at it. Six millions of human beings!-the aged, the young, the manly and strong, the fair and lovely, the imploring mother, the innocent child—and death, dealt to each one, without discrimination and without mercy! Six millions! a number equal to half the population of this whole country. Strike off, then, half of the territory and people of this fair and happy land, and suppose them to be sacrificed one by one, their possessions, their goods, and their lives, with every species of cruelty and insult, and with the perpetration of every nameless horror; and to whom sacrificed? To but three ministers in the dark kingdom of war! But this is only an item, a single passage in the history of its fearful dominion. There have been in Christendom, since the reign of Constantine, nearly three hundred wars! What a mass of calamities, of rapine and violence, of crime and misery, is included within the brief description of these three words-what waste of the treasures of nations; what woe in the abodes of millions, it passes all human power to calculate! But all this, nevertheless, has been experienced, though it cannot be calculated or imagined. Human hearts have felt it all. Not one drop of this ocean of ills but has fallen, a burning drop, upon nerves and fibres that have quivered with agony at its touch. Fourteen centuries of war, and thousands of bloody battles, recorded in that brief description, are but the record of human, of individual sorrows, and tears, and groans.

I wish it were possible for me to make the case more apparent and palpable. That beings possessed with the most exquisite sensibility to grief and pain, should be able to look on, calmly or patiently, while such things are done and suffered, only proves that the reality of the evil is lost to them in its vastness. Any wound inflicted in our sight, any pain depicted in the countenance of another, "any annoyance" in any "precious sense," fills us with solicitude and sympathy. The mother, in the midnight hour, steals to the couch of her child, if but a harder breathing invade "the innocent sleep." The child hangs over the couch of infirm and reverend age, with a filial piety that counts every pain as a holy thing. The friend sits through the live-long night, with watchful eye and ear, to anticipate the slightest want of a sick and suffering associate. These are but the dictates of humanity. Where are those dictates, when a system is fostered and honoured in the world, which tears shrieking children from their arms to be murdered by a brutal soldiery; which tramples the aged and venerable head beneath the feet of lawless strangers; and from whose wide theatre are for ever rising groans that are unpitied, and cries that bring no aid. "On one side," says an eye-witness to the horrors of the sack of Moscow, in 1812, "on one side, we saw a son carrying a sick father; on the other, women who poured the torrent of their tears on the infants whom they clasped in their arms. Old men, overwhelmed by grief still more than by years, weeping for the ruin of their country, lay down to die, near the houses where they were born. No respect was paid to the nobility of blood, to the innocence of youth, or to the tears of beauty."-" It is impossible," says another eye-witness, one who saw the wounded in the

See Third Report of the Committee of Inquiry instituted by the Massachusetts Peace Society. † Labaume, p. 209 and 213.

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hospitals after the battle of Waterloo, "it is impossible to conceive of their sufferings. Turn which way I might, I encountered every form of entreaty from those whose condition left no need of words to stir compassion. I know not," he says, "what notions my feeling countrymen have of thirty thousand wounded men thrown into a town and its environs. They still their compassionate emotions by subscriptions: but what avails this to those who would exchange gold for a bit of rag to bind up their smarting wounds. My heart sickens at the contemplation,' he says, in conclusion; "and I am obliged to turn away from this picture of human misery, caused by pride, ambition, a love of military glory, and the folly of mankind in paying adoration to their destroyers. Would not angels weep at such a scene as this? But is this all? Ah! no. Each of these dead or wounded soldiers had a mother, who had watched over his cradle, and had attended him in his sickness, and shed over him the tears of maternal solicitude. Many had wives and lovers, to whom they were dearer than the light of the sun; many had children, who looked to them for support and protection. We may rationally suppose, that for every man who was killed or wounded in this deadly conflict, the hearts of at least ten persons-parents, wives children, brothers, and sisters-were lacerated. Oh, what hecatombs of sacrifices on the bloody altar of Moloch! How long will mankind continue to be accessary to such crimes, by bestowing praises upon their perpetrators! How long will it be, ere every human being will deem it his imperious and solemn duty, to disseminate the principles of peace and extend her empire!"*

But let us pass now from immediate evils to those which, although more remote, are not less destructive to the welfare of society.

