Common Sense

Perhaps the sentiments in the following pages are not yet fashionable enough to win general favor. A long habit of not thinking something wrong gives it a superficial appearance of being right, and at first raises a formidable outcry in defense of custom. But the tumult soon subsides. Time makes more converts than reason.

A long and violent abuse of power generally leads people to question the right to exercise it—even in matters they might never have considered had their suffering not driven them to inquire. The King of England has undertaken, by his own authority, to support Parliament in what he calls its rights; and the good people of this country are grievously oppressed by their alliance. They therefore have an unquestionable right to examine the claims of both, and equally to reject the usurpation of either.

In the following pages, the author has deliberately avoided everything personal among ourselves. Neither praise nor censure of individuals has a place here. The wise and worthy have no need of a pamphlet's triumph; and those whose views are unsound or unfriendly will fade away on their own, unless too much effort is spent trying to convert them.

The cause of America is, in great measure, the cause of all humanity. Many circumstances have arisen, and will arise, that are not local but universal. They touch the principles of all who love humanity, and their outcome engages those people's sympathies. To lay a country waste with fire and sword, to declare war on the natural rights of all humanity, and to wipe their defenders from the face of the earth—these are the concern of everyone to whom nature has given the power to feel. Among them, regardless of partisan censure, is the

AUTHOR

P.S. The publication of this new edition has been delayed so that it might address any attempt to refute the doctrine of Independence, had that proved necessary. Since no answer has yet appeared, it is now presumed that none will: the time needed to prepare such a work for the public has long since passed.

The identity of the author of this work is wholly irrelevant to the public, for the subject deserving attention is the doctrine itself, not the man. Yet it may be worth saying that he belongs to no party and is under no public or private influence except that of reason and principle.

Philadelphia, February 14, 1776

Some writers have so confused society with government that they leave little or no distinction between them. Yet they are not only different; they have different origins. Society arises from our needs, government from our wickedness. The first promotes our happiness directly by joining our affections; the second does so indirectly by restraining our vices. One encourages human connection, the other creates divisions. The first is a patron, the last a punisher.

Society in every condition is a blessing, but government even at its best is only a necessary evil; at its worst, an intolerable one. When a government makes us suffer, or exposes us to the same miseries we might expect in a country without government, our calamity is made worse by the thought that we ourselves supply the means of our suffering. Government, like clothing, is the badge of lost innocence; the palaces of kings stand on the ruins of the shelters of paradise. If conscience spoke clearly and consistently, and its commands were obeyed without fail, humanity would need no other lawgiver. But because that is not so, a person must surrender part of his property to provide for the protection of the rest. The same prudence that tells him in every other case to choose the lesser of two evils leads him to do it. Since security is the true purpose and end of government, it follows beyond dispute that the form most likely to provide it, at the least expense and with the greatest benefit, is preferable to every other.

To understand clearly and fairly the purpose and end of government, let us imagine a few people settling in an isolated part of the earth, cut off from everyone else. They will represent the first settlement of any country—or of the world. In this state of natural liberty, society will be their first thought. A thousand motives will draw them together: one person's strength falls so far short of his needs, and his mind is so ill suited to perpetual solitude, that he soon must seek another's help and comfort; that other person needs the same in turn. Four or five working together could build a tolerable dwelling in the wilderness, while one person might toil beyond an ordinary lifetime and accomplish nothing. Once he felled his timber, he could neither move it nor raise it after moving it. Hunger would pull him from his work, and each different need would draw him in a different direction. Illness, or even misfortune, would mean death: though neither need be fatal in itself, either would make him unable to sustain his life, leaving him to perish rather than simply die.

Necessity, like a force of gravity, would soon draw our newly arrived emigrants into a society. Its mutual benefits would make the obligations of law and government unnecessary so long as they remained perfectly fair to one another. But nothing except heaven is beyond the reach of vice. Inevitably, as they overcome the first difficulties of emigration that united them in a common cause, they will begin to neglect their duties and loosen their bonds with one another. This neglect will show the need to establish some form of government to make up for the shortfall in moral virtue.

Some convenient tree will serve as their statehouse, beneath whose branches the entire colony can gather to deliberate on public affairs. Their first laws will probably be called no more than regulations and be enforced by no penalty but public disapproval. In this first parliament, every person will have a seat by natural right.

As the colony grows, its public concerns will grow too; and the distances separating its members will make it too inconvenient for them all to meet on every occasion as they did when they were few, lived close together, and faced only a few trivial public concerns. They will see the advantage of entrusting legislation to a select number chosen from the whole community—people assumed to have the same interests at stake as those who choose them, and to act as the whole community would act if present. If the colony keeps growing, the number of representatives must increase. To ensure that the interests of every part of the colony receive attention, the best course will be to divide it into suitable districts, each sending its proper number. And to prevent those elected from forming interests apart from their electors, prudence will call for frequent elections. Representatives will then return within a few months to live among the general body of voters, and the prudent thought of not making a rod for their own backs will secure their fidelity to the public. This frequent interchange will establish a shared interest throughout the community; its parts will naturally support one another. On this—not on the empty title of king—depend the strength of government and the happiness of the governed.

Here, then, is the origin and rise of government: a means made necessary because moral virtue cannot govern the world. Here too is its purpose and end: freedom and security. However show may dazzle our eyes or sound deceive our ears, however prejudice may twist our wills or self-interest darken our understanding, the simple voice of nature and reason will tell us what is right.

My view of the proper form of government comes from a principle of nature that no artifice can overturn: the simpler a thing is, the less likely it is to fall into disorder, and the easier it is to repair when it does. With this maxim in mind, I offer a few remarks on the much-praised constitution of England. I grant that it was noble in the dark and servile age in which it was established. When tyranny overran the world, the smallest step away from it was a glorious deliverance. But it is easy to show that this constitution is imperfect, subject to upheavals, and incapable of providing what it appears to promise.

Absolute governments, though a disgrace to human nature, have one advantage: they are simple. If the people suffer, they know the source of their suffering and the remedy, and are not bewildered by a multitude of causes and cures. But England's constitution is so exceedingly complex that the nation may suffer for years without discovering where the fault lies. Some will point to one part, some to another, and every political physician will prescribe a different medicine.

I know it is difficult to overcome local or long-standing prejudices. Yet if we allow ourselves to examine the parts of the English constitution, we will find the base remnants of two ancient tyrannies mingled with some new republican elements.

First.—The remnants of monarchical tyranny in the person of the king.

Secondly.—The remnants of aristocratic tyranny in the persons of the peers.

Thirdly.—The new republican elements in the persons of the commons, on whose virtue England's freedom depends.

The first two, being hereditary, are independent of the people; thus, in a constitutional sense, they contribute nothing to the freedom of the state.

To call the English constitution a union of three powers that check one another is a farce: either the words have no meaning or they contradict one another outright.

To say that the commons check the king presupposes two things:

First.—That the king cannot be trusted without supervision; in other words, that a thirst for absolute power is monarchy's natural disease.

Secondly.—That the commons, appointed to supervise him, are either wiser or more worthy of trust than the crown.

Yet the very constitution that gives the commons power to check the king by withholding funds also gives the king power to check the commons by rejecting their other bills. It thus supposes, in turn, that the king is wiser than those it has already supposed wiser than he is. Sheer absurdity!

There is something exceedingly ridiculous in the makeup of monarchy. It first cuts a man off from the means of learning about the world, then empowers him to act where the soundest judgment is needed. A king's station shuts him away from the world, while a king's duties require him to know it thoroughly. These parts unnaturally oppose and defeat each other, proving the entire role absurd and useless.

Some writers have explained the English constitution this way: the king, they say, stands on one side and the people on the other; the peers form a house for the king, the commons a house for the people. But this has all the divisions of a house set against itself. However pleasingly the terms are arranged, on examination they prove empty and ambiguous. Even the most precise wording, applied to something that cannot exist or is too incomprehensible to describe, will amount to sound alone: it may entertain the ear but cannot inform the mind. For this explanation leaves a prior question unanswered: how did the king acquire a power that the people are afraid to trust and always obliged to check? Such a power could not be the gift of a wise people, nor could any power that requires checking come from God. Yet the constitution's provisions assume that this power exists.

But those provisions are unequal to the task: the means either cannot or will not achieve the end, and the whole arrangement defeats itself. The greater weight will always lift the lesser, and one driving force sets all the wheels of a machine in motion. We need only determine which power in the constitution carries the greatest weight, for that power will govern. Though the others, or some of them, may impede—or, as people say, check—the speed of its movement, their efforts are futile so long as they cannot stop it. The driving power will have its way at last; time will make up for any loss of speed.

It hardly needs saying that the crown is this overpowering part of the English constitution. It is equally clear that its whole influence comes simply from its power to hand out offices and pensions. Thus, though we were wise enough to shut and lock the door against absolute monarchy, we were foolish enough to give the crown the key.

English prejudice in favor of government by king, lords, and commons springs at least as much from national pride as from reason. Individuals are undoubtedly safer in England than in some other countries. But the king's will is as much the law of the land in Britain as in France, with this difference: instead of coming directly from his mouth, it reaches the people in the more formidable form of an act of Parliament. The fate of Charles the first has only made kings more subtle—not more just.

Set aside national pride and prejudice in favor of particular forms, and the plain truth is this: the crown is less oppressive in England than in Turkey entirely because of the character of the people, not the structure of the government.

