Front Page Titles (by Subject) SECTION III.: CAUSES OF THE ABOVE AND ALL OTHER MISCHIEFS:—PARTICULAR INTERESTS MONARCHICAL AND ARISTOCRATICAL, ADVERSE TO THE UNIVERSAL—THEIR ASCENDENCY. - The Works of Jeremy Bentham, vol. 3
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SECTION III.: CAUSES OF THE ABOVE AND ALL OTHER MISCHIEFS:—PARTICULAR INTERESTS MONARCHICAL AND ARISTOCRATICAL, ADVERSE TO THE UNIVERSAL—THEIR ASCENDENCY. - Jeremy Bentham, The Works of Jeremy Bentham, vol. 3 
The Works of Jeremy Bentham, published under the Superintendence of his Executor, John Bowring (Edinburgh: William Tait, 1838-1843). 11 vols. Vol. 3.
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CAUSES OF THE ABOVE AND ALL OTHER MISCHIEFS:—PARTICULAR INTERESTS MONARCHICAL AND ARISTOCRATICAL, ADVERSE TO THE UNIVERSAL—THEIR ASCENDENCY.
Goaded to the task by the groans of all around me, of late,—with an attention, which the nature of the objects that were continually forcing themselves upon all eyes and upon all ears, rendered more and more painful to me,—I have been looking more closely than ever into the constitution;—I mean the present state of it;—and, in as few words as possible, of this most appalling of all examinations, what follows is the result.
As early as the year 1809, and I forget how much earlier, it had seemed to me (it has been already hinted,) that in the principle which, by those in whose hands the fate of the country rested, had not only been acted upon but avowed, the road to national ruin might be but too clearly traced. This principle was—that in the hands of the trustees of the people, the substance of the people was a fund, out of which, without breach of trust, and without just reproach in any shape—fortunes—as the phrase is—by those who, without exposing themselves to punishment, could contrive to lay their hands on the means, might be—nay—and, it being matter of necessity, at any price, and to an amount absolutely unlimited, ought to be—made.
In this principle I saw the two domineering interests—the monarchical and the aristocratical—which in our mixed constitution—(for such at least it was at one time)—antagonizing with the every now and then struggling, but always vainly and feebly struggling, democratical: completely agreed,—and without concert, because without need of concert, co-operating with each other,—in the dissemination, and in the inculcation of it: the party out of power as well as the party in power inculcating it in theory; the party in power, by theory and practice.
That, on the part of both these interests, this principle, together with the practice that belonged to it, was but too natural—was abundantly evident: that, for its adoption, it had any such plea as that of necessity, was a notion which, when once taken in hand, vanished at the slightest touch.
Power, money, factitious dignity—by an attractive force, the existence of which, and the omnipotence, is as indisputable as that by which the course of the heavenly bodies is determined—each of these elements of the matter of good—that precious matter, the whole mass of which, in so far as at the hands of the monarch it is sought by a member of either of the two other branches of the efficient sovereignty, operates in the character of matter of corruptive influence—attracts and draws to it the two others: the greater the quantity a man has of any one of them, the greater the facility he finds in his endeavours to obtain for himself the two others; each in a quantity proportioned to his desires:—those desires, which in human nature have no bounds.
The more he has of any one of them, the more therefore it is his wish to have of that and all of them. But the more he has of any one of them, the more is it right also that he should have of them? All of them at the expense of the people,—the poor people, at whose expense whatsoever is enjoyed by their rulers is enjoyed? Oh gross, oh flagitious absurdity! The more? No: but on the contrary the less. Whatsoever be the quantity of the matter of reward, which, in any shape whatsoever, may be necessary to obtain at a man’s hands the requisite service, the more he has of it in any one shape,—the less the need he has of it in any other shape.
In the case of the poorest individual,—in the character of a guardian, by any man has any such immoral notion ever been started, as that, in the substance of his ward, any proper source of enrichment to himself is to be found? Power, over a single individual and his little property, a sufficient payment for the labour: and power over twenty millions, and their property, together with all that mass of patronage,—lucrative of necessity, a great part of it,—shall it not be sufficient? Those who either have no property, or have it not in sufficient quantity for their maintenance,—such men must, indeed, either be paid or not employed:—but, among men who not only have property, but have it in sufficiency, is it supposable that there can ever be a deficiency in the number of those, in whom the pleasure of possessing such power will be sufficient compensation for all the pain attached to the exercise of it? Look at the country magistracy: see we not there—not only an example, but a host of examples? Yes: and in those examples a host of proofs.
