Among the many remarkable circumstances which a comparison of former with present times never fails to present to an attentive observer, it is perhaps the most remarkable with how much accuracy the effects of great changes in public policy are predicted by one portion of the community, and with what entire insensibility they are regarded by another. The results of all the chief alterations in the system of government which has taken place in our times—the Contraction of the Currency, Roman Catholic Emancipation, the Reform Bill, Negro Emancipation, Free Trade, the Repeal of the Navigation Laws—were all foretold by their opponents at the time they were under discussion, with such accuracy that their predictions might pass, after the events had taken place, for a concise history of their effects. And yet the whole body of their supporters, embracing at each period the numerical majority at least of the most influential part of the nation, were absolutely deaf to these warnings; they ridiculed the authors of them, disputed their reasonings, impugned their motives, and were only the more confirmed in the headlong course they were pursuing, by the demonstration which daily experience was affording of the enormity of their own error on previous occasions. It is evident, from these examples, that Plato's observation is well founded, and that general ignorance is neither the greatest social evil, nor the one most to be dreaded. Prejudice, passion, a thirst for selfish aggrandisement, are the real evils which affect society; and their sway, unhappily, is only rendered the more powerful with the extension of knowledge and the progress of civilisation. They do worse than conceal the truth: they render men insensible to it. So obstinately do the majority of men, when their interests are supposed to be at stake, or their passions are inflamed, resist the light of truth; so resolutely do they disregard the clearest procession of demonstration; so prone are they to be led away by the arts of ambitious men or the efforts of class interest,—that it may be safely concluded that the greatest national disasters cannot long be averted when affairs are under the immediate direction of a numerical majority; and that their own folly or infatuation become the instruments of the Divine judgments upon mankind.

A memorable example of the truth of these observations, and of their vast importance to a society constructed as it now is in this country, is to be found in the recent instance of the Papal Aggression. For above half a century past, the whole efforts of the Liberal party in England were directed to the abolition of religious distinctions, and, in particular, to the introduction of the Roman Catholics into an entire and equal participation in the power, privileges, and influence of Protestants. In vain was it urged by a small but determined band, headed by Lord Eldon in one house of Parliament, and Mr Perceval in another, that however well-founded the principles of toleration were in the general case, and however desirable it might be, if consistent with security, to abolish all distinctions founded on differences of religious belief, yet the opinion of the great apostle of toleration, Mr Locke, was well founded, that these principles could not be safely applied to the Roman Catholics, because they formed part of a great foreign religious power, which formerly boasted of Great Britain as the brightest jewel in its crown, which openly aspired to universal dominion, and would never cease striving to reunite that splendid appanage to the Papal dominions.

These observations were generally disregarded: the names of bigots, tyrants, illiberals, were constantly applied to the resolute patriots who still continued to utter them; concession after concession to the Roman Catholics went on; they were admitted without reserve into the British Parliament; the titles of their Bishops were recognised by Ministers in Ireland and the colonies; the entire government and patronage of Ireland were surrendered into their hands; until at length, in return for so many acts of condescension, the Pope deemed it safe to throw off the mask, and send, for the first time during three hundred years, a Cardinal to London, in order to superintend the partition of England into ecclesiastical divisions, and the re-establishment of the Romish worship in every parish of the realm! Then, and not till then, the eyes of the nation were opened: the bubble, which the Liberals had kept up for half a century, suddenly burst, and the dormant strength of the Protestant principle was awakened to an extent which outstripped all calculation, and almost alarmed the most decided opponents throughout of Papal ambition! Then, and not till then, the warning voice of the bigots and illiberals of former days was recollected: their oft-derided predictions were searched out: the streets were placarded with Lord Eldon's vaticinations; and the journals which most openly shaped their course according to popular feeling, were the first to insert in capital letters the now fulfilled prophecies of former Illiberalism.[3]

Another, and not less memorable, instance of the way in which public delusions, all but universal, which have withstood the utmost force of reason, argument, and experience for a long course of years, have been suddenly dispelled by some great fact which struck the senses of all, and could no longer be denied, has occurred in the recent vast and important change which the discovery of the gold in California has made on the currency of this country, and of the world. For thirty years past it has been the uniform policy of the British Government, directed by the pressure of the money power, and the influence of realised capital, to augment the value of realised wealth, by enhancing its price and cheapening everything else. To effect this, gold was first selected as the standard, because it was the most valuable of the precious metals; and as its price had for a long course of years been slowly but steadily advancing, it was thought, with reason, that the assumption of it as the standard could not fail to enhance the value of realised capital of every kind, by cheapening the money-price of all the articles in which every one else dealt. Next, small notes were extinguished, because they formed a currency commensurate to the wants of the nation; and consequently their abundance tended to raise prices. Then the issue of notes beyond £32,000,000 in the whole empire was made to depend on an amount of gold coin corresponding to the notes issued being in the coffers of the banks issuing: in other words, the currency beyond that limited amount, not half of what the nation required, was made entirely metallic. Free Trade was next introduced, in order still further to augment the value of realised wealth, by taking a fourth from the price of every commodity which it might purchase, and consequently depressing to a similar extent the remuneration of productive industry. All this was rested on the plausible plea of maintaining a fixed and unchangeable standard of value, and preventing monetary crises, by having no circulation except what was based on the most precious of the precious metals.

