Part I: Observations on the Declaration of Rights, 3

If monarchy is useless, why is it maintained anywhere? And if it is necessary, how can any country do without it? All civilized nations agree that civil government is necessary; but civil government is republican government. The whole apparatus of English government, from the office of constable through magistrates, quarter sessions, and general assizes, including trial by jury, is republican government. Nothing monarchical appears in any part of it except the title William the Conqueror imposed on the English when he required them to call him “Their Sovereign Lord the King.”

One can readily imagine a band of self-interested men—holders of offices, pensioners, Lords of the bedchamber, Lords of the kitchen, Lords of the privy, and the Lord knows what else—finding as many reasons for monarchy as there are pounds in their salaries paid at the country's expense. But ask the farmer, manufacturer, merchant, tradesman, or anyone in any occupation down to the common laborer what service monarchy does him, and he can give no answer. Ask what monarchy is, and he thinks it something like a sinecure.

Although England's taxes amount to nearly seventeen millions a year, supposedly to meet the expenses of government, it remains plain that the good sense of the nation is left to govern itself, and does govern itself through magistrates and juries, almost at its own expense, on republican principles, over and above what it pays in taxes. Judges' salaries are nearly the only charge paid from public revenue. Since the people carry out all internal government, England's taxes ought to be the lightest in Europe; instead, they are the opposite. Civil government cannot explain this, so the inquiry must turn to the monarchical part.

When the people of England sent for George the First—and a wiser man than Mr. Burke would struggle to discover what they needed him for or what service he could perform—they should at least have required him to give up Hanover. Apart from the endless German intrigues that inevitably follow from making a German Elector king of England, it is inherently impossible to unite in one person the principles of freedom and of despotism, or what England commonly calls arbitrary power. A German Elector is a despot in his electorate. How could he be expected to embrace liberty in one country while depending on despotism to preserve his interests in another? The two cannot be joined; and it would have been easy to foresee that German Electors would make German kings, or, in Mr. Burke's words, would govern with “contempt.” The English have been accustomed to regard a king of England only as he appears to them. Yet so long as the connection lasts, that same man has his home seat in another country whose interests differ from theirs, with principles of government opposed to their own. England will seem to him a town residence, and the Electorate the family estate. The English may wish, as I believe they do, for liberty to prosper in France or Germany; but a German Elector trembles for the fate of despotism in his electorate. The Duchy of Mecklenburgh, ruled by the present Queen's family, likewise suffers under arbitrary power, its people held in servile dependence.

Never has it been more important for the English to watch continental intrigues closely and distinguish the politics of the Electorate from those of the nation. The Revolution of France has completely changed the ground on which England and France stand as nations. But the German despots, with Prussia at their head, are joining forces against liberty; and Mr. Pitt's attachment to office, together with the interests secured by all his family connections, offers too little assurance against this intrigue.

As everything that happens in the world becomes material for history, I shall leave this subject now and briefly review the state of parties and politics in England, as Mr. Burke has done in France.

Whether the present reign began in contempt I leave Mr. Burke to decide; certainly it looked very much as though it did. The English nation's anger ran high, as is well remembered. Had the true principles of liberty been as well understood then as they now promise to be, the nation probably would not have submitted so patiently to so much. George the First and Second knew that the remnants of the Stuart family offered a rival claim. Knowing that they held their positions on good behavior, they prudently kept their German principles of government to themselves; but as the Stuart family faded away, that prudence became less necessary.

The struggle between rights and what were called prerogatives continued to inflame the nation until some time after the American War ended. Then, all at once, calm descended—execration turned into applause, and the Court's popularity sprang up like a mushroom overnight.

To explain this sudden change, we must distinguish two kinds of popularity: one produced by merit, the other by resentment. The nation had divided into two parties, each praising its parliamentary champions for or against prerogative. Nothing could have shocked both parties more deeply than an immediate coalition of those champions. Their supporters, abruptly abandoned and equally disgusted by the measure, found relief only by uniting in condemnation of both sides. Resentment now stirred them more powerfully than the dispute over prerogatives had done. The nation abandoned its former concern with rights and wrongs and sought only satisfaction. Indignation at the Coalition so completely displaced indignation against the Court that it extinguished it. Without the Court changing any of its principles, the very people who had condemned its despotism joined it to take revenge on the Coalition Parliament. The question was not which they liked best, but which they hated most; and the side they hated least was mistaken for the one they loved. Dissolving the Coalition Parliament gave the nation the chance to satisfy its resentment and was bound to be popular. This was the source of the Court's popularity.

Changes of this kind show a nation governed by temper rather than by a settled, steady principle. Once it has committed itself, however rashly, it feels driven to justify its first step by continuing along the same path. It now approves measures it would condemn at another time and persuades itself to silence its own judgment.

