Thoughts on economics and liberty

Tag: Macaulay

Indians are becoming an obnoxious blight on the planet due to their socialist system of education

Received this today:

Ramgopal Papajee <email ID withheld> wrote:

Views of lord Macaley ( Britsher) 1835,pl read and fwd to yr nearest & dearest.

He sent the following link:


My response

Sh Papajee

This is the translation of a FALSE statement – a statement which Macaulay never made. Please don't join the bunch of millions of confused bigoted Indians who – because of the miserable education they have received from the socialist education system created by Nehru (which BJP copies, being the Godchild of Nehru) NEVER bother to read original sources but spread canards and misleading information. The ability of Indians to conduct research is now – at best – limited to copying and plagiarising the work of the West and often declaring that all this was found in the Vedas! 
The facts about what Macaulay actually said are available in my blog posts below. You should read original sources. 
Kindly do not contact me on this topic without first having read ALL the blot posts below, and the cited original writings of Macaulay. 
Now, Macaulay was not perfect, and I'm no one's apologist, but his contributions to India are immense and only the socialist children of Nehru (which almost all Indians are) will pass such judgements WITHOUT READING THE MAN! 
What an obnoxious blight on the entire planet have Indians become – due to Nehruvian socialism (which is ENTIRELY being copied by BJP – and AAP).


The links I published yesterday were incorrect. Sending the correct links again:

Sorry, in view of the time being taken to search for the title /URL of my blog posts on Macaulay through google I used my WordPress dashboard and ended up sending password-protected links.

I’ve spent some 15 minutes today re-building the titles/URLs of the posts through google search, and also added a couple more posts that I had missed yesterday. Please review these, if you have time. 

If enough Indians try to read and understand Macaulay – instead of believing the blatant falsehoods and vicious canards being spread by the Hindutva brigade against him – they will learn a lot about liberty itself – for he was one of the greatest contributors to human liberty. His influence on Hayek was on par with the influence that Mises had on him. The claims of Macaulay's forcible' introduction of English in India are also badly misplaced. Decisions about this were taken long before he came to India, based on the demand of INDIANS themselves, and decisions of English officials higher than him. Introduction of English to India was inevitable, with or without Macaulay. 

But without Macaulay's insistence on the scientific attitude, India would have become a miserable nation like Pakistan, as a commentator pointed out to me yesterday: "We owe Macualay a great deal for the current status of India. Pakistan has Urdu and India has BPO, peace, science and technology. Macaulay, Hastings, Wavell and even Curzon were admirers of India and Indians." 

Now, many other Britishers were not friends of India so being independent was absolutely necessary.But then, Nehru came in and destroyed whatever chance India had of high quality education by creating government schools and colleges, which, with their corruption and pathetic mediocrity, have created 1.2 billion half-literates without ability to read original sources.

(Thanks to Mike Rana for pointing out the error in my links sent yesterday.)

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Introduction of English in India was inevitable for decades. Macaulay merely confirmed it.

Macaulay gets bad rap in India for his Minute of February 1835. As if without him English would never have become British India's language of administration.
Rulers generally impose of their own language (even culture) on the subject population. Why would India have been different? The Mughals introduced Arabic and Persian into India. It was therefore never a question of "if" but "when" the British introduced English.
I come back to this topic because India is intent on throwing out the baby with the bathwater. Each time I write a positive word or two about Macaulay, I get blasted by a spate of personal attacks through the comments section (I trash all ad hominem attacks so you don't get to see the virulence of such attacks).
Among British rulers of India Macaulay was the one who genuinely wished for India’s progress. far more even than J.S. Mill. True, he didn't understand India's major contributions to world philosophy and science (without which Western philosophy and science would have been impossible), but if his overall contributions to the world are seen in light of his times, we will recognise in Macaulay the seed of India's liberties. Even India's democracy has its roots in the work of British liberal democrats like Edmund Burke and Thomas Macaulay. Macaulay is cited repeatedly (and positively) by almost all Indian freedom fighters. (Just recently I cited Dadabhai Naorji's positive comments on Macaulay.) His dreams for India and for all peoples were behind the dreams of independence in India. Without people like him to inspire Indian freedom fighters to bigger things it is quite possible that India would have still been a cluster of small, poor, warring kingdoms.

I chanced upon an article today by R. K. Kochhar,  entitled, "English Education in India: Hindu Anamnesis versus Muslim Torpor" (Economic and Political Weekly,  Nov. 28, 1992), which clarifies the strategic British interests behind the introduction of English in India.

I'm not sure that the introduction of English has been a bad thing for India in the long run. It is behind the massively wealthy Indian migrant population in USA, UK and Australia – all trained in English. It is behind the huge growth in IT (even China is desperately trying to learn English). And it underpins the geographical unity of India (had anyone tried to impose Hindi on India it would have splintered into pieces long ago).

Yes, I'm not an expert in Hindi (or rather, Panjabi). I should be. What English has done is to give me the tool to discover the far reaches of the world. With my accumulated knowledge, nothing prevents me from furthering Indian language and culture, should I choose to. We don't need to think in terms of Either English Or Hindi. We can have both.

The article by Kochhar is not scholarly and neutral. It paints British strategic actions in bad light. Value judgements about British rule should not be mixed with academic analysis. It is my hope that Indians will become capable of undertaking dispassionate serious study of their own history, and put in the effort to develop their own languages and culture at the same time.
We need to become mature enough to study our own history dispassionately, and extract value from all positive influences (while rejecting the bad).
We have a lot to learn from Macaulay's work.
A brief extract from Kochhar’s article:

Charles Grant’s (1746-1823) well meaning treatise “Observations on the state of Society among the Asiatic Subjects of Great Britain, particularly with respect to Morals; and on the means of improving it” advocating he cause of missions and education and writ­ten during 1792-97 was ahead of its time and ‘anticipatory’. It was only in 1830 that the court of directors wrote “we learn with ex­treme pleasure… that ‘the time has arrived when English tuition will be widely accep­table to the Natives in the Upper Provinces’“. It is tempting to reduce history to glorification or condemnation of individuals and events. Lord Thomas Babington Macaulay’s (1800-59) flamboyant minute of February 2, 1835 belongs to this category. Crediting Macaulay with introducing English education in India will be like crediting victory in a cricket match to the batsman who scores the winning run.
The native initiative for English education came from Ram Mohun Roy (1772/74-1833). Following a May 1816 meeting of ‘English gentlemen and influential natives’ a substan­tial sum of Its 113,179 was collected and an Anglo-Indian College or vidyalaya opened on January 27, 1817 with less than 20 students.  Earlier, Hindu and Muslim boys were hired by the British to learn traditional things from their elders and pass them on to the company. Now, Hindu boys from upper classes paid money from their own pocket to receive English education.
The main aim of English education was to prepare Indians for government jobs. The response to English education therefore was on predictable caste lines. For the upper castes that had tradi­tionally depended on government jobs and patronage, English was the new bread-and‑butter language in place of Persian; they therefore filled the new class-rooms with alacrity. At Cawnpore of 1820 “the native children flocked to the school in pursuit of the English language”. Thirty years later, “In Lahore as well as Umritsur, the anxiety to acquire English is remarkable”.
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Macaulay’s utterly brilliant demolition of statism, paternalism, and pessimism about population

“He conceives that the business of the magistrate is, not merely to see that the persons and property of the people are secure from attack, but that he ought to be a jack-of-all-trades, architect, engineer, schoolmaster, merchant, theologian, a Lady Bountiful in every parish, a Paul Pry in every house, spying, eaves-dropping, relieving, admonishing, spending our money for us, and choosing our opinions for us. His principle is, if we understand it rightly, that no man can do anything so well for himself as his rulers, be they who they may, can do it for him, and that a government approaches nearer and nearer to perfection, in proportion as it interferes more and more with the habits and notions of individuals.” 

Thomas Babington Macaulay’s description of Robert Southey [Source]

This outstanding demolition of "government worshippers" is from Macaulay's famous (and scathing!) book-review of Southey's book [Sir Thomas More; or, Colloquies on the Progress and Prospects of Society.By ROBERT SOUTHEY, Esq., LL.D., Poet Laureate. 2 vols. 8vo. London: 1829].

The review was published in the Edinburgh Review in January 1830 when Macaulay was 30 years old, and already widely known for his literary and philosophical prowess.

Read this essay as much for his attack on the worshippers of government, as an attack on those who display a lack of reason. It is clear upon reading this essay that Hayek's writing was enormously influenced by Macaulay – regardless of whether he had read this particular essay. (The above citation is merely one of many, which finds echoes across Hayek's entire work.) It was not just Mises who made Hayek. Most likely Macaulay created Hayek, as well. 

Macaulay also effectively destroyed all "nudge" or paternalistic conceptions.

I'm reproducing the entire book-review below, with coloured (and other) annotation. The essay is long but extremely readable. Enjoy it at your leisure, sipping a glass of good red wine. As I went through it, I couldn't help marvelling at how a man only of thirty could have considered issues so deeply and written so cogently. And with such amazing satire!

Mr. Southey has found out a way, he tells us, in which the effects of manufactures and agriculture may be compared. And what is this way? To stand on a hill, to look at a cottage and a factory, and to see which is the prettier

Book Review of Southey’s Colloquies on the Progress and Prospects of Society [Note: I've split the long paragraphs. Sanjeev.]

