Parliament

The members of the English Parliament are fond of comparing themselves to the old Romans.

Members of the English Parliament like to compare themselves to the ancient Romans.

Not long since Mr. Shippen opened a speech in the House of Commons with these words, “The majesty of the people of England would be wounded.” The singularity of the expression occasioned a loud laugh; but this gentleman, so far from being disconcerted, repeated the same words with a resolute tone of voice, and the laugh ceased. In my opinion, the majesty of the people of England has nothing in common with that of the people of Rome, much less is there any affinity between their Governments. There is in London a senate, some of the members whereof are accused (doubtless very unjustly) of selling their voices on certain occasions, as was done in Rome; this is the only resemblance. Besides, the two nations appear to me quite opposite in character, with regard both to good and evil. The Romans never knew the dreadful folly of religious wars, an abomination reserved for devout preachers of patience and humility. Marius and Sylla, Cæsar and Pompey, Anthony and Augustus, did not draw their swords and set the world in a blaze merely to determine whether the flamen should wear his shirt over his robe, or his robe over his shirt, or whether the sacred chickens should eat and drink, or eat only, in order to take the augury. The English have hanged one another by law, and cut one another to pieces in pitched battles, for quarrels of as trifling a nature. The sects of the Episcopalians and Presbyterians quite distracted these very serious heads for a time. But I fancy they will hardly ever be so silly again, they seeming to be grown wiser at their own expense; and I do not perceive the least inclination in them to murder one another merely about syllogisms, as some zealots among them once did.

Not long ago, Mr. Shippen began a speech in the House of Commons with these words, “The majesty of the people of England would be wounded.” The unusual expression drew loud laughter. But Mr. Shippen was not flustered. He repeated the same words firmly, and the laughter stopped. In my opinion, the majesty of the people of England has nothing in common with that of the people of Rome. Their governments have even less in common. London has a senate, some of whose members are accused of selling their votes on certain occasions, as happened in Rome. These accusations are doubtless very unjust. This is the only resemblance. Besides, the two nations seem to me completely opposite in character, in both their virtues and their faults. The Romans never knew the dreadful folly of religious wars, an abomination reserved for devout preachers of patience and humility. Marius and Sylla, Cæsar and Pompey, Anthony and Augustus did not draw their swords and set the world ablaze over mere questions of ritual. They were not fighting to decide whether the flamen, a priest, should wear his shirt over his robe or his robe over his shirt. Nor were they deciding whether the sacred chickens should eat and drink, or only eat, to reveal omens. The English have legally hanged one another and cut one another to pieces in pitched battles over equally trivial quarrels. For a time, the Episcopalian and Presbyterian sects drove these very serious people quite out of their minds. But I imagine the English will hardly ever be so foolish again. They seem to have grown wiser at their own expense. And I see no sign that they want to murder one another merely over syllogisms, as some English zealots once did.

But here follows a more essential difference between Rome and England, which gives the advantage entirely to the latter—viz., that the civil wars of Rome ended in slavery, and those of the English in liberty. The English are the only people upon earth who have been able to prescribe limits to the power of kings by resisting them; and who, by a series of struggles, have at last established that wise Government where the Prince is all-powerful to do good, and, at the same time, is restrained from committing evil; where the nobles are great without insolence, though there are no vassals; and where the people share in the Government without confusion.

But here is a more important difference between Rome and England, one that gives England the entire advantage. Rome’s civil wars ended in slavery, while England’s ended in liberty. The English are the only people on earth who have managed to limit the power of kings by resisting them. Through a series of struggles, they have finally established a wise form of government. Under this government, the ruler has unlimited power to do good but is prevented from doing evil. The nobles enjoy high status without arrogance, though there are no vassals. And the people share in governing without disorder.

The House of Lords and that of the Commons divide the legislative power under the king, but the Romans had no such balance. The patricians and plebeians in Rome were perpetually at variance, and there was no intermediate power to reconcile them. The Roman senate, who were so unjustly, so criminally proud as not to suffer the plebeians to share with them in anything, could find no other artifice to keep the latter out of the administration than by employing them in foreign wars. They considered the plebeians as a wild beast, whom it behoved them to let loose upon their neighbours, for fear they should devour their masters. Thus the greatest defect in the Government of the Romans raised them to be conquerors. By being unhappy at home, they triumphed over and possessed themselves of the world, till at last their divisions sunk them to slavery.

The House of Lords and the House of Commons share legislative power under the king. But the Romans had no such balance. The patricians and plebeians in Rome were constantly at odds, with no power between them to settle their disputes. The Roman senate was so unjustly and criminally proud that its members refused to share anything with the plebeians. The senate could find no way to keep the plebeians out of government except by sending them to foreign wars. The senators saw the plebeians as a wild beast to be set loose on their neighbours. Otherwise, they feared, the beast would devour its masters. Thus the greatest flaw in Roman government made the Romans conquerors. Because the Romans were unhappy at home, they conquered and took possession of the world. At last, however, their divisions reduced them to slavery.

