every where industriously diffused, the contempt and obloquy which were poured on the very name of liberty, might be required by the circumstances of the time, and necessary to prevent the contagion of a dangerous example, and the mischiefs of civil anarchy and confusion. The public were perhaps justly surfeited with metaphysical treatises overturning the foundation of all civil rights, and the very notion of liberty, with historical disquisitions proving that the popular spirit of political institutions was the bane of all internal quiet and happiness, the source of endless violence and bloodshed, and the final cause of their dissolution; that human happiness could never reach its utmost point of perfection but under the mild and tranquil reign of universal despotism; that the forms of all governments were alike indifferent, provided they secured the same servile obedience and death-like apathy in the state. Perhaps it was then necessary that we should be told, ex cathedrá, that the people had nothing to do with the laws but to obey them: perhaps it was right that we should be amused with apologies for the corrupt influence of the crown; that integrity, honour, the love of justice, public spirit, or a zeal for the interests of the community should be laughed at as absurd chimeras, and that an ardent love of liberty, or determined resistance to powerful oppression should be treated as madness and folly. But however wise or necessary a temporary fashion of this kind might be to counteract the poison of other views and sentiments, I am sure it can neither be wise nor safe to continue it at present. We ought to do every thing in our power to get rid of the effects of so dangerous a habit as soon as possible. The fewer curbs there are on the spirit of the people, the more vigorous and determined will it shew itself; the greater the encouragement that is given to the principles of liberty, and the greater confidence that is placed in the general disposition of the country, the greater and more irresistible will be their habitual attachment to liberty and independence. You give a manifest advantage to an enemy if you in any way lessen the sources of enthusiasm, or in any way check the ardour, confine the energy, degrade the sentiments, or discountenance the erect, manly, independent spirit of your country. It is dangerous to let any thing fall into disrepute or contempt which may serve as a watch-word to startle the dull ear, or rouse the frozen blood; but to this purpose it is not enough that the name is retained, if the habitual feeling is destroyed. A tame acquiescence in every encroachment of power or exertion of undue influence, a disposition to assert our own rights or those of others no further than fear or interest permit, a habit of looking on the welfare of our country or the rights of mankind as secondary considerations, no further to be regarded than as they are

connected with our own danger or convenience, these are not the symptoms of the durable greatness and independence of a people. The causes of the ruin of states have been almost always laid in the relaxation of their moral habits and political prejudices. No kingdom can be secure in its independence against a greater power that is not free in its spirit, as well as in its institutions. I shall be happy if I have been mistaken in thinking these observations at all applicable to our own country: but the observations themselves are serious, and worth attending to. They are such as have been recognised in all nations and ages, except those indeed where their having been so would have rendered them suspected.

On the other hand, a commercial spirit is a very weak as well as dangerous substitute for a spirit of freedom: a sense of self-interest, of mere mercenary advantage, can but ill supply the place of principle. The love of gain, however active or persevering this principle may be in accomplishing its own particular ends, can never be safely trusted to as an ally in a cause where there are other objects to be attended to. Men who are actuated by this sole principle will very obstinately, no doubt, defend their wealth, while they can retain it; but when that is no longer the case, they will think nothing else worth retaining, and meanly compromise their independence for their safety. That common birthright which they receive from nature, in which every Englishman has an equal interest as such, appears of little value in their eyes. Liberty is in their eyes a coarse homely figure, but for the jewels that sparkle in her hair, and the rings on her fingers. It is inconceivable to them how a man can have any attachment to a simple shed, or can take any pride in his title to that respect, which is due to him only because he feels himself to be free. They will defend England as connected with her colonies, with her proud canopies of Eastern state, her distant spicy groves and the rich spoils of her Western isles; but will they defend her as she is England, as their country? Strip her of her conquests, her slaves, and her plantations, her bales of goods, her gold and silver, and leave her only herself, what would there be in all the rest worth the labour of a struggle? Her barren acres, her brave, simple, generous, honest-hearted, hardy race of men, her liberty, her fame, her integrity they look upon with the most sovereign contempt and indifference, and would be ready to sacrifice them all for the purchase of some new golden settlement, some happier island in the watery waste

'Where slaves no more their native land behold,
But fiends torment, and Christians thirst for gold.'

