The last turn of the screw crushes the victim—it is the last feather, say the Bedouins, that breaks the camel’s back—and the train, which has been in gradual preparation for many years, may be exploded, in an instant, by a very little spark, at last.
There are periods, in the lives of certain individuals, when, upon the approach of minor troubles—baleful stars, doubtless, but of the third or fourth magnitude—it may be said, as Rochefoucault said of the calamities of our friends, that there is something in them, not particularly disagreeable to us. A man, whose afflictions, especially when self-induced, are chafing, at every turn, against his already lacerated pride, and who is seeking some apology, for deeds of desperation, often discovers, with a morbid satisfaction, in some petty offence, or imaginary wrong, ample excuse, for deeds, absolutely damnable.
Such were the influences, at work, in the case of Benedict Arnold. In 1780, in obedience to the sentence of a court martial, he was reprimanded by the Commander-in-Chief; but in terms so highly complimentary, that it is impossible to read them, without a doubt, whether this official reprimand were a crown of thorns, or a crown of glory. At that very time, Arnold’s pecuniary embarrassments were overwhelming. Without the rightful means of supporting a one-horse chaise, he rattled up and down, in the city of Philadelphia, in a chariot and four. The splendid mansion, which he occupied, had, in former times, been the residence of the Penns. Here he gave a sumptuous repast to the French ambassador, and entertained the minister and his suite, for several days.
Hunger, it is said, will break through stone walls; even this is a feeble illustration of that force and energy, which characterized Arnold’s passion for parade. To support his career of unparalleled extravagance and folly, he resorted to stratagems, which would have been contemptible, in a broker of the lowest grade—petty traffic and huckstering speculation—the sale of permits, to do certain things, absolutely forbidden—such were among the last, miserable shifts of this “brave, wicked” man, when his conscience came between the antagonist muscles of poverty and pride. For some of these very offences, he had been condemned, by the court martial. Even then, he had secretly become, at heart, a scoundrel and a renegade; and, covertly, under a feigned name, had already tendered his services to the enemy.
The sentence of the court, sheer justice, but so graciously mingled with mercy, as scarcely to wear the aspect of punishment, supplied him with the very thing he coveted—a pretence, for complaining of injustice and oppression. He sought the French ambassador; and, after a plain allusion to his own needy condition, shadowed forth, in language, not to be mistaken, his willingness to become the secret servant of France. The prompt reply of the French minister is of record, most honorable for himself, and sufficiently humiliating to the spirit of the applicant.
The result is before the world—Arnold became a traitor, detested by those, whose cause he had forsaken, and utterly despised by those, whose cause he affected to espouse—trusted by them, only, because they well knew he might safely be employed against an enemy, who would deal with him, if captured, not as a prisoner of war, but as a traitor. I have, thus briefly, alluded to the career of Arnold, only for the purpose of illustration.
No truth is more simple—none more firmly established by experience—none more universally disregarded—than, that the growth of luxury must work the overthrow of a republic. As the largest masses are made up of the smallest particles, so the characteristic luxury of a whole people consists of individual extravagance and folly. The ambition to be foremost becomes, ere long, the ruling, and almost universal, passion—in still stronger language, “it is all the rage.” In a certain condition of society, talent takes precedence of virtue, and men would rather be called knaves than fools: and, where luxury abounds, as the poorer and the middling classes will imitate the wealthier, there must be a large amount of indebtedness, and many men and women of desperate fortunes. We cannot strut about, in unpaid-for garments, nor ride about, in unpaid-for chariots, nor gather the world together, to admire unpaid-for furniture, without an inward sense of personal degradation.
It would be a poor compliment to our race, to deny the truth of this assertion. True or false, the argument goes steadily forward—for, if not true, then that callous, case-hardened condition of the heart exists, which takes off all care for the common weal, and turns it entirely upon one’s self, and one’s own aggrandizement. Nothing can be more destructive of that feeling of independence, which ever lies, at the bottom of republican virtue.
This condition of things is the very hot-bed of hypocrisy,—and it makes the heart a forcing-house, for all the evil and bitter passions, envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness. Pastors, of all denominations, may well unite, in the chorus of the churchman’s prayer, and cry aloud—Good Lord deliver us!
A very fallacious and mischievous estimate of personal array, equipage, and furniture has always given wonderful preëminence to this species of emulation. It is perfectly natural withal. Distinction, of some sort, is uppermost, in most men’s minds. It is comforting to many to know there is a tapis—“the field of the cloth of gold”—on which the wealthy fool is more than a match, for the poor, wise man; and, as this world contains such an overwhelming majority of the former class, the ayes have it, and luxury holds on, vires acquirens eundo.