people frequently acquire
in such confederacies a narrow, bigoted, and prescriptive spirit; that
they are apt to sink the idea of the general good in this circumscribed
and partial interest. But, where duty renders a critical situation a
necessary one, it is our business to keep free from the evils attendant
upon it; and not to fly from the situation itself. If a fortress is
seated in an unwholesome air, an officer of the garrison is obliged to
be attentive to his health, but he must not desert his station. Every
profession, not excepting the glorious one of a soldier, or the sacred
one of a priest, is liable to its own particular vices; which, however,
form no argument against those ways of life; nor are the vices
themselves inevitable to every individual in those professions. Of such
a nature are connections in politics; essentially necessary for the full
performance of our public duty, accidentally liable to degenerate into
faction. Commonwealths are made of families, free commonwealths of
parties also; and we may as well affirm, that our natural regards and
ties of blood tend inevitably to make men bad citizens, as that the
bonds of our party weaken those by which we are held to our country.

Some legislators went so far as to make neutrality in party a crime
against the state. I do not know whether this might not have been rather
to overstrain the principle. Certain it is, the best patriots in the
greatest commonwealths have always commended and promoted such
connections. _Idem sentire de republica_, was with them a principal
ground of friendship and attachment; nor do I know any other capable of
forming firmer, dearer, more pleasing, more honorable, and more virtuous
habitudes. The Romans carried this principle a great way. Even the
holding of offices together, the disposition of which arose from chance,
not selection, gave rise to a relation which continued for life. It was
called _necessitudo sortis_; and it was looked upon with a sacred
reverence. Breaches of any of these kinds of civil relation were
considered as acts of the most distinguished turpitude. The whole people
was distributed into political societies, in which they acted in support
of such interests in the state as they severally affected. For it was
then thought no crime to endeavor by every honest means to advance to
superiority and power those of your own sentiments and opinions. This
wise people was far from imagining that those connections had no tie,
and obliged to no duty; but that men might quit them without shame, upon
every call of interest. They believed private honor to be the great
foundation of public trust; that friendship was no mean step towards
patriotism; that he who, in the common intercourse of life, showed he
regarded somebody besides himself, when he came to act in a public
situation, might probably consult some other interest than his own.
Never may we become _plus sages que les sages_, as the French comedian
has happily expressed it, wiser than all the wise and good men who have
lived before us. It was their wish, to see public and private virtues,
not dissonant and jarring, and mutually destructive, but harmoniously
combined, growing out of one another in a noble and orderly gradation,
reciprocally supporting and supported. In one of the most fortunate
periods of our history this country was governed by a _connection_; I
mean, the great connection of Whigs in the reign of Queen Anne. They
were complimented upon the principle of this connection by a poet who
was in high esteem with them. Addison, who knew their sentiments, could
not praise them for what they considered as no proper subject of
commendation. As a poet who knew his business, he could not applaud them
for a thing which in general estimation was not highly reputable.
Addressing himself to Britain,--

   "Thy favorites grow not up by fortune's sport,
    Or from the crimes or follies of a court.
    On the firm basis of desert they rise,
    From long-tried faith, and friendship's holy ties."


The Whigs of those days believed that the only proper method of rising
into power was through hard essays of practised friendship and
experimented fidelity. At that time it was not imagined, that patriotism
was a bloody idol, which required the sacrifice of children and parents,
or dearest connections in private life, and of all the virtues that rise
from those relations. They were not of that ingenious paradoxical
morality, to imagine that a spirit of moderation was properly shown in
patiently bearing the sufferings of your friends; or that
disinterestedness was clearly manifested at the expense of other
people's fortune. They believed that no men could act with effect, who
did not act in concert; that no men could act in concert, who did not
act with confidence; that no men could act with confidence, who were not
bound together by common opinions, common affections, and common
interests.

These wise men, for such I must call Lord Sunderland, Lord Godolphin,
Lord Somers, and Lord Marlborough, were too well principled in these
maxims upon which the whole fabric of public strength is built, to be
blown off their ground by the breath of every childish talker. They were
not afraid that they should be called an ambitious junto; or that their
resolution to stand or fall together should, by placemen, be interpreted
into a scuffle for places.

Party is a body of men united for promoting by their joint endeavors the
national interest upon some particular principle in which they are all
agreed. For my part, I find it impossible to conceive, that any one
believes in his own politics, or thinks them to be of any weight, who
refuses to adopt the means of having them reduced into practice. It is
the business of the speculative philosopher to mark the proper ends of
government. It is the business of the politician, who is the philosopher
in action, to find out proper means towards those ends, and to employ
them with effect. Therefore every honorable connection will avow it is
their first purpose, to pursue every just method to put the men who hold
their opinions into such a condition as may enable them to carry their
common plans into execution, with all the power and authority of the
state. As this power is attached to certain situations, it is their duty
to contend for these situations. Without a proscription of others, they
are bound to give to their own party the preference in all things; and
by no means, for private considerations, to accept any offers of power
in which the whole body is not included; nor to suffer themselves to be
led, or to be controlled, or to be overbalanced, in office or in
council, by those who contradict the very fundamental principles on
which their party is formed, and even those upon which every fair
connection must stand. Such a generous contention for power, on such
manly and honorable maxims, will easily be distinguished from the mean
and interested struggle for place and emolument. The very style of such
persons will serve to discriminate them from those numberless impostors,
who have deluded the ignorant with professions incompatible with human
practice, and have afterwards incensed them by practices below the level
of vulgar rectitude.