An inquiry into the constitutional flaws of English government is urgently needed now. We cannot judge others fairly while we remain under the sway of a powerful bias; nor can we judge ourselves fairly while bound by a stubborn prejudice. As a man attached to a prostitute is unfit to choose or judge a wife, so a prior attachment to a rotten form of government will leave us unable to recognize a good one.

Human beings were originally equals in the order of creation; that equality could only have been undone by some later circumstance. The distinctions between rich and poor can largely be explained without resorting to the harsh, discordant words oppression and greed. Oppression is often a consequence of wealth, but seldom, if ever, the means of acquiring it; and although greed may keep a person from desperate poverty, it generally makes him too timid to become wealthy.

But there is another, greater distinction for which no genuinely natural or religious reason can be given: the division of people into kings and subjects. Male and female are nature's distinctions; good and bad are heaven's. How one line of people came to be raised so high above the rest, set apart as though they were a new species, deserves investigation—as does the question whether they bring humanity happiness or misery.

In the world's early ages, according to the chronology of scripture, there were no kings; consequently there were no wars. It is the pride of kings that throws humanity into turmoil. Holland, without a king, has enjoyed more peace over this last century than any of Europe's monarchies. Antiquity bears out the same observation: there is something happily peaceful about the quiet, rural lives of the first patriarchs, and it vanishes when we reach the history of Jewish royalty.

Kingship was first introduced into the world by the pagans, from whom the children of Israel copied the custom. It was the most successful invention the Devil ever devised to promote idolatry. The pagans paid divine honors to their dead kings, and the Christian world has improved upon the plan by paying the same honors to living ones. How impious to call a worm “sacred majesty” when, even amid his splendor, he is crumbling into dust!

Exalting one man so far above the rest cannot be justified by the equal rights of nature, nor can it be defended by scripture. The will of the Almighty, as declared by Gideon and the prophet Samuel, expressly condemns government by kings. In monarchies, every passage of scripture opposed to monarchy has been smoothly explained away; but such passages certainly deserve the attention of countries still shaping their governments. “Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s” is the scriptural teaching favored by courts, yet it offers no support for monarchy: at that time the Jews had no king and lived as vassals of Rome.

Nearly three thousand years passed from the Mosaic account of creation before the Jews, under a national delusion, asked for a king. Until then their government—except on extraordinary occasions when the Almighty intervened—was a kind of republic administered by a judge and the elders of the tribes. They had no kings, and it was considered sinful to acknowledge anyone but the Lord of Hosts by that title. Anyone who seriously reflects on the idolatrous homage paid to the persons of kings need not wonder that the Almighty, ever jealous of his honor, should disapprove of a form of government that so impiously usurps heaven's prerogative.

Scripture ranks monarchy among the sins of the Jews and pronounces a curse held in reserve for them because of it. The story of that event deserves attention.

When the children of Israel were oppressed by the Midianites, Gideon marched against them with a small army, and divine intervention gave him victory. Elated by success and attributing it to Gideon's leadership, the Jews proposed to make him king, saying, “Rule over us, you and your son and your son's son.” Here was temptation in its fullest form: not just a kingdom, but a hereditary one. Yet Gideon answered in the piety of his soul, “I will not rule over you, nor shall my son rule over you. The Lord shall rule over you.” Words could hardly be more explicit. Gideon does not decline the honor but denies their right to bestow it. Nor does he flatter them with manufactured thanks: in the firm voice of a prophet he charges them with disloyalty to their rightful sovereign, the King of heaven.

About one hundred and thirty years later, they fell into the same error again. The Jews' longing for the idolatrous customs of the pagans is exceedingly hard to account for. Yet, seizing on the misconduct of Samuel's two sons, to whom some worldly affairs had been entrusted, they came abruptly and noisily to Samuel and said, “You are old, and your sons do not follow your ways. Now appoint us a king to judge us like all the other nations.” We cannot fail to see how bad their motive was: they wanted to be like the other nations—that is, the pagans—when their true glory lay in being as unlike them as possible. But Samuel was displeased when they said, “Give us a king to judge us”; and Samuel prayed to the Lord, and the Lord said to Samuel, “Listen to everything the people say to you, for they have not rejected you, but they have rejected me, SO THAT I SHOULD NOT REIGN OVER THEM. As they have done ever since the day I brought them out of Egypt, forsaking me and serving other gods, so they are doing to you. Now listen to them; but solemnly warn them and show them the ways of the king who will reign over them.” This meant not the ways of any particular king but those of kings in general, whom Israel was so eager to imitate. Despite the great passage of time and the change in customs, that portrait remains true to this day. Samuel told the people who had asked him for a king everything the Lord had said. And he said, “These will be the ways of the king who will reign over you: he will take your sons and assign them to his chariots and as his horsemen, and some will run before his chariots” (this description accords with the present practice of pressing men into service), “and he will appoint commanders over thousands and commanders over fifties, and set men to plow his land and reap his harvest, and to make his weapons of war and equipment for his chariots; and he will take your daughters to make confections, and to cook and bake” (this describes the expense and luxury of kings as well as their oppression), “and he will take your fields and your olive groves, even the best of them, and give them to his servants; and he will take a tenth of your seed and of your vineyards and give it to his officers and his servants” (from which we see that bribery, corruption, and favoritism are the abiding vices of kings), “and he will take a tenth of your male servants and female servants, your finest young men and your donkeys, and put them to his work; and he will take a tenth of your sheep, and you will be his servants. On that day you will cry out because of the king you have chosen, and the Lord will not hear you on that day.” This explains why monarchy continues; nor do the few good kings who have lived since make the title sacred or erase the sin of its origin. The high praise given to David refers not to his office as king but only to him as a man after God's own heart. Nevertheless, the people refused to heed Samuel's voice and said, “No, we will have a king over us, so that we may be like all the nations, and our king may judge us, go out before us, and fight our battles.” Samuel went on reasoning with them, but in vain. He laid their ingratitude before them, but nothing prevailed. Seeing them fully committed to their folly, he cried out, “I will call upon the Lord, and he will send thunder and rain” (a punishment at that time, because it was the wheat harvest), “so that you may perceive and see how great a wickedness you have committed in the Lord's sight by asking for a king.” Samuel called upon the Lord, and the Lord sent thunder and rain that day, and all the people greatly feared the Lord and Samuel. And all the people said to Samuel, “Pray to the Lord your God for your servants, so that we do not die; for we have added this evil to our sins by asking for a king.” These passages of scripture are direct and definite. They admit of no ambiguous interpretation. Either the Almighty has here protested against monarchical government or scripture is false. There is good reason to believe that keeping scripture from the public in Catholic countries serves kings as much as it serves priests. For monarchy in every form is the papacy of government.

To the evil of monarchy we have added the evil of hereditary succession. The first degrades and diminishes us; the second, claimed as a right, insults and imposes upon posterity. Since all human beings were originally equals, no one could acquire by birth the right to place his family forever above all others. Though he himself might deserve a fitting measure of honor from his contemporaries, his descendants might be far too unworthy to inherit it. One of nature's strongest proofs of the folly of hereditary kingship is her own disapproval of it: otherwise she would not so often make a mockery of it by giving humanity an ass in place of a lion.

Second, since no man at first could possess any public honors except those conferred upon him, those who conferred them could have had no power to give away the rights of posterity. Though they might say, “We choose you as our head,” they could not, without a manifest injustice to their children, say, “Your children and your children’s children shall rule over ours forever.” Such an unwise, unjust, unnatural bargain might, at the next succession, place them under the rule of a scoundrel or a fool. Most wise people have always privately regarded hereditary right with contempt; yet it is one of those evils that, once established, cannot easily be removed. Many submit out of fear, others out of superstition, while the more powerful share with the king the spoils taken from everyone else.

This assumes that the present line of kings throughout the world had honorable beginnings. Yet it is more than likely that, if we could strip away the dark veil of antiquity and trace them to their origins, we would find that the first king was no better than the chief ruffian of some unruly gang. His savage ways or superior cunning won him the title of leader among plunderers; as his power and raids expanded, he intimidated peaceful and defenseless people into buying their safety with regular payments. Yet those who chose him could not have intended to grant hereditary rights to his descendants, since permanently excluding themselves from power would have contradicted the free and unrestrained principles by which they professed to live. Hereditary succession, then, could not have arisen in the early days of monarchy as an entitlement, but only as a matter of chance or courtesy. Since few records, if any, survived from those days, and oral history was crowded with fables, it was easy, after a few generations, to invent some conveniently timed, superstitious tale, in the manner of Mahomet, and force hereditary right down the throats of ordinary people. Perhaps the disorder that threatened, or seemed to threaten, at the death of a leader and the choosing of another—for elections among ruffians could hardly have been orderly—first led many to favor hereditary claims. Thus, as has happened since, what people first accepted for convenience was afterward demanded as a right.

England, since the conquest, has known a few good monarchs but has groaned under far more bad ones. Yet no sensible person can call their claim through William the Conqueror an honorable one. A French bastard landing with an armed band of brigands and making himself king of England against its people’s will is, plainly put, a contemptible, criminal beginning. There is certainly nothing divine about it. But there is no need to spend much time exposing the folly of hereditary right. If some are weak enough to believe in it, let them worship the ass and the lion alike; they are welcome to it. I will neither imitate their submissiveness nor disturb their devotions.