This system was adhered to through a series of disasters directly owing to its adoption, which would have destroyed any other nation, and levelled with the dust any other people. In vain was it represented that gold itself was a commodity, liable to change in price like any other article of commerce, according as the supply was or was not equal to the demand; that to fix a standard price for it was to cast anchor in the clouds, and that to make the circulation of the country depend entirely on the retention of an article of commerce, which could not always be retained, was necessarily to expose it to the recurrence of the most disastrous shock to credit. These warnings were systematically disregarded; the bullion system was adhered to amidst the most frightful calamities; and the nation, as the price of its adoption, underwent a series of monetary convulsions beyond anything recorded in history, and which entailed losses greatly exceeding in amount the confiscation and destruction of property which resulted from the French Revolution.

Where are these dogmas about the immutability and indestructible value of the gold standard now? "Efflavit Deus, et dissipantur." The beneficence of Providence has come to the aid of a benighted and suffering world. As reason had proved inadequate to withstand the pressure of interest, the reserves of nature were let in: the floodgates were opened: the beneficent stream overspread the world. A few grains of gold are discovered in digging a mill-course in California, and the whole bullion system is blown into the air. The labour of a lifetime is undone in a moment: the citadel of the money power is blown up by a spark falling in its own magazine: the island on which the Bullionists had cast anchor itself begins to drift along. Farewell to all their dreams of cheapening everything: farewell to the boast of their able and principal organ, that they had made the sovereign worth two sovereigns! The sovereign is in process of becoming only worth half a sovereign. The ominous intelligence has been received from Paris that the English sovereign had declined fourteen sous in value; Holland has openly abandoned the gold standard; France is preparing measures to meet the altered value of the precious metals. The Bullionists are struck in the very heart of their power. True to their motives, though not to their principles, they are already in their journals decrying gold as a standard, and proposing silver in its stead. Everything has for a year past been rising in price in England except agricultural produce and sugar, still kept down by the unrestrained importation of foreign states. For long it was tried to write down California; but the gold-dust at length became too strong for them. The fatal truth could no longer be concealed, that the value of money had declined, was declining, and, as they thought, ought to be enhanced. But how to do that was the difficulty, amidst ceaseless arrivals of gold from California, and an overflowing treasure in the Bank of England. They discovered that some other idea could be formed of a pound sterling, "than a certain determinate weight of gold metal." They would fain have it something of less fleeting value. The truth is at length apparent to the nation—which had been so long denied and so studiously concealed by those who were profiting by the opposite delusion—that gold, like every other metal, is a commodity liable to change in value according to its plenty or scarcity, and that it is hopeless to make a fixed standard of an article which is itself liable to greater vicissitudes of price than perhaps any other.

It is hard to say whether examples of this sort are most fitted to inspire confidence in the final triumph of the cause of truth, or despondency as to the fate of a nation in which error has been widespread and long continued, and powerful classes of society are interested in its being perpetuated. It is evident that the enormity of error, the clearness of the demonstration of its falsehood, the perilous and even fatal consequences which may be anticipated from its continuance, afford no sort of security against its sway being continued, if an influential class is interested in its duration. It is equally clear that the extension of education, the boasted march of intellect, the spread of journals, the number of persons interested in the termination of a pernicious policy, the awful consequences which may be anticipated from its continuance, are often wholly impotent to rescue a nation from disaster, it may be ruin, if the effects of the disastrous system are not so plain and palpable as to be obvious to the senses of the whole of mankind. But while all this is perfectly clear on the one hand—and there is obviously no limit to this long continuance of the most ruinous error in the opinions and policy of a particular nation—it is equally evident, on the other, that there is a bar imposed by Providence to the eternity of error in the world in general. The laws of nature at length come to the aid of truth: some great and decisive event occurs which renders its effects palpable to all the people; the whole fabric of error so studiously upheld, so anxiously defended, is overturned in an instant; and mankind, awakening from the slumbers of half a century, are astonished only how a thing so very evident had never before struck them. They then find, to their infinite surprise, that all which has occurred had been clearly foreseen and distinctly predicted by the few among them who judged of the future by the past, and cast their eyes beyond the interests or passions of the moment; and that it was not because truth had not been told to them, but because they would not listen to it, that all the calamities they deplore had been brought upon them.