It is an advantage to all narrow wisdom and narrow morals, that their
maxims have a plausible air: and, on a cursory view, appear equal to
first principles. They are light and portable. They are as current as
copper coin; and about as valuable. They serve equally the first
capacities and the lowest; and they are, at least, as useful to the
worst men as to the best. Of this stamp is the cant of _Not men, but
measures_; a sort of charm by which many people get loose from every
honorable engagement. When I see a man acting this desultory and
disconnected part, with as much detriment to his own fortune as
prejudice to the cause of any party, I am not persuaded that he is
right; but I am ready to believe he is in earnest. I respect virtue in
all its situations; even when it is found in the unsuitable company of
weakness. I lament to see qualities, rare and valuable, squandered away
without any public utility. But when a gentleman with great visible
emoluments abandons the party in which he has long acted, and tells you,
it is because he proceeds upon his own judgment; that he acts on the
merits of the several measures as they arise; and that he is obliged to
follow his own conscience, and not that of others; he gives reasons
which it is impossible to controvert, and discovers a character which it
is impossible to mistake. What shall we think of him who never differed
from a certain set of men until the moment they lost their power, and
who never agreed with them in a single instance afterwards? Would not
such a coincidence of interest and opinion be rather fortunate? Would it
not be an extraordinary cast upon the dice, that a man's connections
should degenerate into faction, precisely at the critical moment when
they lose their power, or he accepts a place? When people desert their
connections, the desertion is a manifest _fact_, upon which a direct
simple issue lies, triable by plain men. Whether a _measure_ of
government be right or wrong, is _no matter of fact_, but a mere affair
of opinion, on which men may, as they do, dispute and wrangle without
end. But whether the individual _thinks_ the measure right or wrong, is
a point at still a greater distance from the reach of all human
decision. It is therefore very convenient to politicians, not to put the
judgment of their conduct on overt acts, cognizable in any ordinary
court, but upon such matter as can be triable only in that secret
tribunal, where they are sure of being heard with favor, or where at
worst the sentence will be only private whipping.

I believe the reader would wish to find no substance in a doctrine which
has a tendency to destroy all test of character as deduced from conduct.
He will therefore excuse my adding something more, towards the further
clearing up a point, which the great convenience of obscurity to
dishonesty has been able to cover with some degree of darkness and
doubt.

In order to throw an odium on political connection, those politicians
suppose it a necessary incident to it, that you are blindly to follow
the opinions of your party, when in direct opposition to your own clear
ideas; a degree of servitude that no worthy man could bear the thought
of submitting to; and such as, I believe, no connections (except some
court factions) ever could be so senselessly tyrannical as to impose.
Men thinking freely, will, in particular instances, think differently.
But still as the greater part of the measures which arise in the course
of public business are related to, or dependent on, some great,
_leading_, _general principles in government_, a man must be peculiarly
unfortunate in the choice of his political company, if he does not agree
with them at least nine times in ten. If he does not concur in these
general principles upon which the party is founded, and which
necessarily draw on a concurrence in their application, he ought from
the beginning to have chosen some other, more conformable to his
opinions. When the question is in its nature doubtful, or not very
material, the modesty which becomes an individual, and, (in spite of our
court moralists) that partiality which becomes a well-chosen friendship,
will frequently bring on an acquiescence in the general sentiment. Thus
the disagreement will naturally be rare; it will be only enough to
indulge freedom, without violating concord, or disturbing arrangement.
And this is all that ever was required for a character of the greatest
uniformity and steadiness in connection. How men can proceed without any
connection at all, is to me utterly incomprehensible. Of what sort of
materials must that man be made, how must he be tempered and put
together, who can sit whole years in Parliament, with five hundred and
fifty of his fellow-citizens, amidst the storm of such tempestuous
passions, in the sharp conflict of so many wits, and tempers, and
characters, in the agitation of such mighty questions, in the discussion
of such vast and ponderous interests, without seeing any one sort of
men, whose character, conduct, or disposition, would lead him to
associate himself with them, to aid and be aided, in any one system of
public utility?