The Government of England will never rise to so exalted a pitch of glory, nor will its end be so fatal. The English are not fired with the splendid folly of making conquests, but would only prevent their neighbours from conquering. They are not only jealous of their own liberty, but even of that of other nations. The English were exasperated against Louis XIV. for no other reason but because he was ambitious, and declared war against him merely out of levity, not from any interested motives.

The Government of England will never reach such heights of glory, nor will its end be so disastrous. The English are not driven by the glorious folly of conquest, but only want to stop their neighbours from conquering. They fiercely guard not only their own freedom but also the freedom of other nations. The English were furious with Louis XIV. for no reason other than his ambition. They declared war on him merely out of recklessness, not for any personal gain.

The English have doubtless purchased their liberties at a very high price, and waded through seas of blood to drown the idol of arbitrary power. Other nations have been involved in as great calamities, and have shed as much blood; but then the blood they spilt in defence of their liberties only enslaved them the more.

The English have undoubtedly paid a very high price for their freedoms. They have waded through seas of blood to drown the idol of unchecked power. Other nations have suffered equally great disasters and shed just as much blood. But the blood those nations shed defending their freedoms only left them more enslaved.

That which rises to a revolution in England is no more than a sedition in other countries. A city in Spain, in Barbary, or in Turkey, takes up arms in defence of its privileges, when immediately it is stormed by mercenary troops, it is punished by executioners, and the rest of the nation kiss the chains they are loaded with. The French are of opinion that the government of this island is more tempestuous than the sea which surrounds it, which indeed is true; but then it is never so but when the king raises the storm—when he attempts to seize the ship of which he is only the chief pilot. The civil wars of France lasted longer, were more cruel, and productive of greater evils than those of England; but none of these civil wars had a wise and prudent liberty for their object.

What amounts to a revolution in England is no more than a rebellion in other countries. A city in Spain, Barbary, or Turkey takes up arms to defend its privileges. Immediately, mercenary troops storm the city, and executioners punish its people. The rest of the nation kiss the chains that bind them. The French believe that England’s government is stormier than the sea surrounding the island. Indeed, this is true, but only when the king raises the storm. He does so when he tries to seize the ship of which he is only the chief pilot. France’s civil wars lasted longer, were crueler, and caused greater harm than England’s. But none of France’s civil wars aimed to secure a wise and sensible form of liberty.

In the detestable reigns of Charles IX. and Henry III. the whole affair was only whether the people should be slaves to the Guises. With regard to the last war of Paris, it deserves only to be hooted at. Methinks I see a crowd of schoolboys rising up in arms against their master, and afterwards whipped for it. Cardinal de Retz, who was witty and brave (but to no purpose), rebellious without a cause, factious without design, and head of a defenceless party, caballed for caballing sake, and seemed to foment the civil war merely out of diversion. The Parliament did not know what he intended, nor what he did not intend. He levied troops by Act of Parliament, and the next moment cashiered them. He threatened, he begged pardon; he set a price upon Cardinal Mazarin’s head, and afterwards congratulated him in a public manner. Our civil wars under Charles VI. were bloody and cruel, those of the League execrable, and that of the Frondeurs ridiculous.

During the detestable reigns of Charles IX. and Henry III., the only issue was whether the people should be slaves to the Guises. As for the last war in Paris, it deserves nothing but mockery. I seem to see a crowd of schoolboys taking up arms against their teacher, then getting whipped for it. Cardinal de Retz was witty and brave, but to no purpose. He rebelled without a cause, stirred up factions without a plan, and led a party unable to defend itself. He plotted for the sake of plotting and seemed to stir up civil war merely for amusement. The Parliament knew neither what he intended nor what he did not intend. He raised troops by an Act of Parliament, then dismissed them the next moment. He made threats, then begged forgiveness. He put a price on Cardinal Mazarin’s head, then publicly congratulated him. Our civil wars under Charles VI. were bloody and cruel. Those of the League were abhorrent, and the war of the Frondeurs was ridiculous.

That for which the French chiefly reproach the English nation is the murder of King Charles I., whom his subjects treated exactly as he would have treated them had his reign been prosperous. After all, consider on one side Charles I., defeated in a pitched battle, imprisoned, tried, sentenced to die in Westminster Hall, and then beheaded. And on the other, the Emperor Henry VII., poisoned by his chaplain at his receiving the Sacrament; Henry III. stabbed by a monk; thirty assassinations projected against Henry IV., several of them put in execution, and the last bereaving that great monarch of his life. Weigh, I say, all these wicked attempts, and then judge.

The French chiefly condemn the English nation for the murder of King Charles I. His subjects treated him exactly as he would have treated them if his reign had gone well. After all, consider Charles I. on one side. He was defeated in battle, imprisoned, tried, sentenced to death in Westminster Hall, and then beheaded. On the other side, consider the Emperor Henry VII., poisoned by his chaplain while receiving the Sacrament. Consider Henry III., stabbed by a monk. Consider the thirty assassination plots against Henry IV. Several were carried out, and the last took that great monarch’s life. Weigh all these wicked attempts, I say, and then judge.