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             Civilisation In Europe.

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                   General

          History Of Civilisation

                  In Europe,

   From The Fall Of The Roman Empire Till The
              French Revolution.

              By M. F. Guizot.


        A Treatise On Death Punishments.

            By The Same Author.



                   Edinburgh:
          William And Robert Chambers.
                     1848.


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                   Edinburgh:
         Printed By W. And R. Chambers.

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                   Contents.



Life of Guizot.--7
  His Birth
  Education
  Entry Into Life
  Literary Works
  Political Career
  And Exile
  1787 TO 1848.

Lecture  I.--23
   objects of the course
   civilisation in general.

Lecture II.--38
   Peculiar Features Of Civilisation In Europe
   Influence Of The Church.

Lecture III.--56
   First Ages Of Civilisation.

Lecture IV.--71
   Influence Of The Feudal System.

Lecture V.--88
   The Church From The Fifth To The Twelfth Century.

Lecture VI.--104
   Relations Of The Church With The People.

Lecture VII.--122
   Boroughs And Their Influence.

Lecture VIII.--139
   The Twelfth And Thirteenth Centuries
   The Crusades.

Lecture IX.--153
   Rise And Progress Of Royalty.

Lecture X.--167
   Union Of Elements Of Modern Society.

Lecture XI.--182
   Of Nations And Governments.

Lecture XII.--197
   Effects Of The Reformation.

Lecture XIII.--212
   Effects Of The English Revolution.

Lecture XIV.--226
   Cause And Effects Of The French Revolution.


On The Punishment Of Death--247

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                   Life Of Guizot.

  His Birth
  Education
  Entry into Life
  Literary Works
  Political Career
  and Exile
  1787 to 1848.


Among the many extraordinary personages who have figured within
the last sixty years on the political stage of Europe, there are
few whose career has been more singular and chequered than that
of the author of the following works. In no country does talent
so certainly insure pre-eminence to its possessor as in France,
nor is success in literature anywhere so nobly rewarded. Rank and
fortune are in it no necessary passports to social or political
importance, and with perfect truth it may be said that the career
of distinction is open to aspirants of every class and merit
possessing and evincing legitimate claims to esteem and
consideration. Of all professions, that of literature is held in
the highest estimation, and its most successful cultivators are
those who have exercised for many years the greatest influence
over its destinies, and who have constituted its chief
legislators and statesmen. From the superiority of his
attainments in the field of intellectual exertion, M. Guizot has
raised himself from obscurity, and achieved not only the fame of
the most philosophic and profound historian of the day, but the
lustre of a position the most exalted in the hierarchy of
civilised life.

The family of M. Guizot appears to have been of old standing and
respectable repute in the south of France, having its chief seat
in the town of Nismes, where he himself was born on the 4th of
October 1787. His father was an advocate, enjoying considerable
practice at the provincial bar of Nismes, and he belonged, like
his forefathers before him, to the Reformed Church, which
entailed upon him sundry galling disabilities, the Protestants
being then a proscribed sect in France, precisely as were the
Catholics, on the other hand, in England and Ireland. Hence he
viewed with approbation and hope the progress of the Revolution
which commenced with the meeting of the States-General under
Louis XVI. in 1789, and hailed with joy the abrogation of a
system which condemned him to humiliations of both a civil and a
religious character. He shrank, however, from the excesses with
which the Jacobins polluted the glorious outburst, and by his
sentiments of moderation, drew upon himself their revengeful
anger, from the consequences of which he sought safety in
concealment.
{viii}
Being discovered in his retreat, he heroically refused to accept
the offer of permission to escape made him by his captor,
preferring to suffer death rather than compromise the existence
of another, whom humanity alone prompted to tender a generous
protection. He accordingly fell under the axe of the guillotine
at Nismes on the 8th of April 1794, contemporaneously with the
execution of Danton at Paris, whose fall marked the culminating
point of the Reign of Terror. The young Guizot was at this,
period nearly seven years of age, and sufficiently old to
appreciate all the horrors of that gloomy era: the terrible
impression became indelible on his mind, and in a great measure
ruled the future tendencies of his mature years, which led him to
regard with instinctive abhorrence the smallest approach to a
return of revolutionary violence.