I remember an old scholastic aphorism, which says, "that the man who
lives wholly detached from others, must be either an angel or a devil."
When I see in any of these detached gentlemen of our times the angelic
purity, power, and beneficence, I shall admit them to be angels. In the
mean time we are born only to be men. We shall do enough if we form
ourselves to be good ones. It is therefore our business carefully to
cultivate in our minds, to rear to the most perfect vigor and maturity,
every sort of generous and honest feeling, that belongs to our nature.
To bring the dispositions that are lovely in private life into the
service and conduct of the commonwealth; so to be patriots, as not to
forget we are gentlemen. To cultivate friendships, and to incur
enmities. To have both strong, but both selected: in the one, to be
placable; in the other immovable. To model our principles to our duties
and our situation. To be fully persuaded, that all virtue which is
impracticable is spurious; and rather to run the risk of falling into
faults in a course which leads us to act with effect and energy, than to
loiter out our days without blame, and without use. Public life is a
situation of power and energy; he trespasses against his duty who sleeps
upon his watch, as well as he that goes over to the enemy.

There is, however, a time for all things. It is not every conjuncture
which calls with equal force upon the activity of honest men; but
critical exigencies now and then arise; and I am mistaken, if this be
not one of them. Men will see the necessity of honest combination; but
they may see it when it is too late. They may embody, when it will be
ruinous to themselves, and of no advantage to the country; when, for
want of such a timely union as may enable them to oppose in favor of the
laws, with the laws on their side, they may at length find themselves
under the necessity of conspiring, instead of consulting. The law, for
which they stand, may become a weapon in the hands of its bitterest
enemies; and they will be cast, at length, into that miserable
alternative between slavery and civil confusion, which no good man can
look upon without horror; an alternative in which it is impossible he
should take either part, with a conscience perfectly at repose. To keep
that situation of guilt and remorse at the utmost distance is,
therefore, our first obligation. Early activity may prevent late and
fruitless violence. As yet we work in the light. The scheme of the
enemies of public tranquillity has disarranged, it has not destroyed us.

If the reader believes that there really exists such a faction as I have
described; a faction ruling by the private inclinations of a court,
against the general sense of the people; and that this faction, whilst
it pursues a scheme for undermining all the foundations of our freedom,
weakens (for the present at least) all the powers of executory
government, rendering us abroad contemptible, and at home distracted; he
will believe also, that nothing but a firm combination of public men
against this body, and that, too, supported by the hearty concurrence of
the people at large, can possibly get the better of it. The people will
see the necessity of restoring public men to an attention to the public
opinion, and of restoring the constitution to its original principles.
Above all, they will endeavor to keep the House of Commons from assuming
a character which does not belong to it. They will endeavor to keep that
House, for its existence, for its powers, and its privileges, as
independent of every other, and as dependent upon themselves, as
possible. This servitude is to a House of Commons (like obedience to the
Divine law) "perfect freedom." For if they once quit this natural,
rational, and liberal obedience, having deserted the only proper
foundation of their power, they must seek a support in an abject and
unnatural dependence somewhere else. When, through the medium of this
just connection with their constituents, the genuine dignity of the
House of Commons is restored, it will begin to think of casting from it,
with scorn, as badges of servility, all the false ornaments of illegal
power, with which it has been, for some time, disgraced. It will begin
to think of its old office of CONTROL. It will not suffer that last of
evils to predominate in the country: men without popular confidence,
public opinion, natural connection, or mutual trust, invested with all
the powers of government.

When they have learned this lesson themselves, they will be willing and
able to teach the court, that it is the true interest of the prince to
have but one administration; and that one composed of those who
recommend themselves to their sovereign through the opinion of their
country, and not by their obsequiousness to a favorite. Such men will
serve their sovereign with affection and fidelity; because his choice of
them, upon such principles, is a compliment to their virtue. They will
be able to serve him effectually; because they will add the weight of
the country to the force of the executory power. They will be able to
serve their king with dignity; because they will never abuse his name to
the gratification of their private spleen or avarice. This, with
allowances for human frailty, may probably be the general character of a
ministry, which thinks itself accountable to the House of Commons; when
the House of Commons thinks itself accountable to its constituents. If
other ideas should prevail, things must remain in their present
confusion, until they are hurried into all the rage of civil violence,
or until they sink into the dead repose of despotism.

END OF VOL. I.

FOOTNOTES:

[102] Mem. de Sully, tom. i. p. 133.

[103] "Uxor Hugonis de Nevill dat Domino Regi ducentas Gallinas, eo quod
possit jacere una nocte cum Domino suo Hugone de Nevill."--Maddox, Hist.
Exch. c. xiii. p. 326.

[104] Sentiments of an Honest Man.

[105] See the political writings of the late Dr. Brown, and many others.




*** Transcriber's notes, corrections ***

p329 behindhand         : was "behind-hand", inconsistent with p442
p403 pernicious         : was "prenicious"

(see HTML version for pagenumbers)
*** End Transcriber's notes ***






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