Yet I would like to ask how they imagine kings first arose. There are only three possible answers: by lot, by election, or by usurpation. If the first king was chosen by lot, that sets a precedent for the next choice, and rules out hereditary succession. Saul was chosen by lot, yet his succession was not hereditary; nor does anything in that event suggest that it was ever meant to be. If a country’s first king was elected, that likewise sets a precedent for the next. To say that the first electors, by choosing not only a king but a family of kings forever, could strip all future generations of their rights has no parallel in or out of scripture except the doctrine of original sin, which holds that everyone lost free will in Adam. Hereditary succession can gain no glory from that comparison, and no other comparison will do. For just as all sinned in Adam, all obeyed in the first electors; just as all humanity was subjected to Satan in one case, it was subjected to sovereign power in the other; just as innocence was lost in the first, authority was lost in the second. And since both prevent us from recovering an earlier condition and privilege, original sin and hereditary succession are inescapably parallel. What a dishonorable rank! What an inglorious connection! Yet even the most cunning sophist cannot find a fairer likeness.

As for usurpation, no one will dare defend it; and no one can deny that William the Conqueror was a usurper. The plain truth is that the origins of English monarchy cannot bear examination.

But what matters to humanity is not so much the absurdity of hereditary succession as the harm it does. If it guaranteed a line of good and wise people, it would bear the seal of divine authority. But since it opens the door to fools, villains, and the unfit, it has the character of oppression. People who consider themselves born to rule, and others born to obey, soon grow arrogant. Set apart from the rest of humanity, they are poisoned early by a sense of their own importance; and the world in which they live differs so greatly from the world at large that they have little chance to understand its real interests. When they inherit power, they are often the most ignorant and least fit of anyone in their dominions.

Another evil of hereditary succession is that the throne can fall to a child of any age. Throughout such a reign, a regency acting behind the cover of a king has every opportunity and incentive to betray its trust. The nation suffers the same misfortune when a king, worn down by age and infirmity, enters the last stage of human weakness. In either case the public falls prey to any scoundrel who can exploit the frailties of childhood or old age.

The most plausible argument ever offered for hereditary succession is that it saves a nation from civil war. If that were true, it would carry weight; instead, it is the most brazen falsehood ever imposed on humanity. All of English history refutes it. Thirty kings and two minors have reigned in that troubled kingdom since the conquest; during that time, including the Revolution, it has endured no fewer than eight civil wars and nineteen rebellions. Far from making for peace, hereditary succession works against it and destroys the very ground on which it claims to stand.

The struggle for monarchy and succession between the houses of York and Lancaster plunged England into bloodshed for many years. Henry and Edward fought twelve pitched battles, besides skirmishes and sieges. Twice Henry was Edward’s prisoner, and Edward in turn was Henry’s prisoner. So uncertain are the fortunes of war and the temper of a nation when a quarrel turns on personal claims alone that Henry was carried in triumph from prison to palace, while Edward was forced to flee from a palace to a foreign land. Yet sudden changes of feeling seldom last: Henry was driven from the throne in his turn, and Edward was recalled to take his place. Parliament always followed the stronger side.

The struggle began in the reign of Henry the Sixth and was not fully ended until Henry the Seventh, in whom the two families were united. It spanned 67 years, from 1422 to 1489.

In short, monarchy and succession have laid not merely this kingdom or that, but the world, in blood and ashes. The word of God bears witness against this form of government, and bloodshed will follow it.

If we ask what a king’s business is, we shall find that in some countries kings have none. They idle away their lives, giving neither themselves pleasure nor their nations any benefit; then they leave the stage and their successors follow the same empty course. In absolute monarchies, the whole burden of civil and military affairs falls on the king. When the children of Israel asked for a king, they gave this reason: “that he may judge us, and go out before us and fight our battles.” But in countries such as England, where he is neither judge nor general, one is hard pressed to say what his business is.

The closer any government comes to a republic, the less work there is for a king. It is somewhat difficult to find a fitting name for England’s government. Sir William Meredith calls it a republic; but in its present condition it does not deserve the name. Through its corrupting power to appoint people to every office, the crown has so thoroughly swallowed up the power and consumed the virtue of the House of Commons—the republican part of the constitution—that England’s government is nearly as monarchical as those of France or Spain. People quarrel over names they do not understand. What English people take pride in is the republican, not the monarchical, part of their constitution: their freedom to choose a House of Commons from among themselves. And it is plain that when republican virtue fails, servitude follows. Why is England’s constitution so sickly, if not because monarchy has poisoned the republic and the crown has swallowed up the Commons?

In England a king has little to do beyond making war and giving away offices—which, plainly put, means impoverishing the nation and setting its people against one another. A fine occupation indeed for a man to receive eight hundred thousand sterling a year for, and to be worshipped into the bargain! One honest person is worth more to society and in the sight of God than every crowned ruffian who ever lived.

In the pages that follow, I offer nothing but simple facts, plain arguments, and common sense. I ask only this of the reader beforehand: that he set aside prejudice and preconception, and allow his reason and feelings to judge for themselves; that he assume—or rather, not cast off—the true character of a human being, and generously extend his view beyond the present day.

Volumes have been written about the struggle between England and America. People of every rank have entered the dispute, moved by different motives and pursuing different ends; but all their efforts have failed, and the time for debate is over. Arms, the last resort, now decide the contest. The king chose this appeal, and the continent has accepted his challenge.

It has been said of the late Mr. Pelham—an able minister, though not without faults—that when he was attacked in the House of Commons because his measures were only temporary, he replied, “They will last my time.” If a thought so ruinous and unworthy should take hold of the colonies in the present struggle, future generations will remember their ancestors with disgust.

The sun has never shone on a worthier cause. This is no affair of a city, a country, a province, or a kingdom, but of a continent—at least one eighth of the habitable globe. It concerns not a day, a year, or an age; posterity is already involved in the struggle, and what we do now will affect generations, more or less, even to the end of time. Now is the seedtime of continental union, trust, and honor. The slightest break now will resemble a name etched with a pin into the tender bark of a young oak: the wound will grow with the tree, and posterity will read the name in letters grown large.

In carrying the matter from argument to arms, we have entered a new political era; a new way of thinking has arisen. Every plan and proposal made before the nineteenth of April—that is, before hostilities began—is like last year’s almanac: useful then, but obsolete and useless now. Whatever either side argued at that time came down to the same goal: union with Great Britain. The parties differed only over how to achieve it, one proposing force and the other friendship. But so far, force has failed, and friendship has withdrawn its influence.

Much has been said of the benefits of reconciliation; that pleasing dream has passed, leaving us where we stood. It is only right, then, to examine the other side of the question and consider some of the many grave injuries these colonies suffer, and will always suffer, through their connection with and dependence on Great Britain. We should test that connection and dependence against nature and common sense, and see what we may rely on if we separate and what we must expect if we remain dependent.

Some say that because America has prospered under her former connection with Great Britain, that connection is necessary to her future happiness and will always have the same effect. No argument could be more deceptive. We might as well claim that because a child has thrived on milk, it must never eat meat, or that the first twenty years of our lives must set the pattern for the next twenty. Even that grants too much. I say plainly that America would have prospered as much, and probably much more, if no European power had had anything to do with her. The goods from whose trade she has grown rich are necessities of life, and will always find a market as long as people in Europe continue to eat.

But Britain has protected us, some say. It is true that she has claimed us for herself, and I grant that she has defended the continent at our expense as well as her own. Yet she would have defended Turkey for the very same reason: trade and dominion.

Alas, old prejudices have long led us astray, and we have made great sacrifices to superstition. We have boasted of Great Britain’s protection without considering that she was moved by self-interest, not affection. She protected us against her enemies for her own sake, not against ours for our sake: those enemies had no other quarrel with us, and will remain our enemies only so long as that connection lasts. Let Britain give up her claims to the continent, or let the continent throw off its dependence, and we would be at peace with France and Spain even if they were at war with Britain. Hanover’s sufferings in the last war should warn us against such ties.

It has lately been claimed in Parliament that the colonies have no relation to one another except through the mother country—that Pennsylvania and the Jerseys, and all the rest, are sister colonies by way of England. This is certainly a roundabout way to establish kinship, but it is the closest, and indeed the only true, way to establish enmity, if I may use the word. France and Spain have never been, and perhaps never will be, our enemies because we are Americans, but only because we are subjects of Great Britain.

But Britain is our mother country, some say. Then her conduct is all the more shameful. Even beasts do not devour their young, nor do savages wage war against their own families. If the claim were true, it would only disgrace her. In fact it is untrue, or true only in part; the king and his hangers-on have cunningly adopted the phrase “parent” or “mother country,” with a base, manipulative design to exploit our credulity and sway our minds unfairly. Europe, not England, is America’s mother country. This new world has offered refuge to lovers of civil and religious liberty persecuted in every part of Europe. They fled here not from the tender embrace of a mother but from the cruelty of a monster; and England’s part in the story is this: the same tyranny that drove the first emigrants from home still pursues their descendants.

In this vast part of the globe, we forget England’s narrow span of three hundred and sixty miles and extend our friendship on a larger scale. We claim kinship with every European Christian, and rejoice in the generosity of that feeling.