The circumstances which mainly contribute to produce this extraordinary tenacity of error and insensibility to truth, in the majority of mankind at all times and under all circumstances, are their general indifference to distant effects, and their acute sense of present burdens. If the danger is obvious and visible to the senses of all, and, above all, if it threatens immediate evil to all, the mass of men will often make incredible, almost superhuman efforts to avert it. But if it is distant and contingent only, and the remedies proposed to guard against it are attended with present burdens, however slight, it will in general be found that it is wholly impossible to make them do anything to guard against the impending evils. In the words of one who knew them well,[4] "they prefer any load of infamy, however great, to any burden of taxation, however light." They never will incur present expense to guard against future danger. It is for this reason that states in which the popular voice is all-powerful so often rush into foreign wars with scarcely any preparations, and are so often defeated by nations possessing far less vigour and fewer resources, but in whom the wisdom of a monarchical or aristocratic government has made an adequate provision in peace for the contingency of future hostilities. All the eloquence of Demosthenes, we know, failed to make the Athenian people take any steps to augment the national armaments, and they got the battle of ChÆronea and subjugation by Philip in consequence. The English, in 1778, commenced the contest with their revolted American colonies with a regular army of 20,000 men, and they lost the colonies in consequence: they began the war with France in 1793 with 40,000 regular soldiers in the British empire, when their enemy had 1,200,000 men under arms; and it cost them a struggle of twenty years, and six hundred millions of debt incurred, to get the better of the necessary consequences of their infatuation. They starved down the establishment in India, and forbade all hostile preparations, even though it was a dominion won, and which could only be upheld, by the sword, till it was brought to the verge of destruction on the banks of the Sutlej; and the empire which disposed of the resources of 80,000,000 of subjects, owed its extrication from what seemed unavoidable ruin, only to a strange and unaccountable retreat of the enemy, resting on a population of 6,000,000 only, when victory was within their grasp. The Americans rushed into a contest with England in 1812 with a fleet of six frigates and an army of 8000 men; and the consequence was, that in two years their commerce was totally destroyed, their capital taken by a British division of 3500 men, and the general suffering would in six months have made the Northern States break of from the Union, had not England, weary of fighting and satiated with glory, sheathed her sword when the dissolution of the Union was within her power.

But in addition to this general cause of delusion and error, which pervades all states really regulated by the popular voice, there is another and a still more powerful one which occasions and perpetuates the most ruinous public delusions in an advanced and complicated state of society. This arises from the strength and influence of the classes who become interested in the perpetuating of error because they profit by it, and the impossibility of getting the great bulk of men to see, among the numerous causes which are then acting upon their fortunes, the real ones to which their sufferings are owing. They know perfectly when they are prosperous, and when unfortunate; but they do not know, and cannot be brought to see, to what either the prosperity or adversity is to be ascribed. If the consequences of a particular line of policy could be brought before them by a clear and short process of demonstration—if they could see from whence their suffering in truth comes, and the arrow, known to have been discharged from the quivers of Free Trade and a metallic currency, could be seen festering in the breast of every industrious man in the country, one universal burst of indignation would arise from one end of the kingdom to the other. This system, so profitable to the moneyed rich, so ruinous to the industrious poor, would be abolished, amidst shouts of congratulation from one end of the country to the other, in a month. But they cannot be brought to see this; and the vast riches which the continuance of this system is daily bringing to the moneyed classes, enables them to perpetuate the darkness.

The press in such circumstances becomes—what it was in Napoleon's time in France, from the overwhelming weight of military power—what Madame de Stael feared it would one day become in all aged communities—the most powerful engine for the diffusion and continuance of error. The most ruinous systems of public policy are then pursued with the cordial support of the millionnaires who profit by them, with the loud applause and able assistance of the public press, who are guided by the requirements of their subscribers, or directed by the dictates of their shareholders, and amidst the supine indifference or sullen despair of the industrious classes, who are steeped in misery by their effects. They see they are ruined, but they know not how or by whom; and a large part of the public press are careful to direct their attention to any but the right quarter for redress. In despair at such an accumulation of distresses, the great bulk of mankind follow the usual instinct of the multitude in such cases—they fasten upon the seen in preference to searching for the unseen, and lend a willing ear to any demagogue of the day who lays before them plans for a great reduction of public burdens, by abandoning nearly the whole means of the public defence. Thus a perpetual reduction of our military and naval armaments, and means of maintaining our independence or even existence as a nation, is forced upon successive Governments, without the slightest regard to the obvious peril with which such reductions, with increasing armaments on the part of our neighbours, and increasing points of attack upon the part of ourselves, must be attended; and the policy which has impoverished the greater part of the nation terminates in its natural result, the destruction of the nation itself. Such is the most common process of national ruin.