Unfortunately—in the breasts of all who have power, merit being, as they all agree and certify—to one another and to the people, infinite—so must be the reward.
Of the demand for the matter of reward—viz. money, power, and factitious dignity—(these are its principal shapes)—the infinity and absolute irresistibility being thus established, then and thereupon comes the demand for the supply—and that supply a proportionable one. Here, however, to a first view, comes somewhat of a difficulty. From the body of the people—how habitually soever blind and passive—money in infinite quantity cannot be demanded all at once: they would become desperate; they would rise: better (they would say to themselves,) better be shot or hanged at once, than starved.
A set of drains must therefore be established and set to work: drains, by and through which, by degrees—those degrees ever in the eyes of the devourers but too slow—under colour either of use, or what is so much better, of necessity—money may be drawn out of the pockets of the blinded, deluded, unsuspicious, uninquisitive, and ever too patient people:—1. Wars: 2. Distant and proportionably burthensome dependencies all over the habitable globe—(and note, that, in prosecution of these views, every such dependency, without exception, has been made a source of net expense—net expense, the amount of which is destined to perpetual and unlimited increase:) 3. Penal colonies: 4. Claims of universal dominion over the universal water-way of nations, with a determination to destroy the shipping of all nations by whom those claims shall be contested: 5. Annexation of “Hanover to Hampshire:” and that to the end that not a hostile gun may be fired anywhere on the continent, but that we may be in readiness to interfere, subsidizing one of the contending parties, and helping to oppress the other!* 6. Splendour of the crown; that effulgence, with the increase of which—and in exact proportion to that increase—will increase the respect, and with it the submission, and with it the happiness of the people: 7. Erection of Hanover into a kingdom for that purpose, and that the Hanoverians may the less grudge the increase of taxes that will be necessitated by the increase of dignity. Here, though not yet a complete one, is a list of these productive drains:—and are they not efficient ones?
As for war—never can a pretence for it be wanting—a pretence not yielding to any, in which, at any time in the course of the present reign, it has ever been made:—no; never can a pretence be wanting, so long as that nation exists anywhere, against which war can be made.
The nation—the nation to be warred upon—is either formidably strong, or providentially weak:—if formidably strong, too long have we delayed the necessary task of obtaining, at the expense of it, indemnity for the past and security for the future:—if providentially weak, now is the favourable time for taking advantage of its weakness, and preventing it from becoming formidable:—now has the Lord of Hosts—as the archbishop’s prayer will not fail to inform us—delivered the enemy into our hands! Thus, if there be nothing past, for which to obtain indemnity, security for the future will, at any rate, be an easy purchase.
The French people, for example—already have they had one set of Septembrizers,—and—so happy were they under them—by the first favourable opportunity they would give themselves another: and, no sooner had they septembrized France, than they would cross over, and, with the assistance of the travelling orator and the Spenceans, septembrize us in the same way. The French have already had one Bonaparte;—so happy were they under him—leave them to themselves—immediately they would give themselves another. In his scheme for invading and conquering this country, the first Bonaparte failed:—the second Bonaparte, by whom such another plan would immediately be formed, would succeed in his. From these two considerations put together, or indeed from either of them, follows the necessity of garrisoning France, and keeping possession of the country till the danger is at an end:—yes, till the danger is at an end; which it is impossible it ever should be.
Yes: wars would be invaluable, were it only for the merit of which they are the never-failing sources. When a battle is fought—unless it be a drawn one, which does not often happen—it must be gained by somebody. Gained on one side it must be, in what degree soever the generals on the respective sides are fit or unfit for their work. The greater the number that fight, the greater the number of those who are capable of being killed. A battle is gained,—the number of the killed is great,—and half a million is scarce enough to reward the merit which, from one single bosom, has been displayed in it.
In regard to all these drains of money, and all these sources of merit and reward,—the great misfortune is this: For every shilling which, by means of any one of these drains, unless it be the last, the men of merit—and all placemen without exception are ex officio men of merit,—for every shilling which the men of merit thus put into their pockets, some score, or some dozen at least, must come out of the pockets of the poor people. A man who sets his neighbour’s house on fire, that he may roast an egg for himself,—is the emblem by which a certain sort of man is pictured by Lord Bacon. Would you see a man of this sort, you need not look far, so you look high enough for these five-and-twenty years, or thereabouts—to go no further back—has this poor nation been kept on fire, lest the emblematic eggs in sufficient quantity should be wanting to its rulers.
