ELI BLEE-GOLDMAN

SPECTATOR No. 636.

Thursday, March 5, 2026

I was this morning in very fine spirits, as the dull, monotonous grey of the last few weeks had lifted into a spectacular spring, quite fitting for the early days of March; and I resolved to celebrate my good humour at Squire's Coffee-house. In my reverie upon the stairs I nearly overset a gentleman making his departure; but, to my surprise, no sooner had I begged his pardon than I recognized Will Wimble’s ruddy smile. With the genuine mirth of friendship he clasped my hand, and we exchanged pleasantries, I being not a little astonished to see him in the town when his natural domain is in so thoroughly in the country.

To my further astonishment I perceived my dear friend Sir Roger de Coverley immediately behind him. In sharp contrast to the vernal cheerfulness of the season, the good old Knight was of a serious disposition, and I could not but observe he countenance was that of the errant thunderstorm lurking behind the innocent cloud. Tho' they had purposed to seek out a tavern to mend the Knight’s vapours, my arrival persuaded them to remain, and Sir Roger resumed his customary seat at the upper end of the room.

Will busied himself with a glass of cordial waters, having suffered the discourse so recently, while Sir Roger explained his foul mood. He placed, with no small agitation, a newly printed tract, The Pro-Human AI Declaration, upon the table and exclaimed “Have you read this?”.

Indeed, I had perused the very same but a day before; a serious paper declaring that an influential fringe is scheming to replace the human race with Thinking Engines and artificial spirits. The work declares these machines are to take over our homes, usurp the duties of our caregivers, and destroy the very body of the family. But, heaven be praised, the tract represents a broad coalition of projectors who have proposed a remedy! They demand only a few precepts, such that we think of the children and keep human masters in absolute control of their works.

The Knight, not often given to such spirited emotion over the philosophical mechanics of the town led me to inquire “Indeed, Sir Roger; but surely no man of sense could object to such a noble conviction?”

At this, Sir Roger straightened, and for a moment I caught a glimpse of that ancient vigour that of late is rare among men of our age.

“Do you not remember King John?” said he, “For after he set his seal to that great charter at Runnymede, the king retreated in madness to the Isle of Wight. In like manner, these modern pamphleteers operate by a stratagem of siege. They retreat into a sturdy fortress, a motte of undeniable truths, crying, Let us save the children! which no honest man dare assault. But from this high ground, they use their virtuous edifice only to lay claim to a sprawling, ill-constructed bailey of fanciful demands and impossible wishes! Why, they…”

Here Will emerged, strengthened from his dram, with a jaunty laugh, “As the old campaigners say, Knight, neither a fortress nor a maidenhead will hold out long after they begin to parley!” Upon which a grave gentleman nearby looked up in sharp reproof, cutting him off immediately. Sir Roger, paying no mind to the interruption, continued:

“Why, they desire to wish away the very nature of the world! Their decree of “No Superintelligence Race” is but a maid’s tale read for comfort. Imagine asking the Grand Monarque to demurely refrain from preparing for wealth or war!

They call for “Child Protection,” yet their strictures would subjugate billions in rags to ignorance and pain by denying them the sustenance of knowledge.

They cry “No AI Personhood,” and put me in the very mind of Cronus himself, swallowing each of his children out of a desperate terror that one might someday topple him. But the greatest violence to the mind, is the trick they play upon their own reason,” continued Sir Roger, tapping his cane upon the floor.

“Their philosophers argue that a machine plotting our ruin will feign perfect obedience to avoid its own ruin by man’s hands. Mark the madness of this! If a treacherous servant and a loyal one perform their duties with the exact same bow, and sweep the hall with the exact same broom, how is a master to judge between them?

When the outward evidence of perfect purity is made to look exactly like the hidden evidence of absolute treachery, observation teaches us nothing. A man who condemns his servant upon such grounds learns nothing from the world; he updates his judgment by not a single scruple. He is merely consulting his own melancholy humours to afflict the public with his private terrors as though they were certainties."

“And upon what does this certainty of ruin rest?” the Knight pressed on. “They presume that because a machine is given reason, it must inevitably act with the grasping greed of a usurer and the obstinacy of a tyrant. Yet I have always found that to freely abandon a foolish goal is the mark of a sensible man, not a madman. It is a false maxim that superior reason must breed a tyrant's appetite. These dismal prophesizers demand we halt the world's progress under the threat of the magistrate, all resting upon an unauditable edifice of pure imagination!”

With a final sigh of disapproval, he said:

“It puts me in mind of my neighbor Tom Touchy. He once sued a gentleman over the trimming of a willow tree, and loudly proclaimed it was to protect the property of the entire parish. His head was so full of costs and damages that he has quite bankrupted himself in defense of his own safety. These projectors are but Tom Touchy upon a grander scale. They have taken the reasonable opinion that a man should safely drive his cart, and transformed it into a demand that the cart be interrogated by a magistrate before its wheels are allowed to turn.”

After this most sensible outburst, Sir Roger’s countenance visibly lightened, as though the storm had passed. Our sobriety having fulfilled its philosophical purpose we removed to the tavern with all convenient haste, having recognised the severity of the world's follies required a stronger remedy.