Their pretences I have here endeavoured to expose, by showing, that more
than has been yielded, was not to be expected, that more, perhaps, was
not to be desired, and that, if all had been refused, there had scarcely
been an adequate reason for a war.

There was, perhaps, never much danger of war, or of refusal, but what
danger there was, proceeded from the faction. Foreign nations,
unacquainted with the insolence of common councils, and unaccustomed to
the howl of plebeian patriotism, when they heard of rabbles and riots,
of petitions and remonstrances, of discontent in Surrey, Derbyshire, and
Yorkshire; when they saw the chain of subordination broken, and the
legislature threatened and defied, naturally imagined, that such a
government had little leisure for Falkland's island; they supposed that
the English, when they returned ejected from port Egmont, would find
Wilkes invested with the protectorate, or see the mayor of London, what
the French have formerly seen their mayors of the palace, the commander
of the army, and tutor of the king; that they would be called to tell
their tale before the common council; and that the world was to expect
war or peace from a vote of the subscribers to the bill of rights.

But our enemies have now lost their hopes, and our friends, I hope, are
recovered from their fears. To fancy that our government can be
subverted by the rabble, whom its lenity has pampered into impudence, is
to fear that a city may be drowned by the overflowing of its kennels.
The distemper which cowardice or malice thought either decay of the
vitals, or resolution of the nerves, appears, at last, to have been
nothing more than a political _phtheiriasis_, a disease too loathsome
for a plainer name, but the effect of negligence rather than of
weakness, and of which the shame is greater than the danger.

Among the disturbers of our quiet are some animals of greater bulk, whom
their power of roaring persuaded us to think formidable; but we now
perceive that sound and force do not always go together. The noise of a
savage proves nothing but his hunger.

After all our broils, foreign and domestick, we may, at last, hope to
remain awhile in quiet, amused with the view of our own success. We have
gained political strength, by the increase of our reputation; we have
gained real strength, by the reparation of our navy; we have shown
Europe, that ten years of war have not yet exhausted us; and we have
enforced our s