The mother of Guizot escaped the fate of her husband, being in
that respect more fortunate than the wives of most of the victims
sacrificed to the vengeance of the Jacobins, and removed with her
children to Geneva, to which Calvinistic city she originally
belonged. She was a woman of strong mind and sound religious
principles: she proved an excellent parent to Guizot and his
younger brother, to whose training and education she devoted
herself with exemplary solicitude. The care of an affectionate
and virtuous mother is the most precious boon to man in his
tender years, and there is scarcely an instance of one rising to
high celebrity who has not enjoyed the fostering tutelage of
maternal superintendence in his boyhood. This advantage Guizot
possessed in a supreme degree: and it has been related by a
visitor, who found her with him on her knee, reading to him
incidents from the lives of the great Reformers, that she
remarked, 'I wish to show my Frank, by these examples, how much
may be effected by determination and diligence;' and assuredly
her lessons were not thrown away, for these are the very
qualities which have chiefly distinguished him through life. At
the age of twelve, having already made considerable progress in
the acquisition of the classical and principal modern languages,
he was placed under the charge of M. de Joux, a minister of the
Reformed Church of Geneva, who was at the head of a considerable
seminary in that city. Under the auspices of this instructor of
youth he made rapid progress in his studies, seeking still to
master the difficulties which shroud from the unenlightened the
immortal compositions bequeathed from antiquity or illumining
more recent eras. In four years--such was the ardour of the young
student--he could boast an intimate acquaintance with all the
most illustrious of the Greeks and Romans, with all the most
renowned of the nations of modern Europe. Homer, Thucydides,
Demosthenes; Cicero, Seneca, Tacitus; Dante, Tasso, Ariosto;
Schiller, Goethe, Fichte; Shakespeare, Milton, Locke; Racine,
Fenelon, Montesquieu--these were the great minds with which he
cultivated a familiar intercourse, these the sources from which
he drank of the fountain of knowledge, these the ennobling
inspirers of his dawning genius. Happy the youth who can embrace
the opportunity of such learning, happier he who can appreciate
its incomparable virtues, its ineffable charms, its exalted
benefits; for no education can be more admirably adapted to
refine the mind, develop the understanding, invigorate the
intellect, or fill the soul with the divine breath of philosophy!

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It was natural that the subtle questions which possess such
interest in the minds of reflective men, and which involve the
enigma of human existence, should present themselves to the
thoughtful Guizot as fitting topics of contemplation.
Consequently, we find him turn with avidity to metaphysics, and
steep himself in sleepless ponderings on their sublime but
inextricable problems. He thus acquired, more perhaps than even
from his previous studies, that profound and detective cast of
mind which is so perceptible in his works, and which makes the
elucidation of causes the distinctive feature, the inestimable
merit of his dissertations. But the time arrived when the
pleasures of academic training must be exchanged for the toils of
active life, since no patrimony removed the necessity of earning
a subsistence by labour; and Madame Guizot, after consultation
with her friends, determined that his father's profession was the
most appropriate for her accomplished son. In 1804, accordingly,
she left Geneva and returned to Nismes, whence, after tarrying a
few months to inhale his native air, Guizot proceeded to Paris,
then the glittering capital of the European world, and
resplendent with the lustre of Napoleon's imperial throne. The
scene, however, was singularly unfitted to a young adventurer,
armed doubtless with much recondite lore, versed in all the
learning of the schools, attuned to austerity as a Genevese
neophyte: the military career was the great high road to fortune
and distinction under the rule of the mighty conqueror. Mere
civil virtues or mental acquirements were less in repute, and
especially the profession of the law languished under the sceptre
of the sword. In the midst of a society thus resonant with the
tramp of warriors, the poor student felt abashed and forlorn; he
sought in seclusion to escape its noise and glare, and the first
year of his residence in Paris he still passed in solitude and
study. But it was incumbent on him to exert himself for a
livelihood, and he justly conceived the functions of a preceptor
equally well suited to his capabilities as congenial to his
tastes. In his quest for an engagement in this capacity, it was
his good fortune to encounter M. Stapfer, himself a native of
Switzerland, and formerly the Swiss minister to France, who took
him into his house as tutor to his children. M. Stapfer had been
originally a preacher of the Gospel, and likewise a professor of
philosophy, which he laboured strenuously to invest with a
religious character. He was deeply versed in German metaphysics,
then bewildered by the novel and abstruse speculations of Kant,
and with them he thoroughly embued the mind of Guizot, whom he
treated at once as his disciple and his friend. Under the roof of
this estimable personage, who has left behind him several
valuable critical essays, Guizot found time, moreover, to follow
the example of Gibbon and other men of illustrious name in
literature, imposing on himself a rigorous and laborious recast
of all his previous studies, analytically digesting them and
arranging them in that clear and substantive manner which is
essential for a permanent and productive groundwork.
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Whilst thus engaged in the duties of teaching, in the enjoyments
of intellectual intercourse, and in the grateful toils of private
application, he passed two happy and fruitful years. Through the
introduction of M. Stapfer, he became known to M. Suard, whose
house was the rendezvous of all the chief literary men of the
day, and where he mingled on a footing of perfect equality with
its most distinguished visitors, of whom the first in name and
lustre was Chateaubriand, who had just electrified, and in part
reclaimed, the infidel mind of France by his brilliant and
fervent effusion, the 'Génie du Christianisme'--[the Genius of
Christianity].