Money, is it wanting (and it always is wanting) for the support of the splendour of the crown?—for the support of royal dignity? Money supplied by parliament—supplied in a direct way, and without a burthen more than correspondent to the supply being deficient—and it always is deficient—Droits of Admiralty are sent by Almighty Providence to feed, but never to fill up—for nothing can ever fill up—the deficiency. The persons, for the reward of whose merit more and more of that object of universal desire is everlastingly wanted—these persons join with one another, not only in commencing groundless war, but in commencing that groundless war in a piratical manner,—in a manner in which the monarch and his instruments may add millions to the conjunct splendour,—not only the foreigners who thus and for this purpose have been converted into enemies, are plundered, but the men, by whose hands the plunder is got in, deprived of that which, had the war been commenced otherwise than in the way of piracy, would have been their due. Thus do these on whom it depends bribe one another to commit piracy!—piracy, which has been made legitimate, because, by their power and for their own benefit, it has been made unpunishable!
Money, power, factitious dignity—among the modifications of the matter of good—among the good things of this wicked world—these, as it is the interest, so has it ever been the study,—as it has been the study, so has it been the endeavour—of the monarch—as it has been, so will it, and where the monarch is a human being, so must it be everywhere—to draw to himself in the greatest quantity possible. And here we have one partial, one separate, one sinister interest, the monarchical—the interest of the ruling one—with which the universal, the democratical interest has to antagonize, and to which that all-comprehensive interest has all along been,—and unless the only possible remedy—even parliamentary reform, and that a radical one, should be applied,—is destined to be for ever made a sacrifice:—a sacrifice? Yes: and, by the blessing of God upon the legitimate and pious labours of his vicegerent and the express image of his person here upon earth, a still unresisting sacrifice. Omnipresence, immortality, impeccability—equal as he is to God, as touching all these “attributes” (ask Blackstone else, I. 270, 250, 246, 249,)—who is there that, without adding impiety to disloyalty, can repine at seeing anything or everything he might otherwise call his own, included in the sacrifice?
Meantime the money, which, in an endless and boundless stream, is thus to keep flowing into the monarchical coffers—this one thing needful cannot find its way into those sacred receptacles without instruments and conduit-pipes. Upon and out of the pockets of the people it cannot be raised, but through the forms of parliament:—not but through the forms of parliament, nor therefore without the concurrence of the richest men in the country, in their various situations—in the situation of peers, great landholding, and as yet uncoroneted commoners, styled country gentlemen,—and others. In those men is the chief property of the country, and with it—(for in the language of the aristocratic school, property and virtue are synonymous terms)—the virtue of the country. And here we have another partial, separate, and sinister interest—the aristocratical interest—with which the democratical interest has also to antagonize:—another overbearing, and essentially and immutably hostile interest,—against which, and under which, the universal interest has to struggle, and as far as possible to defend itself.
Such is the state in which the country lies:—the universal interest crouching under the conjunct yoke of two partial and adverse interests, to which, to a greater or less extent, it ever has been made,—and to the greatest extent possible, as far as depends upon them, cannot, in the nature of man and things, ever cease to be made, a continual sacrifice.
For the consummation of this sacrifice, adequate inclination—such is the nature of man—never could have been wanting:—but as to the power—the effective power—never at any former period could it have been seen swelled to a pitch approaching to that at which it stands at this moment.
Well: such being the swell of voracious power, what are the means—what the instrument—by which it has been effected? What but the precious matter already mentioned?—Yes, the very matter of good:—for such in itself it is, but, by reason of the two relative situations—the situation of the hands by which it is possessed, and that of the hands, which the very nature of man keeps ever open to receive it, operating—and by the whole amount of it—in the character of matter of evil—matter of corruptive influence. Ever upon the increase is the quantity of this essentially good, this accidentally, but alas! how extensively pernicious, matter:—ever upon the increase the pernicious effect of it. In an endless series of alternating and reciprocating operations, this matter is itself both effect and cause. Waste begets corruption; corruption, waste. Fed through the already enumerated drains—viz. useless places, needless places, overpay of needful places, groundless pensions, and sinecures, some number of times more richly endowed than the most richly endowed efficient offices—these, together with peerages, and baronetages, and ribbons—for peerage-hunters, baronetage-hunters, and ribbon-hunters—these, by their bare existence, and without need of their being either asked or offered,—always with the fullest effect, never with the personal danger, or so much as the imputation, attached to the word bribery,—operate in the character, and produce the effect, of matter of coruptive influence: that pestilential matter, against the infection of which not a household in the country can be said to be secure, from the archiepiscopal palace down to the hovel by the road side.