There can be no doubt that the day will one day come when all these illusions will be dispelled. If a Russian fleet of twenty-five ships of the line anchors off the Nore, and demands the surrender of the arsenal of Woolwich, and of our ships of war at Portsmouth and Plymouth, as the condition of their raising the blockade of the capital or saving it from pillage—or if a French squadron of fifteen ships of the line takes a second look into Torbay, and we have only three or four half-manned seventy-fours to oppose to them—or if an invading army of 80,000 men lands on the coast of Sussex, and we can only muster 30,000 regular troops to stop their progress—if Woolwich is taken, and Hyde Park is the scene of an enemy's camp, and London, like Paris, capitulates to the conqueror—or if Russia and America unite together and demand the surrender of the half of our fleet and the whole of our arsenals as the price at which they will allow their grain-laden vessels to come to Great Britain and restore bread to the 7,000,000 of our population whom we have in four years rendered dependent on supplies from those countries for their daily food, or if wheat rises to 150s the quarter, and the quartern loaf to 2s. in consequence of our refusal—if the Thames, the Mersey, and the Clyde are blockaded by hostile fleets, and 700,000 or 800,000 manufacturers with their families, for the sake of the riches produced by whom we have sacrificed everything, are suddenly thrown out of employment—or if the seamen of the Baltic and other maritime powers of Europe have come to outnumber our own in the carrying on of our trade, and threaten to disable our commerce, and bring us to death's door, by simply recalling their crews—or if the Bank stops payment in the midst of these calamities, and public and private credit are at once destroyed at the very time when their assistance is most needed—then, and not till then, will England speak out in a voice of thunder.

How rapidly will the scales then fall from the eyes which have so long been blinded; how bitter will be the regret at the inexplicable insensibility now to solemn warnings; how intense the indignation at the delusions which, for the sake of present profit to the deluders, has so long been practised upon them! The burst of indignation with which the appointment of the Lord Cardinal was received throughout England, the more suppressed apprehensions with which the opening of the Californian treasures was viewed by our moneyed oligarchy, can afford but a faint image of the feelings of agony which will then wring the British heart—the frightful cry of distress which will then rise up from famishing millions, the universal horror at past neglect which will send the iron into the soul of our whole people. Their efforts to redeem the past will probably be great, their struggles will be those of a giant. But it may be too late. They will be in the condition of the Athenian people when Lysander cast anchor off the PirÆus, after the burning of their fleet at Aigos Potamos; or of the Carthaginians, when the legions of Scipio, in the last Punic war, drew round their walls; or of the Parisians, when "Europe in arms before their gates" demanded the surrender of all their conquests. They will be profoundly mortified—they will be cut to the heart; they would give half they possess for a deliverance, but they will be forced to submit; and to the annalist of these mournful times will only remain the task of drawing the appropriate moral from the melancholy tale, and recording the fall and ruin of England for the instruction of, and as a beacon to be avoided by, future times.

The Free Trade and Bullionist orators will exclaim that this statement is overcharged—that these apprehensions are entirely chimerical—that neither France nor Russia have the slightest intention of going to war with us—that the days of hostility between nations are at an end—that, even if we were attacked, our resources are greater than ever—and that the insular situation of Great Britain gives her a security which renders the maintenance of costly armaments for the national defence wholly unnecessary. This is what they will say; and we tell them what they will not say.—They will never allude to the arguments which follow, which will demonstrate the reality of all this peril as clearly as any proposition in Euclid; if they do allude to them, it will only be to ridicule and misrepresent—the usual resource of detected error in presence of irresistible arguments. They will never allude to the facts or arguments adduced on the other side; but, treating the whole persons who adduce them—and ourselves among the rest—as utter fanatics and monomaniacs, continue to inculcate on their numerous readers—who never look at any papers on the other side—the entire security of the nation, the evident advent of a time when all wars are to cease, our secure and unassailable position, and the utter folly of incurring the certain evil of present expense for the purpose of warding off such contingent, remote, and chimerical dangers. We are well aware of the ability with which this method of upholding delusions is carried on, and of the readiness with which it is listened to both by the opulent and powerful class whose means of amassing fortunes would be diminished, and the numerous class whose burdens would in a slight degree be increased by a change of system.

The argument, that the era of wars has ceased, that Peace Congresses are henceforth to supersede the logic of cannon, and that the sooner we disband our troops, and sell our ships of the line, as a costly relic of a preadamite age, the better—would be an extremely strong one, and deserving of the most serious consideration, if it had any foundation in fact. But if this is not the case—if, on the contrary, the facts are all of an opposite character—then the argument, based on such a fallacious foundation, becomes the strongest which can be urged on the other side. Now, without going back to former times and the annals of history, let us attend only to our own days, and what we see around us, to ascertain whether there is any likelihood of war becoming unknown among men, and a real millennium causing all swords to be turned into pruning-hooks.