In contemplating the progress of civilization, there is one fact which deserves more attention, I apprehend, than it has yet received; and that is the severity of human labour. The advancement of society from a state of barbarism is, of course, marked by growing and more regular industry. To a certain extent, this is, doubtless, natural, and accordant with the designs of Providence and the general welfare of men. But there is a point beyond which labour is not good and ought not to be necessary; and that the condition of multitudes, both in Europe and America, is far beyond this point, cannot, I think, be doubted. It has been maintained, on a careful calculation, that all the conveniences of civilized life might be produced, if society would divide the labour equally among its members, by each individual being employed in labour two hours during the day. I will not undertake to say whether this estimate is correct; but I am certain that ten, twelve, and fourteen hours each day, of hard work, cannot be necessary to the proper ends of society, in its natural and healthful state. Yet this is what is required of the mass, not only of adult labourers, but of their children too, in many cases, barely to support life. The effects, especially in the manufacturing districts of Europe, are most deplorable. The evidence on this point before the British Parliament, three or four years since, presented a picture of desolating and crushing toil, and especially of children, pale, emaciated, trembling from exhaustion, and bereft of every trait of childhood, and almost of humanity, that was enough to

Charles Bell.

Godwin's Political Justice.

make the heart sick with the contemplation; and all the mitigation that the wisdom and generosity of a great people could devise for these helpless and miserable beings, cursed-I had almost said-cursed with existence, was, that they should not be compelled, under the age of sixteen, to work more than ten hours a day. But the evil of excessive toil is not confined to the manufactories. No one can travel through the agricultural districts of Europe generally, without seeing that it is not only in "the sweat of his brow," but in the sadness of his brow, that man earns his bread. The pressure is, doubtless, lighter in this country, but still, I believe, it is too hard. I concern myself here with no questions about combinations of labourers, to diminish the hours of work; I do not undertake to say, what may be necessary or right, in the existing state of things; but speaking in general, of what I conceive to be the intentions of Providence and the capacities of man, I aver with confidence, that there is more hard labour in this country than consists with the true welfare and improvement of society.

If this could be doubted, it would be sufficient to say, and this is the point to which I wish to come, that there are causes in operation enhancing human toil, which are immense, which are unnatural, and which never ought to have existed. Passing by others, my business now is, to consider a single cause-the burthen of debt, that is to say, which past wars have accumulated upon the present generation, and upon many, we may add, that are to come after it.

which

War subtracts from the amount of productive labour, the strength of all who are engaged in its actual service, and of all who are engaged in providing arms and munitions for it. In barbarous ages, when nations fought out their own battles, and so finished the account, this was only a loss to the nation and to the world, for the time being; but in process of time, men found that they could not fight enough on their own account, and they brought in the resources of after-times to assist them. It was left for the progress of civilization, to fall upon the expedient of creating national debts; that is, of hiring out the labour of posterity to pay the price of blood. Some idea of the extent of this tremendous assessment may be formed from a single item. The wars grew out of the French Revolution, commencing in 1793, and ending in 1815, cost Great Britain alone, eleven hundred millions of pounds sterling:* and a large proportion of this stupendous amount now exists in the form of a national debt; and the interest of it is annually levied upon the entire industry of the kingdom. In addition to this, England and all Europe are supporting immense standing armies. Go where you will, and the soldier presents himself a cormorant that is eating up the substance of the land, and adding nothing to its resources. There he stands, idly leaning against some bastion or gate-way, while the farmer in the neighbouring field must redcable his labours to support him. I complain not of the soldier, who is, after all, the most miserable of these parties; insomuch, that I have heard it stated, as the opinion of a distinguished military commander in Europe, that war itself is not so fatal to life as peace--that ennui destroys more men than the sword; I do not complain, then, of the soldier who is the creature of the state; I do not complain of the state, which is, perhaps, obliged thus to stand on its defence; but I charge the system, the war-system, * Lowe's Present State of England.

which taxes and tasks the industry of one part of the world for the purpose of destroying the other, with stupendous injustice and folly.

Let us dwell a moment longer on the extent and nature of this tax

ation.

