The slave in the old play tells his master, “Haec commemeratio est quasi exprobratio.”  It is not pleasant as compliment; it is not wholesome as instruction.  After all, if the king were to bring himself to echo this new kind of address, to adopt it in terms, and even to take the appellation of Servant of the People as his royal style, how either he or we should be much mended by it I cannot imagine.  I have seen very assuming letters signed, “Your most obedient, humble servant.”  The proudest domination that ever was endured on earth took a title of still greater humility than that which is now proposed for sovereigns by the Apostle of Liberty.  Kings and nations were trampled upon by the foot of one calling himself “The Servant of Servants”; and mandates for deposing sovereigns were sealed with the signet of “The Fisherman.”

I should have considered all this as no more than a sort of flippant, vain discourse, in which, as in an unsavory fume, several persons suffer the spirit of liberty to evaporate, if it were not plainly in support of the idea, and a part of the scheme, of “cashiering kings for misconduct.”  In that light it is worth some observation.

Kings, in one sense, are undoubtedly the servants of the people, because their power has no other rational end than that of the general advantage; but it is not true that they are, in the ordinary sense, (by our Constitution, at least,) anything like servants,—­the essence of whose situation is to obey the commands of some other, and to be removable at pleasure.  But the king of Great Britain obeys no other person; all other persons are individually, and collectively too, under him, and owe to him a legal obedience.  The law, which knows neither to flatter nor to insult, calls this high-magistrate, not our servant, as this humble divine calls him, but “our sovereign lord the king”; and we, on our parts, have learned to speak only the primitive language of the law, and not the confused jargon of their Babylonian pulpits.

As he is not to obey us, but we are to obey the law in him, our Constitution has made no sort of provision towards rendering him, as a servant, in any degree responsible.  Our Constitution knows nothing of a magistrate like the Justicia of Aragon,—­nor of any court legally appointed, nor of any process legally settled, for submitting the king to the responsibility belonging to all servants.  In this he is not distinguished from the commons and the lords, who, in their several public capacities, can never be called to an account for their conduct; although the Revolution Society chooses to assert, in direct opposition to one of the wisest and most beautiful parts of our Constitution, that “a king is no more than the first servant of the public, created by it, and responsible to it.”

Ill would our ancestors at the Revolution have deserved their fame for wisdom, if they had found no security for their freedom, but in rendering their government feeble in its operations and precarious in its tenure,—­if they had been able to contrive no better remedy against arbitrary power than civil confusion.  Let these gentlemen state who that representative public is to whom they will affirm the king, as a servant, to be responsible.  It will be then time enough for me to produce to them the positive statute law which affirms that he is not.