It is a pleasure to observe the steps by which we overcome the force of local prejudice as our acquaintance with the world grows. A man born in an English town divided into parishes will naturally associate most with the people of his own parish, since their interests will often coincide, and call one of them his neighbor. If he meets that person a few miles from home, he drops the narrower idea of a street and greets him as a townsman. If he travels beyond the county and meets him in another, he forgets the lesser divisions of street and town and calls him a countryman—that is, a man of the same county. If they meet abroad, in France or elsewhere in Europe, their local identity widens to that of Englishmen. By the same sound reasoning, all Europeans meeting in America, or in any other part of the globe, are countrymen. On the larger scale, England, Holland, Germany, and Sweden occupy the same positions as street, town, and county on the smaller; their distinctions are too narrow for continental minds. Not even one third of the inhabitants of this province are of English descent. I therefore reject the phrase “parent” or “mother country” when applied to England alone: it is false, selfish, narrow, and ungenerous.

But suppose we were all of English descent. What would that prove? Nothing. Britain is now an open enemy, and that fact overrides every other name and claim. To say that we have a duty to reconcile with her is absurd. The first king of England’s present line, William the Conqueror, was a Frenchman, and half the peers of England descend from that same country. By the same reasoning, then, England ought to be ruled by France.

Much has been said of the combined strength of Britain and the colonies, and how together they could defy the world. This is mere presumption. The fortunes of war are uncertain, and such talk is meaningless: this continent would never consent to have its people drained away to support British arms in Asia, Africa, or Europe.

Besides, why should we defy the world at all? Our aim is commerce, and if we attend to it well, it will secure us the peace and friendship of all Europe, for every European nation has an interest in America’s being a free port. Her trade will always protect her, while her lack of gold and silver will keep invaders away.

I challenge the most ardent advocate of reconciliation to show a single benefit this continent gains from its connection with Great Britain. I repeat: not a single benefit comes of it. Our grain will command its price in any European market, and wherever we buy our imported goods, we must pay for them.

But the injuries and disadvantages we suffer from that connection are countless. Our duty to all humanity, as well as to ourselves, tells us to renounce the alliance. Any submission to or dependence on Great Britain tends directly to draw this continent into Europe’s wars and quarrels, and sets us against nations that would otherwise seek our friendship, and against which we have neither grievance nor cause for anger. Since Europe is our market, we should form no exclusive connection with any one part of it. America’s true interest is to remain clear of European conflicts; she can never do so while dependence on Britain makes her a counterweight in the balance of British politics.

Europe is too crowded with kingdoms to remain at peace for long. Whenever England goes to war with another power, America’s trade is ruined because of its connection with Britain. The next war may not end like the last; if it does not, those who now advocate reconciliation will then long for separation, since neutrality would offer a safer escort than a warship. Everything right and natural argues for separation. The blood of the slain and the weeping voice of nature cry, “It is time to part.” Even the distance at which the Almighty placed England and America is strong, natural evidence that heaven never intended one to rule the other. The time when the continent was discovered adds weight to this argument, and the manner of its settlement strengthens it further. The discovery of America came before the Reformation, as if the Almighty had graciously intended to open a sanctuary for those who would be persecuted in years to come, when their homes could offer neither friendship nor safety.

Great Britain’s authority over this continent is a form of government that must end sooner or later. No thoughtful person can look ahead with genuine pleasure while painfully certain that what he calls “the present constitution” is merely temporary. As parents, we cannot take comfort in knowing that this government will not last long enough to secure anything we might leave to our descendants. And the argument is simple: since we are putting the next generation in debt, we ought to do its work ourselves; otherwise we treat that generation shamefully and meanly. To discern our duty clearly, we should take our children by the hand and imagine ourselves a few years further on in life. From that height we will see a prospect now hidden by our passing fears and prejudices.

Though I would carefully avoid giving needless offense, I am inclined to believe that everyone who embraces reconciliation falls into one of these groups: self-interested men who cannot be trusted; weak men who cannot see; prejudiced men who refuse to see; and certain moderate men who think more highly of Europe than it deserves. Through ill-judged hesitation, this last group will bring more calamity upon this continent than the other three combined.

Many have the good fortune to live far from the scene of suffering; the evil has not come close enough to make them feel how precariously every American holds his property. But let us imagine ourselves for a moment in Boston. That seat of misery will teach us wisdom, and teach us to renounce forever a power we cannot trust. The inhabitants of that unhappy city, prosperous and at ease only a few months ago, now face a choice between staying to starve and going out to beg. If they remain in the city, they risk the fire of their friends; if they leave, the soldiers will plunder them. They are prisoners with no hope of release, and a general assault to rescue them would expose them to the fury of both armies.

Men of placid temperament tend to make light of Britain's offenses and, still hoping for the best, cry, “Come, come, we shall be friends again, despite it all.” But examine human passions and feelings. Test the doctrine of reconciliation against human nature, and then tell me whether you can ever again love, honor, and faithfully serve the power that has brought fire and sword into your land. If you cannot do all three, you are only deceiving yourselves, and your delay will bring ruin upon your descendants. Your future bond with Britain, whom you can neither love nor honor, will be forced and unnatural; founded merely on present convenience, it will soon collapse into a conflict more wretched than the first. But if you say you can still overlook these outrages, I ask: Has your house been burned? Has your property been destroyed before your eyes? Are your wife and children without a bed to sleep in or bread to eat? Have you lost a parent or a child at their hands, and survived ruined and miserable yourself? If not, you cannot judge those who have. But if you have suffered these things and can still shake hands with the murderers, you are unworthy of the name of husband, father, friend, or lover. Whatever your station or title, yours is the heart of a coward and the spirit of a sycophant.

This is not to inflame or exaggerate events, but to measure them by the feelings and affections that nature sanctions, without which we could neither fulfill our duties to one another nor enjoy the happiness of society. I do not present these horrors to incite revenge, but to wake us from a fatal and unmanly sleep, so that we may pursue a definite aim with resolve. Britain and Europe cannot conquer America unless she conquers herself through delay and timidity. This winter is worth an age if put to good use. But if it is wasted or neglected, the whole continent will share in the disaster; and whoever, whatever his position or location, causes so precious and useful a season to be sacrificed will deserve every punishment.

Reason, the universal order of things, and every example from earlier ages all forbid the notion that this continent can remain subject to an outside power much longer. Even the most optimistic man in Britain does not believe it. Human wisdom at its utmost cannot now devise a plan short of separation that would promise this continent even a year's security. Reconciliation is a deceptive dream. Nature has abandoned the bond, and artifice cannot take her place. As Milton wisely puts it, “never can true reconcilement grow where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep.”

Every peaceful means of securing peace has failed. Our petitions have been rejected with contempt, serving only to teach us that nothing flatters a king's vanity or strengthens his obstinacy more than repeated petitions—and nothing has done more than that practice to make Europe's kings absolute. Witness Denmark and Sweden. Since nothing but blows will serve, then, for God's sake, let us separate once and for all. Let us not leave the next generation cutting one another's throats under the hollow, violated names of parent and child.

To say that Britain will never try again is idle fantasy. We thought so when the Stamp Act was repealed, but a year or two disabused us. We might just as well suppose that a nation once defeated will never renew the fight.

As for government, Britain cannot do justice to this continent. Its affairs will soon be too weighty and complex for a power so distant from us and so ignorant of us to manage with tolerable competence; if they cannot conquer us, they cannot govern us. In a few years we will see how foolish and childish it is to travel three or four thousand miles with an account or a petition, wait four or five months for an answer, and then need five or six more months to explain that answer. There was a time when this was fitting; there is also a time when it must end.

Small islands unable to protect themselves are fitting charges for kingdoms. But the notion that an island should govern a continent forever is absurd. Nature has never made a satellite larger than the planet it circles. Since England and America reverse the ordinary order of nature in their relation to one another, plainly they belong to different systems: England to Europe, America to itself.

I do not embrace separation and independence from pride, partisanship, or resentment. I am plainly, firmly, and conscientiously convinced that it is this continent's true interest; that anything less is mere patchwork and cannot bring lasting happiness; that it would leave the sword to our children and have us shrink back when a little more effort, a little farther advance, would have made this continent the glory of the earth.

Britain has shown not the slightest willingness to compromise. We may therefore be certain that no terms worth this continent's acceptance can be obtained, nor any that would match the blood and treasure we have already spent.

What we fight for should always bear a just proportion to what it costs us. Removing North, or even his whole detestable clique, is not worth the millions we have spent. If all the offending acts had been repealed, a temporary interruption of trade would have been an adequate price for it. But if the entire continent must take up arms, if every man must be a soldier, it is hardly worth fighting merely against a contemptible ministry. Dearly, dearly we pay for repeal if that is all we fight for: properly considered, it is as foolish to pay a Bunker-hill price for a law as for land. I have always regarded this continent's independence as inevitable sooner or later, and its swift recent progress toward maturity showed that the moment could not be far away. Once fighting began, then, it was not worth disputing an issue that time would eventually settle unless we meant to settle it in earnest. Otherwise we are like someone spending an estate on a lawsuit to restrain a tenant whose lease is about to expire. No one wished more warmly for reconciliation than I did before the fatal nineteenth of April 1775. But the instant I learned what happened that day, I rejected forever England's hard-hearted, sullen Pharaoh. I despise the wretch who, while styling himself the father of his people, can hear of their slaughter without feeling and sleep soundly with their blood upon his soul.

But suppose an agreement were reached now. What would follow? The ruin of the continent. There are several reasons.

