Book IV, Chapter VII, 12

As the Roman republic declined, Rome’s allies, who had borne the chief burden of defending the state and enlarging its empire, demanded the full privileges of Roman citizenship. When they were refused, the Social War broke out. During that war Rome granted those privileges to most of them, one after another, as they withdrew from the general confederacy. The parliament of Great Britain insists on taxing the colonies, and they refuse to be taxed by a parliament in which they have no representation. Suppose Great Britain offered each colony that withdrew from the general confederacy a number of representatives proportionate to its contribution to the empire’s public revenue, once it had become subject to the same taxes and, in compensation, received the same freedom of trade as its fellow subjects at home; suppose, too, that its representation increased as its contribution increased. The leading men of each colony would then have a new way to gain importance, a new and more dazzling object for their ambition. Instead of scrambling for the petty prizes in what might be called the shabby raffle of colonial faction, they might hope, with the confidence people naturally place in their own talents and luck, to win one of the great prizes occasionally drawn in the grand state lottery of British politics. Unless some means is found—and none seems more obvious than this—to preserve the importance and satisfy the ambition of America’s leading men, it is unlikely that they will ever submit to us voluntarily. We should remember that every drop of blood shed in forcing them to submit belongs either to people who are our fellow citizens or to people whom we wish to make our fellow citizens. Those who flatter themselves that, at this stage, our colonies can easily be conquered by force alone show little judgment. The men who now direct the decisions of what they call their Continental Congress feel a degree of importance that perhaps even the greatest subjects in Europe scarcely feel. Shopkeepers, tradesmen, and attorneys have become statesmen and legislators, occupied with devising a new form of government for an extensive empire which they believe will become—and which indeed seems likely to become—one of the greatest and most formidable the world has ever known. Perhaps five hundred people acting directly under the Continental Congress in various capacities, and perhaps five hundred thousand acting under those five hundred, likewise feel a corresponding rise in their own importance. Almost every member of the governing party in America now imagines himself to hold a position above not only any he has held before, but any he ever expected to hold. Unless a new object for his ambition, or his leaders’ ambition, is offered, any man of ordinary spirit will die defending that position.

President Heynaut observed that we now read with pleasure accounts of many small incidents of the Ligue that, when they occurred, were perhaps not considered especially important news. Yet everyone then, he says, imagined himself to matter; and the countless memoirs handed down from that time were mostly written by people who enjoyed recording and magnifying events in which they believed themselves to have played a notable part. It is well known how stubbornly Paris defended itself on that occasion, and what terrible famine it endured rather than submit to the best, and later the most beloved, of all French kings. Most of the citizens, or those who governed most of them, fought to defend their own importance, which they foresaw would vanish as soon as the old government was restored. Unless our colonies can be persuaded to agree to a union, they are likely to defend themselves against the best of all mother countries as stubbornly as Paris did against one of the best of kings.

The idea of representation was unknown in antiquity. When the people of one state received citizenship in another, they could exercise that right only by coming together in person to vote and deliberate with the people of the other state. Admitting most of Italy’s inhabitants to the privileges of Roman citizens utterly ruined the Roman republic. It was no longer possible to tell who was a Roman citizen and who was not. No tribe could identify its own members. Any rabble could enter the popular assemblies, drive out the genuine citizens, and decide the republic’s affairs as though they themselves were citizens. But even if America sent fifty or sixty new representatives to parliament, the doorkeeper of the house of commons would have little difficulty telling members from nonmembers. Although the union of Rome with the allied states of Italy therefore necessarily ruined the Roman constitution, there is not the slightest likelihood that union with her colonies would damage the British constitution. On the contrary, union would complete that constitution, which seems imperfect without it. An assembly that deliberates and decides on the affairs of every part of the empire must surely have representatives from every part if it is to be properly informed. I do not claim, however, that this union could easily be accomplished, or that great difficulties might not arise in carrying it out. Yet I have heard of none that appear insurmountable. The chief difficulties perhaps arise not from the nature of things but from people’s prejudices and opinions on both sides of the Atlantic.

We on this side of the ocean fear that a multitude of American representatives would upset the balance of the constitution, unduly increasing either the crown’s influence or democracy’s strength. But if the number of American representatives were proportional to the proceeds of American taxation, the number of people to be managed would increase in exact proportion to the means of managing them, and the means of managing them in proportion to their number. After union, the monarchical and democratic elements of the constitution would retain exactly the same relative strength as before.