When a new Parliament assembled, the new Minister, Mr. Pitt, found himself supported by a secure majority. The nation gave him credit not out of regard for him, but because its resentment toward someone else had made it resolve to do so. He first drew public attention with a proposed Reform of Parliament that, in practice, would have publicly vindicated corruption. The nation was to bear the cost of buying up rotten boroughs, when it should have punished those who trade in them.

Passing over the two bubbles of the Dutch business and the million a year set aside to reduce the national debt, the most striking matter is the Regency. Never in my experience has a deception been carried off more successfully, or a nation been more completely deceived. To show this, I must revisit the circumstances.

Mr. Fox had asserted in the House of Commons that the Prince of Wales, as the heir in succession, had a right in his own person to assume the government. Mr. Pitt opposed him, and insofar as his opposition was directed against that doctrine, he was right. But the principles Mr. Pitt advanced on the other side were, in their implications, as bad as Mr. Fox's or worse, because they would establish an aristocracy over the nation and over what little representation it has in the House of Commons.

Whether the English form of government is good or bad is not the question here. Taking it as it stands, without judging its merits, Mr. Pitt was further from the point than Mr. Fox.

It is said to consist of three parts. So long as the nation chooses to continue this form, the parts therefore have standing from the nation, independent of one another, and none is the creation of another. Had Mr. Fox gone through Parliament and said that the person in question claimed his position by the nation's authority, Mr. Pitt would then have had to defend what he called Parliament's right against the nation's right.

From the way the contest appeared, Mr. Fox took the hereditary side and Mr. Pitt the parliamentary side; in fact, both took the hereditary side, and Mr. Pitt took the worse of the two positions.

What is called Parliament consists of two Houses, one of them more hereditary and further beyond the nation's control than the Crown, as it is called, is supposed to be. It is a hereditary aristocracy claiming and asserting irrevocable, indefeasible rights and authority wholly independent of the nation. Where, then, is the deserved popularity in elevating this hereditary power above another hereditary power that claims less independence from the nation? What merit is there in swallowing up the nation's rights in a House it neither elects nor controls?

The nation's general impulse was right, but it acted without reflection. It approved the opposition to the right claimed by Mr. Fox, without seeing that Mr. Pitt was defending, against the nation, another indefeasible right even further removed from it.

As for the House of Commons, only a small part of the nation elects it. But even if the franchise were as universal as taxation, as it ought to be, the House would remain only the nation's instrument and could possess no rights of its own. When the National Assembly of France resolves a question, it does so by the nation's right. On all national questions involving the House of Commons, however, Mr. Pitt absorbs the nation's rights into its instrument, turns the instrument into a nation, and makes the nation itself a cipher.

In short, the Regency question concerned a million a year assigned to the executive department. Mr. Pitt could obtain any control over that sum only by asserting Parliament's supremacy. Once that was done, it mattered little who became Regent, since the Regent would have to pay his own way. One curiosity this contentious debate produced was to make a king of the Great Seal, so that affixing it to an act would constitute royal authority. If royal authority amounts to a Great Seal, it amounts to nothing in itself; and a good Constitution would be worth infinitely more to the nation than the three nominal powers are worth as they now stand.

The English Parliament's constant use of the word Constitution shows that it has none: the whole is simply a form of government without a Constitution, granting itself whatever powers it pleases. If a Constitution existed, it could surely be consulted, and a debate on any constitutional point could be settled by producing it. One member says this is the Constitution, another says that is the Constitution—today it is one thing, tomorrow another—and the very persistence of the debate proves that there is none. Constitution has now become Parliament's fashionable catchword, pitched to please the nation's ear. Formerly the phrase was the universal supremacy of Parliament, the omnipotence of Parliament. But since liberty has advanced in France, those phrases sound harshly despotic; and the English Parliament has borrowed the National Assembly's fashion of speaking of a Constitution, without possessing its substance.

The present generation in England did not make the government and bears no responsibility for its defects. But that it must sooner or later fall to them to reform it constitutionally is as certain as that the same thing has happened in France. France, with a revenue of nearly twenty-four millions sterling, rich and fertile lands more than four times England's extent, twenty-four millions of inhabitants to support taxation, upwards of ninety millions sterling in circulating gold and silver, and a debt smaller than England's present debt, nevertheless found it necessary, for whatever reason, to settle its affairs. This resolves the question of public borrowing for both countries.

There is no point in arguing how long what is called the English constitution has lasted and inferring from that how long it will last. The question is how long the system of funding can last. It is a modern invention, not yet older than a single human lifetime. Yet in that short time it has grown so much that, together with current expenses, it requires annual taxes at least equal to the entire rental value of the nation's landed acreage to meet its annual expenditure. Everyone can see that a government could not always have proceeded by the system followed over the last seventy years; for the same reason, it cannot continue that way forever.