Sir Thomas More; or, Colloquies on the Progress and Prospects of Society. By ROBERT SOUTHEY, Esq., LL.D., Poet Laureate. 2 vols. 8vo. London: 1829.
It would be scarcely possible for a man of Mr. Southey’s talents and acquirements to write two volumes so large as those before us, which should be wholly destitute of information and amusement. Yet we do not remember to have read with so little satisfaction any equal quantity of matter, written by any man of real abilities.
We have, for some time past, observed with great regret the strange infatuation which leads the Poet Laureate to abandon those departments of literature in which he might excel, and to lecture the public on sciences which he has still the very alphabet to learn. He has now, we think, done his worst.
The subject which he has at last undertaken to treat is one which demands all the highest intellectual and moral qualities of a philosophical statesman, an understanding at once comprehensive and acute, a heart at once upright and charitable. Mr. Southey brings to the task two faculties which were never, we believe, vouchsafed in measure so copious to any human being, the faculty of believing without a reason, and the faculty of hating without a provocation.
It is, indeed, most extraordinary, that a mind like Mr. Southey’s, a mind richly endowed in many respects by nature, and highly cultivated by study, a mind which has exercised considerable influence on the most enlightened generation of the most enlightened people that ever existed, should be utterly destitute of the power of discerning truth from falsehood.
Yet such is the fact. Government is to Mr. Southey one of the fine arts. He judges of a theory, of a public measure, of a religious or a political party, of a peace or a war, as men judge of a picture or a statue, by the effect produced on his imagination. A chain of associations is to him what a chain of reasoning is to other men; and what he calls his opinions are in fact merely his tastes.
Part of this description might perhaps apply to a much greater man, Mr. [Edmund] Burke. But Mr. Burke assuredly possessed an understanding admirably fitted for the investigation of truth, an understanding stronger than that of any statesman, active or speculative, of the eighteenth century, stronger than everything, except his own fierce and ungovernable sensibility. Hence he generally chose his side like a fanatic, and defended it like a philosopher. His conduct on the most important occasions of his life, at the time of the impeachment of Hastings for example, and at the time of the French Revolution, seems to have been prompted by those feelings and motives which Mr. Coleridge has so happily described,
‘Stormy pity, and the cherish’d lure 
Of pomp, and proud precipitance of soul.’
Hindostan, with, its vast cities, its gorgeous pagodas, its infinite swarms of dusky population, its long-descended dynasties, its stately etiquette, excited in a mind so capacious, so imaginative, and so susceptible, the most intense interest. The peculiarities of the costume, of the manners, and of the laws, the very mystery which hung over the language and origin of the people, seized his imagination.
To plead under the ancient arches of Westminster Hall, in the name of the English people, at the bar of the English nobles, for great nations and kings separated from him by half the world, seemed to him [Burke] the height of human glory.
Again, it is not difficult to perceive that his hostility to the French Revolution principally arose from the vexation which he felt at having all his old political associations disturbed, at seeing the well-known landmarks of states obliterated, and the names and distinctions with which the history of Europe had been filled for ages at once swept away. [Clearly, Macaulay thought highly of the French Revolution, a matter on which he was more wrong than right, and Burke more right than wrong. Indeed, Southey's ideas almost seem Romantic, a direct derivative from Rousseau's. That should have warned Macaulay from his aversion towards Burke.  Sanjeev
He felt like an antiquary whose shield had been scoured, or a connoisseur who found his Titian retouched. But, however he came by an opinion, he had no sooner got it than he did his best to make out a legitimate title to it. [This is very unfair to Burke, of Macaulay! Sanjeev]
His reason, like a spirit in the service of an enchanter, though spell-bound, was still mighty. It did whatever work his passions and his imagination might impose. But it did that work, however arduous, with marvellous dexterity and vigour. His course was not determined by argument; but he could defend the wildest course by arguments more plausible than those by which common men support opinions which they have adopted after the fullest deliberation. Reason has scarcely ever displayed, even in those well constituted minds of which she occupies the throne, so much power and energy as in the lowest offices of that imperial servitude. [This is all very unfair to Burke, but let's move on. Sanjeev
Now in the mind of Mr. Southey reason has no place at all, as either leader or follower, as either sovereign or slave. He does not seem to know what an argument is. He never uses arguments himself. He never troubles himself to answer the arguments of his opponents. It has never occurred to him, that a man ought to be able to give some better account of the way in which he has arrived at his opinions than merely that it is his will and pleasure to hold them. It has never occurred to him that there is a difference between assertion and demonstration, that a rumour does not always prove a fact, that a single fact, when proved, is hardly foundation enough for a theory, that two contradictory propositions cannot be undeniable truths, that to beg the question is not the way to settle it, or that when an objection is raised, it ought to be met with something more convincing than ‘scoundrel’ and ‘blockhead.’
It would be absurd to read the works of such a writer for political instruction. The utmost that can be expected from any system promulgated by him is that it may be splendid and affecting, that it may suggest sublime and pleasing images. His scheme of philosophy is a mere day-dream, a poetical creation, like the Domdaniel cavern, the Swerga, or Padalon; and indeed it bears no inconsiderable resemblance to those gorgeous visions. Like them, it has something of invention, grandeur, and brilliancy. But, like them, it is grotesque and extravagant, and perpetually violates even that conventional probability which is essential to the effect of works of art.
The warmest admirers of Mr. Southey will scarcely, we think, deny that his success has almost always borne an inverse proportion to the degree in which his undertakings have required a logical head. His poems, taken in the mass, stand far higher than his prose work. His official Odes indeed, among which the Vision of Judgement must be classed, are, for the most part, worse than Pye’s and as bad as Cibber’s; nor do we think him generally happy in short pieces. But his longer poems, though full of faults, are nevertheless very extraordinary productions. We doubt greatly whether they will be read fifty years hence; but that, if they are read, they will be admired, we have no doubt whatever.
But, though in general we prefer Mr. Southey’s poetry to his prose, we must make one exception. The Life of Nelson is, beyond all doubt, the most perfect, and the most delightful of his works. The fact is, as his poems most abundantly prove, that he is by no means so skilful in designing as in filling up. It was therefore an advantage to him to be furnished with an outline of characters and events, and to have no other task to perform than that of touching the cold sketch into life. No writer, perhaps, ever lived, whose talents so precisely qualified him to write the history of the great naval warrior. There were no fine riddles of the human heart to read, no theories to propound, no hidden causes to develop, no remote consequences to predict. The character of the hero lay on the surface. The exploits were brilliant and picturesque.
The necessity of adhering to the real course of events saved Mr. Southey from those faults which deform the original plan of almost every one of his poems, and which even his innumerable beauties of detail scarcely redeem. The subject did not require the exercise of those reasoning powers the want of which is the blemish of his prose. It would not be easy to find, in all literary history, an instance of a more exact hit between wind and water.
John Wesley and the Peninsular War were subjects of a very different kind, subjects which required all the qualities of a philosophic historian. In Mr. Southey’s works on these subjects, he has, on the whole, failed. Yet there are charming specimens of the art of narration in both of them. The Life of Wesley will probably live. Defective as it is, it contains the only popular account of a most remarkable moral revolution, and of a man whose eloquence and logical acuteness might have made him eminent in literature, whose genius for government was not inferior to that of Richelieu, and who, whatever his errors may have been, devoted all his powers, in defiance of obloquy and derision, to what he sincerely considered as the highest good of his species. The History of the Peninsular War is already dead: indeed, the second volume was dead-born. The glory of producing an imperishable record of that great conflict seems to be preserved for Colonel Napier.
The Book of the Church contains some stories very prettily told. The rest is mere rubbish. The adventure was manifestly one which could be achieved only by a profound thinker, and one in which even a profound thinker might have failed, unless his passions had been kept under strict control. But in all those works in which Mr. Southey has completely abandoned narration, and has undertaken to argue moral and political questions, his failure has been complete and ignominious.
On such occasions his writings are rescued from utter contempt and derision solely by the beauty and purity of the English. We find, we confess, so great a charm in Mr. Southey’s style that, even when he writes nonsense, we generally read it with pleasure, except indeed when he tries to be droll. A more insufferable jester never existed. He very often attempts to be humorous, and yet we do not remember a single occasion on which he has succeeded farther than to be quaintly and flippantly dull.
In one of his works he tells us that Bishop Spratt was very properly so called, inasmuch as he was a very small poet. And in the book now before us he cannot quote Francis Bugg, the renegade Quaker, without a remark on his unsavoury name. A wise man might talk folly like this by his own fireside; but that any human being, after having made such a joke, should write it down, and copy it out, and transmit it to the printer, and correct the proof-sheets, and send it forth into the world, is enough to make us ashamed of our species.
The extraordinary bitterness of spirit which Mr. Southey manifests towards his opponents is, no doubt, in a great measure to be attributed to the manner in which he forms his opinions.
Differences of taste, it has often been remarked, produce greater exasperation than differences on points of science. But this is not all. A peculiar austerity marks almost all Mr. Southey’s judgements of men and actions. We are far from blaming him for fixing on a high standard of morals, and for applying that standard to every case. But rigour ought to be accompanied by discernment; and of discernment Mr. Southey seems to be utterly destitute.
His mode of judging is monkish. It is exactly what we should expect from a stern old Benedictine, who had been preserved from many ordinary frailties by the restraints of his situation. No man out of a cloister ever wrote about love, for example, so coldly and at the same time so grossly. His descriptions of it are just what we should hear from a recluse who knew the passion only from the details of the confessional. Almost all his heroes make love either like Seraphim or like cattle.
He seems to have no notion of anything between the Platonic passion of the Glendoveer who gazes with rapture on his mistress’s leprosy, and the brutal appetite of Arvalan and Roderick. In Roderick, indeed, the two characters are united. He is first all clay, and then all spirit. He goes forth a Tarquin, and comes back too ethereal to be married. The only love-scene, as far as we can recollect, in Madoc, consists of the delicate attentions which a savage, who has drunk too much of the Prince’s excellent metheglin, offers to Goervyl. It would be the labour of a week to find, in all the vast mass of Mr. Southey’s poetry, a single passage indicating any sympathy with those feelings which have consecrated the shades of Vaucluse and the rocks of Meillerie.
Indeed, if we except some very pleasing images of paternal tenderness and filial duty, there is scarcely any thing soft or humane in Mr. Southey’s poetry. What theologians call the spiritual sins are his cardinal virtues, hatred, pride, and the insatiable thirst of vengeance. These passions he disguises under the name of duties; he purifies them from the alloy of vulgar interests; he ennobles them by uniting them with energy, fortitude, and a severe sanctity of manners; and he then holds them up to the admiration of mankind.
This is the spirit of Thalaba, of Ladurlad, of Adosinda, of Roderick after his conversion. It is the spirit which, in all his writings, Mr. Southey appears to affect. ‘I do well to be angry,’ seems to be the predominant feeling of his mind. Almost the only mark of charity which he vouchsafes to his opponents is to pray for their reformation; and this he does in terms not unlike those in which we can imagine a Portuguese priest interceding with Heaven for a Jew, delivered over to the secular arm after a relapse.
We have always heard, and fully believe, that Mr. Southey is a very amiable and humane man; nor do we intend to apply to him personally any of the remarks which we have made on the spirit of his writings. Such are the caprices of human nature. Even Uncle Toby troubled himself very little about the French grenadiers who fell on the glacis of Namur. And Mr. Southey, when he takes up his pen, changes his nature as much as Captain Shandy, when he girt on his sword. The only opponents to whom the Laureate gives quarter are those in whom he finds something of his own character reflected. He seems to have an instinctive antipathy for calm, moderate men, for men who shun extremes, and who render reasons. He has treated Mr. Owen of Lanark, for example, with infinitely more respect than he has shown to Mr. Hallam or to Dr. Lingard; and this for no reason that we can discover, except that Mr. Owen is more unreasonably and hopelessly in the wrong than any speculator of our time.

[Now Macaulay comes to the point – regarding Southey's political views]

Mr. Southey’s political system is just what we might expect from a man who regards politics, not as matter of science, but as matter of taste and feeling. All his schemes of government have been inconsistent with themselves. In his youth he was a republican; yet, as he tells us in his preface to these Colloquies, he was even then opposed to the Catholic Claims. He is now a violent Ultra-Tory. Yet, while he maintains, with vehemence approaching to ferocity, all the sterner and harsher parts of the Ultra-Tory theory of government, the baser and dirtier part of that theory disgusts him. Exclusion, persecution, severe punishments for libellers and demagogues, proscriptions, massacres, civil war, if necessary rather than any concession to a discontented people; these are the measures which he seems inclined to recommend.
A severe and gloomy tyranny, crushing opposition, silencing remonstrance, drilling the minds of the people into unreasoning obedience, has in it something of grandeur which delights his imagination. But there is nothing fine in the shabby tricks and jobs of office; and Mr. Southey, accordingly, has no toleration for them. When a Jacobin, he did not perceive that his system led logically, and would have led practically, to the removal of religious distinctions. He now commits a similar error. He renounces the abject and paltry part of the creed of his party, without perceiving that it is also an essential part of that creed. He would have tyranny and purity together; though the most superficial observation might have shown him that there can be no tyranny without corruption.
It is high time, however, that we should proceed to the consideration of the work which is our more immediate subject, and which, indeed, illustrates in almost every page our general remarks on Mr. Southey’s writings. In the preface, we are informed that the author, notwithstanding some statements to the contrary, was always opposed to the Catholic Claims. We fully believe this; both because we are sure that Mr. Southey is incapable of publishing a deliberate falsehood, and because his assertion is in itself probable.
We should have expected that, even in his wildest paroxysms of democratic enthusiasm, Mr. Southey would have felt no wish to see a simple remedy applied to a great practical evil. We should have expected that the only measure which all the great statesmen of two generations have agreed with each other in supporting would be the only measure which Mr. Southey would have agreed with himself in opposing. He has passed from one extreme of political opinion to another, as Satan in Milton went round the globe, contriving constantly to ‘ride with darkness.’ Wherever the thickest shadow of the night may at any moment chance to fall, there is Mr. Southey. It is not everybody who could have so dexterously avoided blundering on the daylight in the course of a journey to the antipodes.
Mr. Southey has not been fortunate in the plan of any of his fictitious narratives. But he has never failed so conspicuously as in the work before us; except, indeed in the wretched Vision of Judgement. In November 1817, it seems the Laureate was sitting over his newspaper, and meditating about the death of the Princess Charlotte. An elderly person of very dignified aspect makes his appearance, announces himself as a stranger from a distant country, and apologizes very politely for not having provided himself with letters of introduction. Mr. Southey supposes his visitor to be some American gentleman who has come to see the lakes and the lake poets, and accordingly proceeds to perform, with that grace, which only long practice can give, all the duties which authors owe to starers. He assures his guest that some of the most agreeable visits which he has received have been from Americans, and that he knows men among them whose talents and virtues would do honour to any country.
In passing we may observe, to the honour of Mr. Southey, that, though he evidently has no liking for the American institutions, he never speaks of the people of the United States with that pitiful affectation of contempt by which some members of his party have done more than wars or tariffs can do to excite mutual enmity between two communities formed for mutual friendship. Great as the faults of his mind are, paltry spite like this has no place in it. Indeed, it is scarcely conceivable that a man of his sensibility and his imagination should look without pleasure and national pride on the vigorous and splendid youth of a great people, whose veins are filled with our blood, whose minds are nourished with our literature, and on whom is entailed the rich inheritance of our civilization, our freedom, and our glory.