People on the other side of the ocean fear that their distance from the seat of government might expose them to many forms of oppression. But their representatives in parliament, who ought to be numerous from the outset, could readily protect them from all oppression. Distance would do little to weaken the representative’s dependence on his constituents. He would still know that he owed his seat in parliament, and all the importance it gave him, to their goodwill. It would therefore be in his interest to maintain that goodwill by using the full authority of a legislator to protest every outrage committed by a civil or military officer in those distant parts of the empire. Moreover, the inhabitants of America might reasonably hope that its distance from the seat of government would not persist for very long. So rapid has that country’s progress in wealth, population, and improvement been that in perhaps little more than a century the proceeds of American taxation might exceed those of British taxation. The seat of empire would then naturally shift to the part that contributed most to the defense and support of the whole.

The discovery of America and the discovery of a passage to the East Indies around the Cape of Good Hope are the two greatest and most important events recorded in human history. Their consequences have already been immense; but in the brief span of between two and three centuries since those discoveries, their full consequences could not possibly have become visible. No human wisdom can foresee what benefits or misfortunes those great events may yet bring mankind. By bringing the most distant parts of the world into some measure of contact, allowing them to meet one another’s needs, increase one another’s pleasures, and encourage one another’s industry, their general tendency would seem beneficial. For the native peoples of both the East and West Indies, however, every commercial benefit arising from these events has been swallowed up and lost in the dreadful calamities they brought. Those calamities seem to have arisen more from circumstance than from anything inherent in the discoveries themselves. At the particular time they were made, Europeans happened to possess such overwhelming superiority of force that they could commit every sort of injustice in those distant countries with impunity. Perhaps in the future the native peoples of those countries will grow stronger, or Europeans weaker, until the inhabitants of all parts of the world attain that equality of courage and force which, by inspiring mutual fear, can alone restrain the injustice of independent nations and compel some respect for one another’s rights. Nothing seems more likely to establish such equality of force than the mutual exchange of knowledge and every kind of improvement which extensive commerce among all countries naturally—or rather necessarily—brings with it.

Meanwhile, one principal effect of these discoveries has been to raise the mercantile system to a splendor and glory it could never otherwise have reached. That system aims to enrich a great nation through trade and manufactures rather than through improving and cultivating land, through the industry of towns rather than that of the countryside. But as a consequence of the discoveries, Europe’s commercial towns are no longer manufacturers and carriers for only a small part of the world—the Atlantic shores of Europe and the countries around the Baltic and Mediterranean seas. They have become manufacturers for America’s numerous and flourishing cultivators, and carriers, as well as in some respects manufacturers, for nearly all the peoples of Asia, Africa, and America. Two new worlds have opened to their industry, each far larger and more extensive than the old one, and the market of one still growing larger every day.

The countries that possess American colonies and trade directly with the East Indies do indeed enjoy all the display and splendor of this great commerce. Yet other countries, despite the hostile restrictions intended to exclude them, often enjoy a greater share of its real benefits. The colonies of Spain and Portugal, for example, do more to encourage the industry of other countries than that of Spain and Portugal. In linen alone, those colonies are said to consume more than three millions sterling a year, though I cannot vouch for the figure. Nearly all this immense demand is supplied by France, Flanders, Holland, and Germany; Spain and Portugal supply only a small part. The capital that supplies the colonies with so much linen is distributed each year among the inhabitants of those other countries and provides them with revenue. Only its profits are spent in Spain and Portugal, where they help sustain the extravagant luxury of the merchants of Cadiz and Lisbon.

Even the regulations by which each nation tries to reserve exclusive trade with its colonies for itself often harm the favored countries more than the countries they exclude. The unjust oppression of other countries’ industry recoils, so to speak, upon the oppressors and crushes their own industry more severely. Under these regulations, for example, a merchant of Hamburg must send linen bound for the American market to London, and bring back from London tobacco destined for the German market: he can neither send the linen directly to America nor bring the tobacco directly from there. This restriction probably forces him to sell the one somewhat cheaper and buy the other somewhat dearer than he otherwise would, diminishing his profits somewhat. Yet in this trade between Hamburg and London his capital certainly returns far more quickly than it could in direct trade with America, even if American payments were as punctual as London’s—which they certainly are not. In the trade to which these regulations confine the Hamburg merchant, therefore, his capital can keep far more German industry continuously employed than it could in the trade from which he is excluded. Though this employment may be less profitable to him, it cannot be less beneficial to his country. The opposite holds for the employment into which the monopoly naturally draws, so to speak, the London merchant’s capital. It may be more profitable to him than most other employments, but because its returns are slow, it cannot be more beneficial to his country.