Everybody knows that the tendency of the present times is to become democratic; and it is chiefly in the increased weight of the people—the greatest sufferers from the ravages of war—in the direction of public affairs, that the advocates of universal peace rest their predictions of the immediate advent of a pacific millennium. What countenance do the facts of recent times—even if all previous history were set aside—afford to the assertion that democratic influence is essentially of a pacific character, and that with the increase in all civilised states of popular power, the disuse and, at length, extinction of war may be anticipated?

So far from affording any countenance to such an idea, all recent, as well as former experience, leads to conclusions directly the reverse, and induces the melancholy prognostication that, with the general increase of democratic influence, not only will the sphere of future hostility be augmented, but its fierceness and devastations will be fearfully enhanced. Who commenced the dreadful wars of the French Revolution, which for twenty long years deluged Europe with blood, and brought the tricolor standards—the emblem of Republicanism—into every capital of continental Europe?—Democratic ascendency in Paris; the crimes and ambition of the Girondists; the bloodthirsty passions of the Jacobins, which, not content with ravaging and drenching with gore their own country, could not find vent but in the sacking and plundering of all Europe. What afterwards gave rise to the terrible struggle in Poland in 1831, and induced the multiplied sufferings of that gallant but inconsiderate and infatuated democracy?—The French Revolution of 1830, which, but for the firmness of Louis Philippe, and his determination to risk all rather than gratify the passion for war in the Republicans who had elevated him to power, would have involved Europe in universal conflagration. What brought on the horrid civil war in Spain, which for five years overwhelmed the Peninsula with horrors and cold-blooded atrocities, which throw even those consequent on the invasion of Napoleon into the shade?—A democratic triumph in Madrid; the placing of a revolutionary queen on the throne of Spain; the determination and armed intervention of England and France to uphold the cause of popular aggression in both kingdoms of the Peninsula.

What overturned the throne and pacific policy of Louis Philippe?—His determination to keep at peace; his resolution to coerce, at any hazard, the ambitious designs of the Parisian democrats. He tried to be a "Napoleon of Peace," and he lost his throne and died in exile in consequence. What immediately followed the triumph of the Republicans in Paris in February 1848? Was it the reign of universal tranquillity—the advent of peace and good-will among men? Was it not, on the contrary, an outbreak of general hostility—the universal arming of nation against nation, of people against people, of race against race? Did not Republican Piedmont invade Lombardy; and Republican Prussia, Holstein; and Republican France besiege Rome? Did not the Magyar rise up, against the Sclave, and the Bohemian against the Austrian, and the Lombard against both; and was not the frightful scene of almost universal hostility appeased—and that for the time only—by the appalling appearance of a hundred thousand Muscovites on the Hungarian plains? Have not Austria and Prussia for the last six months been on the verge of a dreadful contest? Have not the burghers and ploughmen of all Germany been called from their peaceful avocations, to man the ranks of the landwehr? Have not eight hundred thousand men been arrayed on the opposite sides, and the banks of the Saale crowded with armies paralleled only by those which in 1813 stood on those of the Elbe? And what stopped this dreadful war, and sent back those multitudes of armed citizens unscathed to their peaceful homes? Was it republican France, or popular England? No; it was despotic Russia. It was the presence of a hundred and fifty thousand armed and disciplined Muscovites on the banks of the Vistula, which like a thundercloud overcast the east of Europe, and at last cooled down the ardent ambition of democratic Prussia into something like a just estimate of the chances of the conflict, and a temporary respect for the rights of other nations.

Turn to distant parts of the world, and is the prospect more indicative of the advent of a pacific millennium? Is it to be found among the English colonists in India, or the energetic republicans of America? Have not the English, for the last twenty years, been engaged in almost ceaseless hostilities in Hindostan or China, during which ultimately our victorious standards have been advanced to Cabul and Nankin; and we have seen our empire shaken to its very foundation by the disasters of the Coord Cabul Pass, and the frightful contest on the banks of the Sutlej? Is America more peaceful, and is the advent of the reign of peace foreshadowed by the entire abstinence from ambitious and angry passions in the republicans of its southern or northern hemisphere? Has not the former, since the disastrous era when its revolution began, been the theatre of convulsions so frequent, and bloodshed so incessant, that history, in despair, has ceased to record the names of these conflicts, and points with horror only to their woeful consequences? And has not Northern America, during the last twenty years, exhibited the most unequivocal evidence of the lust of conquest having gained possession of the most influential portions of her inhabitants? Were they not actually at war with us in 1837 to support the Canadian revolutionists; did they not cheat us out of three-fourths of Maine, and bully us out of half of Oregon; and have they not squatted down, without the vestige of a title, on Texas; and when the Mexicans resented the aggression, invaded their territory and wrested from them the half of it, including the whole auriferous region of California? In short, war surrounds us on all sides; its passions are raging throughout the world; an era of such hostile prognostications is scarcely to be found in the annals of mankind. And yet Mr Cobden and Mr Bright declare, to admiring and assenting audiences in Manchester, that the era of war is past, and that we should disband our troops and sell our ships of the line! They are like an insane patient in a distant wing of a building which is wrapped in flames, who positively refuses to do anything to save himself, saying, "They will never reach me."