But we must return to Mr. Southey’s study at Keswick. The visitor informs the hospitable poet that he is not an American but a spirit. Mr. Southey, with more frankness than civility, tells him that he is a very queer one. The stranger holds out his hand. It has neither weight nor substance. Mr. Southey upon this becomes more serious; his hair stands on end; and he adjures the spectre to tell him what he is, and why he comes. The ghost turns out to be Sir Thomas More. The traces of martyrdom, it seems, are worn in the other world, as stars and ribands are worn in this. Sir Thomas shows the poet a red streak round his neck, brighter than a ruby, and informs him that Cranmer wears a suit of flames in Paradise, the right hand glove, we suppose, of peculiar brilliancy.
Sir Thomas pays but a short visit on this occasion, but promises to cultivate the new acquaintance which he has formed, and, after begging that his visit may be kept secret from Mrs. Southey, vanishes into air.
The rest of the book consists of conversations between Mr. Southey and the spirit about trade, currency, Catholic emancipation, periodical literature, female nunneries, butchers, snuff, book-stalls, and a hundred other subjects.
Mr. Southey very hospitably takes an opportunity to escort the ghost round the lakes, and directs his attention to the most beautiful points of view. Why a spirit was to be evoked for the purpose of talking over such matters and seeing such sights, why the vicar of the parish, a bluestocking from London, or an American, such as Mr. Southey at first supposed the ærial visitor to be, might not have done as well, we are unable to conceive.
Sir Thomas tells Mr. Southey nothing about future events, and indeed absolutely disclaims the gift of prescience. He has learned to talk modern English. He has read all the new publications, and loves a jest as well as when he jested with the executioner, though we cannot say that the quality of his wit has materially improved in Paradise. His powers of reasoning, too, are by no means in as great vigour as when he sate on the woolsack; and though he boasts that he is ‘divested of all those passions which cloud the intellects and warp the understandings of men,’ we think him, we must confess, far less stoical than formerly. 
As to revelations, he tells Mr. Southey at the outset to expect none from him. The Laureate expresses some doubts, which assuredly will not raise him in the opinion of our modern millennarians, as to the divine authority of the Apocalypse. But the ghost preserves an impenetrable silence. As far as we remember, only one hint about the employment of disembodied spirits escapes him. He encourages Mr. Southey to hope that there is a Paradise Press, at which all the valuable publications of Mr. Murray and Mr. Colburn are reprinted as regularly as at Philadelphia; and delicately insinuates that Thalaba and the Curse of Kehama are among the number.
What a contrast does this absurd fiction present to those charming narratives which Plato and Cicero prefixed to their dialogues! What cost in machinery, yet what poverty of effect! A ghost brought in to say what any man might have said!
The glorified spirit of a great statesman and philosopher dawdling, like a bilious old nabob at a watering-place, over quarterly reviews and novels, dropping in to pay long calls, making excursions in search of the picturesque! The scene of St. George and St. Denis in the Pucelle is hardly more ridiculous. We know what Voltaire meant. Nobody, however, can suppose that Mr. Southey means to make game of the mysteries of a higher state of existence. The fact is that, in the work before us, in the Vision of Judgement, and in some of his other pieces, his mode of treating the most solemn subjects differs from that of open scoffers only as the extravagant representations of sacred persons and things in some grotesque Italian paintings differ from the caricatures which Carlile exposes in the front of his shop. We interpret the particular act by the general character. What in the window of a convicted blasphemer we call blasphemous we call only absurd and ill-judged in an altar-piece.
We now come to the conversations which pass between Mr. Southey and Sir Thomas More, or rather between two Southeys, equally eloquent, equally angry, equally unreasonable, and equally given to talking about what they do not understand.*1 Perhaps we could not select a better instance of the spirit which pervades the whole book than the passages in which Mr. Southey gives his opinion of the manufacturing system.
There is nothing which he hates so bitterly.
It is, according to him, a system more tyrannical than that of the feudal ages, a system of actual servitude, a system which destroys the bodies and degrades the minds of those who are engaged in it.
He expresses a hope that the competition of other nations may drive us out of the field; that our foreign trade may decline; and that we may thus enjoy a restoration of national sanity and strength. But he seems to think that the extermination of the whole manufacturing population would be a blessing, if the evil could be removed in no other way.
Mr. Southey does not bring forward a single fact in support of these views; and, as it seems to us, there are facts which lead to a very different conclusion. [At least Marx assembled a few cursory and incorrect facts. Sanjeev.]
In the first place, the poor-rate is very decidedly lower in the manufacturing than in the agricultural districts. If Mr. Southey will look over the Parliamentary returns on this subject, he will find that the amount of parochial relief required by the labourers in the different counties of England is almost exactly in inverse proportion to the degree in which the manufacturing system has been introduced into those counties.
The returns for the years ending in March 1825, and in March 1828, are now before us. In the former year we find the poor-rate highest in Sussex, about twenty shillings to every inhabitant. Then come Buckinghamshire, Essex, Suffolk, Bedfordshire, Huntingdonshire, Kent, and Norfolk. In all these the rate is above fifteen shillings a head. We will not go through the whole. Even in Westmoreland and the North Riding of Yorkshire, the rate is at more than eight shillings. In Cumberland and Monmouthshire, the most fortunate of all the agricultural districts, it is at six shillings. But in the West Riding of Yorkshire, it is as low as five shillings; and when we come to Lancashire, we find it at four shillings, one fifth of what it is in Sussex. The returns of the year ending in March 1828 are a little, and but a little, more unfavourable to the manufacturing districts. Lancashire, even in that season of distress, required a smaller poor-rate than any other district, and little more than one fourth of the poor-rate raised in Sussex. Cumberland alone, of the agricultural districts, was as well off as the West Riding of Yorkshire. These facts seem to indicate that the manufacturer is both in a more comfortable and in a less dependent situation than the agricultural labourer [Alas, if only Marx had read these basic facts. Sanjeev.]
As to the effect of the manufacturing system on the bodily health, we must beg leave to estimate it by a standard far too low and vulgar for a mind so imaginative as that of Mr. Southey, the proportion of births and deaths.
We know that, during the growth of this atrocious system, this new misery, to use the phrases of Mr. Southey, this new enormity, this birth of a portentous age, this pest which no man can approve whose heart is not seared or whose understanding has not been darkened, there has been a great diminution of mortality, and that this diminution has been greater in the manufacturing towns than anywhere else. The mortality still is, as it always was, greater in towns than in the country. But the difference has diminished in an extraordinary degree.
There is the best reason to believe that the annual mortality of Manchester, about the middle of the last century, was one in twenty-eight. It is now reckoned at one in forty-five. In Glasgow and Leeds a similar improvement has taken place. Nay, the rate of mortality in those three great capitals of the manufacturing districts is now considerably less than it was, fifty years ago, over England and Wales taken together, open country and all.
We might with some plausibility maintain that the people live longer because they are better fed, better lodged, better clothed, and better attended in sickness, and that these improvements are owing to that increase of national wealth which the manufacturing system has produced. [Once again, what shame that Marx had no clue about these elementary facts. Sanjeev.]
Much more might be said on this subject. But to what end? It is not from bills of mortality and statistical tables that Mr. Southey has learned his political creed. He cannot stoop to study the history of the system which he abuses, to strike the balance between the good and evil which it has produced, to compare district with district, or generation with generation. We will give his own reason for his opinion, the only reason which he gives for it, in his own words:—
‘We remained awhile in silence looking upon the assemblage of dwellings below. Here, and in the adjoining hamlet of Millbeck, the effects of manufactures and of agriculture may be seen and compared. The old cottages are such as the poet and the painter equally delight in beholding. Substantially built of the native stone without mortar, dirtied with no white lime, and their long low roofs covered with slate; if they had been raised by the magic of some indigenous Amphion’s music, the materials could not have adjusted themselves more beautifully in accord with the surrounding scene; and time has still further harmonized them with weather-stains, lichens, and moss, short grasses, and short fern, and stone-plants of various kinds. The ornamented chimneys, round or square, less adorned than those which, like little turrets, crest the houses of the Portuguese peasantry, and yet not less happily suited to their place; the hedge of clipt box beneath the windows, the rose-bushes beside the door, the little patch of flower-ground, with its tall hollyhocks in front; the garden beside, the bee-hives, and the orchard with its bank of daffodils and snow-drops, the earliest and the profusest in these parts, indicate in the owners some portion of ease and leisure, some regard to neatness and comfort, some sense of natural, and innocent, and healthful enjoyment. The new cottages of the manufacturers are upon the manufacturing pattern—naked, and in a row.
'"How is it,” said I, “ that everything which is connected with manufactures presents such features of unqualified deformity? From the largest of Mammon’s temples down to the poorest hovel in which his helotry are stalled, these edifices have all one character. Time will not mellow them; nature will neither clothe nor conceal them; and they will remain always as offensive to the eye as to the mind.” ’
Here is wisdom. Here are the principles on which nations are to be governed. Rose-bushes and poor-rates, rather than steam-engines and independence. Mortality and cottages with weather-stains, rather than health and long life with edifices which time cannot mellow. We are told that our age has invented atrocities beyond the imagination of our fathers; that society has been brought into a state, compared with which extermination would be a blessing; and all because the dwellings of cotton spinners are naked and rectangular.
Mr. Southey has found out a way, he tells us, in which the effects of manufactures and agriculture may be compared. And what is this way? To stand on a hill, to look at a cottage and a factory, and to see which is the prettier. Does Mr. Southey think that the body of the English peasantry live, or ever lived, in substantial or ornamented cottages, with box-hedges, flower-gardens, bee-hives, and orchards? If not, what is his parallel worth? We despise those mock philosophers, who think that they serve the cause of science by depreciating literature and the fine arts. But if anything could excuse their narrowness of mind, it would be such a book as this. It is not strange that, when one enthusiast makes the picturesque the test of political good, another should feel inclined to proscribe altogether the pleasures of taste and imagination.
Thus it is that Mr. Southey reasons about matters with which he thinks himself perfectly conversant. We cannot, therefore, be surprised to find that he commits extraordinary blunders when he writes on points of which he acknowledges himself to be ignorant. He confesses that he is not versed in political economy, and that he has neither liking nor aptitude for it; and he then proceeds to read the public a lecture concerning it which fully bears out his confession.
‘All wealth,’ says Sir Thomas More, ‘in former times was tangible. It consisted in land, money, or chattels, which were either of real or conventional value.’
Montesinos, as Mr. Southey somewhat affectedly calls himself, answers thus:—
‘Jewels, for example, and pictures, as in Holland, where indeed at one time tulip bulbs answered the same purpose.’
‘That bubble,’ says Sir Thomas, ‘was one of those contagious insanities to which communities are subject. All wealth was real, till the extent of commerce rendered a paper currency necessary; which differed from precious stones and pictures in this important point, that there was no limit to its production.’
‘We regard it,’ says Montesinos, ‘as the representative of real wealth; and, therefore, limited always to the amount of what it represents.’
‘Pursue that notion,’ answers the ghost, ‘and you will be in the dark presently. Your provincial bank-notes, which constitute almost wholly the circulating medium of certain districts, pass current to-day. To-morrow, tidings may come that the house which issued them has stopped payment, and what do they represent then? You will find them the shadow of a shade.’
We scarcely know at which end to begin to disentangle this knot of absurdities. We might ask, why it should be a greater proof of insanity in men to set a high value on rare tulips than on rare stones, which are neither more useful nor more beautiful? We might ask how it can be said that there is no limit to the production of paper-money when a man is hanged if he issues any in the name of another and is forced to cash what he issues in his own?
But Mr. Southey’s error lies deeper still. ‘All wealth,’ says he, ‘was tangible and real till paper currency was introduced.’ Now, was there ever, since men emerged from a state of utter barbarism, an age in which there were no debts? Is not a debt, while the solvency of the debtor is undoubted, always reckoned as part of the wealth of the creditor? Yet is it tangible and real wealth? Does it cease to be wealth, because there is the security of a written acknowledgement for it?
And what else is paper currency? Did Mr. Southey ever read a bank-note? If he did, he would see that it is a written acknowledgement of a debt, and a promise to pay that debt. [That may well be the case, but the underlying debate is worth having. Sanjeev.] The promise may be violated: the debt may remain unpaid: those to whom it was due may suffer: but this is a risk not confined to cases of paper currency: it is a risk inseparable from the relation of debtor and creditor. 
Every man who sells goods for anything but ready money runs the risk of finding that what he considered as part of his wealth one day is nothing at all the next day. Mr. Southey refers to the picture-galleries of Holland. The pictures were undoubtedly real and tangible possessions. But surely it might happen that a burgomaster might owe a picture-dealer a thousand guilders for a Teniers. What in this case corresponds to our paper money is not the picture, which is tangible, but the claim of the picture-dealer on his customer for the price of the picture; and this claim is not tangible. Now, would not the picture-dealer consider this claim as part of his wealth? Would not a tradesman who knew of the claim give credit to the picture-dealer the more readily on account of the claim? The burgomaster might be ruined. If so, would not those consequences follow which, as Mr. Southey tells us, were never heard of till paper money came into use? Yesterday this claim was worth a thousand guilders. To-day what is it? The shadow of a shade.
It is true that, the more readily claims of this sort are transferred from hand to hand, the more extensive will be the injury produced by a single failure. The laws of all nations sanction, in certain cases, the transfer of rights not yet reduced into possession. Mr. Southey would scarcely wish, we should think, that all indorsements of bills and notes should be declared invalid. Yet, even if this were done, the transfer of claims would imperceptibly take place, to a very great extent. When the baker trusts the butcher, for example, he is in fact, though not in form, trusting the butcher’s customers. A man who owes large bills to tradesmen, and fails to pay them, almost always produces distress through a very wide circle of people with whom he never dealt.
In short, what Mr. Southey takes for a difference in kind is only a difference of form and degree. In every society men have claims on the property of others. In every society there is a possibility that some debtors may not be able to fulfil their obligations. In every society therefore, there is wealth which is not tangible, and which may become the shadow of a shade.
Mr. Southey then proceeds to a dissertation on the national debt, which he considers in a new and most consolatory light, as a clear addition to the income of the country.
‘You can understand,’ says Sir Thomas, ‘that it constitutes a great part of the national wealth.’
‘So large a part,’ answers Montesinos, ‘that the interest amounted, during the prosperous time of agriculture, to as much as the rental of all the land in Great Britain; and at present to the rental of all lands, all houses, and all other fixed property put together.’
The Ghost and the Laureate agree that it is very desirable that there should be so secure and advantageous a deposit for wealth as the funds afford. Sir Thomas then proceeds:—
‘Another and far more momentous benefit must not be overlooked; the expenditure of an annual interest, equalling, as you have stated, the present rental of all fixed property.’
‘That expenditure,’ quoth Montesinos, ‘gives employment to half the industry in the kingdom, and feeds half the mouths. Take indeed the weight of the national debt from this great and complicated social machine, and the wheels must stop.’
From this passage we should have been inclined to think that Mr. Southey supposes the dividends to be a free gift periodically sent down from heaven to the fundholders, as quails and manna were sent to the Israelites; were it not that he has vouchsafed, in the following question and answer, to give the public some information which, we believe, was very little needed.
‘Whence comes the interest?’ says Sir Thomas.
‘It is raised,’ answers Montesinos, ‘by taxation.’
Now, has Mr. Southey ever considered what would be done with this sum if it were not paid as interest to the national creditor? If he would think over this matter for a short time, we suspect that the ‘momentous benefit’ of which he talks would appear to him to shrink strangely in amount. A fundholder, we will suppose, spends dividends amounting to five hundred pounds a year; and his ten nearest neighbours pay fifty pounds each to the taxgatherer, for the purpose of discharging the interest of the national debt.
If the debt were wiped out, a measure, be it understood, which we by no means recommend, the fundholder would cease to spend his five hundred pounds a year. He would no longer give employment to industry, or put food into the mouths of labourers. This Mr. Southey thinks a fearful evil.
But is there no mitigating circumstance? Each of the ten neighbours of our fundholder has fifty pounds a year more than formerly. Each of them will, as it seems to our feeble understandings, employ more industry and feed more mouths than formerly. The sum is exactly the same. It is in different hands. But on what grounds does Mr. Southey call upon us to believe that it is in the hands of men who will spend it less liberally or less judiciously?
He seems to think that nobody but a fundholder can employ the poor; that, if a tax is remitted, those who formerly used to pay it proceed immediately to dig holes in the earth, and to bury the sum which the government had been accustomed to take; that no money can set industry in motion till such money has been taken by the tax-gatherer out of one man’s pocket and put into another man’s pocket. We really wish that Mr. Southey would try to prove this principle, which is indeed the foundation of his whole theory of finance: for we think it right to hint to him that our hardhearted and unimaginative generation will expect some more satisfactory reason than the only one with which he has favoured us, namely, a similitude touching evaporation and dew.
Both the theory and the illustration, indeed, are old friends of ours. In every season of distress which we can remember Mr. Southey has been complaining that it is not from economy, but from increased taxation, that the country must expect relief; and he still, we find, places the undoubting faith of a political Diafoirus, in his ‘Resaignare, repurgare, et reclysterizare.’
‘A people,’ he tell us, ‘may be too rich, but a government cannot be so.’
‘A state,’ says he, ‘cannot have more wealth at its command than may be employed for the general good, a liberal expenditure in national works being one of the surest means of promoting national prosperity; and the benefit being still more obvious, of an expenditure directed to the purposes of national improvement. But a people may be too rich.’
We fully admit that a state cannot have at its command more wealth than can be employed for the general good. But neither can individuals, or bodies of individuals, have at their command more wealth than may be employed for the general good. If there be no limit to the sum which may be usefully laid out in public works and national improvement, then wealth, whether in the hands of private men or of the government, may always, if the possessors choose to spend it usefully, be usefully spent. The only ground therefore, on which Mr. Southey can possibly maintain that a government cannot be too rich, but that a people may be too rich, must be this, that governments are more likely to spend their money on good objects than private individuals.
But what is useful expenditure? ‘A liberal expenditure in national works,’ says Mr. Southey, ‘is one of the surest means for promoting national prosperity.’ What does he mean by national prosperity? Does he mean the wealth of the state? If so, his reasoning runs thus: The more wealth a state has the better; for the more wealth a state has the more wealth it will have. 
This is surely something like that fallacy, which is ungallantly termed a lady’s reason. If by national prosperity he means the wealth of the people, of how gross a contradiction is Mr. Southey guilty. A people, he tells us, may be too rich: a government cannot: for a government can employ its riches in making the people richer. The wealth of the people is to be taken from them because they have too much, and laid out in works which will yield them more.
We are really at a loss to determine whether Mr. Southey’s reason for recommending large taxation is that it will make the people rich, or that it will make them poor. But we are sure that, if his object is to make them rich, he takes the wrong course. There are two or three principles respecting public works, which, as an experience of vast extent proves, may be trusted in almost every case.
It scarcely ever happens that any private man or body of men will invest property in a canal, a tunnel, or a bridge, but from an expectation that the outlay will be profitable to them. No work of this sort can be profitable to private speculators, unless the public be willing to pay for the use of it. The public will not pay of their own accord for what yields no profit or convenience to them. There is thus a direct and obvious connexion between the motive which induces individuals to undertake such a work, and the utility of the work.
Can we find any such connexion in the case of a public work executed by a government? If it is useful, are the individuals who rule the country richer? if it is useless, are they poorer? A public man may be solicitous for his credit. But is not he likely to gain more credit by an useless display of ostentatious architecture in a great town than by the best road or the best canal in some remote province? The fame of public works is a much less certain test of their utility than the amount of toll collected at them. In a corrupt age, there will be direct embezzlement. In the purest age, there will be abundance of jobbing. Never were the statesmen of any country more sensitive to public opinion, and more spotless in pecuniary transactions, than those who have of late governed England. Yet we have only to look at the buildings recently erected in London for a proof of our rule. In a bad age, the fate of the public is to be robbed outright. [India is a good example.Sanjeev] In a good age, it is merely to have the dearest and the worst of everything.
Buildings for state purposes the state must erect. And here we think that, in general, the state ought to stop. We firmly believe that five hundred thousand pounds subscribed by individuals for rail-roads or canals would produce more advantage to the public than five millions voted by Parliament for the same purpose. [Milton Friedman thought that public works are double the cost of private works. Macaulay believes public works are ten times the cost. Sanjeev] There are certain old saws about the master’s eye and about everybody’s business, in which we place very great faith.
There is, we have said, no consistency in Mr. Southey’s political system. But if there be in his political system any leading principle, any one error which diverges more widely and variously than any other, it is that of which his theory about national works is a ramification. He conceives that the business of the magistrate is, not merely to see that the persons and property of the people are secure from attack, but that he ought to be a jack-of-all-trades, architect, engineer, schoolmaster, merchant, theologian, a Lady Bountiful in every parish, a Paul Pry in every house, spying, eaves-dropping, relieving, admonishing, spending our money for us, and choosing our opinions for us. His principle is, if we understand it rightly, that no man can do anything so well for himself as his rulers, be they who they may, can do it for him, and that a government approaches nearer and nearer to perfection, in proportion as it interferes more and more with the habits and notions of individuals.
He seems to be fully convinced that it is in the power of government to relieve all the distresses under which the lower orders labour. Nay, he considers doubt on this subject as impious. We cannot refrain from quoting his argument on this subject. It is a perfect jewel of logic. 
'"Many thousands in your metropolis,” says Sir Thomas More, “rise every morning without knowing how they are to subsist during the day; as many of them, where they are to lay their heads at night. All men, even the vicious themselves, know that wickedness leads to misery: but many, even among the good and the wise, have yet to learn that misery is almost as often the cause of wickedness.”
“There are many,” says Montesinos, “who know this, but believe that it is not in the power of human institutions to prevent this misery. They see the effect, but regard the causes as inseparable from the condition of human nature.”
'"As surely as God is good,” replies Sir Thomas, “so surely there is no such thing as necessary evil. For, by the religious mind, sickness, and pain, and death are not to be accounted evils.” ’
Now if sickness, pain, and death, are not evils, we cannot understand why it should be an evil that thousands should rise without knowing how they are to subsist. The only evil of hunger is that it produces first pain, then sickness, and finally death. If it did not produce these, it would be no calamity. If these are not evils, it is no calamity. We will propose a very plain dilemma: either physical pain is an evil, or it is not an evil. If it is an evil, then there is necessary evil in the universe: if it is not, why should the poor be delivered from it?
Mr. Southey entertains as exaggerated a notion of the wisdom of governments as of their power. He speaks with the greatest disgust of the respect now paid to public opinion. That opinion is, according to him, to be distrusted and dreaded; its usurpation ought to be vigorously resisted; and the practice of yielding to it is likely to ruin the country. To maintain police is, according to him, only one of the ends of government. The duties of a ruler are patriarchal and paternal. He ought to consider the moral discipline of the people as his first object, to establish a religion, to train the whole community in that religion, and to consider all dissenters as his own enemies.
'"Nothing,” says Sir Thomas, “ is more certain, than that religion is the basis upon which civil government rests; that from religion power derives its authority, laws their efficacy, and both their zeal and sanction; and it is necessary that this religion be established as for the security of the state, and for the welfare of the people, who would otherwise be moved to and fro with every wind of doctrine. A state is secure in proportion as the people are attached to its institutions; it is, therefore, the first and plainest rule of sound policy, that the people be trained up in the way they should go. The state that neglects this prepares its own destruction; and they who train them in any other way are undermining it. Nothing in abstract science can be more certain than these positions are.”
'"All of which,” answers Montesinos, “are nevertheless denied by our professors of the arts Babblative and Scribblative: some in the audacity of evil designs, and others in the glorious assurance of impenetrable ignorance.” ’