Thus, after all the unjust efforts of each European country to appropriate the whole advantage of trade with its own colonies, none has yet succeeded in appropriating anything but the cost of maintaining in peacetime, and defending in wartime, the oppressive authority it assumes over them. Every country has reserved for itself all the disadvantages of possessing colonies. The advantages of trading with them it has been obliged to share with many other countries.

As the Roman republic was nearing its end, Rome's allies demanded all the rights of Roman citizens. They had carried most of the burden of defending the state and expanding the empire. Rome refused, and the Social War began. During the war, Rome granted those rights to most of its allies, one by one, as each broke away from the general alliance. Britain's Parliament insists on taxing the colonies. The colonies refuse to be taxed by a Parliament in which they have no representatives. Suppose Great Britain offered each colony that left the general alliance seats in Parliament in proportion to its contribution to the empire's public revenue. That contribution would come from paying the same taxes as people in Britain. In return, the colony would receive the same freedom of trade as those fellow subjects. Its number of representatives would rise if its share of the revenue rose later. This would give the leading men in each colony a new way to become important and a much more attractive goal to pursue. Instead of scrambling for the small prizes in the petty lottery of colonial politics, they could hope to win one of the great prizes sometimes offered by the much bigger lottery of British politics. Their natural confidence in their own abilities and good luck would encourage that hope. Unless we find this way, or another, to preserve the importance and satisfy the ambition of America's leading men, they are unlikely ever to submit to us voluntarily. I see no more obvious way. And we should remember that every drop of blood shed to force them to submit belongs either to people who are our fellow citizens or to people we want to become our fellow citizens. Anyone who tells himself that our colonies, at this point, will be easily conquered by force alone is fooling himself. Those who now direct the decisions of what they call their Continental Congress feel a degree of importance that perhaps even Europe's most powerful subjects hardly feel. Shopkeepers, tradesmen, and attorneys have become statesmen and lawmakers. They are designing a new government for a vast empire. They expect it to become one of the world's greatest and most formidable empires, and that seems very likely. Perhaps five hundred different people work directly under the Continental Congress in various ways, and perhaps five hundred thousand work under them. All of them likewise feel an increase in their own importance, each according to his place. Nearly everyone in the governing party in America now imagines himself holding a position higher than any he has held before, or ever expected to hold. Unless he or his leaders are offered some new ambition, he will, if he has an ordinary man's courage, die defending that position.

President Heynaut observed that we now enjoy reading accounts of many small incidents of the Ligue. When those incidents occurred, they may not have seemed very important news. But, he says, everyone then imagined he mattered. Countless memoirs survive from that time, mostly written by people who enjoyed recording and making more of events in which they believed they had played an important part. Everyone knows how stubbornly Paris defended itself at that time, and how terrible a famine it endured rather than submit to the man who was the best, and later the most beloved, of all French kings. Most citizens, or those who governed most of them, fought to defend their own importance. They foresaw that they would lose it when the old government was restored. Unless our colonies can be persuaded to agree to a union, they are likely to defend themselves against even the best of mother countries as stubbornly as Paris defended itself against one of the best of kings.

Ancient people did not have the idea of representation. When people from one state received citizenship in another, they could exercise that right only by going there together to vote and debate with its people. Granting Roman citizenship to most of Italy's inhabitants completely destroyed the Roman republic. No one could any longer tell who was a Roman citizen and who was not. No tribe could identify its own members. Any mob could enter the people's assemblies, drive out the real citizens, and decide the republic's affairs as if the mob members were citizens. But if America sent fifty or sixty new representatives to Parliament, the doorkeeper of the House of Commons would have little trouble telling members from nonmembers. The union of Rome with its Italian allies therefore had to ruin the Roman constitution, but a union between Great Britain and her colonies is very unlikely to harm the British constitution at all. On the contrary, it would complete that constitution, which seems incomplete without the union. To be properly informed, an assembly that debates and decides the affairs of every part of the empire should certainly include representatives from every part. I do not claim, however, that this union would be easy to arrange or that it would face no difficulties, even great ones, in practice. Yet I have heard of no difficulty that seems impossible to overcome. The main difficulties may come not from the nature of the arrangement but from people's prejudices and opinions on both sides of the Atlantic.

We on this side of the ocean fear that large numbers of American representatives would upset the balance of the constitution. They might greatly increase either the crown's influence or the power of the people. But if American representatives were allotted in proportion to American tax revenue, the number of people the crown would need to influence would rise in exactly the same proportion as its means of influencing them. Those means, in turn, would rise in proportion to the number of people to influence. After the union, the monarchy and the democratic part of the constitution would have exactly the same relative strength as before.