Has the conduct of the English Government for twenty years past evinced the reality of the alleged disinclination to hostilities which is said to be creeping over all established governments, and to which popular ones in particular are in so remarkable a manner averse? Has not our conduct, on the contrary, even in Europe, been aggressive and provocatory to war in the very highest degree? Did we not unite with France to force a revolutionary government on Spain and Portugal, and to prevent a legitimate one in Belgium from recovering its lawful possessions? Did we not, along with Russia, Prussia, and Austria, throw down the gauntlet, at the time of the bombardment of Beyrout and the siege of Acre, to France; and did not the firmness of Louis Philippe and the accession of Guizot, whom he called to his councils at the critical moment, alone prevent a general and frightful war in Europe? It is well known, to all persons acquainted with the subject, that we were still nearer a war with France some years afterwards, when the affair of Otaheite and Queen Pomare revived the ancient and undying jealousy of the two countries. We know it for a fact, that at that period the French were prepared for, and fully expected instant hostilities; and that for several nights six thousand choice light troops slept armed and accoutred on board the huge war-steamers at Cherbourg, ready to start at daybreak for a descent on the southern shores of Britain, and on some of its undefended dockyards, where not a vestige of preparation had been made to repel them.

But why recur to periods comparatively remote for proofs of a state of things which recur under our present foreign administration as periodically as commercial catastrophes do under our monetary system? In November 1849 we sent Admiral Parker, with the whole Mediterranean fleet, to the mouth of the Dardanelles, and took the Czar by the beard to rescue from his grasp some thousand Hungarian insurgents; and not content with this demonstration—which was as hostile as the anchoring of a Russian fleet off the Nore would have been to this country—he was directed to cast anchor, on his return, off the PirÆus, and bid defiance to France and Russia, the guarantees with ourselves of the independence of Greece. On this occasion we were so near a rupture that the French ambassador actually left London, and the Russian one was preparing to follow his example, when an immediate war with the two largest powers of Europe—thus, by unparalleled rashness on our part, brought, for the first time for half a century, to act cordially together—was only prevented by our succumbing and referring the matter to arbitration, as they had all along proposed, instead of exacting it at the cannon's mouth, as we had at first endeavoured to do. And for what mighty national interest was this enormous peril incurred, when, as usual, we were wholly unprepared to meet it? Was it to save Hindostan from invasion, or raise the blockade of the Nore, or extricate our fleet from the grasp of the Czar? No! It was to enforce private claims of M. Pacifico and Mr Finlay on the Greek Government, to the amount of a few thousand pounds—a proceeding which afforded the Continental powers, if they had been as hostilely disposed as our Government, a fair precedent for sending a Russian fleet of thirty ships of the line to the Nore, to demand satisfaction from our Government for the brutal attack on Marshal Haynau! And yet, such is the infatuation produced by party spirit, that not only was this aggressive act approved by a majority of the House of Commons, even after we had been obliged to recede from it, but it was approved by the very men who are constantly preaching up the immediate advent of a pacific millennium, and the necessity of disbanding our troops and selling our ships of the line.

Surrounded then, as we undeniably are, with the flames and the passions of war on every side; slumbering on the edge of a volcano, the fires of which are smouldering under our feet and gathering strength for a fresh and still more terrific explosion; actuated as we are by unbounded national haughtiness, and a most aggressive system of foreign policy, have we done anything to support our pretensions, or avert those ravages from our own shores which we have so liberally scattered on all the adjacent coasts? Have we 100,000 regular troops and 200,000 landwehr, in the British Islands, ready to repel insult; and a fleet of 30 ships of the line and 20 armed steamers, ready afloat and manned, on the German Ocean and in the Channel, to secure our harbours from attack, and raise a blockade of our coasts? Have we—since we are so set upon a foreign war, and have done so much to spread the passions which necessarily lead to it, and made so many hostile demonstrations calculated instantly to induce it—made preparations in our Exchequer and our granaries for its expenses and its privations? Have we, like Frederick the Great when he invaded Silesia, a fund of £7,000,000 in the Treasury, to meet his war expenses; or Napoleon, when he plunged into Russia, a reserve of £14,000,000 in the vaults of the Tuileries? Have we fortified Woolwich, the general arsenal of the empire, and Chatham, and our other naval depots, hitherto undefended? Have we cleared out the glacis of Portsmouth and Plymouth, so as to give free range to the guns of the works, and established a great central fortification at Weedon, or some other central point in England, whither our troops might retire, if obliged to evacuate London, and where the new levies, raised in haste, might receive the elements of discipline, without the risk of being assailed, while yet in the awkward squad state, by the enemies' cuirassiers?

