The description of a person discontented with the present government,
and apprehensive of the loss of our liberties.
The house where we were to be entertained, lying at a small distance
from the village, our inviter observed, that as the coach was not
ready, he would conduct us on foot, and we soon arrived at one of the
most magnificent mansions I had seen in that part of the country. The
apartment into which we were shewn was perfectly elegant and modern; he
went to give orders for supper, while the player, with a wink, observed
that we were perfectly in luck. Our entertainer soon returned, an
elegant supper was brought in, two or three ladies, in an easy
deshabille, were introduced, and the conversation began with some
sprightliness. Politics, however, was the subject on which our
entertainer chiefly expatiated; for he asserted that liberty was at
once his boast and his terror. After the cloth was removed, he asked me
if I had seen the last Monitor, to which replying in the negative,
‘What, nor the Auditor, I suppose?’ cried he. ‘Neither, Sir,’ returned
I. ‘That’s strange, very strange,’ replied my entertainer. ‘Now, I read
all the politics that come out. The Daily, the Public, the Ledger, the
Chronicle, the London Evening, the Whitehall Evening, the seventeen
magazines, and the two reviews; and though they hate each other, I love
them all. Liberty, Sir, liberty is the Briton’s boast, and by all my
coal mines in Cornwall, I reverence its guardians.’ ‘Then it is to be
hoped,’ cried I, ‘you reverence the king.’ ‘Yes,’ returned my
entertainer, ‘when he does what we would have him; but if he goes on as
he has done of late, I’ll never trouble myself more with his matters. I
say nothing. I think only. I could have directed some things better. I
don’t think there has been a sufficient number of advisers: he should
advise with every person willing to give him advice, and then we should
have things done in anotherguess manner.’
‘I wish,’ cried I, ‘that such intruding advisers were fixed in the
pillory. It should be the duty of honest men to assist the weaker side
of our constitution, that sacred power that has for some years been
every day declining, and losing its due share of influence in the
state. But these ignorants still continue the cry of liberty, and if
they have any weight basely throw it into the subsiding scale.’
‘How,’ cried one of the ladies, ‘do I live to see one so base, so
sordid, as to be an enemy to liberty, and a defender of tyrants?
Liberty, that sacred gift of heaven, that glorious privilege of
Britons!’
‘Can it be possible,’ cried our entertainer, ‘that there should be any
found at present advocates for slavery? Any who are for meanly giving
up the privileges of Britons? Can any, Sir, be so abject?’
‘No, Sir,’ replied I, ‘I am for liberty, that attribute of Gods!
Glorious liberty! that theme of modern declamation. I would have all
men kings. I would be a king myself. We have all naturally an equal
right to the throne: we are all originally equal. This is my opinion,
and was once the opinion of a set of honest men who were called
Levellers. They tried to erect themselves into a community, where all
should be equally free. But, alas! it would never answer; for there
were some among them stronger, and some more cunning than others, and
these became masters of the rest; for as sure as your groom rides your
horses, because he is a cunninger animal than they, so surely will the
animal that is cunninger or stronger than he, sit upon his shoulders in
turn. Since then it is entailed upon humanity to submit, and some are
born to command, and others to obey, the question is, as there must be
tyrants, whether it is better to have them in the same house with us,
or in the same village, or still farther off, in the metropolis. Now,
Sir, for my own part, as I naturally hate the face of a tyrant, the
farther off he is removed from me, the better pleased am I. The
generality of mankind also are of my way of thinking, and have
unanimously created one king, whose election at once diminishes the
number of tyrants, and puts tyranny at the greatest distance from the
greatest number of people. Now the great who were tyrants themselves
before the election of one tyrant, are naturally averse to a power
raised over them, and whose weight must ever lean heaviest on the
subordinate orders. It is the interest of the great, therefore, to
diminish kingly power as much as possible; because whatever they take
from that is naturally restored to themselves; and all they have to do
in the state, is to undermine the single tyrant, by which they resume
their primaeval authority. Now, the state may be so circumstanced, or
its laws may be so disposed, or its men of opulence so minded, as all
to conspire in carrying on this business of undermining monarchy. For,
in the first place, if the circumstances of our state be such, as to
favour the accumulation of wealth, and make the opulent still more
rich, this will encrease their ambition. An accumulation of wealth,
however, must necessarily be the consequence, when as at present more
riches flow in from external commerce, than arise from internal
industry: for external commerce can only be managed to advantage by the
rich, and they have also at the same time all the emoluments arising
from internal industry: so that the rich, with us, have two sources of
wealth, whereas the poor have but one. For this reason, wealth in all
commercial states is found to accumulate, and all such have hitherto in
time become aristocratical. Again, the very laws also of this country
may contribute to the accumulation of wealth; as when by their means
the natural ties that bind the rich and poor together are broken, and
it is ordained that the rich shall only marry with the rich; or when
the learned are held unqualified to serve their country as counsellors
merely from a defect of opulence, and wealth is thus made the object of