If monarchy is useless, why does any country keep it? And if it is necessary, how can any country do without it? All civilized nations agree that civil government is necessary. But civil government is republican government. In England, government from the office of constable through magistrates, quarter-sessions, and general assizes, including jury trials, is republican. Nothing about it is monarchical except a name imposed on the English by William the Conqueror. He made them call him "Their Sovereign Lord the King."

Of course, a group of men with a financial interest in monarchy can find plenty of reasons to keep it. These include holders of government posts and pensions, Lords of the bed-chamber, Lords of the kitchen, Lords of the necessary-house, and who knows what other lords. They can offer as many reasons as there are sums in their salaries, which the country pays. But ask a farmer, a manufacturer, a merchant, a tradesman, or anyone else, down to an ordinary laborer, what service monarchy provides him. He has no answer. Ask him what monarchy is, and he thinks it is something like a paid office with no duties.

England collects almost seventeen millions a year in taxes, supposedly for government expenses. Yet the nation is plainly left to govern itself, and it does govern itself. It does so through magistrates and juries, on republican principles, almost at its own expense, on top of its taxes. Judges' salaries are almost the only expense paid from tax revenue. Since the people carry out all internal government, England's taxes ought to be the lowest in Europe. Instead they are the opposite. Civil government cannot explain that. So we must examine the monarchical part.

When the people of England sent for George the First, they should at least have required him to give up Hanover. A wiser man than Mr. Burke would struggle to see why England needed him or what service he could provide. A German Elector serving as King of England would bring endless German intrigues. More than that, one person cannot follow the principles of freedom and of despotism at the same time. In England, despotism is usually called arbitrary power. A German Elector rules his electorate as a despot. How could anyone expect him to favor liberty in one country when his position in another depends on despotism? The two cannot be joined. It was easy to foresee that German Electors would be German kings, ruling, in Mr. Burke's words, with "contempt." The English usually think of a King of England only as he appears to them. Yet, while this connection continues, the same man has his home base in another country. Its interests differ from England's, and their forms of government are opposed. England will look to him like a town house, and his Electorate like his estate. I believe the English wish the principles of liberty success in France and Germany. But a German Elector fears for despotism in his electorate. The Duchy of Mecklenburgh, ruled by the present Queen's family, suffers under the same miserable arbitrary power. Its people are held in servile dependence.

Now more than ever, the English need to watch intrigues on the continent closely and distinguish the Electorate's politics from the nation's. The Revolution of France has completely changed the relationship between England and France as nations. But German despots, led by Prussia, are joining forces against liberty. Mr. Pitt's love of office and the positions gained by his family connections are not enough to reassure us that this intrigue will be resisted.

Everything that happens in the world becomes part of history. I will leave this subject now and briefly examine parties and politics in England, as Mr. Burke has done for France.

I leave it to Mr. Burke to say whether the present reign began with contempt. It certainly looked that way. People remember how bitter the English nation felt. If the true principles of liberty had been as well understood then as they promise to be now, the nation probably would not have put up with so much. George the First and George the Second knew the remaining Stuarts were rivals. They also knew they had to behave well to stay in power, so they wisely kept their German ideas of government to themselves. As the Stuart family faded away, they had less reason to be careful.

The struggle between rights and what were called royal prerogatives kept the nation angry until some time after the American War ended. Then everything suddenly went quiet. Hatred turned to applause. Popularity for the Court sprang up overnight, like a mushroom.

To explain this sudden change, we should note that there are two kinds of popularity. One comes from merit; the other comes from resentment. The nation had divided into two parties. Each praised its champions in Parliament, one set for prerogative and the other against it. Nothing could have shocked people more widely than an immediate coalition between those champions. Both sets of supporters suddenly felt abandoned. Angry at the coalition, they found relief in joining to condemn both sides. Their new resentment was stronger than their feelings about royal prerogatives. The nation stopped thinking about the old disputes over rights and wrongs and wanted only satisfaction. Anger at the Coalition so thoroughly replaced anger at the Court that the latter vanished. The Court had not changed its principles, yet the same people who had condemned its despotism joined it to get revenge on the Coalition Parliament. They did not choose what they liked best, but what they hated least. Less hatred passed for love. Dissolving the Coalition Parliament gave the nation a way to satisfy its resentment, so the dissolution was bound to be popular. That is where the Court's popularity came from.

Changes like this show a nation ruled by its mood instead of a firm, steady principle. Once it has acted, even rashly, it feels driven to keep going to justify its first move. It now approves measures it would condemn at other times and talks itself into silencing its judgment.