Alas! we have done none of these things. Woolwich is still an open depot, liable to be taken by a single regiment; there is not a bastion at Weedon; there is not a defensible post in the environs of London; Chatham, Sheerness, and Deptford are entirely open on the land side; and although Portsmouth and Plymouth are fortified, and may be pronounced impregnable against a naval assault, they are far from being so against a land force. The enemy would not require to run a sap up to the counter-scarp: we have saved him the trouble, by allowing houses to be built almost everywhere so near the ditch, that the besiegers would effect a lodgment there the first day, and be able to batter in the breach in two days more. Landwehr we have none, unless 30,000 pensioners—most valuable veterans, of great use against mobs, or for garrison service, but little qualified for the field—deserve the name: our yeomanry, though admirably mounted and full of spirit, are wholly unacquainted with the duties, and unaccustomed to the fatigues, of actual warfare. We have not more than seven or eight ships of the line, and these but imperfectly manned, ready for sea in our harbours; and the regular troops in Great Britain, though second to none in the world in discipline and courage, can only muster 37,000 sabres and bayonets, and in the two islands amount only to 61,000!! In proportion to the eagerness with which we have spread abroad the passions and lighted the flames of war in all the adjoining states, is the assiduity with which we have neglected or abandoned our own defences; and the promptitude we have evinced, on every possible occasion, to provoke the hostility or rouse the jealousy of the most powerful states in our neighbourhood can be paralleled only by the simultaneous reductions we have effected in our own armaments, and the utterly defenceless state in which we have exposed ourselves to their attacks. Judging from our internal reductions, one would suppose we were never again to go to war: judging from our foreign policy, one would suppose we were never again to be at peace.

To illustrate these remarks, and demonstrate the utter insanity of our simultaneous adoption of the most aggressive foreign policy and the most pacific internal preparation, we subjoin from Sir Francis Head's late most admirable and interesting work a vidimus of the military force of the principal European powers, as compared with that of Great Britain, and subjoin to it a statement of our naval force, accompanied with that of France, Russia, and the United States—the principal maritime powers of the Continent and America:—

—Sir F. Head, p. 5-36.

This is the entire force, so far as European troops are concerned, which is on foot to protect the immense British dominions in the four quarters of the globe! And as the entire regular force in Great Britain and Ireland is only 61,848 men, with 40 guns equipped for the field—and at least a fifth of every military force must always be deducted for sick, absent, and deserters—it follows that 50,000 men, with 40 guns, is the very utmost of regular troops that could be relied on in both islands to meet an enemy. Of this at least 20,000 would require to be left in Ireland; so that 30,000 men alone could be assembled in the last extremity for the defence of Great Britain! As to the pensioners and yeomanry, they would be entirely absorbed in forming garrisons, keeping up the communications, and preserving tranquillity in the manufacturing towns in the interior.

Formidable as this state of matters is, it becomes doubly serious when the state of our naval force is considered.

In 1792, before the war broke out, and when our population was not a half, nor our commerce and colonial dominions a fourth of what they now are, the naval force of Great Britain was—

At this moment our naval force stands as follows:—

The forces of the principal maritime powers of the globe, Spain being effete, stand thus:—

Thus Russia and France could produce 85 ships of the line, 80 frigates, and 102 war-steamers, against our 65 or 70 of the line, 147 frigates, and 56 war-steamers. A disproportion sufficiently great for a country which boasts of being mistress of the waves: the more especially when it is recollected that both these hostile nations are actuated by the greatest jealousy of our naval power, and envy of our commercial greatness, and that we have so managed our foreign policy that, not six months ago, we were within a hairsbreadth of a war with both united. We are aware of the resources which, if the contest were prolonged for any considerable period, would arise to this country from the steam-packets to America and the West Indies, which their owners are taken bound, on an emergency, to place at the disposal of the Admiralty. But this provision, though a most wise and judicious one, and of very great moment in a lengthened conflict, would obviously be of little or no avail if war surprised us, as to all appearance it will do, in our usual state of fancied security and entire want of preparation, and a Russian fleet of twenty-five ships of the line from the Baltic anchors off the Nore, simultaneously with a French one of ten off Portsmouth, with as little warning or intimation as Admiral Parker gave to the Russians when he appeared at the mouth of the Dardanelles, or to the Greek Government when he cast anchor off the harbour of the PirÆus.