First. If the king still holds the powers of government, he will have a veto over all legislation on this continent. He has shown himself a relentless enemy of liberty, with a thirst for arbitrary power. Is such a man fit to tell these colonies, “You shall make no laws but those I please”? Is anyone in America so ignorant that he does not know that, under the so-called present constitution, this continent can make no laws without the king's permission? And is anyone so foolish as to imagine, after what has happened, that he will permit a law here unless it serves his purposes? The absence of laws in America can enslave us as surely as submission to laws made for us in England. Once an agreement is reached, as they call it, can anyone doubt that the crown will use all its power to keep this continent as weak and submissive as possible? Instead of advancing, we will retreat, or go on quarreling endlessly and petitioning absurdly. We are already greater than the king wishes us to be; will he not try to make us smaller? The question comes down to this: is a power jealous of our prosperity fit to govern us? Anyone who answers no is an advocate of independence. Independence means nothing more than deciding whether we make our own laws or the king, the greatest enemy this continent has or can have, tells us, “There shall be no laws but those I like.”

But, you will say, the king also has a veto in England; its people cannot make laws without his consent. As a matter of right and good government, it is absurd for a young man of twenty-one, as has often happened, to tell several million people older and wiser than he is, “I forbid you to make this or that act a law.” But I will set that argument aside here, though I will never stop exposing its absurdity. I answer only that England is the king's home and America is not, and that makes an entirely different case. His veto here is ten times more dangerous and deadly than in England. There he would scarcely refuse a bill to put England in the strongest possible state of defense; in America he would never allow such a bill to pass.

America occupies only a secondary place in British politics. England considers this country's welfare only insofar as it serves her own ends. Her interests therefore lead her to suppress our growth whenever it fails to benefit her or even slightly conflicts with her advantage. What a fine condition we would soon find ourselves in under such a government at second hand, after all that has happened! A change of name does not turn enemies into friends. To show how dangerous reconciliation has become, I say it would be shrewd policy for the king to repeal the acts now in order to restore his rule over the provinces, so that over time he might accomplish by cunning and subtlety what he cannot accomplish quickly by force and violence. Reconciliation and ruin are close kin.

Second. Even the best terms we could hope to obtain would amount to no more than a temporary expedient: a kind of guardianship that could last only until the colonies come of age. Meanwhile, the whole state of affairs would remain unsettled and unpromising. People with property to bring would not choose to settle in a country whose government hangs by a thread and teeters each day on the verge of disorder and upheaval. And many who live here now would seize the interval to dispose of their possessions and leave the continent.

But the strongest argument of all is that nothing but independence—that is, a continental government—can preserve peace on this continent and keep it free of civil war. I dread what would follow reconciliation with Britain now, for a revolt would very probably break out somewhere, with consequences perhaps far more deadly than anything Britain's malice could bring upon us.

Thousands have already been ruined by British brutality, and thousands more will probably meet the same fate. Those men feel differently from those of us who have suffered nothing. Liberty is all they have left: everything they once enjoyed has been sacrificed in its service, and, with nothing more to lose, they scorn submission. Besides, the colonies' general attitude toward British government will resemble that of a young apprentice almost free of his term of service: they will care very little for it. A government unable to preserve the peace is no government at all; we would be paying our money for nothing. And if civil unrest broke out the very day after reconciliation, what could Britain do, with authority that existed only on paper? I have heard men say, many of them without thinking, that they dread independence for fear it will bring civil war. First thoughts are seldom altogether sound, and this one is not. A patched-up bond gives us ten times more reason to fear civil war than independence does. I put myself in the place of those who have suffered, and I declare that if I had been driven from my home, my property destroyed, and my livelihood ruined, I could never, as a man conscious of the wrongs done to him, welcome reconciliation or consider myself bound by it.

On America's Present Capacity, with Some Miscellaneous Reflections.

The colonies have shown such a spirit of good order and obedience to continental government that any reasonable person can feel confident and content on that score. No one can give even a plausible reason for fearing otherwise, except one that is childish and absurd: the notion that one colony will seek supremacy over another.

Where there are no distinctions, there can be no supremacy; complete equality offers no temptation. The republics of Europe are all at peace, and, we might say, always have been. Holland and Switzerland are free of wars, foreign and domestic. Monarchies, it is true, seldom remain at peace for long. The crown itself tempts ambitious ruffians at home; the pride and arrogance that always attend royal power provoke conflict with foreign states where a republic, founded on more natural principles, would resolve the misunderstanding through negotiation.

If there is any genuine reason to fear independence, it is that no plan for it has yet been set out. People cannot see the way forward. So, to open the discussion, I offer these suggestions, while modestly affirming that I value them only insofar as they may help bring forth something better. If the scattered thoughts of individuals could be gathered together, they would often provide material for wise and capable people to shape into something useful.

Let the assemblies meet annually and have only a president. Let representation be more equal. Let their business be entirely domestic and subject to the authority of a Continental Congress.

Let each colony be divided into six, eight, or ten convenient districts, each sending a suitable number of delegates to Congress, so that every colony sends at least thirty. Congress as a whole would have at least 390 members. Let every new Congress convene and choose a president as follows. Once the delegates have assembled, select one of the thirteen colonies by lot. Then let the full Congress choose, by ballot, a president from among that colony's delegates. At the next Congress, draw a lot from only twelve colonies, leaving out the one that furnished the previous president; continue until all thirteen have taken their proper turn. And to ensure that no measure becomes law unless it is satisfactorily just, let no fewer than three fifths of Congress constitute a majority. Anyone who stirs up discord under a government so equally constituted would have joined Lucifer in his rebellion.

But there is a particular difficulty in deciding from whom, and in what manner, this project should first arise. It seems most fitting and consistent that it should come from a body standing between those who govern and those who are governed—that is, between Congress and the people. Let us therefore hold a Continental Conference, organized as follows and for the following purpose.

Let there be a committee of twenty-six members of Congress, two from each colony; two members from each House of Assembly or Provincial Convention; and five representatives of the people at large from each province. These five should be chosen in the province's capital city or town, on behalf of the whole province, by as many eligible voters from all parts of the province as wish to attend for that purpose. If more convenient, the representatives may instead be chosen in two or three of its most populous districts. In a conference assembled this way, the two great necessities for action—knowledge and power—will be joined. Members of Congress, Assemblies, or Conventions will offer valuable counsel drawn from their experience in national affairs; and because the people authorize the whole body, it will have genuinely lawful authority.

Once the members of the conference have assembled, let them draw up a Continental Charter, or Charter of the United Colonies, corresponding to what England calls the Magna Charta. Let it fix the number of members of Congress and of the Assemblies, the methods of choosing them, and the dates when they sit; let it define the division of business and jurisdiction between them, always remembering that our strength is continental, not provincial. Let it secure liberty and property for all, and above all the free exercise of religion according to conscience, together with whatever else a charter must contain. Then let the Conference dissolve at once, and let the bodies elected in accordance with the charter be the legislators and governors of this continent for the time being. May God preserve its peace and happiness. Amen.

If any body of men is later appointed for this or a similar purpose, I offer them these words from Dragonetti, that wise observer of governments. “The politician's science,” he says, “consists in determining the true point of happiness and freedom. Those who discovered a form of government offering the greatest sum of individual happiness at the least expense to the nation would deserve the gratitude of generations.”

Dragonetti on Virtue and Rewards.

But where, some will ask, is the king of America? I will tell you, friend: he reigns above and does not ravage humanity like Britain's royal brute. Yet so that we may not appear deficient even in earthly honors, let us set aside a solemn day to proclaim the charter. Let it be brought forth and laid upon the divine law, the word of God; and let a crown be placed upon it, so the world may know that insofar as we approve of monarchy, in America the law is king. For just as the king is law under absolute governments, so under free governments the law must be king, and there must be no other. But to prevent any later abuse, let the crown be destroyed at the close of the ceremony and its pieces scattered among the people, to whom it rightfully belongs.

A government of our own is our natural right. Anyone who seriously considers how uncertain human affairs are will see that it is immeasurably wiser and safer to frame our own constitution calmly and deliberately, while we can, than to entrust so momentous a matter to time and chance. If we let this moment pass, another Massanello may arise: seizing upon popular unrest, he could gather the desperate and discontented and, by claiming the powers of government for himself and his followers, sweep away the continent's liberties like a flood. If government in America passes back into Britain's hands, the instability of affairs will tempt some desperate adventurer to try his luck. What help could Britain offer then? Before she could even receive the news, the disaster might be complete, and we might suffer like the wretched Britons under the oppression of the Conqueror. You who oppose independence now do not know what you are doing. By leaving the seat of government vacant, you are opening the door to endless tyranny. There are thousands, and tens of thousands, who would consider it glorious to expel from this continent that barbarous and hellish power which has incited Indians and Negroes to destroy us. Its cruelty bears a double guilt: it treats us brutally and them treacherously.

Thomas Anello, also called Massanello, was a fisherman of Naples. After rousing his countrymen in the public marketplace against the oppression of the Spaniards, who then ruled the place, he urged them to revolt and became king in the space of a day.

To speak of friendship with those whom reason forbids us to trust, and whom affections wounded in a thousand places teach us to detest, is madness and folly. Each day wears away what little kinship remains between us and them. Can there be any reason to hope that affection will increase as the relationship disappears, or that we shall agree more readily when we have ten times as many disputes, and graver ones than ever before?