[Those who accuse Macaulay of being a great promoter of Christianity should note how he opposes the intervention of the Church in the affairs of the state. Sanjeev]

The greater part of the two volumes before us is merely an amplification of these paragraphs. What does Mr. Southey mean by saying that religion is demonstrably the basis of civil government? He cannot surely mean that men have no motives except those derived from religion for establishing and supporting civil government, that no temporal advantage is derived from civil government, that men would experience no temporal inconvenience from living in a state of anarchy?
If he allows, as we think he must allow, that it is for the good of mankind in this world to have civil government, and that the great majority of mankind have always thought it for their good in this world to have civil government, we then have a basis for government quite distinct from religion.
It is true that the Christian religion sanctions government, as it sanctions everything which promotes the happiness and virtue of our species. But we are at a loss to conceive in what sense religion can be said to be the basis of government, in which religion is not also the basis of the practices of eating, drinking, and lighting fires in cold weather.
Nothing in history is more certain than that government has existed, has received some obedience, and has given some protection, in times in which it derived no support from religion, in times in which there was no religion that influenced the hearts and lives of men. It was not from dread of Tartarus, or from belief in the Elysian fields, that an Athenian wished to have some institutions which might keep Orestes from filching his cloak, or Midias from breaking his head.
‘It is from religion,’ says Mr. Southey, ‘that power derives its authority, and laws their efficacy.’ From what religion does our power over the Hindoos derive its authority, or the law in virtue of which we hang Brahmins its efficacy?
For thousands of years civil government has existed in almost every corner of the world, in ages of priestcraft, in ages of fanaticism, in ages of Epicurean indifference, in ages of enlightened piety. However pure or impure the faith of the people might be, whether they adored a beneficent or a malignant power, whether they thought the soul mortal or immortal, they have, as soon, as they ceased to be absolute savages, found out their need of civil government, and instituted it accordingly. [This is the standard classical liberal argument for the establishment of the state. Sanjeev]
It is as universal as the practice of cookery.
Yet it is as certain, says Mr. Southey, as anything in abstract science, that government is founded on religion. We should like to know what notion Mr. Southey has of the demonstrations of abstract science. A very vague one, we suspect.
The proof proceeds. As religion is the basis of government, and as the state is secure in proportion as the people are attached to public institutions, it is, therefore, says Mr. Southey, the first rule of policy, that the government should train the people in the way in which they should go; and it is plain that those who train them in any other way are undermining the state.
Now it does not appear to us to be the first object that people should always believe in the established religion and be attached to the established government. A religion may be false. A government may be oppressive. And whatever support government gives to false religions, or religion to oppressive governments, we consider as a clear evil.
The maxim, that governments ought to train the people in the way in which they should go, sounds well. But is there any reason for believing that a government is more likely to lead the people in the right way than the people to fall into the right way of themselves?
Have there not been governments which were blind leaders of the blind? Are there not still such governments?
Can it be laid down as a general rule that the movement of political and religious truth is rather downwards from the government to the people than upwards from the people to the government? These are questions which it is of importance to have clearly resolved.
Mr. Southey declaims against public opinion, which is now, he tells us, usurping supreme power. Formerly, according to him, the laws governed; now public opinion governs. What are laws but expressions of the opinion of some class which has power over the rest of the community? By what was the world ever governed but by the opinion of some person or persons? By what else can it ever be governed? What are all systems, religious, political, or scientific, but opinions resting on evidence more or less satisfactory?
The question is not between human opinion and some higher and more certain mode of arriving at truth, but between opinion and opinion, between the opinions of one man and another, or of one class and another, or of one generation and another. Public opinion is not infallible; but can Mr. Southey construct any institutions which shall secure to us the guidance of an infallible opinion? Can Mr. Southey select any family, any profession, any class, in short, distinguished by any plain badge from the rest of the community, whose opinion is more likely to be just than this much abused public opinion? Would he choose the peers, for example? Or the two hundred tallest men in the country? Or the poor Knights of Windsor? Or children who are born with cauls? Or the seventh sons of seventh sons? We cannot suppose that he would recommend popular election; for that is merely an appeal to public opinion. And to say that society ought to be governed by the opinion of the wisest and best, though true, is useless. Whose opinion is to decide who are the wisest and best? [Macaulay was a great democrat. Sanjeev]
Mr. Southey and many other respectable people seem to think that, when they have once proved the moral and religious training of the people to be a most important object, it follows, of course, that it is an object which the government ought to pursue. They forget that we have to consider, not merely the goodness of the end, but also the fitness of the means. Neither in the natural nor in the political body have all members the same office. There is surely no contradiction in saying that a certain section of the community may be quite competent to protect the persons and property of the rest, yet quite unfit to direct our opinions, or to superintend our private habits.
So strong is the interest of a ruler to protect his subjects against all depredations and outrages except his own, so clear and simple are the means by which this end is to be effected, that men are probably better off under the worst governments in the world than they would be in a state of anarchy. Even when the appointment of magistrates has been left to chance, as in the Italian Republics, things have gone on far better than if there had been no magistrates at all, and if every man had done what seemed right in his own eyes. 
But we see no reason for thinking that the opinions of the magistrate on speculative questions are more likely to be right than those of any other man. None of the modes by which a magistrate is appointed, popular election, the accident of the lot, or the accident of birth, affords, as far as we can perceive, much security for his being wiser than any of his neighbours. The chance of his being wiser than all his neighbours together is still smaller. Now we cannot understand how it can be laid down that it is the duty and the right of one class to direct the opinions of another, unless it can be proved that the former class is more likely to form just opinions than the latter.
The duties of government would be, as Mr. Southey says that they are, paternal, if a government were necessarily as much superior in wisdom to a people as the most foolish father, for a time, is to the most intelligent child, and if a government loved a people as fathers generally love their children.
But there is no reason to believe that a government will have either the paternal warmth of affection or the paternal superiority of intellect.
Mr. Southey might as well say that the duties of the shoemaker are paternal, and that it is an usurpation in any man not of the craft to say that his shoes are bad and to insist on having better.
The division of labour would be no blessing, if those by whom a thing is done were to pay no attention to the opinion of those for whom it is done. The shoemaker, in the Relapse, tells Lord Foppington that his lordship is mistaken in supposing that his shoe pinches. ‘It does not pinch; it cannot pinch; I know my business; and I never made a better shoe.’ This is the way in which Mr. Southey would have a government treat a people who usurp the privilege of thinking. Nay, the shoemaker of Vanbrugh has the advantage in the comparison. He contented himself with regulating his customer’s shoes, about which he had peculiar means of information, and did not presume to dictate about the coat and hat. But Mr. Southey would have the rulers of a country prescribe opinions to the people, not only about politics, but about matters concerning which a government has no peculiar sources of information, and concerning which any man in the streets may know as much and think as justly as the King, namely religion and morals.