a wise man’s ambition; by these means I say, and such means as these,
riches will accumulate. Now the possessor of accumulated wealth, when
furnished with the necessaries and pleasures of life, has no other
method to employ the superfluity of his fortune but in purchasing
power. That is, differently speaking, in making dependents, by
purchasing the liberty of the needy or the venal, of men who are
willing to bear the mortification of contiguous tyranny for bread. Thus
each very opulent man generally gathers round him a circle of the
poorest of the people; and the polity abounding in accumulated wealth,
may be compared to a Cartesian system, each orb with a vortex of its
own. Those, however, who are willing to move in a great man’s vortex,
are only such as must be slaves, the rabble of mankind, whose souls and
whose education are adapted to servitude, and who know nothing of
liberty except the name. But there must still be a large number of the
people without the sphere of the opulent man’s influence, namely, that
order of men which subsists between the very rich and the very rabble;
those men who are possest of too large fortunes to submit to the
neighbouring man in power, and yet are too poor to set up for tyranny
themselves. In this middle order of mankind are generally to be found
all the arts, wisdom, and virtues of society. This order alone is known
to be the true preserver of freedom, and may be called the People. Now
it may happen that this middle order of mankind may lose all its
influence in a state, and its voice be in a manner drowned in that of
the rabble: for if the fortune sufficient for qualifying a person at
present to give his voice in state affairs, be ten times less than was
judged sufficient upon forming the constitution, it is evident that
greater numbers of the rabble will thus be introduced into the
political system, and they ever moving in the vortex of the great, will
follow where greatness shall direct. In such a state, therefore, all
that the middle order has left, is to preserve the prerogative and
privileges of the one principal governor with the most sacred
circumspection. For he divides the power of the rich, and calls off the
great from falling with tenfold weight on the middle order placed
beneath them. The middle order may be compared to a town of which the
opulent are forming the siege, and which the governor from without is
hastening the relief. While the besiegers are in dread of an enemy over
them, it is but natural to offer the townsmen the most specious terms;
to flatter them with sounds, and amuse them with privileges: but if
they once defeat the governor from behind, the walls of the town will
be but a small defence to its inhabitants. What they may then expect,
may be seen by turning our eyes to Holland, Genoa, or Venice, where the
laws govern the poor, and the rich govern the law. I am then for, and
would die for, monarchy, sacred monarchy; for if there be any thing
sacred amongst men, it must be the anointed sovereign of his people,
and every diminution of his power in war, or in peace, is an
infringement upon the real liberties of the subject. The sounds of
liberty, patriotism, and Britons, have already done much, it is to be
hoped that the true sons of freedom will prevent their ever doing more.
I have known many of those pretended champions for liberty in my time,
yet do I not remember one that was not in his heart and in his family a
tyrant.’
My warmth I found had lengthened this harangue beyond the rules of good
breeding: but the impatience of my entertainer, who often strove to
interrupt it, could be restrained no longer. ‘What,’ cried he, ‘then I
have been all this while entertaining a Jesuit in parson’s cloaths; but
by all the coal mines of Cornwall, out he shall pack, if my name be
Wilkinson.’ I now found I had gone too far, and asked pardon for the
warmth with which I had spoken. ‘Pardon,’ returned he in a fury: ‘I
think such principles demand ten thousand pardons. What, give up
liberty, property, and, as the Gazetteer says, lie down to be saddled
with wooden shoes! Sir, I insist upon your marching out of this house
immediately, to prevent worse consequences, Sir, I insist upon it.’ I
was going to repeat my rernonstrances; but just then we heard a
footman’s rap at the door, and the two ladies cried out, ‘As sure as
death there is our master and mistress come home.’ It seems my
entertainer was all this while only the butler, who, in his master’s
absence, had a mind to cut a figure, and be for a while the gentleman
himself; and, to say the truth, he talked politics as well as most
country gentlemen do. But nothing could now exceed my confusion upon
seeing the gentleman, and his lady, enter, nor was their surprize, at
finding such company and good cheer, less than ours. ‘Gentlemen,’ cried
the real master of the house, to me and my companion, ‘my wife and I
are your most humble servants; but I protest this is so unexpected a
favour, that we almost sink under the obligation.’ However unexpected
our company might be to them, theirs, I am sure, was still more so to
us, and I was struck dumb with the apprehensions of my own absurdity,
when whom should I next see enter the room but my dear miss Arabella
Wilmot, who was formerly designed to be married to my son George; but
whose match was broken off, as already related. As soon as she saw me,
she flew to my arms with the utmost joy. ‘My dear sir,’ cried she, ‘to
what happy accident is it that we owe so unexpected a visit? I am sure
my uncle and aunt will be in raptures when they find they have the good
Dr Primrose for their guest.’ Upon hearing my name, the old gentleman
and lady very politely stept up, and welcomed me with most cordial
hospitality. Nor could they forbear smiling upon being informed of the
nature of my present visit: but the unfortunate butler, whom they at
first seemed disposed to turn away, was, at my intercession, forgiven.