You who promise harmony and reconciliation, can you restore the past to us? Can you restore innocence to prostitution? No more can you reconcile Britain and America. The last cord has broken; the people of England are sending addresses against us. Some injuries nature cannot forgive; if she did, she would cease to be nature. The continent could as readily forgive Britain's murders as a lover could forgive the man who raped his beloved. The Almighty planted these indelible feelings in us for wise and good reasons. They guard his image in our hearts. They distinguish us from ordinary animals. If we were numb to the stirrings of affection, the bond of society would dissolve, and justice would vanish from the earth or survive only by chance. Robbers and murderers would often go unpunished if the wounds we feel did not move us to seek justice.

O you who love humanity! You who dare resist not only tyranny but the tyrant, come forward! Every corner of the old world is overrun by oppression. Freedom has been hunted around the globe. Asia and Africa expelled her long ago; Europe regards her as a stranger, and England has ordered her to leave. Receive the fugitive, and prepare in time a refuge for humankind.

I have never met a man, in England or America, who has not admitted that the countries will separate sooner or later. And in nothing have we shown less judgment than in trying to describe what we call the Continent’s ripeness or fitness for independence.

Since everyone accepts the measure and differs only over its timing, let us survey our circumstances and, if possible, discover the very moment for it. But we need look no further: the moment has found us. The general agreement, the glorious convergence of all things, proves it.

Our great strength lies not in numbers but in unity; yet our numbers now suffice to repel the force of the whole world. At present the Continent has a larger body of armed and disciplined men than any power under heaven. It has reached precisely that degree of strength at which no single colony can sustain itself, while all the colonies united can accomplish the task; either more or less than this might prove fatal. Our land forces are already sufficient. As for naval affairs, we cannot fail to see that Britain would never allow an American warship to be built while the Continent remained in her hands. A hundred years from now, therefore, we would be no further ahead in that branch than we are today. Indeed, we would be further behind, for the country’s timber diminishes daily, and what remains in the end will be distant and hard to obtain.

If the Continent were crowded with inhabitants, its suffering in our present circumstances would be unbearable. The more seaport towns we had, the more we would have to defend and the more we would stand to lose. Our present population is so well proportioned to our needs that no one need be idle. The decline of trade supplies an army, and an army’s needs create a new trade.

We have no debts; whatever we incur for this cause will stand as a glorious memorial of our virtue. If only we can leave posterity a settled form of government, an independent constitution of its own, any price will be cheap. But to spend millions merely to have a few contemptible acts repealed and the present ministry driven out is not worth the cost. It is the utmost cruelty to posterity, leaving them the great work still undone and a debt on their backs from which they gain nothing. Such a thought is unworthy of a person of honor; it is the mark of a narrow heart and a petty politician.

The debt we may incur deserves no concern if the work is accomplished. No nation ought to be without a debt. A national debt is a national bond, and when it bears no interest it can never be a grievance. Britain is burdened with a debt of more than one hundred and forty millions sterling, on which she pays more than four millions in interest. In compensation for her debt she has a large navy. America has neither debt nor navy, yet for one twentieth of the English national debt she could have a navy twice as large. England’s navy is now worth no more than three and a half millions sterling.

The first and second editions of this pamphlet appeared without the following calculations, now offered as proof that the preceding estimate of the navy is sound. See Entic’s naval history, introduction, page 56.

The cost of building a ship of each rate and furnishing it with masts, yards, sails, and rigging, together with a proportionate supply of boatswain’s and carpenter’s stores for eight months at sea, as calculated by Mr. Burchett, Secretary to the navy:

£ [pounds sterling]

For a ship of 100 guns = 35,553

90 = 29,886

80 = 23,638

70 = 17,785

60 = 14,197

50 = 10,606

40 = 7,558

30 = 5,846

20 = 3,710

From these figures it is easy to total the value—or rather the cost—of the entire British navy, which in the year 1757, at the height of its glory, consisted of the following ships and guns:

Ships. Guns.

Cost of one. Cost of all.

Cost in £ [pounds sterling]

6 100

35,553 213,318

12 90

29,886 358,632

12 80

23,638 283,656

43 70

17,785 764,755

35 60

14,197 496,895

40 50

10,606 424,240

45 40

7,558 340,110

58 20

3,710 215,180

85 Sloops, bombs

and fireships, one

with another, at 2,000 each, 170,000

------------

Cost

3,266,786

Remaining for guns

233,214

------------

3,500,000

No country on earth is so favorably situated, or has so many resources within itself for raising a fleet, as America. Tar, timber, iron, and cordage are her natural products. We need import nothing. The Dutch, by contrast, make large profits hiring their warships to the Spaniards and Portuguese, yet must import most of their materials. We ought to regard the building of a fleet as a branch of commerce, for shipbuilding is this country’s natural industry. It is the best use we can make of our money. A finished navy is worth more than it costs. It is that rare point in national policy at which commerce and protection meet. Let us build: if we do not need the ships, we can sell them and thereby replace our paper currency with ready gold and silver.

People generally make a great mistake about manning a fleet: not even a fourth of its men need be sailors. The Terrible privateer, commanded by Captain Death, fought the fiercest engagement of any ship in the last war, yet had fewer than twenty sailors aboard, though her complement numbered more than two hundred. A few capable, companionable sailors will soon train enough active landsmen in the ordinary work of a ship. We can therefore never be better placed to begin building a naval force than now, while our timber still stands, our fisheries are blockaded, and our sailors and shipwrights are unemployed. Warships of seventy and eighty guns were built in New England forty years ago; why not now? Shipbuilding is America’s greatest pride, and in time she will surpass the whole world at it. The great empires of the East are mostly inland and thus cannot rival her. Africa is in a state of barbarism; and no European power has both so extensive a coastline and such ample domestic supplies of materials. Where nature has bestowed one, she has withheld the other; to America alone she has been generous with both. The vast Russian empire is almost shut out from the sea, so its boundless forests, tar, iron, and cordage remain merely articles of trade.

Can we afford to be without a fleet for our own safety? We are no longer the small people we were sixty years ago. Then we might have left our property in the streets—or rather, in the fields—and slept securely without locks or bolts on doors or windows. Things have changed; our means of defense should advance with our growing property. Twelve months ago, an ordinary pirate could have sailed up the Delaware and forced the city of Philadelphia to pay whatever sum he demanded on the spot; the same could have happened elsewhere. Indeed, any daring fellow in a brig carrying fourteen or sixteen guns might have robbed the entire Continent and carried off half a million in money. These circumstances demand our attention and reveal the need for naval protection.

Some may say that once we have reconciled with Britain, she will protect us. Are we so foolish as to propose that she keep a navy in our harbors for that purpose? Common sense tells us that the power which has tried to subdue us is the least fit of all to defend us. Conquest can be accomplished under the pretense of friendship, and we ourselves, after a long and brave resistance, can at last be tricked into slavery. If her ships are not to enter our harbors, I ask how she is to protect us. A navy three or four thousand miles away can do little good, and none at all in a sudden emergency. If we must protect ourselves from now on, why not do so for ourselves? Why do it for another?

The English list of warships is long and formidable, but not a tenth of them are fit for service at any one time. Many no longer exist, yet their names are grandly retained on the list if so much as a plank survives. And not a fifth of those fit for service can be spared for any one station at any one time. The East and West Indies, the Mediterranean, Africa, and the other regions over which Britain asserts her claims make heavy demands on her navy. Prejudice and inattention have given us a false idea of England’s navy. We have spoken as though we would have to face all of it at once and therefore need a fleet as large as hers. Because that cannot be built instantly, a band of Tories in disguise has used the argument to discourage us from even beginning. Nothing could be further from the truth. If America had only a twentieth of Britain’s naval force, she would still be more than a match for her. For we have and claim no foreign dominions, and could employ our whole force along our own coast. In the long run we would have a two-to-one advantage over those who must sail three or four thousand miles before attacking us and travel the same distance to refit and recruit. And though Britain’s fleet can restrain our trade with Europe, we can restrain her trade with the West Indies just as effectively: lying close to the Continent, those islands are entirely at its mercy.

If we judge a permanent navy unnecessary, we might devise a way to maintain a naval force in peacetime. Offer merchants premiums to build and use ships mounted with twenty, thirty, forty, or fifty guns, the premiums proportionate to the cargo space they lose. Fifty or sixty such ships, with a few guardships continually on duty, would sustain a sufficient navy. We would avoid the evil so loudly lamented in England: letting a fleet rot in its docks in peacetime. To unite the sinews of commerce and defense is sound policy; when our strength and our wealth sustain each other, we need fear no foreign enemy.

In almost everything needed for defense, we have abundance. Hemp grows so luxuriantly that we need never lack cordage. Our iron is superior to that of other countries; our small arms equal any in the world. We can cast cannon whenever we please. Every day we produce saltpeter and gunpowder. Our knowledge improves by the hour. Resolution is in our nature, and courage has never yet deserted us. What, then, do we lack? Why do we hesitate? From Britain we can expect nothing but ruin. If she is ever admitted again to the government of America, this Continent will not be worth living in. Suspicions will constantly arise; insurrections will continually break out; and who will go to suppress them? Who will risk his life to force his own countrymen into obedience to a foreign power? The dispute between Pennsylvania and Connecticut over certain unallocated lands shows the impotence of British government, and proves beyond doubt that only Continental authority can govern Continental affairs.

Another reason the present is preferable to every other time is that, while our population is smaller, more land remains unoccupied. Instead of the king squandering it on his worthless dependents, it can be used in future not only to pay off our present debt but to provide continuing support for government. No nation under heaven enjoys an advantage like this.