When a new Parliament met, the new Minister, Mr. Pitt, found that he had a secure majority. The nation trusted him not because it cared about him, but because resentment toward someone else had led it to decide to trust him. He first drew public attention with a proposal to reform Parliament. In practice, it would have meant using public money to excuse corruption. The nation was supposed to buy up the rotten boroughs when it should have punished the people trading in them.

I will pass over the two empty schemes: the Dutch business and the million a year meant to reduce the national debt. The matter that stands out most is the Regency. In all my experience, I have never seen a deception carried out so successfully or a nation fooled so completely. To show why, I must go through what happened.

Mr. Fox said in the House of Commons that the Prince of Wales, as the heir, had an inherent right to take over the government. Mr. Pitt opposed him. As long as he opposed only that claim, he was right. But the principles Mr. Pitt advanced instead were just as bad, or worse in their reach, than Mr. Fox's. They would put an aristocracy over the nation and over the small measure of representation it has in the House of Commons.

Whether England's form of government is good or bad is not the question here. Take it as it stands, regardless of its merits. Mr. Pitt's position was further from the point than Mr. Fox's.

That government is supposed to have three parts. So long as the nation wants to keep this form, each part has a place given it by the nation, independent of the others. None is created by another part. If Mr. Fox had gone through Parliament and said that the person he meant claimed power on the nation's authority, Mr. Pitt would have had to set what he called Parliament's right against the nation's right.

To an observer, Mr. Fox seemed to rely on heredity, while Mr. Pitt seemed to rely on Parliament. In fact, both relied on heredity, and Mr. Pitt chose the worse form of it.

What is called Parliament has two Houses. One is more hereditary and further beyond the nation's control than the Crown is supposed to be. It is a hereditary aristocracy claiming rights and powers that cannot be lost or taken back and that are wholly independent of the nation. Why should Mr. Pitt deserve praise for raising this hereditary power above another that is less independent of the nation? Why should anyone praise him for transferring the nation's rights to a House whose members the nation cannot elect or control?

The nation's first reaction was right, but it acted without thinking things through. It approved Mr. Pitt's opposition to the right Mr. Fox claimed, without seeing that Mr. Pitt was defending another supposed right that could not be taken back and was even further removed from the nation.

Only a small part of the nation elects the House of Commons. But even if everyone who pays taxes could vote, as everyone should, the House would still be only the nation's instrument. It could not have rights of its own. When the National Assembly of France decides an issue, it acts on the nation's authority. But on all national questions involving the House of Commons, Mr. Pitt takes the nation's rights and gives them to its instrument. He makes the instrument the nation and makes the nation itself count for nothing.

In short, the Regency dispute was over a million a year set aside for the executive branch. Mr. Pitt could not gain any control of that sum without claiming that Parliament was supreme. Once he had done so, it did not matter who served as Regent, because that person would have to pay his own costs. One strange feature of the bitter debate was the proposal to make the Great Seal act as a king. Attaching it to an act was supposed to give that act royal authority. If royal authority is just a Great Seal, then it is nothing in itself. A sound Constitution would be worth infinitely more to the nation than the three Powers that now exist mostly in name.

Members of the English Parliament constantly say "Constitution." That shows they have none. They merely have a form of government without a Constitution, and they give themselves whatever powers they please. If a Constitution existed, they could refer to it. A debate about any constitutional issue would end when someone produced it. One member calls one thing the Constitution and another calls something else the Constitution. Today it means one thing; tomorrow, another. The fact that the debate continues proves there is no Constitution. "Constitution" is now a catchword in Parliament, chosen to please the nation. Parliament used to speak of its universal supremacy and its unlimited power. Since liberty has advanced in France, those phrases sound too openly despotic. So the English Parliament has borrowed the National Assembly's habit of talking about a Constitution, but not the real thing.

The people now living in England did not create their government, so they are not responsible for its faults. But sooner or later they will have to take charge of it and reform it through a Constitution. This is as certain as the fact that France has done so. Consider France: it had revenue of nearly twenty-four millions sterling; rich, fertile territory more than four times the size of England; twenty-four millions of people to support taxation; upwards of ninety millions sterling in gold and silver circulating in the nation; and a debt smaller than England's current debt. Yet it still found it necessary, for whatever reason, to settle its finances. Its example answers the question about funding in both countries.

It does not help to say how long the so-called English constitution has lasted and then claim it will last as long again. The question is how long the funding system can last. It is a recent invention, not yet as old as one person's lifetime. Yet it has grown so much in that short time that, together with current expenses, it calls for yearly taxes at least equal to all the rent paid for the nation's land. Everyone must see that a government could not always have used the system it has followed for the last seventy years. For the same reason, it cannot keep using it forever.