What? not the ducal mansion? Oh no: that full as little as any other. The duke, who, if there were no such thing as a ribbon, nor any such place as a gaming-house, nor . . . . but there is no end to the et cæteras—might of himself be independent, is dependent by his dependents: and the more enormous the mass of his property, the more numerous, as well as the higher, the list of his alliances,—the wider and the more craving is the circle of his dependents.*
Laud his virtue, party orator, party scribe:—laud that virtue, which is composed of rank and property, and consists of nothing else: laud him to-day, while he is yet yours:—come to-morrow, he has crossed over, and his place is on the other side. A duke has a borough, and in it a brace of seats. Sincere or insincere, quoth the duke to one of his agents, whose attachment to the cause of the people was well known to him, cast your eyes around you, and find me out the two honestest and ablest men you can lay your hands on, to fill those seats. The agent bestirs himself, and reports. But ere the report reaches its destination, the coroneted patriot has found money wanting, and the borough, the seats, with the patriotism that would have filled them, are all sold.
Yes: in this country—under this constitution—may be seen an official person, who by his station is, for ever, ex officio, C—r-† General: it is his situation makes him so: it suffices for the purpose: to produce the effect (and let this be well observed,) no overt act—no, nor so much as a thought—is on his part necessary:—were it possible for him to have the will, scarcely in his situation would it be in his power to avoid being so.
Well: this attribute, which Blackstone has forgot to add to the other “attributes” of the god of his idolatry—this attribute of C—r-Generalship, which, after all, could not have place if there were not a parliament to c—,—this inseparable attribute, disastrous as it is, does it, in this our country, form any peremptory objection to monarchy? Not it indeed. But why not? Even because, in democratic ascendency—such as it would be constituted by radical reform—the corruption would have its antidote—its constantly operating antidote—and that antidote an effectual one.
Extinguish monarchy?—suppress, extirpate the peerage?—Oh, not I indeed: nothing would I extinguish; nothing would I extirpate: uti possidetis—that which you have, continue to have—and God bless you with it:—this, in all matters of reform—this, in so far as is not inconsistent with the very essence of the reform, is—and, so long as I have had any, has ever been—with me a ruling principle. Leaving, with all my heart, the full benefit of it to monarchy and aristocracy—to the ruling few, my aim, my wishes, confine themselves to the securing, if it be possible, a participation in that same benefit to democracy—to the subject-many—to the poor suffering and starving people.
Monarchy a property! Not it indeed. Monarchy is a trust: is it not, Prince Regent?—have you not said it is? Peerage a property? Not it indeed. Peerage is a trust: is it not, my Lord anybody? If it is not, what business have you to be what you are, and where you are?
Ascendency! ascendency—that is what is sufficient: this, therefore, is all that should be asked for. In Ireland, we have Protestant ascendency. Well: and what is the effect? In Ireland, the Catholics—the great majority—are not yet, it is true, quite so well circumstanced as could be wished: still, however, they exist; still they are not extirpated.
For the seduction of his fellow-traveller, what was the course taken by the ingenuity of Ferdinand Count Fathom? Ask his biographer—ask Smollet: he will inform you. He began with picking her pocket: her purse, and with it her virtue, was then at his command. By mere existence on the throne on which he is sitting, without need of stirring a finger, uttering a word, or giving a nod, in the character of that Ferdinand, and with the same disastrous success, may the monarch of these realms act. Accomplices—the hero of Smollet’s history had none: he needed none. The official s—of Britannia’s virtue—the C—r-General of this country—may have as many as there are men, in whose breasts exists an effective demand for any of the good things which he has at command: and, in regard to this effective demand—as Adam Smith would call it—the difficulty would be to find—not the bosom in which it does, but the bosom in which it does not display itself.
