The System of the World

A MEDITATION UPON POWER

by Dappa

The Liberty of the Clink is as one with all of GREAT BRITAIN in lamenting the passage of our beloved Queen; the Prisoners have swopped their light, gay summer restraints for heavy mourning-fetters, and changed their gray rags for black, and all night long I am kept awake by moans and wails from the dungeons beneath, which proves that the inhabitants of the place are as sensible of the Tragedy, as my lord B-.

A week ago, that man was at the summit of the great mound of corpses that is Politics, and was accounted by many the most powerful in all the land. Since the Queen’s demise, we hear nothing from him, or of him. What has become of B-?

It is an idle question, for no one cares what has become of that man. When people ask it, what they really mean is: what has become of B-’s Power? For a week ago he was agreed to have a great amount of it. To-day it seems he has none. Where has it got to? Many would fain know, for more men desire power than desire gold.

From Herr Leibniz we have heard that there is a Property of bodies called vis viva, and another called the quantite d’avancement, both of which are conserved through all collisions and transformations of a system. The first is equal to the product of the mass and the square of the velocity, and the second is simply the product of the mass and the velocity. At the beginning of time the Universe was endowed with a certain fund of both, which neither waxes nor wanes with time, but is merely exchanged among bodies, like silver pennies in a market-place. Which leads one to ask: is Power like the vis viva, and the quantite d’avancement, i.e., is it conserved by the Universe? Or is it like shares of a stock, which may have great value one day, and be worthless the next?

If Power is like stock-shares, then it follows that the immense sum thereof, lately lost by B-, has vanished like shadows in sunlight. For no matter how much wealth is lost in stock-crashes, it never seems to turn up. But if Power is conserved, then B-’s must have gone somewhere. Where is it? Some say ’twas scooped up by my lord R-, who hid it under a rock, lest my lord M-come from across the sea and snatch it away. My friends among the Whigs say that any Power lost by a Tory, is infallibly and insensibly distributed among all the People; but no matter how assiduously I search the lower rooms of the Clink for B-’s lost Power, I cannot seem to find any there, which explodes that argument, for there are assuredly very many People in those dark salons.

I propose a novel Theory of Power, which is inspired by the lucubrations of Mr. Newcomen, the Earl of Lostwithiel, and Dr. Waterhouse on the Engine for Raising Water by Fire. As a Mill makes Flour, a Loom makes Cloth, and a Forge makes Steel, so, we are assured, this Engine shall make Power. If the Backers of this Device speak truly-and I’ve no reason to deprecate their honesty-it proves that Power is not a Conserved Quantity, for of such Quantities it is never possible to make more. The amount of Power in the world, it follows, is ever-increasing, and the rate of increase grows ever faster as more of these Engines are built. A Man who hoards Power is therefore like a miser who sits on a heap of Coins, in a Realm where the Currency is being continually debased by production of more coins than the market can bear; so that what was a great Fortune when first he raked it together, insensibly becomes a slag-heap, and is found to be devoid of value, when at last he takes it to the market-place to be spent. Thus my lord B-and his vaunted Power-hoard. What is true of him is likely to be true of his lackeys, particularly his most base and slavish followers, such as MR. CHARLES WHITE. This varlet has asserted that he owns me. He phant’sies that to own a Man, is to have Power; yet he has got nothing by claiming to own me, while I, who was supposed to be rendered Powerless, am now writing for a Grub Street newspaper that is being perused by you, esteemed reader.

As the Duke of Marlborough got dressed and accessorized, he told various of the courtiers to shove off, which they did, with deep bows, and almost tearful gratitude for having been invited; and before the hour of noon, Daniel found himself alone in the bedchamber with the Duke, suddenly formidable in full snow-white periwig, and understated yet shockingly fashionable suit of clothes, and small-sword. They went for a stroll in a rose-garden outside the Duke’s bedchamber, which led to more conversation concerning roses than Daniel was really game for. Not that he didn’t like roses as much as the next chap; but to talk about them was to miss the point.

“I have accepted Ravenscar’s kind invitation,” the Duke finally said, “and moreover I have done so in the presence of those other five, who are among the worst gossips in London-so much so that Roger has probably got wind of it already. But there is a proviso to my acceptance, which I did not mention to them. Neither shall I write it in the very courteous note I’ll presently send to the Temple of Vulcan. I tell it privily to you, and rely upon you to convey it to him.”

“I am ready, my lord,” said Daniel, trying not to let his voice betray a certain here we go again weariness.

“Let me remind you of the agreement on which you and I shook hands, on the night of the Glorious Revolution, as we stood together on the causeway of the Tower.”

“I recollect it clearly, my lord, but there’s no harm in reviewing it.”

“I said I would be your friend if you would help me to understand, or at least to keep track of, the machinations of the Alchemists.”

“Indeed.”

“I flatter myself that I have been of service to you, as occasions warranted, in the twenty-five years since then,” said John Churchill. For now it seemed they were speaking not as Duke and Regent but as John and Daniel.

“Now that you mention it, it is a bit odd that my name turned up on Bothmar’s list.”

“I had many occasions, during and after the War, to sing the praises of certain Englishmen to the Electoral Prince,” John said, “and the high esteem in which you are held by Princess Caroline cannot have hurt your chances, either.”

“You have done the son of Drake unexpected honor, then,” Daniel said.

“Now, Daniel, since we made our compact, much has changed-Roger’s Juncto re-shaped the country. He placed the world’s leading Alchemist in charge of the Mint. That Alchemist is still there, and shows no sign of faltering. By some accounts he is diligent beyond compare. But reports have reached me concerning the Pyx, and such arcane and eldritch matters as the Solomonic Gold and the Philosophic Mercury and other such semi-occult doings as have no place in this the Eighteenth Century. Now that Anne is gone-may God rest her-and George is coming, I bear upon my shoulders the greatest imaginable responsibilities to help our new King-nay, our new Dynasty-understand what is going on in his Kingdom. I will ensure that the Mint is in the hands of officials sane and competent, and that the coinage is sound. Can Newton be trusted to run the Mint, Daniel? Will he run it as a mill for turning out disks of metal, or as a laboratory for Chiliastic researches? Is he a bloody sorcerer, Daniel? And if so, is he any good at it?”