Macaulay on free speech

Men are never so likely to settle a question rightly as when they discuss it freely. [In this Macaulay clearly precedes J.S. Mill in his key arguments. But, of course, this argument started with John Locke, even earlier. Sanjeev] A government can interfere in discussion only by making it less free than it would otherwise be. Men are most likely to form just opinions when they have no other wish than to know the truth, and are exempt from all influence, either of hope or fear.
Government, as government, can bring nothing but the influence of hopes and fears to support its doctrines. It carries on controversy, not with reasons, but with threats and bribes. If it employs reasons, it does so, not in virtue of any powers which belong to it as a government. Thus, instead of a contest between argument and argument, we have a contest between argument and force. Instead of a contest in which truth, from the natural constitution of the human mind, has a decided advantage over falsehood, we have a contest in which truth can be victorious only by accident.
And what, after all, is the security which this training gives to governments? Mr. Southey would scarcely propose that discussion should be more effectually shackled, that public opinion should be more strictly disciplined into conformity with established institutions, than in Spain and Italy. Yet we know that the restraints which exist in Spain and Italy have not prevented atheism from spreading among the educated classes, and especially among those whose office it is to minister at the altars of God. 
All our readers know how, at the time of the French Revolution, priest after priest came forward to declare that his doctrine, his ministry, his whole life, had been a lie, a mummery during which he could scarcely compose his countenance sufficiently to carry on the imposture. This was the case of a false, or at least of a grossly corrupted religion. [Then why did Macaulay oppose Burke's opposition to the way the Revolution was conducted? Sanjeev]
Let us take then the case of all others most favourable to Mr. Southey’s argument. Let us take that form of religion which he holds to be the purest, the system of the Arminian part of the Church of England. Let us take the form of government which he most admires and regrets, the government of England in the time of Charles the FirstWould he wish to see a closer connexion between church and state than then existed? Would he wish for more powerful ecclesiastical tribunals? for a more zealous king? for a more active primate? Would he wish to see a more complete monopoly of public instruction given to the Established Church? Could any government do more to train the people in the way in which he would have them go? And in what did all this training end? 
The Report of the state of the Province of Canterbury, delivered by Laud to his master at the close of 1639, represents the Church of England as in the highest and most palmy state. So effectually had the government pursued that policy which Mr. Southey wishes to see revived that there was scarcely the least appearance of dissent. Most of the bishops stated that all was well among their flocks. Seven or eight persons in the diocese of Peterborough had seemed refractory to the church, but had made ample submission. In Norfolk and Suffolk all whom there had been reason to suspect had made profession of conformity, and appeared to observe it strictly. It is confessed that there was a little difficulty in bringing some of the vulgar in Suffolk to take the sacrament at the rails in the chancel. This was the only open instance of non-conformity which the vigilant eye of Laud could detect in all the dioceses of his twenty-one suffragans, on the very eve of a revolution in which primate, and church, and monarch, and monarchy were to perish together.
At which time would Mr. Southey pronounce the constitution more secure; in 1639, when Laud presented this Report to Charles; or now, when thousands of meetings openly collect millions of dissenters, when designs against the tithes are openly avowed, when books attacking not only the Establishment, but the first principles of Christianity, are openly sold in the streets?
The signs of discontent, he tells us, are stronger in England now than in France when the States-General met: and hence he would have us infer that a revolution like that of France may be at hand. Does he not know that the danger of states is to be estimated, not by what breaks out of the public mind, but by what stays in it?  [No greater wisdom was ever expressed. Sanjeev. Cf. Private Truths, Public Lies by Kuran.]
Can he conceive anything more terrible than the situation of a government which rules without apprehension over a people of hypocrites, which is flattered by the press and cursed in the inner chambers, which exults in the attachment and obedience of its subjects, and knows not that those subjects are leagued against it in a free-masonry of hatred, the sign of which is every day conveyed in the glance of ten thousand eyes, the pressure of ten thousand hands, and the tone of ten thousand voices? Profound and ingenious policy! Instead of curing the disease, to remove those symptoms by which alone its nature can be known! To leave the serpent his deadly sting, and deprive him only of his warning rattle!
When the people whom Charles had so assiduously trained in the good way [ha! Sanjeev. Macaulay is so bloody good in his satire] had rewarded his paternal care [another one! Sanjeev] by cutting off his head, a new kind of training came into fashion. Another government arose which, like the former, considered religion as its surest basis, and the religious discipline of the people as its first duty. Sanguinary laws were enacted against libertinism; profane pictures were burned; drapery was put on indecorous statues; the theatres were shut up; fast-days were numerous; and the Parliament resolved that no person should be admitted into any public employment, unless the House should be first satisfied of his vital godliness.
We know what was the end of this training. We know that it ended in impiety, in filthy and heartless sensuality, in the dissolution of all ties of honour and morality. We know that at this very day scriptural phrases, scriptural names, perhaps some scriptural doctrines, excite disgust and ridicule, solely because they are associated with the austerity of that period.
Thus has the experiment of training the people in established forms of religion been twice tried in England on a large scale, once by Charles and Laud, and once by the Puritans. The High Tories of our time still entertain many of the feelings and opinions of Charles and Laud, though in a mitigated form; nor is it difficult to see that the heirs of the Puritans are still amongst us.
It would be desirable that each of these parties should remember how little advantage or honour it formerly derived from the closest alliance with power, that it fell by the support of rulers and rose by their opposition, that of the two systems that in which the people were at any time drilled was always at that time the unpopular system, that the training of the High Church ended in the reign of the Puritans, and that the training of the Puritans ended in the reign of the harlots.
This was quite natural. Nothing is so galling to a people not broken in from the birth as a paternal, or, in other words, a meddling government, a government which tells them what to read, and say, and eat, and drink and wear. Our fathers could not bear it two hundred years ago; and we are not more patient than they.
Mr. Southey thinks that the yoke of the church is dropping off because it is loose. We feel convinced that it is borne only because it is easy, and that, in the instant in which an attempt is made to tighten it, it will be flung away. It will be neither the first nor the strongest yoke that has been broken asunder and trampled under foot in the day of the vengeance of England. [Clearly those who misread Macaulay as a mad proponent of Christianity know not his deep subtlety of understanding. Sanjeev]
How far Mr. Southey would have the government carry its measures for training the people in the doctrines of the church, we are unable to discover. In one passage Sir Thomas More asks with great vehemence,
‘Is it possible that your laws should suffer the unbelievers to exist as a party? Vetitum est adeo sceleris nihil?”
Montesinos answers.’They avow themselves in defiance of the laws. The fashionable doctrine which the press at this time maintains is, that this is a matter in which the laws ought not to interfere, every man having a right, both to form what opinion he pleases upon religious subjects, and to promulgate that opinion.’
It is clear, therefore, that Mr. Southey would not give full and perfect toleration to infidelity. In another passage, however, he observes with some truth, though too sweepingly, that ‘any degree of intolerance short of that full extent which the Papal Church exercises where it has the power, acts upon the opinions which it is intended to suppress, like pruning upon vigorous plants; they grow the stronger for it.’ These two passages, put together, would lead us to the conclusion that, in Mr. Southey’s opinion, the utmost severity ever employed by the Roman Catholic Church in the days of its greatest power ought to be employed against unbelievers in England; in plain words, that Carlile and his shopmen ought to be burned in Smithfield, and that every person who, when called upon, should decline to make a solemn profession of Christianity ought to suffer the same fate.
We do not, however, believe that Mr. Southey would recommend such a course, though his language would, according to all the rules of logic, justify us in supposing this to be his meaning. His opinions form no system at all. He never sees, at one glance, more of a question than will furnish matter for one flowing and well turned sentence; so that it would be the height of unfairness to charge him personally with holding a doctrine, merely because that doctrine is deducible, though by the closest and most accurate reasoning, from the premises which he has laid down. We are, therefore, left completely in the dark as to Mr. Southey’s opinions about toleration.
Immediately after censuring the government for not punishing infidels, he proceeds to discuss the question of the Catholic disabilities, now, thank God, removed, and defends them on the ground that the Catholic doctrines tend to persecution, and that the Catholics persecuted when they had power.
‘They must persecute,’ says he, ‘if they believe their own creed, for conscience-sake; and if they do not believe it, they must persecute for policy; because it is only by intolerance that so corrupt and injurious a system can be upheld.’
That unbelievers should not be persecuted is an instance of national depravity at which the glorified spirits stand aghast. Yet a sect of Christians is to be excluded from power, because those who formerly held the same opinions were guilty of persecution. We have said that we do not very well know what Mr. Southey’s opinion about toleration is. But, on the whole, we take it to be this, that everybody is to tolerate him, and that he is to tolerate nobody.
We will not be deterred by any fear of misrepresentation from expressing our hearty approbation of the mild, wise, and eminently Christian manner in which the Church and the Government have lately acted with respect to blasphemous publications. We praise them for not having thought it necessary to encircle a religion pure, merciful, and philosophical, a religion to the evidence of which the highest intellects have yielded, with the defences of a false and bloody superstition. The ark of God was never taken till it was surrounded by the arms of earthly defenders. In captivity, its sanctity was sufficient to vindicate it from insult, and to lay the hostile fiend prostrate on the threshold of his own temple.
The real security of Christianity is to be found in its benevolent morality, in its exquisite adaptation to the human heart, in the facility with which its scheme accommodates itself to the capacity of every human intellect, in the consolation which it bears to the house of mourning, in the light with which it brightens the great mystery of the grave. To such a system it can bring no addition of dignity or of strength, that it is part and parcel of the common law. It is not now for the first time left to rely on the force of its own evidences and the attractions of its own beauty. Its sublime theology confounded the Grecian schools in the fair conflict of reason with reason.
The bravest and wisest of the Cæsars found their arms and their policy unavailing, when opposed to the weapons that were not carnal and the kingdom that was not of this world. The victory which Porphyry and Diocletian failed to gain is not, to all appearance, reserved for any of those who have, in this age, directed their attacks against the last restraint of the powerful and the last hope of the wretched.
The whole history of Christianity shows, that she is in far greater danger of being corrupted by the alliance of power, than of being crushed by its opposition. Those who thrust temporal sovereignty upon her treat her as their prototypes treated her author. They bow the knee, and spit upon her; they cry ‘Hail!’ and smite her on the cheek; they put a sceptre in her hand, but it is a fragile reed; they crown her, but it is with thorns; they cover with purple the wounds which their own hands have inflicted on her; and inscribe magnificent titles over the cross on which they have fixed her to perish in ignominy and pain.
The general view which Mr. Southey takes of the prospects of society is very gloomy; but we comfort ourselves with the consideration that Mr. Southey is no prophet. He foretold, we remember, on the very eve of the abolition of the Test and Corporation Acts, that these hateful laws were immortal, and that pious minds would long be gratified by seeing the most solemn religious rite of the Church profaned for the purpose of upholding her political supremacy. In the book before us, he says that Catholics cannot possibly be admitted into Parliament until those whom Johnson called the ‘bottomless Whigs’ come into power. While the book was in the press, the prophecy was falsified; and a Tory of the Tories, Mr. Southey’s own favourite hero, won and wore that noblest wreath, ‘Ob cives servatos.’
The signs of the times, Mr. Southey tells us, are very threatening. His fears for the country would decidedly preponderate over his hopes, but for his firm reliance on the mercy of God. Now, as we know that God has once suffered the civilized world to be overrun by savages, and the Christian religion to be corrupted by doctrines which made it, for some ages, almost as bad as Paganism, we cannot think it inconsistent with his attributes that similar calamities should again befall mankind.
We look, however, on the state of the world, and of this kingdom in particular, with much greater satisfaction and with better hopes. Mr. Southey speaks with contempt of those who think the savage state happier than the social. On this subject, he says, Rousseau never imposed on him even in his youth. But he conceives that a community which has advanced a little way in civilization is happier than one which has made greater progress. The Britons in the time of Cæsar were happier, he suspects, than the English of the nineteenth century. On the whole, he selects the generation which preceded the Reformation as that in which the people of this country were better off than at any time before or since.
This opinion rests on nothing, as far as we can see, except his own individual associations. He is a man of letters; and a life destitute of literary pleasures seems insipid to him. He abhors the spirit of the present generation, the severity of its studies, the boldness of its inquiries, and the disdain with which it regards some old prejudices by which his own mind is held in bondage. He dislikes an utterly unenlightened age; he dislikes an investigating and reforming age.
The first twenty years of the sixteenth century would have exactly suited him. They furnished just the quantity of intellectual excitement which he requires. The learned few read and wrote largely. A scholar was held in high estimation. But the rabble did not presume to think; and even the most inquiring and independent of the educated classes paid more reverence to authority, and less to reason, than is usual in our time. This is a state of things in which Mr. Southey would have found himself quite comfortable; and, accordingly, he pronounces it the happiest state of things ever known in the world.
The savages were wretched, says Mr. Southey; but the people in the time of Sir Thomas More were happier than either they or we. Now we think it quite certain that we have the advantage over the contemporaries of Sir Thomas More, in every point in which they had any advantage over savages.
Mr. Southey does not even pretend to maintain that the people in the sixteenth century were better lodged or clothed than at present. He seems to admit that in these respects there has been some little improvement. It is indeed a matter about which scarcely any doubt can exist in the most perverse mind that the improvements of machinery have lowered the price of manufactured articles, and have brought within the reach of the poorest some conveniences which Sir Thomas More or his master could not have obtained at any price.
The labouring classes, however, were, according to Mr. Southey, better fed three hundred years ago than at present. We believe that he is completely in error on this point. The condition of servants in noble and wealthy families, and of scholars at the Universities, must surely have been better in those times than that of day-labourers; and we are sure that it was not better than that of our workhouse paupers. From the household book of the Northumberland family, we find that in one of the greatest establishments of the kingdom the servants lived very much as common sailors live now. In the reign of Edward the Sixth the state of the students at Cambridge is described to us, on the very best authority, as most wretched. Many of them dined on pottage made of a farthing’s worth of beef with a little salt and oatmeal, and literally nothing else.
This account we have from a contemporary master of St. John’s. Our parish poor now eat wheaten bread. In the sixteenth century the labourer was glad to get barley, and was often forced to content himself with poorer fare. In Harrison’s introduction to Holinshed we have an account of the state of our working population in the ‘golden days,’ as Mr. Southey calls them, ‘of good Queen Bess.’ [Clearly all countries have golden days. Sanjeev
‘The gentilitie,’ says he, ‘commonly provide themselves sufficiently of wheat for their own tables, whylest their household and poore neighbours in some shires are inforced to content themselves with rye or barleie; yea, and in time of dearth, many with bread made eyther of beanes, peason, or otes, or of altogether, and some acornes among. I will not say that this extremity is oft so well to be seen in time of plentie as of dearth; but if I should I could easily bring my trial: for albeit there be much more grounde eared nowe almost in everye place then hathe beene of late yeares, yet such a price of corne continueth in eache towne and markete, without any just cause, that the artificer and poore labouring man is not able to reach unto it, but is driven to content himself with horse-corne.’ 
We should like to see what the effect would be of putting any parish in England now on allowance of ‘horse-corne.’
The helotry of Mammon are not, in our day, so easily enforced to content themselves as the peasantry of that happy period, as Mr. Southey considers it, which elapsed between the fall of the feudal and the rise of the commercial tyranny.
‘The people,’ says Mr. Southey, ‘are worse fed than when they were fishers.’ And yet in another place he complains that they will not eat fish. ‘They have contracted,’ says he, ‘I know not how, some obstinate prejudice against a kind of food at once wholesome and delicate, and everywhere to be obtained cheaply and in abundance, were the demand for it as general as it ought to be.’ It is true that the lower orders have an obstinate prejudice against fish. But hunger has no such obstinate prejudices. If what was formerly a common diet is now eaten only in times of severe pressure, the inference is plain. The people must be fed with what they at least think better food than that of their ancestors.
The advice and medicine which the poorest labourer can now obtain, in disease or after an accident, is far superior to what Henry the Eighth could have commanded. Scarcely any part of the country is out of the reach of practitioners who are probably not so far inferior to Sir Henry Halford as they are superior to Dr. Butts. That there has been a great improvement in this respect, Mr. Southey allows. Indeed he could not well have denied it. ‘But,’ says he, ‘the evils for which these sciences are the palliative, have increased since the time of the Druids, in a proportion that heavily overweighs the benefit of improved therapeutics.’
We know nothing either of the diseases or the remedies of the Druids. But we are quite sure that the improvement of medicine has far more than kept pace with the increase of disease during the last three centuries. This is proved by the best possible evidence. The term of human life is decidedly longer in England than in any former age, respecting which we possess any information on which we can rely. All the rants in the world about picturesque cottages and temples of Mammon will not shake this argument. 
No test of the physical well-being of society can be named so decisive as that which is furnished by bills of mortality. That the lives of the people of this country have been gradually lengthening during the course of several generations, is as certain as any fact in statistics; and that the lives of men should become longer and longer, while their bodily condition during life is becoming worse and worse, is utterly incredible.
Let our readers think over these circumstances. Let them take into the account the sweating sickness and the plague. Let them take into the account that fearful disease which first made its appearance in the generation to which Mr. Southey assigns the palm of felicity, and raged through Europe with a fury at which the physician stood aghast, and before which the people were swept away by myriads. Let them consider the state of the northern counties, constantly the scene of robberies, rapes, massacres, and conflagrations. Let them add to all this the fact that seventy-two thousand persons suffered death by the hands of the executioner during the reign of Henry the Eighth and judge between the nineteenth and the sixteenth century.
We do not say that the lower orders in England do not suffer severe hardships. But, in spite of Mr. Southey’s assertions, and in spite of the assertions of a class of politicians, who, differing from Mr. Southey in every other point, agree with him in this, we are inclined to doubt whether the labouring classes here really suffer greater physical distress than the labouring classes of the most flourishing countries of the Continent.
It will scarcely be maintained that the lazzaroni who sleep under the porticoes of Naples, or the beggars who besiege the convents of Spain, are in a happier situation than the English commonalty. The distress which has lately been experienced in the northern part of Germany, one of the best governed and most prosperous regions of Europe, surpasses, if we have been correctly informed, anything which has of late years been known among us. In Norway and Sweden the peasantry are constantly compelled to mix bark with their bread; and even this expedient has not always preserved whole families and neighbourhoods from perishing together of famine. An experiment has lately been tried in the kingdom of the Netherlands, which has been cited to prove the possibility of establishing agricultural colonies on the waste lands of England, but which proves to our minds nothing so clearly as this, that the rate of subsistence to which the labouring classes are reduced in the Netherlands is miserably low, and very far inferior to that of the English paupers.
No distress which the people here have endured for centuries approaches to that which has been felt by the French in our own time. The beginning of the year 1817 was a time of great distress in this island. But the state of the lowest classes here was luxury compared with that of the people of France. We find in Magendie’s ‘Journal de Physiologie Expérimentale’ a paper on a point of physiology connected with the distress of that season. It appears that the inhabitants of six departments, Aix, Jura, Doubs, Haute Saone, Vosges, and Saone-et-Loire, were reduced first to oatmeal and potatoes, and at last to nettles, bean-stalks, and other kinds of herbage fit only for cattle; that when the next harvest enabled them to eat barley-bread, many of them died from intemperate indulgence in what they thought an exquisite repast; and that a dropsy of a peculiar description was produced by the hard fare of the year. Dead bodies were found on the roads and in the fields. A single surgeon dissected six of these, and found the stomach shrunk, and filled with the unwholesome aliments which hunger had driven men to share with beasts. 
Such extremity of distress as this is never heard of in England, or even in Ireland. We are, on the whole, inclined to think, though we would speak with diffidence on a point on which it would be rash to pronounce a positive judgment without a much longer and closer investigation than we have bestowed upon it, that the labouring classes of this island, though they have their grievances and distresses, some produced by their own improvidence, some by the errors of their rulers, are on the whole better off as to physical comforts than the inhabitants of any equally extensive district of the old world. For this very reason, suffering is more acutely felt and more loudly bewailed here than elsewhere.
We must take into the account the liberty of discussion, and the strong interest which the opponents of a ministry always have to exaggerate the extent of the public disasters.  [This point, that democracy prevents famine, was clearly made by Macaulay first, not by Amartya Sen! Sanjeev]
There are countries in which the people quietly endure distress that here would shake the foundations of the state, countries in which the inhabitants of a whole province turn out to eat grass with less clamour than one Spitalfields weaver would make here, if the overseers were to put him on barley-bread.
In those new commonwealths in which a civilized population has at its command a boundless extent of the richest soil, the condition of the labourer is probably happier than in any society which has lasted for many centuries. But in the old world we must confess ourselves unable to find any satisfactory record of any great nation, past or present, in which the working classes have been in a more comfortable situation than in England during the last thirty-years. [This, sadly for hundreds of millions of people killed by communism, completely escaped Karl Marx. Sanjeev