War appears to be far off from us; and it is far off from most men; for the field of actual military operations, in almost any country, is comparatively small. A battle is fought at a distance, and the groan that it sends through the world soon dies away; and men think of it no more, but as a matter of history-a matter with which they have no concern. They forget that the war, the battle, comes to them in another shape, in the form of burthensome imposts; that it comes and writes its account on every threshold, and on every table, whether rich or poor, in the civilized world. For every article, whether of convenience or luxury, which is produced in Europe, the consumer, of whatever country, is obliged not only to remunerate the labour employed upon it, but to pay a heavy additional per cent in taxes; and far the largest portion of these taxes are levied by the military system. The language of every military government, not only to its own citizens, but to all the world, is this: You must not only pay the industrious among us, but you must help to support our idle and expensive "that is to say, soldiery ;' you must work harder, because we have a great many among us who do not work, and then, too, they must have arms, and munitions, and fortifications, which is another heavy item in the account.' 66 Does this taxation do us any good?" the world asks. And the answer is, "none at all." It contributes not to the manufacture of any necessaries, or comforts, or luxuries of life, but only to the fabrication of warlike weapons-of "cold and bare steel "of that which gives you nothing to eat nor to drink, nor to wear, nor to em

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ploy for any useful purpose. And again; it contributes nothing to the support of any useful class-of learned men, or instructors of the people, or artists to delight them; but only to the training of an order of men, who, for your pains may, any day, be turned upon you like tigers and bloodhounds, to rend and tear you in pieces. And now, look at the pressure of this system. It is a burthen upon everything to which men can attach value; it is a tax upon all the possessions and pleasures of life, upon food and raiment, upon every element of nature, upon the very light of heaven. It presses upon you and upon me. But for this, our labours might contribute in much greater measure to our comfort and independence; in a measure very seriously and sensibly affecting the happiness of our lives. It is a burthen which presses heavily on the rich; it is a burthen which crushes the poor; it is urging universal toil to excess; it is grinding thousands and millions down to the dust; and in this way, perhaps, it has occasioned more of the extraordinary intemperance of modern times than any other cause. If this tax were direct and specific; if it were not covered up under the names of excise, and impost, and revenue; if it were, in so many words, a war-tax, it would speak a language to which the world could not be indifferent; it would be a voice of blood crying from the earth and air, from sea and land, to which men could not close their ears.

But consider for one moment longer, I beseech you, the nature of this assessment. In the name of Heaven, I solemnly ask, what are its conditions? What is the tenor of the bond that is to settle up the ac

count of an expensive war? A mighty debt is incurred; and it presses upon the already hard and exhausting labour of thousands and ten thousands, with vexatious and wearying importunity. What is the valuable consideration which is to reconcile to their lot the worn and and weary victims of this toil and poverty? What is the language to them of the war-system? It says to them-this is what it says "I will raze to the ground your pleasant habitations; I will slay your sons in battle; I will give up your daughters to accursed violation; I will spare no store of your gains, no treasure of your hearts, no delight of your eyes; and when I have done all this, you shall pay me for what I have done; and to satisfy the debt, you shall come under bondage to me, for a portion of every day, during the remainder of your lives. Nay, and more than this shall you give; more than the toil of your weary limbs, and the sweat of your aching brow. The light from your window, and the pottage from your cold hearth; the sorrow of your suffering wives and children, the tears of your half-clad and starving families, shall you give to pay the mighty debt."

It is sometimes asked, whether wars can ever be done away. I would ask, in return, if the very argument I have now used, does not show that they can, and must, and shall be done away.

There is, I know, a vague and dreamy notion possessing some minds, that war, somehow or other, is a matter of necessity, that it results from the ordination of nature, that the law of force is the law of the whole creation, and must be submitted to. Among animals, they say, the stronger destroys the weaker, and man but conforms to the principle. But the instance of animal nature comes far short of supporting this argument. The animal destroys when and where he has need of food; and when he destroys without this motive, he is accounted mad. But what should we think, if the animals of one whole country were banded in battle array against those of another? The world would stand aghast at such madness seizing the tribes of irrational creatures. And yet, what in them would be a horrible madness, is, in man, honour, courage, skill; nay more, and is held to be among the necessary and irresistible tendencies of his nature.

"But," it may be said, "whether natural and necessary, or not, war has always existed; it has been in the world since the creation; it has become the habit of the world; and it cannot be done away. There will always be national controversies; there will always be selfish and vindictive passions at work in the human breast; and, in short, while man is man, there will always be war."

Do we live in an age, when the antiquity of an evil is held to be a good argument for its perpetuity? Arbitrary rule, despotism, in one form or another, is as old as the world.

The slave-trade has

existed for ages. The most ancient histories are histories of ignorance and barbarism. Does the world sit down and quietly acquiesce in the conclusion, that these things must exist for ever? Civilization itself must have been held in check, by such a fatal concession to antiquity.

Civilization is advancing; it has as yet by no means reached its limit. Is not this a sufficient answer to the whole argument? One barbarous custom after another has yielded to the progress of knowledge; why may not war, like the tournament and the ordeal by fire, cease to en