that the ceremonious difficulties of an audience are surmounted; that he feels himself animated by the purest and most honourable affections to his king and country; and that the great person whom he addresses has spirit enough to bid him speak freely, and understanding enough to listen to him with attention.  Unacquainted with the vain impertinence of forms, he would deliver his sentiments with dignity and firmness, but not without respect.

Sir,

It is the misfortune of your life, and originally the cause of every reproach and distress which has attended your government, that you should never have been acquainted with the language of truth until you heard it in the complaints of your people.  It is not, however, too late to correct the error of your education.  We are still inclined to make an indulgent allowance for the pernicious lessons you received in your youth, and to form the most sanguine hopes from the natural benevolence of your disposition.  We are far from thinking you capable of a direct, deliberate purpose to invade those original rights of your subjects on which all their civil and political liberties depend.  Had it been possible for us to entertain a suspicion so dishonourable to your character, we should long since have adopted a style of remonstrance very distant from the humility of complaint.  The doctrine inculcated by our laws, That the king can do no-wrong, is admitted without reluctance.  We separate the amiable, good-natured prince from the folly and treachery of his servants, and the private virtues of the man from the vices of his government.  Were it not for this just distinction, I know not whether your Majesty’s condition, or that of the English nation, would deserve most to be lamented.  I would prepare your mind for a favourable reception of truth by removing every painful, offensive idea of personal reproach.  Your subjects, Sir, wish for nothing but that, as they are reasonable and affectionate enough to separate your person from your government, so you, in your turn, should distinguish between the conduct which becomes the permanent dignity of a king and that which serves only to promote the temporary interest and miserable ambition of a minister.

You ascended the throne with a declared—­and, I doubt not, a sincere—­resolution of giving universal satisfaction to your subjects.  You found them pleased with the novelty of a young prince whose countenance promised even more than his words, and loyal to you, not only from principle, but passion.  It was not a cold profession of allegiance to the first magistrate, but a partial, animated attachment to a favourite prince, the native of their country.  They did not wait to examine your conduct nor to be determined by experience, but gave you a generous credit for the future blessings of your reign, and paid you in advance the dearest tribute of their affections.  Such, Sir, was once the disposition of a people who