In matters of state, a constitutional competence to act is in many
cases the smallest part of the question. Without disputing (God forbid I
should dispute) the sole competence of the king and the parliament, each
in its province, to decide on war and peace, I venture to say, no war
CAN be long carried on against the will of the people. This war, in
particular, cannot be carried on unless they are enthusiastically in
favour of it. Acquiescence will not do. There must be zeal. Universal
zeal in such a cause, and at such a time as this is, cannot be looked
for; neither is it necessary. Zeal in the larger part carries the force
of the whole. Without this, no government, certainly not our government,
is capable of a great war. None of the ancient regular governments have
wherewithal to fight abroad with a foreign foe, and at home to overcome
repining, reluctance, and chicane. It must be some portentous thing,
like regicide France, that can exhibit such a prodigy. Yet even she, the
mother of monsters, more prolific than the country of old called Ferax
monstrorum, shows symptoms of being almost effete already; and she will
be so, unless the fallow of a peace comes to recruit her fertility.
But whatever may be represented concerning the meanness of the popular
spirit, I, for one, do not think so desperately of the British nation.
Our minds, as I said, are light, but they are not depraved. We are
dreadfully open to delusion and to dejection; but we are capable of
being animated and undeceived.
It cannot be concealed: we are a divided people. But in divisions, where
a part is to be taken, we are to make a muster of our strength. I have
often endeavoured to compute and to class those who, in any political
view, are to be called the people. Without doing something of this sort
we must proceed absurdly. We should not be much wiser, if we pretended
to very great accuracy in our estimate; but I think, in the calculation
I have made, the error cannot be very material. In England and Scotland,
I compute that those of adult age, not declining in life, of tolerable
leisure for such discussions, and of some means of information, more or
less, and who are above menial dependence (or what virtually is such),
may amount to about four hundred thousand. There is such a thing as a
natural representative of the people. This body is that representative;
and on this body, more than on the legal constituent, the artificial
representative depends. This is the British public; and it is a public
very numerous. The rest, when feeble, are the objects of protection;
when strong, the means of force. They who affect to consider that part
of us in any other light, insult while they cajole us; they do not
want us for counsellors in deliberation, but to list us as soldiers for
battle.
Of these four hundred thousand political citizens, I look upon
one-fifth, or about eighty thousand, to be pure Jacobins; utterly
incapable of amendment; objects of eternal vigilance, and, when they
break out, of legal constraint. On these, no reason, no argument, no
example, no venerable authority, can have the slightest influence. They
desire a change; and they will have it if they can. If they cannot have
it by English cabal, they will make no sort of scruple of having it by
the cabal of France, into which already they are virtually incorporated.
It is only their assured and confident expectation of the advantages
of French fraternity, and the approaching blessings of regicide
intercourse, that skins over their mischievous dispositions with a
momentary quiet. This minority is great and formidable. I do not know
whether if I aimed at the total overthrow of a kingdom, I should wish
to be encumbered with a larger body of partisans. They are more easily
disciplined and directed than if the number were greater. These, by
their spirit of intrigue, and by their restless agitating activity, are
of a force far superior to their numbers; and, if times grew the least
critical, have the means of debauching or intimidating many of those who
are now sound, as well as of adding to their force large bodies of the
more passive part of the nation. This minority is numerous enough to
make a mighty cry for peace, or for war, or for any object they are led
vehemently to desire. By passing from place to place with a velocity
incredible, and diversifying their character and description, they are
capable of mimicking the general voice. We must not always judge of the
generality of the opinion by the noise of the acclamation.