In this state of things, C—r-General being the proper style and title of the head-manager of the concern, taken by himself,—add the aristocracy—the corrupted and corrupting aristocracy—C—r-General & Co. is the proper firm of the partnership. As to the business of it, it consists but too plainly, like that of the Bank of England, in draining the contents of all pockets into its own; and the more intolerable the indigence thus produced, the more craving the demand for that corruptive supply, by the hope of which men are engaged to concur in the continually repeated measures, from which the indigence receives its continually repeated aggravation.
Now of this almost universal corruption, what is the effect? A mere moral spot?—a mere ideal imperfection? Alas! no: but a somewhat more palpable and sensible one. What the real, the sensible mischief consists in is—the sacrifice made, as above, of the interest and comfort of the subject-many, to the overgrown felicity of the ruling few: the effect of the corruption being—to engage all whom it has corrupted to bear their respective parts in the perpetual accomplishment of their perpetual sacrifice. Is not this sufficiently intelligible? Well, if that expression be not, perhaps this may be: viz. that the subject-many long have been, and, but for the only remedy, may with but too much reason for ever expect to be, continually more and more grievously oppressed, that the ruling few may be more and more profusely pampered.
Now suppose an army of Frenchmen garrisoning England, as an army of Englishmen (oh! pretenceless and inhuman tyranny!) are garrisoning France. In that case, what would the description of our condition be? What but that the dominion we were groaning under was the dominion of a set of men whose interest was opposite to our own, by whom that oppositeness was understood and felt, and by whom our interest was made a continual sacrifice to that separate and hostile interest. Well: that, and but too indisputably, is it not the description—the too just description—of the dominion under which we live?
Discarding the case of public—of national—subjection under a foreign yoke, take the case of private—of domestic subjection:—take the case of negro slavery. The description of the case, is it not still the same? The slaveholder, it may be said—for it is continually said—has an interest in common with that of his slaves. True: and so has the mail-coach contractor in common with that of his horses. While working them, and so long as they appear able to work, he accordingly allows them food. Yet, somehow or other, notwithstanding this community of interest, so it is, that but too often negro as well as horse are worked to the very death. How happens this? How but because, in the same breast with the conjunct interest, is lodged a separate and sinister interest, which is too strong for it. Even so is it in the case of C—r-General and Co., under whose management the condition of the poor people is day by day approaching nearer and nearer to the condition of the negro and the horse.
“I can have no interest but that of my people,” says the royal parrot—I can have no interest but that of my people: with these words in his mouth, he gives the touch of the sceptre to a bill for establishing a nest of sinecures.*
Under the constitution as it stands—under the administration as it is carried on—in what state, as towards the one and the other, are the affections of the people? Take the answer from Lord Castlereagh (Morn. Chron. Feb. 8, 1817.) In the year just ended, 53,000 were the number of firelocks “indispensably necessary to aid the civil power in the discharge of its duty:” in other words, to keep the people from the endeavour to substitute a better to the government as it stands. Now, indeed, at this season of forced retrenchment, 5000 is the number of men to be struck off from the desired complement of 53,000. Struck off! Why? because they are regarded as superfluous? Oh no: for of those means of coercion which require no money, boundless is the supply which at this very moment is providing. Why, then? Even because,—as under the most perfectly undisguised despotism, so under a disguised one,—in so far as supplies cannot be had,—the revenue having, in the compass of a single year, fallen off, for example, by any such amount as that of one-sixth,—retrenchment must be made. In this time not only of peace but of triumph—no Pretender in existence—France, instead of a cause of fear, an object of compassion—three-and-fifty thousand men necessary to be kept up to prevent a second revolution! In the same year of the last century, as this is of the present one, our great-grandfathers—what would they have said to such a number?—our great-grandfathers,—in whose days, a Pretender continually threatening from abroad, and at home a strong party, even after a defeat, were still strong enough to keep on foot matter for another rebellion, which in twenty-eight years from that time, actually broke out! In the same year of the last, as this is of the present century, what was the whole number demanded and provided for this same service? Answer: 16,000, and no more; not so much as one-third of the number actually in demand, as above. Walpole, then in opposition, opposing even that number on the ground of alleged excess.*
Well then: by a standing army it is that we are governed: and a standing army—a standing army of the magnitude which has been seen:—this, this is the sort of instrument, without which, it is said, we could not be governed; and by which,—so long as the constitution, in the form into which it has been moulded, lasts,—it is the intention of those that govern us that we shall be governed. And this is that constitution—that Matchless Constitution—in the praises of which, those whose opulence or power have been produced by, or are dependent on, the abuses of it, never tire. And in this Constitution we have a Parliament:—and in this Parliament a House of Commons:—and in this House of Commons a mask for a military government of its own erection:—and this mask so transparent an one! and, under this military government, so long as the mask remains—under this military government are we to lie down, now and for ever, prostrate and contented.
