Of the Origin and Design of Government in General, with Concise Remarks on the English Constitution

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.

Some writers have mixed up society and government so much that they barely distinguish them. But they are different things, and they come from different sources. We form societies because we need one another. We set up governments because we do wrong. Society brings us happiness by drawing us together. Government helps us by holding back our bad behavior. One encourages people to deal with each other; the other separates them into ranks. Society helps us; government punishes us.

Society is a blessing in any condition. Even the best government is only a necessary evil, and the worst is unbearable. If a government makes us suffer, or leaves us open to the same suffering we would face in a country with no government, the situation is worse because we ourselves supply the means by which it harms us. Government is like clothing: it shows that we have lost our innocence. Kings' palaces stand where the shelters of paradise once stood. If everyone always knew clearly what was right and obeyed that knowledge without fail, no one would need another person to make laws. But that is not how people behave. So each person gives up some of what they own to pay for the protection of the rest. They do this for the same practical reason that leads them to choose the lesser of two evils in any other situation. Protection is the real purpose of government. It follows that the best form of government is the one most likely to provide it at the lowest cost and with the greatest benefit.

To understand what government is for, imagine a small group settling in a remote place with no contact with anyone else. They would be like the first people to settle any country, or even the world. In this state of natural freedom, their first concern would be to form a society. They would have countless reasons to do so. One person's strength cannot meet all that person's needs, and no one is suited to being alone forever. Each would soon need help from another, who would need help in return. Four or five people together could build a decent shelter in the wilderness. One person working alone might spend a normal lifetime at it and get nowhere. After cutting down trees, that person could not move the wood, or raise it after moving it. Hunger would interrupt the work, while other needs would pull the worker in different directions. Sickness, or even a setback, could mean death. Neither might be deadly on its own, but either could make a person unable to survive. Such a person would waste away rather than simply die.

Need would pull these new settlers together into a society, much as gravity pulls things together. Its shared benefits would make laws and government unnecessary as long as they treated one another with perfect fairness. But only heaven is safe from wrongdoing. Once the settlers have overcome the first hardships that united them, they will begin to care less about their duties to one another. Their neglect will show why they need some form of government to make up for their lack of virtue.

They might meet under the branches of a convenient tree, using it as their public meeting place. The whole colony could gather there to discuss common concerns. Their first laws would probably be called only rules, and the only punishment for breaking them would be the disapproval of others. Every man would have a seat in this first assembly by natural right.

As the colony grows, its shared concerns will grow too. People will live farther apart, making it too difficult for everyone to meet each time a decision is needed. At first there were few people, their homes were close, and their shared concerns were few and small. They will now find it useful to let a chosen group from among them make laws. These representatives are expected to have the same interests as the people who chose them, and to act as everyone would act if they could be there. If the colony keeps growing, it will need more representatives. To make sure every part of the colony has a voice, the people will divide it into manageable areas, each sending an appropriate number. Elections should be frequent so that elected members do not develop interests separate from those of the voters. After a few months, members may return to live among the voters. They will remain faithful to the public because they will know better than to make a rod that will be used on them. This regular exchange will give every part of the community a shared interest. People will naturally support one another. That, not the empty title of king, is what makes government strong and its people happy.

This is how government begins: it becomes necessary because people's goodness alone cannot govern the world. Its purpose is freedom and protection. Impressive displays may dazzle us, fine words may mislead us, prejudice may twist our wishes, and self-interest may cloud our understanding. But nature and reason tell us plainly that this is right.

I base my view of government on a principle of nature that no clever design can change: the simpler a thing is, the less likely it is to go wrong, and the easier it is to fix if it does. With that in mind, I have a few things to say about England's much-praised constitution. I agree that it was an important achievement in the dark times of servitude when it was created. When tyranny was everywhere, any move away from it was a great rescue. But it is easy to show that the constitution is flawed, prone to upheaval, and unable to deliver what it seems to promise.

Absolute governments are a disgrace to humanity, but they do have one advantage: they are simple. If people suffer, they know who is responsible and what they must do about it. They do not have to sort through many possible causes and cures. England's constitution is so complicated that the country can suffer for years without knowing which part is at fault. People blame different parts, and every supposed political doctor offers a different treatment.

I know it is hard to overcome local prejudices or ones held for a long time. But if we examine the parts of England's constitution, we will find the ugly remains of two old forms of tyranny mixed with some newer republican elements.

First—the remains of rule by a tyrant king, in the person of the king.

Second—the remains of rule by tyrannical nobles, in the persons of the peers.

Third—the new republican elements, in the persons of the commons. England's freedom depends on their integrity.

The first two hold their positions by inheritance and do not answer to the people. So they do nothing for the freedom of the country under its constitution.

It is ridiculous to say that England's constitution joins three powers that keep one another in check. Either those words mean nothing, or they contradict each other outright.

Saying that the commons can check the king assumes two things:

First—the king cannot be trusted without supervision. In other words, kings naturally want unchecked power.

Second—the commons were appointed to supervise him because they are wiser or more trustworthy than the king.

Yet the same constitution that lets the commons check the king by refusing to provide money also lets the king check the commons by rejecting their other bills. Now it assumes the king is wiser than the people it already assumed were wiser than he is. That is simply absurd!

There is something deeply ridiculous about the way monarchy works. It cuts a man off from the information he needs, then lets him make decisions requiring the best judgment. A king's position separates him from the world, while his job requires him to know that world thoroughly. These parts work against each other so unnaturally that the whole role is absurd and useless.

Some writers describe England's constitution this way: the king is on one side and the people on the other. The peers form a house for the king, while the commons form a house for the people. But that describes a house divided against itself. The words may sound neatly arranged, but they are vague and empty when examined. Even the most precise words available cannot describe something that either cannot exist or is too confusing to describe. They may sound pleasant but teach us nothing. And this account avoids a basic question: how did the king get a power the people cannot trust and must always check? A wise people could not have given him such power. Nor could a power that needs checking come from God. Yet the constitution's safeguards assume that he has it.

Those safeguards are not up to the task. They cannot, or will not, achieve their purpose, so the system defeats itself. A heavier weight will always lift a lighter one. In a machine, one driving force sets all the wheels moving. We need only find which power in the constitution has the most weight, because that power will rule. The others may slow it down, or, as people say, check it. But unless they can stop it, their efforts will fail. The driving force will eventually get its way; time will make up for any loss of speed.

Clearly the crown is the strongest power in England's constitution. It gets its strength entirely from its power to give out offices and pensions. We were wise enough to shut and lock the door against absolute monarchy, yet foolish enough to hand the key to the crown.

English people's preference for their own system of king, lords, and commons comes at least as much from national pride as from reason. People in England are certainly safer than people in some other countries. But the king's will is just as much the law in Britain as it is in France. The difference is that in Britain his will comes to the people in the more threatening form of an act of Parliament, rather than straight from his mouth. What happened to Charles the first has only made kings more cunning, not more just.

So let us set aside national pride and prejudice about particular systems and forms. The plain truth is that the crown is less oppressive in England than in Turkey because of the character of the people, not the structure of the government.

It is especially important now to examine the flaws in England's system of government. We cannot judge others fairly when strong favoritism influences us. Likewise, stubborn prejudice keeps us from judging what is best for ourselves. A man attached to a prostitute is not well placed to choose or judge a wife. In the same way, attachment to a rotten constitution will keep us from recognizing a good one.