People across the ocean fear that their distance from the seat of government would leave them open to many abuses. But they would have a substantial number of representatives in Parliament from the start, and those representatives could easily protect them from abuse. Distance would not greatly weaken a representative's dependence on the people who elected him. He would still know that he owed his seat in Parliament, and the standing it gave him, to their goodwill. It would therefore be in his interest to keep that goodwill. As a member of the legislature, he could use his authority to protest every abuse committed by a civilian or military officer in those distant parts of the empire. Besides, Americans might reasonably hope that their distance from the seat of government would not last very long. America has grown so rapidly in wealth, population, and development that, in little more than a century, perhaps, its tax revenue might exceed Britain's. The seat of the empire would then naturally move to the part contributing most to the defense and support of the whole empire.

The discovery of America and of a route to the East Indies around the Cape of Good Hope are the two greatest and most important events in recorded human history. Their effects have already been great. But only between two and three centuries have passed since these discoveries, far too little time to see the full extent of their effects. No one can foresee what benefits or disasters they may bring to humanity in the future. They connect some of the world's most distant regions. They let people in those regions meet one another's needs, add to one another's pleasures, and encourage one another's industry. In general, their effects would therefore seem beneficial. Yet for the native peoples of both the East and West Indies, any commercial benefits of these discoveries have been overwhelmed by the terrible disasters they caused. Those disasters seem to have arisen from circumstance, rather than from the discoveries themselves. When the discoveries happened, Europeans had so much greater military strength that they could commit every kind of injustice in those distant countries without punishment. Perhaps the native peoples will grow stronger in the future, or Europeans weaker. People in all parts of the world might then reach an equality in courage and strength. By making them fear one another, that equality alone could force independent nations to show some respect for one another's rights rather than act unjustly. Nothing seems more likely to bring about such equality than the sharing of knowledge and every kind of improvement that extensive trade between all countries naturally, and indeed necessarily, brings with it.

Meanwhile, one major effect of the discoveries has been to give the mercantile system a glory and prestige it could never otherwise have achieved. That system aims to enrich a great nation through trade and manufacturing rather than through improving and cultivating the land; it favors the work of towns over that of the countryside. Because of the discoveries, Europe's commercial towns are no longer manufacturers and carriers for only a small part of the world: the Atlantic coast of Europe and the lands around the Baltic and Mediterranean seas. They now manufacture for the many prosperous farmers of America. They also carry goods, and to some extent manufacture them, for almost all the nations of Asia, Africa, and America. Two new worlds have opened to their industry, each far larger than the old market. The market of one of them grows larger every day.

Countries with American colonies and direct trade with the East Indies certainly enjoy all the visible glory of this vast commerce. Other countries, though faced with restrictions meant to keep them out, often get a larger share of its real benefits. The colonies of Spain and Portugal, for example, encourage other countries' industry more than they encourage Spanish and Portuguese industry. Those colonies are said to consume more than three millions sterling a year in linen alone, though I cannot vouch for that figure. France, Flanders, Holland, and Germany supply almost all of it. Spain and Portugal supply only a small part. The capital that supplies all this linen to the colonies is distributed each year among the people of those other countries and provides them with revenue. Only its profits are spent in Spain and Portugal, where they help support the extravagant spending of merchants in Cadiz and Lisbon.

Even the rules each nation uses to reserve the trade of its colonies for itself often do more harm to the nation they are meant to favor than to those they exclude. The unjust suppression of other countries' industry comes back, so to speak, on the oppressors. It crushes their industry more than the industry of others. Under those rules, for example, a merchant in Hamburg must send linen meant for the American market through London. He must also obtain tobacco meant for the German market from London. He cannot send the linen directly to America or bring tobacco directly from there. This restriction probably makes him sell his linen somewhat more cheaply and buy his tobacco somewhat more dearly than he otherwise would. His profits are probably somewhat smaller. Yet in trade between Hamburg and London he certainly gets his capital back much sooner than he could in direct trade with America. That would be true even if American payments were as prompt as London's, which they are not. So the trade to which the rules confine the Hamburg merchant allows his capital to keep far more German industry continuously employed than direct American trade could. His own profit might be lower, but this trade cannot be less beneficial to his country. The opposite is true of the business into which the monopoly draws the London merchant's capital. That business may be more profitable for him than most others. But its capital returns so slowly that it cannot be more beneficial for his country.

After all the unjust efforts by Europe's countries to keep the entire benefit of their own colonies' trade for themselves, not one country has managed to keep anything entirely for itself except the cost of governing its colonies with oppressive authority in peace and defending that authority in war. Every country has kept all the disadvantages of owning its colonies. It has had to share the benefits of colonial trade with many other countries.