Macaulay demolished Malthus: population and prosperity go together

When this island was thinly peopled, it was barbarous; there was little capital; and that little was insecure. It is now the richest and the most highly civilized spot in the world; but the population is dense.
Thus we have never known that golden age which the lower orders in the United States are now enjoying. We have never known an age of liberty, of order, and of education, an age in which the mechanical sciences were carried to a great height, yet in which the people were not sufficiently numerous to cultivate even the most fertile valleys. But, when we compare our own condition with that of our ancestors, we think it clear that the advantages arising from the progress of civilization have far more than counterbalanced the disadvantages arising from the progress of population.
While our numbers have increased tenfold, our wealth has increased a hundredfold. Though there are so many more people to share the wealth now existing in the country than there were in the sixteenth century, it seems certain that a greater share falls to almost every individual than fell to the share of any of the corresponding class in the sixteenth century. The King keeps a more splendid court. The establishments of the nobles are more magnificent. The esquires are richer; the merchants are richer; the shopkeepers are richer. The serving-man, the artisan, and the husbandman have a more copious and palatable supply of food, better clothing, and better furniture. This is no reason for tolerating abuses, or for neglecting any means of ameliorating the condition of our poorer countrymen. [In this Macaulay is one with Locke and Adam Smith, and others, about the need for public amelioration of the condition of the poorest. Sanjeev] But it is a reason against telling them, as some of our philosophers are constantly telling them, that they are the most wretched people who ever existed on the face of the earth.
We have already adverted to Mr. Southey’s amusing doctrine about national wealth. A state, says he, cannot be too rich; but a people may be too rich. His reason for thinking this is extremely curious.
‘A people may be too rich, because it is the tendency of the commercial, and more especially of the manufacturing system, to collect wealth rather than to diffuse it. Where wealth is necessarily employed in any of the speculations of trade, its increase is in proportion to its amount. Great capitalists become like pikes in a fish-pond, who devour the weaker fish; and it is but too certain, that the poverty of one part of the people seems to increase in the same ratio as the riches of another. There are examples of this in history. In Portugal, when the high tide of wealth flowed in from the conquests in Africa and the East, the effect of that great influx was not more visible in the augmented splendour of the court, and the luxury of the higher ranks, than in the distress of the people.’
Mr. Southey’s instance is not a very fortune one. The wealth which did so little for the Portuguese was not the fruit either of manufacturers or of commerce carried on by private individuals. It was the wealth, not of the people, but of the government and its creatures, of those who, as Mr. Southey thinks, can never be too rich. The fact is, that Mr. Southey’s proposition is opposed to all history, and to the phenomena which surround us on every side. 
England is the richest country in Europe, the most commercial country, and the country in which manufactures flourish most. Russia and Poland are the poorest countries in Europe. They have scarcely any trade, and none but the rudest manufactures. Is wealth more diffused in Russia and Poland than in England? There are individuals in Russia and Poland whose incomes are probably equal to those of our richest countrymen. It may be doubted whether there are not, in those countries, as many fortunes of eighty thousand a year as here. But are there as many fortunes of two thousand a year, or of one thousand a year?
There are parishes in England which contain more people of between three hundred and three thousand pounds a year than could be found in all the dominions of the Emperor Nicholas. The neat and commodious houses which have been built in London and its vicinity, for people of this class, within the last thirty years would of themselves form a city larger than the capitals of some European kingdoms. And this is the state of society in which the great proprietors have devoured a smaller!
The cure which Mr. Southey thinks that he has discovered is worthy of the sagacity which he has shown in detecting the evil. The calamities arising from the collection of wealth in the hands of a few capitalists are to be remedied by collecting it in the hands of one great capitalist, who has no conceivable motive to use it better than other capitalists, the all-devouring state.
It is not strange that, differing so widely from Mr. Southey as to the past progress of society, we should differ from him also as to its probable destiny. He thinks, that to all outward appearance, the country is hastening to destruction; but he relies firmly on the goodness of God. We do not see either the piety or the rationality of thus confidently expecting that the Supreme Being will interfere to disturb the common succession of causes and effects.
We, too, rely on his goodness, on his goodness as manifested, not in extraordinary interpositions, but in those general laws which it has pleased him to establish in the physical and in the moral worldWe rely on the natural tendency of the human intellect to truth, and of the natural tendency of society to improvement. 
We know no well authenticated instance of a people which has decidedly retrograded in civilization and prosperity, except from the influence of violent and terrible calamities, such as those which laid the Roman empire in ruins, or those which, about the beginning of the sixteenth century, desolated Italy. We know of no country which, at the end of fifty years of peace and tolerably good government, has been less prosperous than at the beginning of that period. The political importance of a state may decline, as the balance of power is disturbed by the introduction of new forces.
Thus the influence of Holland and of Spain is much diminished. But are Holland and Spain poorer than formerly? We doubt it. Other countries have outrun them. But we suspect that they have been positively, though not relatively, advancing. We suspect that Holland is richer than when she sent her navies up the Thames, that Spain is richer than when a French king was brought captive to the footstool of Charles the Fifth.
History is full of the signs of this natural progress of society. We see in almost every part of the annals of mankind how the industry of individuals, struggling up against wars, taxes, famines, conflagrations, mischievous prohibitions, and more mischievous protections, creates faster than governments can squander, and repairs whatever invaders can destroy. We see the wealth of nations increasing, and all the arts of life approaching nearer and nearer to perfection, in spite of the grossest corruption and the wildest profusion on the part of rulers.
The present moment is one of great distress. But how small will that distress appear when we think over the history of the last forty years; a war, compared with which all other wars sink into insignificance; taxation, such as the most heavily taxed people of former times could not have conceived; a debt larger than all the public debts that ever existed in the world added together; the food of the people studiously rendered dear; the currency imprudently debased, and imprudently restored. Yet is the country poorer than in 1790? We firmly believe that, in spite of all the misgovernment of her rulers, she has been almost constantly becoming richer and richer. Now and then there has been a stoppage, now and then a short retrogression; but as to the general tendency there can be no doubt. A single breaker may recede; but the tide is evidently coming in.
If we were to prophesy that in the year 1930 a population of fifty millions, better fed, clad, and lodged than the English of our time, will cover these islands, that Sussex and Huntingdonshire will be wealthier than the wealthiest parts of the West Riding of Yorkshire now are, that cultivation, rich as that of a flower-garden, will be carried up to the very tops of Ben Nevis and Helvellyn, that machines constructed on principles yet undiscovered, will be in every house, that there will be no highways but railroads, no travelling but by steam, that our debt, vast as it seems to us, will appear to our great-grandchildren a trifling incumbrance, which might easily be paid off in a year or two, many people would think us insane. [But Macaulay was absolutely right, of course. Sanjeev]
We prophesy nothing; but this we say: If any person had told the Parliament which met in perplexity and terror after the crash in 1720 that in 1830 the wealth of England would surpass all their wildest dreams, that the annual revenue would equal the principal of that debt which they considered as an intolerable burden, that for one man of ten thousand pounds then living there would be five men of fifty thousand pounds, that London would be twice as large and twice as populous, and that nevertheless the rate of mortality would have diminished to one half of what it then was, that the post-office would bring more into the exchequer than the excise and customs had brought in together under Charles the Second, that stage-coaches would run from London to York in twenty-four hours, that men would be in the habit of sailing without wind, and would be beginning to ride without horses, our ancestors would have given as much credit to the prediction as they gave to Gulliver’s Travels.
Yet the prediction would have been true; and they would have perceived that it was not altogether absurd, if they had considered that the country was then raising every year a sum which would have purchased the fee-simple of the revenue of the Plantagenets, ten times what supported the government of Elizabeth, three times what, in the time of Oliver Cromwell, had been thought intolerably oppressive.
To almost all men the state of things under which they have been used to live seems to be the necessary state of things. We have heard it said that five per cent. is the natural interest of money, that twelve is the natural number of a jury, that forty shillings is the natural qualification of a county voter.
Hence it is that, though in every age everybody knows that up to his own time progressive improvement has been taking place, nobody seems to reckon on any improvement during the next generation.
We cannot absolutely prove that those are in error who tell us that society has reached a turning point, that we have seen our best days. But so said all who came before us, and with just as much apparent reason. ‘A million a year will beggar us,’ said the patriots of 1640. ‘Two millions a year will grind the country to powder,’ was the cry in 1660. ‘Six millions a year, and a debt of fifty millions!’ exclaimed Swift; ‘the high allies have been the ruin of us.’ ‘A hundred and forty millions of debt!’ said Junius; ‘well may we say that we owe Lord Chatham more than we shall ever pay, if we owe him such a load as this.’ ‘Two hundred and forty millions of debt!’ cried all the statesmen of 1783 in chorus; ‘what abilities, or what economy on the part of a minister, can save a country so burdened?’ We know that if, since 1783, no fresh debt had been incurred, the increased resources of the country would have enabled us to defray that debt at which Pitt, Fox, and Burke stood aghast, nay, to defray it over and over again, and that with much lighter taxation than what we have actually borne. On what principle is it that, when we see nothing but improvement behind us, we are to expect nothing but deterioration before us?