But the danger becomes incomparably greater, and assumes the most portentous aspect, when two other circumstances connected with our naval situation are taken into consideration, of vital importance in this question, but which the advocates for reduction studiously keep out of view in its discussion.

The first is, the immense extent of the colonial empire we have to defend, and the consequent unavoidable dispersion of our naval force, such as it is, over the whole globe. This appears in the most decisive manner from the table quoted below, taken from the United Service Gazette for December 1850, showing the distribution of our ships of the line in commission up to 25th November last.

This shows that out of twenty-eight line-of-battle ships and fifties in commission at that period, only thirteen were in the British harbours, and even including the Experimental Squadron, only fifteen. Of these, at least a half are mere guardships—such as the Victory at Portsmouth—of little real use but to furnish a mast for the Admiral on the station to hoist his flag. Of the six or seven that really are fit for sea, not more than one half are fully manned. Accordingly, it is universally known among naval men, that there are not more than three or four ships of the line that could on a sudden emergency be got ready for sea in the British harbours: being not half the force which the Danes had when they were suddenly attacked by Nelson in 1801, and by Lord Cathcart in 1807. On the first occasion, they had nine ships of the line and floating batteries moored off Copenhagen: on the last, eighteen ships of the line were taken by the victors, and brought to the British shores.

We are often told of the immense force which England now has in her steam-vessels—more numerous, it is said, and unquestionably better manned and navigated than any in Europe; and the "Excellent," at Portsmouth, is referred to as able at a moment's warning to furnish the requisite amount of experienced gunners. Fully admitting the high discipline and training of the gunners on board the Excellent, of whose merits we are well aware, they cannot do impossibilities. They amount only to five hundred men; and what are they to the forces requisite to defend the British shores against a combined French and Russian fleet, such as we all but brought upon us last April, when the French ambassador left London? What could four or five hundred trained gunners do when scattered over fifteen or twenty sail of the line, and as many steamers, the crews of which were suddenly huddled together—supposing them got at all—from the merchant service, where they had received no sort of training in naval warfare? What could the peace steam-boats, not pierced for a single gun, do against the broadsides of the Russian line-of-battle ships, or the huge war-steamers which excited such astonishment among our naval men, when exhibited at the late review at Cherbourg? The thing is quite ridiculous. They would furnish, in Napoleon's words, ample chair au cannon, and nothing more.

Contrast this now with the state of preparation in which the French and Russian navies are kept, in consequence of their having both a regular force raised by conscription, and constantly paid and under arms like their land forces, wherewith to commence the conflict. The Czar has always twenty ships of the line and ten frigates in the Baltic, completely equipped and ready for sea, with 30,000 soldiers ready to step on board of them; and it would be surprising if, in passing the Sound, they were not reinforced by the six ships of the line and steam-frigates at the disposal of Denmark,[7] who would desire nothing better than to return, in a manner equally unexpected, the sudden visits we paid her in 1801 and 1807. France, in addition to sixteen ships of the line in commission, and double that number of war-steamers, has no less than 55,000 seamen ready to be called on, like the national guard, at a moment's warning, perfectly trained to gunnery and warlike duties, who could man double that number of line-of-battle ships and war-steamers.

"The French nation, however, deeming it unsafe to rest on any such frail contingency as voluntary enlistment, has wisely, as well as justly, decreed that her maritime districts and commercial marine shall be subject to the same obligation to serve their country as the other classes of the community; and, accordingly, by the laws of France, every boy who goes to sea is required to register his name on the 'Inscription Marine.' After one year's probation, he enters into the class of 'Mousses' until he is sixteen, when he becomes a 'novice' or apprentice till eighteen, when he is classed as a marine or seaman, and he is thenceforward at the service of the state till he is fifty years of age. Besides this, about 1/20 of the general conscription throughout the inland provinces are by law liable to serve in the navy. By the above arrangements, it appears that between the year 1835 and 1844, both inclusive, 55,517 seamen answered the calls of the annual LevÉe permanente, and, moreover, that very nearly the whole of the French merchant seamen, amounting altogether to upwards of 100,000 men, must have passed successively through the royal navy.

"Under this admirable system—which, while it flatters the passions, cultivates the mind, and comfortably provides for the sailor,—the French nation are prepared, by beat of drum, to march from their various quarters to their respective ships, compagnies permanentes of well-trained gunner seamen; and thus, at a moment's warning, even in time of peace, to complete the manning of sixteen sail of the line."—Sir Francis Head, 184, 185.