Well: the United States—the seat of representative democracy, alias anarchy—what plots, real or pretended, have they, or have they ever had, in their bosom? What standing army is it that they have? On the subject of those concerns, which are the concerns of every man, what laws have they to prevent each man from communicating with every other?—on pain of death, to prevent every man who is not, from speaking his mind to any one who is a soldier?
Oh! but the fault, whatever it is, it is always the fault of the people:—behaving continually worse and worse, they must continually be treated with more and more just severity:—the sinners for their own sins—the non-sinners for the sins of the sinners—so long as any of them are left alive . . . .*
No: at this time—at any time, on the part of the people, any extensive discontent, that has ever manifested itself, never has it been the fault of the people. Discontent? No: patience—too much patience—in that has been their fault—their only fault: a sad fault that:—and, unhappily, under every government but an adequately representative government—under which alone the concerns which are those of every man, are left without restraint to the discourse of every man—an incurable one. The people? What interest have they in being governed badly?—in having their universal interest sacrificed to any separate and adverse interest? But the men by whom they have been governed—the interest which these men have had in governing badly—in governing as they have governed—this interest has here been made manifest, or nothing can be.
[* ]Parl. Reg. xv. anno 1784. Commons, Earl Nugent. “He (Lord Chatham) had often said, that Hanover was a mill-stone about the neck of England, that would weigh her down, and sink her.”
[* ]In the pension list are still to be seen the pensions enjoyed by divers ladies, procured for them by a certain duke, they being relations of his by marriage, then in a state of infancy; their father, a hero of the turf, living and dying in the bosom of affluence.
[† ]Whatsoever blanks may eventually be observable in the remainder of this work, the prudence of the printer is the virtue to which the honour of them will be due. In the present instance, for filling up the deficit between the C and the r, the candour and sagacity of the reader may employ the letters onservato, or any others, if any others there be, which in his view may be more apposite.—(Note to the original edition.)
[* ]Behold the connexion between waste and corruption, in the view taken of it by divers statesmen at divers periods.
[* ]Upon a necessarily hasty search, made into such documents as happen to lie within my knowledge and my reach,—the following are the amounts of such part of the army, as appears to have been employed—employed for the same sort of service as that one above, for which the 53,000 have been employed. To match the present and last year, the years here exhibited, by the description of years of ordinary demand, have all of them been years of manifest and complete peace. Out of the hundred years in question, no more than 29 (it may be observed) are on this occasion brought to view. Of the comparative smallness of this number, there have been three causes:—1. About half the number of years have been years of actual war. 2. Of the remaining fifty or thereabouts, being years of peace (i. e. years in no part of any of which was war actually carried on,) twenty-nine was the only number, concerning which, in the sources of information in question, any information could be found. In consideration of their being so nearly in agreement with each other, and at the same time forming so considerable a majority, twenty out of the twenty-nine are here inserted, under the above head of years of ordinary demand. In the case of the remaining nine years, ranked, as will be seen, under the contrasted head of years of extra demand,—the circumstances of the times not being, for any such purpose as the present, capable of being subjected to a particular examination,—the very circumstance of the superiority of the numbers, in so much smaller a number of instances, has been regarded as constituting an adequately conclusive proof, that in those years respectively there existed some special cause of alarm,—either from within or from without, or both,—of such a nature, as to cause the condition of those years to make an approach more or less considerable to the condition of war years.
*∗* From Chandler’s Debates, years 1717, 1728, 1729, 1734, 1737, 1738, 1740, 1741, 1742. From Almon’s Debates, 1752, 1753, 1764, 1765, 1766, 1767, 1768, 1770, 1789, 1790. From Annual Register, 1769, 1771, 1774, 1784, 1786, 1787, 1788. From Almon’s Parliamentary Register, year 1775.
[* ]So long as, in any shape, offences, having for their object relief from the mischief of misrule, are committed,—the laws, whatever they are, that have been made for the punishment of them, are thereby proved insufficient; and thus it is, that, for the self-same offences, fresh and fresh laws, continually increasing in extent and severity, must be made.