Mr Arnold and his lady, to whom the house belonged, now insisted upon
having the pleasure of my stay for some days, and as their niece, my
charming pupil, whose mind, in some measure, had been formed under my
own instructions, joined in their entreaties, I complied. That night I
was shewn to a magnificent chamber, and the next morning early Miss
Wilmot desired to walk with me in the garden, which was decorated in
the modern manner. After some time spent in pointing out the beauties
of the place, she enquired with seeming unconcern, when last I had
heard from my son George. ‘Alas! Madam,’ cried I, ‘he has now been near
three years absent, without ever writing to his friends or me. Where he
is I know not; perhaps I shall never see him or happiness more. No, my
dear Madam, we shall never more see such pleasing hours as were once
spent by our fire-side at Wakefield. My little family are now
dispersing very fast, and poverty has brought not only want, but infamy
upon us.’ The good-natured girl let fall a tear at this account; but as
I saw her possessed of too much sensibility, I forbore a more minute
detail of our sufferings. It was, however, some consolation to me to
find that time had made no alteration in her affections, and that she
had rejected several matches that had been made her since our leaving
her part of the country. She led me round all the extensive
improvements of the place, pointing to the several walks and arbours,
and at the same time catching from every object a hint for some new
question relative to my son. In this manner we spent the forenoon, till
the bell summoned us in to dinner, where we found the manager of the
strolling company that I mentioned before, who was come to dispose of
tickets for the Fair Penitent, which was to be acted that evening, the
part of Horatio by a young gentleman who had never appeared on any
stage. He seemed to be very warm in the praises of the new performer,
and averred, that he never saw any who bid so fair for excellence.
Acting, he observed, was not learned in a day; ‘But this gentleman,’
continued he, ‘seems born to tread the stage. His voice, his figure,
and attitudes, are all admirable. We caught him up accidentally in our
journey down.’ This account, in some measure, excited our curiosity,
and, at the entreaty of the ladies, I was prevailed upon to accompany
them to the play-house, which was no other than a barn. As the company
with which I went was incontestably the chief of the place, we were
received with the greatest respect, and placed in the front seat of the
theatre; where we sate for some time with no small impatience to see
Horatio make his appearance. The new performer advanced at last, and
let parents think of my sensations by their own, when I found it was my
unfortunate son. He was going to begin, when, turning his eyes upon the
audience, he perceived Miss Wilmot and me, and stood at once speechless
and immoveable. The actors behind the scene, who ascribed this pause to
his natural timidity, attempted to encourage him; but instead of going
on, he burst into a flood of tears, and retired off the stage. I don’t
know what were my feelings on this occasion; for they succeeded with
too much rapidity for description: but I was soon awaked from this
disagreeable reverie by Miss Wilmot, who, pale and with a trembling
voice, desired me to conduct her back to her uncle’s. When got home, Mr
Arnold, who was as yet a stranger to our extraordinary behaviour, being
informed that the new performer was my son, sent his coach, and an
invitation, for him; and as he persisted in his refusal to appear again
upon the stage, the players put another in his place, and we soon had
him with us. Mr Arnold gave him the kindest reception, and I received
him with my usual transport; for I could never counterfeit false
resentment. Miss Wilmot’s reception was mixed with seeming neglect, and
yet I could perceive she acted a studied part. The tumult in her mind
seemed not yet abated; she said twenty giddy things that looked like
joy, and then laughed loud at her own want of meaning. At intervals she
would take a sly peep at the glass, as if happy in the consciousness of
unresisting beauty, and often would ask questions, without giving any
manner of attention to the answers.