It is not by the intermeddling of Mr. Southey’s idol, the omniscient and omnipotent State, but by the prudence and energy of the people, that England has hitherto been carried forward in civilization; and it is to the same prudence and the same energy that we now look with comfort and good hope.
Our rulers will best promote the improvement of the nation by strictly confining themselves to their own legitimate duties, by leaving capital to find its most lucrative course, commodities their fair price, industry and intelligence their natural reward, idleness and folly their natural punishment, by maintaining peace, by defending property, by diminishing the price of law, and by observing strict economy in every department of the state.
Let the Government do this: the People will assuredly do the rest.
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Macaulay, one of the most eloquent of all authors on liberty

I was disappointed to see a negative reference to Macaulay on Atanu Dey's blog the other day. Atanu allegedly promotes liberty, but has he read and understood Macaulay?

I'm not by any stretch of imagination suggesting that Macaulay was perfect, but it is TOTALLY ridiculous to blame him (without having understood him!) for India's many ills today. There is a facile cliche, sneeringly used without thinking by most "educated" Indians – that Indians are Macaulay's children.

If only they were.

In reality, the "educated" Indians are Nehru's godchildren. The fact that two generations of "educated" fools have been bred in India by Nehru's socialist education system is lost in their great urge to blame someone distant in history for India's SELF-CREATED plight. Compare Macaulay with the semi-literate FOOLS who govern India today (e.g. Sonia Gandhi) and you'll understand what I mean.

Macaulay, in the few years of his life spent in India, had only the highest of regard for India, and great hope for its future. He articulated his hopes for India thus: 

"It would be … far better for us that the people of India were well governed and independent of us, than ill governed and subject to us"

And he wrote: "There is only one cure for the evils which newly acquired freedom produces; and that cure is freedom."

Macaulay was a major promoter of liberty. Without his contributions to world liberty, we would have been much poorer now.  F.A. Hayek held Macaulay in great esteem.

"[i]t is doubtful whether any historical work of our time has had a circulation or direct influence comparable with, say, Macaulay's History of England." [Hayek]

And Professor Don Boudreaux of economics at George Mason University, and the main contributor to the famous blog, Cafe Hayek, has named his son after Macaulay.

Macaulay was one of the greatest writers against slavery and colonialism. And in many ways he preceded J.S. Mill on the primacy of freedom of the press and importance of freedom for women. 

India, I urge you to understand Macaulay and Nehru, and to apportion blame appropriately. Hold Nehru responsible, then start reading Macaulay. 

A compendium of some of his writings 

The Liberty Fund has digitised and published many of his works:

I'm reproducing below the entire Jim Powell essay on Macaulay, below. It was first published in the Freeman in October 1996 • Volume: 46 • Issue: 10. Powell also wrote a similar essay in his book, The Triumph of Liberty, perhaps one of the best books I've read. (That essay is not yet online, but this one is.) I'll let Freeman know that I've copied this entire article. If they object, I'll delete it and you can go to the main one at the Freeman website.

Jim Powell's 1998 essay on Macaulay

Thomas Babington Macaulay ranks among the most eloquent of all authors on liberty. In terms of the sheer quantity and range of eloquence, perhaps only Thomas Jefferson soared to such breathtaking heights.