The Colonies’ supposed infancy, far from being an argument against independence, is an argument for it. We are numerous enough, and if we were more so we might be less united. It is worth observing that the more populous a country becomes, the smaller its armies grow. The ancients far exceeded the moderns in the numbers they took to war, and the reason is plain: as trade follows population, people become too absorbed in it to attend to anything else. Commerce weakens the spirit of both patriotism and military defense. History also tells us clearly that a nation’s bravest achievements have always come in its youth. As commerce has grown, England has lost its spirit. Despite its numbers, the city of London submits to repeated insults with the patience of a coward. The more people have to lose, the less willing they are to risk it. The rich are generally slaves to fear and submit to the power of the court with the trembling duplicity of a spaniel.

Youth is the seedtime of good habits for nations as for individuals. Half a century from now it might be difficult, if not impossible, to bring the Continent under one government. Growth in trade and population would create a great diversity of interests and, with it, confusion. Colony would turn against colony. Each, feeling strong enough, might scorn the others’ help; and while the proud and foolish celebrated their small distinctions, the wise would lament that the union had not been formed earlier. The present, therefore, is the true time to establish it. Of all bonds, the intimacy formed in childhood and the friendship formed in adversity last longest and change least. Our present union bears both marks: we are young, and we have suffered; yet our concord has endured those troubles and establishes a memorable era for posterity to celebrate.

The present is also that singular time which comes to a nation only once: the time to form its own government. Most nations have let the opportunity pass and have therefore been forced to receive laws from conquerors instead of making laws for themselves. They had a king first, then a form of government. Instead, the articles or charter of government should first be drawn up, and people afterward delegated to carry them out. Let us learn from other nations’ mistakes and seize the present opportunity—to begin government at the right end.

When William the Conqueror subdued England, he gave its people laws at swordpoint. Until we agree to fill the seat of government in America with lawful authority, we risk having it filled by some fortunate ruffian who may treat us in the same way. And then where will our freedom be? Where our property?

As for religion, I hold that every government has an indispensable duty to protect all who conscientiously profess a faith; I know of no other business government has with it. Let a person cast off that smallness of spirit, that selfishness of principle which the misers of every denomination so resist giving up, and his fears on this subject will vanish. Suspicion accompanies mean souls and poisons every good society. For my part, I fully and conscientiously believe it is the Almighty’s will that there be a diversity of religious opinions among us. It gives us a wider field in which to practice Christian kindness. If we all thought alike, our religious dispositions would have nothing to test them; on this generous principle, I regard our different denominations as children of one family, differing only in what are called their Christian names.

On page forty, I offered a few thoughts about the desirability of a Continental Charter (for I presume to offer hints only, not plans). Here I take the liberty of raising the subject again. A charter should be understood as a solemn, binding pledge undertaken by all to uphold the rights of each separate part, whether in religion, personal freedom, or property. A firm bargain and a fair reckoning make lasting friends.

On an earlier page I also mentioned the need for broad and equal representation; no political question deserves more attention. Too few electors and too few representatives are equally dangerous. If representatives are not only few but unequally apportioned, the danger grows. Consider this instance: when the Associators’ petition came before the Pennsylvania House of Assembly, only twenty-eight members were present. All eight members from Bucks county voted against it. If seven members from Chester had done the same, two counties alone would have governed the whole province—a danger to which it is always exposed. The unwarranted effort that House made at its last sitting to claim undue authority over the province’s delegates should likewise warn the people against trusting power outside their own hands. Instructions for the Delegates were assembled that, for sense and practical judgment, would have disgraced a schoolboy. Approved by a few—very few—people outside the House, they were then brought in and passed on behalf of the entire colony. If the whole colony knew how reluctantly that House has undertaken certain necessary public measures, its people would not hesitate for a moment to consider its members unworthy of such trust.

Urgent necessity makes many arrangements convenient that would become oppressive if continued. What is expedient and what is right are different things. When America’s misfortunes called for consultation, no method was readier or, at the time, more fitting than to appoint people from the several Houses of Assembly for that purpose. Their wise conduct has saved this Continent from ruin. But since we will very likely never be without a Congress, everyone who values good order must admit that the method of choosing its members deserves consideration. And I put this question to those who study human nature: are representation and election not too much power for the same body of people to hold? As we plan for posterity, we should remember that virtue is not hereditary.

Our enemies often supply us with excellent principles; their mistakes frequently surprise us into reason. Mr. Cornwall, one of the Lords of the Treasury, dismissed the petition of the New-York Assembly with contempt. That House, he said, had only twenty-six members, and so trifling a number could not decently stand for the whole. We thank him for his unwitting honesty. ¹

¹ Those wishing to understand fully how vital broad and equal representation is to a state should read Burgh’s political disquisitions.

To conclude: however strange some may find it, or however reluctant they are to believe it, many powerful and compelling reasons show that nothing could settle our affairs more quickly than an open and resolute declaration of independence. Here are some of them:

First.—When two nations are at war, the custom is for other powers not involved in the quarrel to offer mediation and arrange the first steps toward peace. But while America calls herself a subject of Great-Britain, no power, however favorably disposed, can offer to mediate. In our present condition, then, we may go on quarreling forever.

Secondly.—It is unreasonable to expect France or Spain to give us any assistance if we intend to use it only to heal the breach and strengthen the connection between Britain and America, for those powers would suffer from the outcome.

Thirdly.—While we declare ourselves British subjects, foreign nations must regard us as rebels. It sets a somewhat dangerous precedent for their own peace when people take up arms under the name of subjects. We, being here, can resolve the paradox; but to combine resistance with subjection demands an idea far too subtle for ordinary understanding.

Fourthly.—Suppose we published a manifesto and sent it to foreign courts. It would set out the suffering we have endured and the peaceful measures we have tried in vain to obtain relief. It would declare that, unable any longer to live happily or safely under the cruel disposition of the British court, we have been driven to break off all connections with her. At the same time it would assure those courts of our peaceful intentions toward them and our wish to trade with them. Such a declaration would do more good for this Continent than a ship loaded with petitions to Britain.

Under our present name of British subjects, we can neither be received nor heard abroad. The practice of every court stands against us and will continue to do so until independence gives us a place among the nations.

At first these steps may seem strange and difficult. But like all the steps we have already taken, they will soon become familiar and welcome. Until independence is declared, the Continent will feel like a man who keeps putting off an unpleasant task from day to day, though he knows it must be done, dreads beginning it, wishes it finished, and is continually haunted by the need to do it.

Since the first edition of this pamphlet appeared—or rather, on the very day it appeared—the King’s Speech has arrived in this city. Had a prophetic spirit directed the birth of this work, it could not have brought it forth at a more timely or more necessary moment. The bloodthirstiness of the one shows the need to pursue the doctrine of the other. People read in a spirit of revenge. And the Speech, instead of frightening them, has prepared the way for the courageous principles of independence.

Ceremony, and even silence, whatever their motives, do harm when they lend the slightest encouragement to base and wicked deeds. If this principle holds, it follows that the King’s Speech, a masterpiece of villainy, deserved—and still deserves—the general condemnation of both Congress and the people. Yet a nation’s domestic peace depends greatly on the integrity of what may rightly be called its national manners. It is often better to pass over some things in silent contempt than to adopt new ways of expressing disapproval that might bring even the smallest change to that guardian of our peace and safety. Perhaps it is chiefly due to such prudent restraint that the King’s Speech has not already been publicly put to death. The Speech, if it can be called one, is nothing less than a deliberate, brazen libel against truth, the common good, and the existence of mankind; it is a formal, pompous way of offering human sacrifices to the pride of tyrants. But this general slaughter of mankind is one of the privileges of kings, and its inevitable consequence. Nature does not recognize them, and they do not recognize her. Though we ourselves created them, they do not recognize us: they have become the gods of their creators. The Speech has one good quality: it is not designed to deceive, and even if we wished to be deceived by it, we could not be. Its brutality and tyranny are plain on its face. It leaves us in no doubt. Every line convinces us as we read that the naked and untaught Indian who hunts the woods for prey is less a savage than the king of Britain.

Sir John Dalrymple, the reputed father of a whining, Jesuitical piece falsely called “The Address of the people of England to the inhabitants of America,” has perhaps given the present king’s true character, though most unwisely, out of the vain belief that people here could be frightened by royal pomp and titles. “But,” says this writer, “if you are inclined to pay compliments to an administration, which we do not complain of” (meaning the Marquis of Rockingham’s administration at the repeal of the Stamp Act), “it is very unfair in you to withhold them from that prince, by whose nod alone they were permitted to do any thing.” Here is Toryism indeed! Here is idolatry without even a mask. Anyone who can calmly hear and swallow such a doctrine has forfeited all claim to reason—an apostate from humanity itself. He should be regarded as one who has not only surrendered the rightful dignity of a human being but fallen beneath the rank of animals, crawling contemptibly through the world like a worm.

But it now matters very little what the king of England says or does. He has wickedly violated every moral and human obligation and trampled nature and conscience underfoot. By a steady, constitutionally sanctioned spirit of insolence and cruelty, he has earned universal hatred. America must now provide for herself. She already has a large, young family, and her duty to care for them is greater than any duty to give away her property in support of a power that has become a disgrace to the names of men and Christians. You whose office is to watch over a nation’s morals, whatever your sect or denomination, and you who are more directly the guardians of public liberty: if you wish to keep your native country undefiled by European corruption, in your hearts you must wish for separation. But I leave the moral side to private reflection and will confine most of my further remarks to the following subjects.