They would defend their country not as her children, but as her masters; as a property, not as a state. There may be the same pride and luxury in other classes of men, but they are accompanied with other feelings, and drawn from other sources. It has been a customary compliment to consider those as best entitled to come forward conspicuously in defence of their country who had what is called the greatest stake in it. This is perhaps true of the real, old hereditary nobility and gentry, of those who find their names enrolled high in the annals of their country, whose affections have grown to her soil as it were in a long course of centuries, who have an interest in looking forward to posterity, and a pride in looking back upon their ancestors, who have not only present possessions and advantages to defend, but feelings of inveterate prejudice and inbred honour to defend them. The loss of respect, or of their former privileges, is a change which to them appears like something out of the course of nature, to which no force or accidental circumstances can ever reconcile them. They are also men of liberal education; and this is a great point gained. There is certainly this advantage in a classical education, if not counteracted by other causes, that it gives men long views; it accustoms the mind to take an interest in things foreign to itself, to love virtue for its own sake, to prefer fame to life, and glory to riches, and to fix our thoughts on the great and permanent instead of narrow and selfish objects. It teaches us to believe that there is something really great and excellent in the world, surviving all the shocks of accident and fluctuations of opinion, and to feel respect for that which is made venerable by its nature and antiquity instead of that low and servile dread which bows only to present power and upstart authority. It is hard to find in minds otherwise formed either a delicate sense of honour, or an inflexible regard to truth and justice. But the spirit of trade is the very reverse of all this. It is the principle of this set of men to cry 'Long life to the conqueror,' to feel a contempt for all obligations that are not founded in self-interest, and to consider all generous pursuits and the hope of unfading renown as romance and folly. Virtue is not their habit, they are out of themselves in any course of conduct recommended only by conscience and glory.' They would not give a hundred hogsheads of sugar or a half-year's income for all the posthumous fame that was ever acquired in the world. If things should unhappily ever come to extremities, they are not the people who will retrieve them, either by their exertions or example. They have neither grand and elevated views, nor the warm, genuine feelings of nature. They have no principles of action. Irresolute, temporizing, every thing is with them made a subject of selfish calculation. Their friendships as well as their

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enmities are the creatures of the occasion. Confident, insolent in the day of success, and while their cause is triumphant, they are as soon dejected and driven to despair, when they find the tide turned against them. Fortune is with them the first of goddesses: success the only title to authority and respect; and possession the truest right. Accustomed to all the fluctuations of hope and fear, they consider nothing stable in human affairs; thrown into the possession of power and affluence by accidents which they know not how to account for, it can hardly seem strange to them that they should again be stripped of them. They do not lay the fault upon themselves but on their stars, that they are underlings. If I hear a man say that we are to give up our public principles whenever circumstances render it necessary, that we are to inquire upon all occasions not what is right, but what is prudent to be done, that those feelings, which lead us to adhere to the cause of truth and justice if at all unpopular, or to incur any personal risk or inconvenience in defending what is right, are weak and vulgar prejudices, I know that that man will be first to truckle to an enemy, and the last voluntarily to risk his life in defence of his independence.

The courage of the soldier and the citizen are essentially different. The one is momentary and involuntary; the other permanent and voluntary. It is one thing to do all in your power to repel danger when it is unavoidable, and another to expose yourself to it when you may avoid going into it. Fear, or rashness, or necessity may be supposed to kindle all the fury of battle: but principle alone can make us willing to return to the charge after defeat. It is for this reaction that we ought to be chiefly prepared. For this nothing can prepare us but a true love of our country, not taken up as a fashion, but felt as a duty; a spirit of resistance not measured by our convenience, but by the strength of our attachment and the real value of the object; but steady enthusiasm; but a determination never to submit while hope or life remained, and an indifference to every thing else but that one great object.

What resistance has Holland ever made to the power of France from the first moment? Commerce had spread its sordid mantle completely over her. Wrapped closely up in this, she fell without resistance and without a groan: she was not of a temper to fall in love with danger, to court disasters. Since that time she has not made a struggle or breathed a sigh for her release, but lies supine, secure, unmoved, and torpid,

'Dull as her lakes that slumber in the storm.'

Two hundred years of commerce and riches, which had gone over

her, since, in that noble struggle for thirty years together, she had defied the whole power and the utmost vengeance of Spain, had prepared her for this striking change. But England is not yet quite commercial: the spirit of trade has not spread its poison through the whole mass of our blood and vital juices! As I do not wish that England (with all her high hopes, and called to a far different destiny) may ever share the fate of Holland, I do not wish that she may ever resemble her in herself; that every other feeling should give way to that of interest alone, but that she may tremble at ever realizing the warning picture of the poet,

-When, stript of all her charms,

The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms,
Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame,
Where kings have toil'd and poets wrote for fame,
One sink of level avarice shall lie,

And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonour'd die.'

Though a state cannot look to its commerce for its security, it may be involved in endless difficulty and danger by the views of commercial aggrandizement. The views of men wholly engrossed in such pursuits are altogether low and mechanical. If they see far, it is always in a straight line before them; their sagacity is confined to what immediately concerns their own interest. They are so intent upon that one object that they overlook every thing else; and their eagerness to accumulate is such, that they would rather hazard all than relinquish a pursuit which promises them some new acquisition. While they are successful, it is impossible to persuade them that they ever can be otherwise, or to restrain their rashness by any considerations of prudence or humanity. Actuated only by gross, palpable objects, and full of themselves, they laugh at all distant danger. All general reasonings on the principles of human nature, or the operation of causes by which they do not find themselves influenced, appear to them perfectly futile and visionary. They think there is nothing real but that which they can handle; which they can measure with a two-foot rule, which they can tell upon ten fingers.' As they believe money to be the only substantial good, they are also persuaded that it is the only instrument of power. With this they think themselves invulnerable, and that the more of it they have, the more secure they are. As long as their credit remains unimpaired, and their remittances are regularly made, they consider the fate of battles and the intrigues of cabinets as of very little comparative importance. They look up with more awe and admiration to a stock-jobbing broker surrounded with his clerks than they do to a victorious general at the