Macaulay’s essays and History of England had an enormous sale during the nineteenth century. When English emigrants left for far corners of the world, they invariably brought with them three essentials of civilization—the Bible, Shakespeare, and Macaulay. His work was even more popular in America than in England. It was translated into nine languages. Nobel Laureate F.A. Hayek observed that “it is doubtful whether any historical work of our time has had a circulation or direct influence comparable with, say, Macaulay’s History of England.
Throughout his life, Macaulay expressed a sincere, exuberant, unwavering love for liberty. He called for the abolition of slavery. He advocated repeal of laws against Jews. He defended freedom of the press. He spoke out for free trade and the free movement of people. He celebrated the achievements of free markets. He believed women should be able to have property in their own name. He rejected government excuses for suspending civil liberties—There is only one cure for the evils which newly acquired freedom produces; and that cure is freedom. He insisted that liberty is impossible without secure private property, that great institution to which we owe all knowledge, all commerce, all industry, all civilization. . . .
Macaulay recognized evil much more clearly than sophisticated philosophers of his century and ours. He denounced Socialism, or any of those other `isms’ for which the plain English word is robbery. He thundered against profuse expenditures, heavy taxation, absurd commercial restrictions, corrupt tribunals, disastrous wars, seditions, persecutions.
Back when historians focused on political history (mainly the story of rulers), Macaulay pioneered economic history and social history (the story of ordinary people). He inspired generations of historians to chronicle struggles for liberty.
Macaulay has been derided as a shill for Whig aristocrats, yet he had commoner origins and earned a livelihood from his pen. After his father’s business went broke, he helped pay off the creditors and provided support for his younger siblings and aging parents. He paid all bills within 24 hours. I think that prompt payment is a moral duty, he remarked, knowing, as I do, how painful it is to have such things deferred. When Macaulay had little money, he resigned political office rather than compromise his principles.
Historian A.J.P. Taylor observed that Those who criticize Macaulay either do not care about liberty, or they think it can take care of itself. Macaulay was a good deal more sensible. Not only did he regard liberty as supremely important; he knew that it needs ceaseless defending. Macaulay’s severest critics were the enemies of civilization. Karl Marx dismissed him as a Scottish sycophant. Thomas Carlyle called Macaulay vulgar, intrinsically common, the sublime of commonplace, an author without the slightest tincture of greatness or originality of any kind of superior merit.
Macaulay was an inviting target because of his popularity as one of the supreme masters of the English language. He was lucid—no one ever strained to understand him. He told a compelling story. He portrayed unforgettable characters. He provided details appealing to the senses. He offered striking illustrations drawn from his encyclopedic knowledge of history and literature of ancient Greece and Rome, Italy, France, and England. Said A.J.P. Taylor: Start off on any page, in the middle of a paragraph, and it is impossible not to read on . . . he remains the most readable of all historians. After faulting Macaulay on a number of points, Lord Acton urged a friend: Read him therefore to find out how it comes that the most unsympathetic of critics can think him very nearly the greatest of English writers.
Winston Churchill was among those inspired by Macaulay. At age 13, Churchill memorized the 1,200 lines of Macaulay’s heroic poem Lays of Ancient Rome. A little later, he was thrilled when a friend read to him aloud from Macaulay’s History of England. At 23, Churchill read Macaulay’s History and essays for himself—12 volumes—and declared triumphantly: Macaulay crisp and forcible. Churchill acknowledged that in his own writing, I affected a combination of the style of Macaulay and Gibbon. . . .
Macaulay never married. He was utterly devoted to books and to his family, especially his youngest sisters, Hannah and Margaret. After Margaret’s death at 22 from scarlet fever, Macaulay spent considerable time with Hannah, her husband Charles Trevelyan, and their son George Otto Trevelyan. In 1876, George repaid his uncle’s affection by writing an impassioned biography of him.
Precocious Beginning
Thomas Babington Macaulay was born at his uncle’s mansion, Rothley Temple, Leicestershire, England, October 25, 1800. He was the eldest of nine children. His mother, Selina Mills, was the daughter of a Quaker bookseller. His father, Zachary Macaulay, was a stern Evangelical crusader against slavery. He had witnessed slaves being whipped and murdered, and he had served as governor of Sierra Leone, a settlement of freed slaves. He became a principal leader in the successful campaign to abolish slavery throughout the British Empire.
Tom was a precocious child. With little encouragement, he began reading widely around age three. He memorized John Milton’s epic poemParadise Lost and poems by the romantic Walter Scott. At seven, Macaulay wrote a Compendium of World History in which, among other things, he declared that English Puritan dictator Oliver Cromwell was an unjust and wicked man.
He was tutored at home, attended a day school and then a boarding school. There he learned Greek and Latin, developing a lifelong enthusiasm for classical literature. Early on, he became a prolific writer, and his mother cautioned: I know you write with great ease to yourself and would rather write ten poems than prune one; but remember that excellence is not attained at first. All your pieces are much mended after a little reflection. . . .
Margaret Macaulay believed that a major reason why her brother developed an extraordinarily lucid and dramatic style was his experience as the oldest child, always explaining things to younger siblings.
In October 1818, Macaulay enrolled at Trinity College, Cambridge University, where he deepened his knowledge of the classics and, apparently, studied law. He became an eager debater in the Cambridge Union, covering such issues as free trade, Catholic emancipation, and Greek independence. Along the way, Macaulay abandoned his father’s mild Tory views and emerged an ardent Whig. After his father inquired about his reaction to a Manchester meeting on universal suffrage—outraged Tories had killed a dozen people—Macaulay wrote back: I may be wrong as to the facts of what occurred at Manchester; but if they be what I have seen them stated, I can never repent speaking of them with indignation. When I cease to feel the injuries of others warmly, to detest wanton cruelty, and to feel my soul rise against oppression, I shall think myself unworthy to be your son.
In June 1824, Macaulay first caused a stir as a public speaker by appearing before the annual meeting of the London Anti-Slavery Society. Among those attending were William Wilberforce, who had led the English anti-slavery movement for nearly three decades; Henry Brougham, a leading Whig reformer; and Daniel O’Connell, the Irish patriot. Although the speech text was lost, published excerpts suggest Macaulay’s trademark eloquence: the peasant of the Antilles will no longer crawl in listless and trembling dejection round a plantation from whose fruits he must derive no advantage, and a hut whose door yields him no protection; but when his cheerful and voluntary labour is performed, he will return with the firm step and erect brow of a British citizen from the field which is his freehold to the cottage which is his castle.
The Edinburgh Review
Meanwhile, Francis Jeffrey, editor of the pro-liberty Edinburgh Review, England’s leading journal of political opinion, invited Macaulay to write for him. The first article was The West Indies, published in January 1825. It was an attack on slavery and colonialism.
Altogether, Macaulay wrote 39 essays for the Edinburgh Review. His last appeared in 1844. They cover major figures primarily in European and English literature and history. Macaulay, noted the nineteenth-century classical liberal biographer John Morley, had an intimate acquaintance both with imaginative literature and the history of Greece and Rome, with the literature and the history of modern Italy, of France, and of England. Whatever his special subject, he contrives to pour into it with singular dexterity a stream of rich, diversified sources. Figures from history, ancient and modern, sacred and secular; characters from plays and novels from Plautus down to Walter Scott and Jane Austen; images and similes from poets of every age and every nation . . . all throng Macaulay’s pages with the bustle and variety and animation of some glittering masque and cosmoramic revel of great books and heroical men. . . . His essays are as good as a library.
Writing about Macaulay’s essays in 1856, Walter Bagehot, editor of the free trade journal Economist, noted that their first and most striking quality is the intellectual entertainment which they afford. This, as practical readers know, is a kind of sensation which is not very common, and which is very productive of great and healthy enjoyment.
Said historian G.P. Gooch: If Macaulay did not invent the historical essay, he found it of brick and left it of marble.
In 1824, Utilitarians had started the Westminster Review to promote their views and challenge the influence of the Edinburgh Review. Francis Jeffrey asked Macaulay to mount a counterattack, and his opening salvo appeared in the March 1929 issue. He attacked James Mill’s Essay on Government, which was written for the Encyclopedia Britannica and claimed that a philosophy of government could be deduced from axioms about human nature. Macaulay expressed an empirical view that one must see what actually works. An unnamed Westminster Reviewauthor defended James Mill, and Macaulay attacked again, in the June 1829 Edinburgh Review. He affirmed his critique of Utilitarian apriorism while adding that he didn’t necessarily see much difference between Whigs and Utilitarians on public policy—Macaulay agreed that the voting franchise must be expanded. The Westminster Review responded again, and Macaulay produced his final essay in the series, October 1829.
Defending the Industrial Revolution
One of Macaulay’s most important essays was Southey’s Colloquies (January 1830), in which he emerged as perhaps the first and still the most eloquent defender of the Industrial Revolution. Industrialization had begun in England, probably because it offered entrepreneurs a bigger free trade area and more secure private property rights than Continental Europe. During the eighteenth century, people developed more efficient ways to grow food, produce cheap clothing, and improve life in myriad ways. Annual progress wasn’t dramatic—Adam Smith never mentioned it in The Wealth of Nations—and improvement was masked by nearly two decades of war with France. But the Industrial Revolution had a dynamic impact: it saved millions of human beings from starvation, children especially. Millions died in Ireland, India, and other places which experienced a population explosion without an Industrial Revolution.
The Industrial Revolution offered new job opportunities to both men and women who had previously been stuck with agricultural work, and they moved to cities in droves. They did it voluntarily because although factory work was tough and the hours were long, it was more attractive than tedious toil which went from dawn to dusk on the farm—and children did farm work with everyone else. The alternative was starvation.
Landed aristocrats were horrified to see their workers move away. Who was going to keep the estates going? So it wasn’t surprising that the earliest critics of the Industrial Revolution were Tories—landed aristocrats and their intellectual minions. They originated the dogma that the Industrial Revolution produced an urban proletariat, huddled masses exploited for slave wages in dangerous factories. Tories harped on the alleged evils of child factory labor, as if children hadn’t been working even longer hours on the farms. Tories demanded government intervention to slow down the pace of the Industrial Revolution. The Tory case against the Industrial Revolution was later picked up whole cloth by socialists and persists in some quarters now.
Whig Political Connections
Macaulay’s literary enterprise became financially important after family fortunes collapsed. When young Tom entered Cambridge, his father had figured he was worth about \P100,000, earned from his business, Macaulay & Babington, a wholesaler which shipped European clothing and manufactured goods to liberated blacks in Africa. But as the senior Macaulay singlemindedly devoted himself to abolishing slavery, he turned over the business to his nephew who spent the company’s funds into oblivion within four years. Macaulay had a \P300 Cambridge fellowship, but it ended in 1831. He earned about \P200 a year writing for the Edinburgh Review. Macaulay had impressed Whig power broker Henry Brougham, who recommended him for an opening as Commissioner of Bankruptcy, and in 1828 he accepted the post which included a \P250 annual salary, but this expired when a new government came to power two years later. Macaulay was so strapped for cash that he sold a gold medal he had won at Cambridge.
The Edinburgh Review essays—especially his attacks on Utilitarianism—enabled Macaulay to fulfill one of his ambitions, a seat in Parliament. The essays impressed the moderate Whig Lord Lansdowne, who offered him a pocket borough he controlled in Calne. Macaulay accepted the seat in February 1830. Ironically, Lansdowne was the son of the Earl of Shelburne, who had introduced Utilitarian philosopher Jeremy Bentham to politically connected people. Once in Parliament, Macaulay would play a key part promoting the Reform Act of 1832, which abolished pocket boroughs and extended the franchise to the middle class. It was perhaps the bitterest political struggle in England during the nineteenth century.
Macaulay’s considerable knowledge and elegant phrases caused a stir. His performance enabled him, an impecunious commoner, to gain acceptance among many leading Whig aristocrats. William Ewart Gladstone, convert to Liberalism who served as Prime Minister four times, noted that Macaulay got an amount and quality of social attentions such as invariably partake of adulation and idolatry, and as perhaps the high circles of London never before or since have lavished on a man whose claims lay only in himself, and not in his descent, his rank, or his possessions.
Since Macaulay wasn’t a rigorous thinker, he occasionally supported proposals that undermined liberty. For instance, he did not oppose a bill to get tough with Ireland (1833). He was for the 10-Hours Bill (1846), which limited working hours for young persons, conceding a loophole for massive government interference in the workplace. He hoped that by spending taxpayer money on government schools (1847), liberty and property would be better protected, but as later generations discovered, this promise didn’t pan out.
An Eloquent Defender of Liberty
On one key issue after another, though, Macaulay contributed many of the most eloquent words ever spoken. He took advantage of many opportunities to pursue his cherished theme of defending the Industrial Revolution. Macaulay applied his eloquence to an 1833 bill for abolishing laws against Jews. We treat them as slaves, he declared, and wonder that they do not regard us as brethren. . . . Let us do justice to them. Let us open to them the door of the House of Commons. Let us open to them every career in which ability and energy can be displayed. Till we have done this, let us not presume to say that there is no genius among the countrymen of Isaiah . . . [the] religion which first taught the human race the great lesson of universal charity.
Macaulay backed Richard Cobden and John Bright’s campaign to abolish the corn laws—grain tariffs which made bread prices several times higher than they would have been if people could have imported grain freely from the United States and other efficient producers. On December 2, 1845, Macaulay declared: I have always considered the principle of protection to agriculture as a vicious principle. . . . Nobody now ventures to say in public that ten thousand families ought to be put on short allowance of food in order that one man may have a fine stud and a fine picture gallery. . . . I must vote for the total repeal of the corn laws.
Despite Macaulay’s triumphs in Parliament, there were occasions when his views differed from those of his party, which presented him with the choice of compromising principles or quitting a ministry position—and losing an important source of income. If I remain in office, he had written his sister Hannah in August 1833, I shall, I fear, lose my political character. If I go out, and engage in opposition, I shall break most of the private ties which I have formed during the last three years. In England, I see nothing before me, for some time to come, but poverty, unpopularity, and the breaking up of old connections.
Indeed, the Whigs soon proposed a bill to abolish slavery in the British West Indies, but it included a clause providing a 12-year transition period during which slaves must continue to work for their masters as apprenticed laborers. Abolitionists objected, and Macaulay submitted his resignation from the ministry, but the offensive clause was dropped, and his resignation was refused.
Macaulay in India
Meanwhile, Parliament passed a law to reform the administration of India. It provided that there would be a supreme council. Macaulay loomed as a likely candidate for the job. It paid \P10,000 per year, and Macaulay was told he could live very well for half that—enormous sums for somebody whose assets were just \P709, if everyone who owed him money repaid. He figured that if he stayed in India six years, he could save \P30,000 and banish money worries for the rest of his life. He got the job and sailed with Hannah in February 1834. She brought some 300 oranges for sustenance. He packed a half-dozen trunks of books. Except at meals, he recalled of the voyage, I hardly exchanged a word with any human being. I read insatiably; the Iliad and Odyssey, Virgil, Horace, Caesar’s Commentaries, Bacon de Augmentis, Dante, Petrarch, Ariosto, Tasso, Don Quixote, Gibbon’s Rome, Mill’s India, all the seventy volumes of Voltaire, Sismondi’s History of France, and the seven thick folios of the Biographia Britannica.
Macaulay developed reforms for Indian education and law. He convinced his fellow commissioners that Indians should be taught English, so they could tap the intellectual wealth of the Western world. He did most of the work writing the Indian Penal Code. At the time, it was a mishmash of Hindu and Moslem law, variously interpreted in different regions of the country, overlaid with British East India Company regulations. Macaulay applied the legal philosophy of Jeremy Bentham as he drafted a remarkably concise, systematic, plain English code. He observed the principle of suppressing crime with the smallest amount of suffering, and the principle of ascertaining the truth at the smallest possible cost of time and money. He established a rule of law for all races—foreigners and natives alike were subject to the same rules. He moved to eliminate what remained of slavery in India. He abolished laws censoring the press. He limited the death penalty to treason and murder. He provided that women could own property. His Indian Penal Code was adopted in 1837, and its fundamentals endure in Indian law today. Macaulay returned to England in January 1838.
“A True Picture of the Life of Their Ancestors”
He arrived with a plan for writing a history of England. He proposed to challenge the prevailing interpretation of history which had been written by Tories like David Hume, intent on vindicating government power. Macaulay believed the most glorious story was the struggle for human freedom.
He decided to survey the history of England from ancient times to 1660, the accession of Charles II who aimed to re-establish royal absolutism. Then Macaulay would chronicle the Glorious Revolution, which peacefully toppled Charles’s Catholic successor James II, brought in the Protestant William III, and assured the supremacy of Parliament. Macaulay hoped to conclude with the death of King William IV in 1837. He sought as many converts as possible for liberty. I shall not be satisfied, he remarked, unless I produce something which shall for a few days supersede the last fashionable novel on the tables of young ladies.
He aimed to go far beyond the traditional confines of political history and talk about the lives of ordinary people. It will be my endeavor, he wrote, to relate the history of the people as well as the history of the government, to trace the progress of the useful and ornamental arts, to describe the rise of religious sects and the changes in literary taste, to portray the manners of successive generations, and not to pass by with neglect even the revolutions which have taken place in dress, furniture, repasts, and public amusements. I shall cheerfully bear the reproach of having descended below the dignity of history, if I can succeed in placing before the English of the nineteenth century a true picture of the life of their ancestors.
Macaulay did a prodigious amount of research. He pored through archives in England and Holland. He acquired a vast collection of document transcriptions from France, Spain, and the Papacy. He examined transcriptions of French diplomatic dispatches, collected by Charles James Fox who had contemplated a history of late seventeenth-century England. Macaulay read diaries, pamphlets, broadsheets, ballads, and newspapers of the period. Novelist William Makepeace Thackeray marveled that he reads twenty books to write a sentence; he travels a hundred miles to make a line of description.
He began writing on March 9, 1839. He worked in a suite of rooms on the second floor of the Albany, a building between Vigo Street and Picadilly, London. Every room overflowed with books. Macaulay worked with fewer distractions after he lost a Parliamentary election in July 1841, but he was back in a ministry from June 1846 until July 1847. During the periods when he was working on the History full-time, he wrote from seven in the morning until seven at night. He started writing as soon as he had enough information to produce an account, then revised in light of further material. He went through many drafts, struggling to achieve greater clarity and interest. The great object is that, after all this trouble, they may read as if they had been spoken off, and may seem to flow as easily as table talk, Macaulay noted in his diary.
How little the art of making meaning pellucid is studied now, he added. Hardly any popular writer, except myself, thinks of it. Many seem to aim at being obscure. Indeed they may be right enough in one sense; for many readers give credit for profundity to whatever is obscure, and call all that is perspicous shallow.
Macaulay wasn’t always fair in his judgments of people—notably William Penn, who was a friend of James II—but he soared to heights rarely seen in historical literature before or since. He told how under the settlement of 1688, the authority of law and the security of property were found to be compatible with a liberty of discussion and of individual action never before known; how, from the auspicious union of order and freedom, sprang a prosperity of which the annals of human affairs had furnished no example . . . the history of our country during the last hundred and sixty years is eminently the history of physical, of moral, and of intellectual improvement. Those who compare the age on which their lot has fallen with a golden age which exists only in their imagination may talk of degeneracy and decay; but no man who is correctly informed as to the past will be disposed to take a morose or desponding view of the present . . . we rejoice that we live in a merciful age, in an age in which cruelty is abhorred. . . . Every class doubtless has gained largely by this great moral change: but the class which has gained most is the poorest, the most dependent, and the most defenseless.
Macaulay’s first two volumes were published on December 1, 1848, and they were an immediate hit. Within four months, some 13,000 copies were sold in Britain, and about 100,000 were sold in the United States. Two more volumes appeared on December 17, 1855. The History was translated into Bohemian, Danish, Dutch, French, German, Hungarian, Italian, Polish, and Spanish. After the third and fourth volumes sold 26,500 copies in 10 weeks, Macaulay’s publisher wrote him a \P20,000 check which became a landmark in literary history.
Faced with Macaulay’s eloquence, his adversaries twisted his ideas beyond recognition. A misguided twentieth-century biographer, Richmond Croom Beatty, even committed the obscenity of blaming World War I on free markets. He sneered at Macaulay’s philosophy which taught that, once wealth had been augmented in England, all other blessings that men can tangibly perceive will follow inevitably in its wake. The world-wide madness which this philosophy engendered went on unchecked, as we have seen, until the fatal summer of 1914.
In fact, Macaulay’s view was that human beings could achieve unlimited progress— as long as governments stay out of the way. In a May 1857 letter to Henry S. Randall, who wrote a biography of Thomas Jefferson, Macaulay expressed his worry about the destructive potential of future government intervention: On one side is a statesman preaching patience, respect for vested rights, strict observance of public faith. On the other is a demagogue ranting about the tyranny of capitalists and usurers, and asking why any body should be permitted to drink champagne and to ride in a carriage, while thousands of honest folks are in want of necessaries. Which of the two candidates is likely to be preferred by a working-man who hears his children cry for more bread? I seriously apprehend that you will, in some such season of adversity as I have described, do things which will prevent prosperity from returning; that you will act like people who should in a year of scarcity devour all the seed-corn, and thus make the next year not of scarcity, but of absolute famine. There will be, I fear, spoilation. The spoilation will increase the distress. The distress will produce fresh spoilation.
As Macaulay focused more intently on his History and tired more easily because of a heart condition, he withdrew from London society.
He recognized that he wouldn’t live long enough to fulfill his dream. Macaulay lived with a butler at Holly Lodge, a villa between Palace Gardens and the Fox family’s Holland House, in Campden Hill, London. In 1857, Prime Minister Lord Palmerston honored his achievements by naming him a peer—Baron Macaulay of Rothley.
On Wednesday morning, December 28th, 1859, Macaulay dictated a letter accompanying a £25 contribution to a poor clergyman. Sometime after seven that evening, he suffered a fatal heart attack while reading a book in his library easy chair. He was buried in Poet’s Corner, Westminster Abbey.
A posthumously published fifth volume brought his History only up to the death of William III, in 1702. This work is a towering fragment which offers a tragic glimpse of what might have been had Macaulay lived longer, but what he did do was awesome.
His story of freedom and progress inspired readers for generations. Up to that time, noted German historian Leopold von Ranke, the Tory view, as represented by Hume, had not yet been driven from the field. Macaulay decided the victory of the Whig view.
Of course, intellectual trends ran against Macaulay as collectivism engulfed Europe, and his work was relentlessly attacked. Yet his influence persisted, and in 1931 Cambridge University professor Herbert Butterfield found it necessary to issue a famous attack, The Whig Interpretation of History. Writing before Hitler and Stalin had emerged as world-class demons, Butterfield denounced the Whig division of mankind into good and evil.
Debate raged for decades about whether capitalism brings human progress, and today Macaulay stands vindicated. Among the works which affirm his view are John H. Clapham’s An Economic History of Modern Britain (1926), T.S. Ashton’s The Industrial Revolution (1948), John U. Nef’s War and Human Progress (1950), F.A. Hayek’s Capitalism and the Historians (1954), William H. McNeill’s The Rise of the West (1963), David S. Landes’s The Unbound Prometheus (1969), Douglass North and Robert Thomas’s The Rise of the Western World (1973), Fernand Braudel’s Civilization & Capitalism (1979), Julian L. Simon’s The Ultimate Resource (1981), Asa Briggs’s A Social History of England (1983), J.M. Roberts’s The Triumph of the West (1985), Nathan Rosenberg and L.E. Birdzell’s How the West Grew Rich (1986), Rondo Cameron’s A Concise Economic History of the World (1989), and Joel Mokyr’s The Lever of Riches (1990).
Macaulay was right to say that people thrive when they are free. He insisted that government intervention would make millions miserable—and it has. He believed that by telling a simple, stirring story in bold colors, he could help win the hearts of people—and he did. Long after the most fashionable pundits are forgotten, readers will be thrilled by Thomas Babington Macaulay’s extraordinary eloquence for liberty.
Came across an excellent quotation from Macaulay about the alleged "brilliance" of bureaucrats:
“He conceives that the business of the magistrate is not merely to see that the persons and property of the people are secure from attack, but that he ought to be a jack-of-all-trades, architect, engineer, schoolmaster, merchant, theologian, a Lady Bountiful in every parish, a Paul Pry in every house, spying, eavesdropping, relieving, admonishing, spending our money for us. His principle is, if we understand it rightly, that no man can do anything so well for himself as his rulers, be they who they may, can do it for him, and that a government approaches nearer and nearer to perfection in proportion as it interferes more and more with the habits and notions of individuals.”
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