First. That it is in America’s interest to separate from Britain.

Secondly. Which plan is easier and more practicable, reconciliation or independence? With some remarks along the way.

In support of the first, I could, if I thought it proper, cite the opinions of some of the ablest and most experienced men on this Continent, whose views on the question are not yet public. In truth, the proposition is self-evident. No nation dependent on a foreign power, restricted in trade, and cramped and fettered in its power to make laws can ever achieve any great eminence. America does not yet know what prosperity is. Though her progress has no parallel in the history of other nations, it is mere childhood beside what she could attain if, as she should, she held the power to legislate in her own hands. England proudly covets something that would do her no good even if she gained it; meanwhile the Continent hesitates over a matter whose neglect will finally ruin her. It is by trading with America, not conquering her, that England will benefit. Much of that trade would continue if the countries were as independent of each other as France and Spain, since for many goods neither could find a better market. But this country’s independence from Britain, or from any other power, is now the principal and only object worth struggling for. Like every other truth discovered under the pressure of necessity, it will appear clearer and stronger with each passing day.

First. Because sooner or later it will happen.

Secondly. Because the longer it is delayed, the harder it will be to achieve.

In public and private gatherings I have often entertained myself by silently observing the plausible errors of people who speak without thinking. Of the many I have heard, the most common seems to be this: if the break had occurred forty or fifty years from now rather than now, the Continent would have been better able to cast off its dependence. My reply is that our present military ability comes from experience gained in the last war, experience that would be entirely lost in forty or fifty years. By then the Continent would have no general, not even a military officer, left; we, or those who succeed us, would know as little of war as the ancient Indians. This fact alone, carefully considered, proves beyond answer that the present is preferable to every other time. The argument is this: at the end of the last war, we had experience but lacked numbers; forty or fifty years from now, we would have numbers but no experience. The right moment must therefore fall between those extremes, when enough of the former remains and sufficient growth in the latter has been achieved. That moment is now.

The reader will forgive this digression, which does not properly belong under my first subject. I return to it with the following proposition:

If we patch things up with Britain and leave her the sovereign power governing America—which, as matters stand, would be to surrender the whole point—we will deprive ourselves of the very means of paying off the debt we have incurred or may yet incur. The value of the western lands of which some provinces have secretly been deprived by the unjust extension of Canada’s boundaries, reckoned at only five pounds sterling per hundred acres, comes to more than twenty-five millions in Pennsylvania currency; and their quit-rents, reckoned at one penny sterling per acre, come to two millions yearly.

Selling those lands would pay off the debt without burdening anyone; the quit-rents reserved on them would continually lessen the annual cost of government and, in time, cover it entirely. It does not matter how long paying the debt takes, provided the proceeds when the lands are sold go toward discharging it. The Congress then in office will serve as the Continent’s trustees in carrying this out.

I turn now to the second subject: which plan is easier and more practicable, reconciliation or independence? With some remarks along the way.

Anyone who takes nature as a guide is not easily driven from an argument. On that ground I give this general answer: independence is a single, straightforward course within our own power; reconciliation is an exceedingly tangled and complicated affair, dependent on the intervention of a treacherous and capricious court. The answer admits no doubt.

The present state of America is truly alarming to anyone capable of reflection. We have no law, no government, no form of authority except what rests on courtesy and is granted by it. We are held together by an unprecedented agreement of feeling, which can nevertheless change, and which every secret enemy is trying to break apart. Our present condition is legislation without law; wisdom without a plan; a constitution without a name; and, most astonishing of all, complete independence struggling for dependence. There is no precedent for it; such a situation has never existed before; and who can say how it will end? No one's property is secure under the present loose system of affairs. The minds of the people are left to wander, and, seeing no fixed goal ahead, they pursue whatever fancy or opinion presents to them. Nothing is a crime; there is no such thing as treason; so everyone thinks himself free to act as he pleases. The Tories would not have dared to assemble in arms against us if they had known that doing so would forfeit their lives under the laws of the state. A distinction must be drawn between English soldiers taken in battle and inhabitants of America captured bearing arms. The former are prisoners; the latter, traitors. One forfeits his liberty, the other his head.

For all our wisdom, there is a visible weakness in some of our actions that encourages division. The Continental Belt is buckled too loosely. Unless something is done in time, it will be too late to act, and we shall fall into a condition in which neither reconciliation nor independence is possible. The king and his worthless adherents are back at their old game of dividing the Continent, and there is no shortage of printers among us ready to spread plausible falsehoods. The cunning and hypocritical letter that appeared a few months ago in two New-York papers, and in two others as well, shows that some men lack either judgment or honesty.

It is easy to retreat into corners and talk of reconciliation. But do such men seriously consider how difficult the task is, and how dangerous it could become if the Continent divides over it? Do they take account of all the different groups of people whose situations and circumstances must be considered, as well as their own? Do they put themselves in the place of the sufferer who has already lost everything, or of the soldier who has left everything behind to defend his country? If their misguided moderation suits only their own private circumstances, with no regard for others, events will teach them that “they are reckoning without their Host.”

“Put us,” some say, “on the footing we were on in sixty-three.” My answer is that Britain no longer has the power to grant this request, nor will she propose it. But even if she could, and even if she granted it, I ask a reasonable question: how could a court so corrupt and faithless be held to its promises? Another parliament—or even the present one—might later repeal the agreement, claiming it was obtained by force or granted unwisely. Where then would we seek redress? Nations cannot take each other to court: cannon are the advocates of crowns, and the suit is decided by the sword of war, not the sword of justice. To return to the footing of sixty-three, it would not be enough merely to restore the laws to their former state; our circumstances must be restored as well: our burned and destroyed towns repaired or rebuilt, our private losses repaid, and our public debts, incurred for defense, discharged. Otherwise we shall be millions worse off than we were in that enviable time. Had such a request been granted a year ago, it would have won the heart and soul of the Continent. But now it is too late: “The Rubicon is passed.”

Besides, taking up arms merely to compel the repeal of a tax law seems as unjustifiable under divine law, and as offensive to human feeling, as taking up arms to compel obedience to it. On neither side does the object justify the means: human lives are too precious to throw away over such trifles. It is the violence done and threatened to our persons, the destruction of our property by armed force, and the invasion of our country with fire and sword that justify the use of arms in good conscience. And the moment this form of defense became necessary, all submission to Britain should have ended. America's independence should have been reckoned as beginning with, and announced by, the first musket fired against her. This is a consistent dividing line, drawn neither by caprice nor by ambition, but by a chain of events the colonies did not set in motion.

I shall conclude these remarks with the following timely and well-meant suggestions. We should remember that independence may eventually be achieved in three different ways, and that one of the three will sooner or later be America's fate: by the lawful voice of the people in Congress, by military power, or by a mob. Our soldiers may not always be citizens, nor the multitude a body of reasonable people; virtue, as I have already observed, is neither hereditary nor everlasting. If independence comes by the first of these means, we have every opportunity and every encouragement to establish the noblest, purest constitution on earth. We have the power to begin the world anew. Nothing like our present situation has arisen since the days of Noah. The birth of a new world is near, and a people perhaps as numerous as all of Europe are to receive their share of freedom through the events of a few months. The thought inspires awe—and from this perspective, how petty, how ridiculous, the paltry objections of a few weak or self-interested men appear when set against the affairs of a world.

If we neglect this favorable and inviting moment, and independence is later achieved by some other means, we must blame ourselves for the consequences—or rather those narrow, prejudiced souls who habitually oppose it without inquiry or reflection. There are arguments for independence that men should consider privately rather than hear proclaimed in public. We should not now be debating whether to become independent, but striving to achieve independence on a firm, secure, and honorable foundation—and troubled instead that the work has not yet begun. Every day convinces us that it is necessary. Even the Tories, if any such people remain among us, should be more eager than anyone to advance it. Just as the first appointment of committees protected them from popular fury, a wise and firmly established form of government will be the only sure means of keeping them safe. Thus, if they lack the virtue to be Whigs, they ought at least to have the prudence to wish for independence.

In short, independence is the only bond that can bind us and hold us together. Then our aim will be clear, and the law will close our ears to the schemes of an enemy as cunning as he is cruel. Then, too, we shall be properly placed to negotiate with Britain: there is reason to think that court's pride will suffer less from discussing terms of peace with the American states than from discussing terms of accommodation with those it calls “rebellious subjects.” Our delay encourages Britain to hope for conquest, and our reluctance only prolongs the war. Since we have withheld our trade without thereby winning redress for our grievances, let us now try the alternative: redress them ourselves as an independent people, and then offer to reopen trade. The merchants and reasonable people of England will still support us, because peace with trade is better than war without it. And if the offer is refused, we can approach other courts.

On these grounds I rest the case. Since no attempt has yet been made to refute the argument in earlier editions of this pamphlet, that silence is evidence, if only by absence, either that the argument cannot be refuted or that its supporters are too numerous to oppose. So instead of regarding one another with suspicion and uncertainty, let each of us extend a warm hand of friendship to his neighbor and join in drawing a line that, like an act of oblivion, will consign every former division to forgetfulness. Let the names Whig and Tory disappear; let us hear no other names among us than those of a good citizen, an open and resolute friend, and a virtuous defender of the rights of humanity and of the FREE AND INDEPENDENT STATES OF AMERICA.