Sedate, modest, and retiring, Guizot was nevertheless twenty-one
years old, and at an age when romance appears decked in a guise
of irresistible attraction. Yet it was not love that allured him,
but rather generosity and sympathy with misfortune that fired his
ingenuous ardour. It chanced that a young lady, by name Pauline
de Meulan, already past the bloom of womanhood, had been
appointed chief contributor to a journal established by M. Suard,
called the _Publicist_. This highly-gifted person
unfortunately contracted a dangerous illness in the year 1807,
which incapacitated her from continuing her contributions to the
_Publicist_, on the proceeds of which she depended for the
support of herself and her aged mother. No sooner did Guizot hear
of her calamitous situation, than he sat down and composed an
article in imitation as much as possible of her style and manner,
which having completed, he sent to her anonymously, with an
intimation that, if agreeable, a similar article would be
forwarded for each future number of the journal. It is needless
to say that the invalid authoress received the article and the
offer with gratitude; and until her restoration to health, her
mysterious benefactor perseveringly fulfilled his promise. The
extraordinary circumstance was subsequently mentioned by her in
the saloon of M. Suard, and in the presence of Guizot, who long
refrained from disclosing the secret. When it was at length
divulged, it was natural that a very cordial intimacy should
ensue between the parties, which, after the lapse of some years--
namely, in 1812--resulted in their marriage, although the lady
had the advantage in age by at least fourteen years.
Nevertheless, the union was a happy and auspicious one, proving
also profitable even in a pecuniary view, since M. Guizot found
in his wife an able and sedulous assistant in his literary
labours. To her severe purity of mind also it is understood that
he is much indebted for that lofty probity and adherence to
principle which so strikingly distinguish him from the great herd
of his contemporaries.

Thus fairly introduced to a literary life, he applied himself to
its pursuits with unwearied industry. Under the rigorous
censorship in which Napoleon kept the press, a very limited range
of subjects was permitted to an author--anything bearing on
politics, even in historical, critical, or philosophical
dissertation, being strictly forbidden. In this dismal state of
restriction, Guizot's first regular work, published in 1809, was
an edition of Gerard's French Synonymes, with additions,
accompanied by an original treatise on the philosophical
character of the French language.
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This was followed in 1811 by a translation of 'Spain in 1808,'
from the German of Rehfus, and by an essay on the state of the
fine arts in France. In the course of that year he also received
the appointment of conductor of a periodical entitled 'The Annals
of Education,' which appeared for some years under his
editorship. Before the end of 1812, he produced a translation of
Gibbon's 'Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, which was a work
of many hands, even Louis XVI., when dauphin, being said to have
executed part of it; but the whole of which was carefully revised
and annotated by Guizot before publication. At the close of this
same year he obtained, through the influence of M. de Fontanes,
the professorship of history in the university of Paris, a
situation which brought him in contact with Royer-Collard,
likewise a professor in the same college, and between them a
friendship sprang up, which afterwards bore happy fruits, and had
an important influence on the future career of M, Guizot.

The first restoration of the Bourbons in 1814 presented to him
the opportunity for which his ambition had been already aroused,
of entering into political life. Through the recommendation of
Royer-Collard, he was nominated by the Abbé de Montesquiou,
minister of the interior, secretary to his department; and he
followed the king in his flight to Ghent, where he is stated to
have successfully exerted his enlightened remonstrances to induce
Louis XVIII. to discard from his councils M. de Blacas, whose
antiquated royalism had materially availed to precipitate him
from his newly-acquired throne. Under the second restoration he
held several secondary offices in the administration, and he
remained attached to successive ministries until 1820, when the
assassination of the Duke de Berri produced a violent royalist
reaction, under which the Decazes ministry fell (of which
Royer-Collard formed a component part), and in its ruin involved
M. Guizot. He then openly joined the party in opposition to M.
Villele, the new minister; and having ventured to arraign his
measures in a pamphlet, he was suspended from his chair in the
university, which he did not regain until the accession of M. de
Martignac to power in the year 1828.

Thus deprived of all official income, he was reduced once more to
his pen to eke out a subsistence. With a hearty good-will, and a
noble spirit of independence, he turned again to his literary
labours, which he prosecuted during the ten years from 1820 to
1830 with unexampled diligence, and soon fixed on himself the
attention and admiration of his countrymen. It will be sufficient
to enumerate his principal publications during this important era
of his life.

  1. A Collection of Memoirs relative to the English Revolution,
  with Historical Notes and Explanations, 25 vols. 8vo; followed
  by a History of the English Revolution in 2 vols. 8vo, which
  has not yet been completed according to the authors original
  intentions.

  2. A Collection of Memoirs relative to the History of France
  from the Foundation of the Monarchy to the Thirteenth Century,
  with an Introduction, Supplement, Notices, and Notes, 29 vols.
  8vo.

  3. A new edition of Rollin and Letourneur's Translation of
  Shakespeare, with great Amendments, and illustrated by Critical
  Notes and Historical Notices.

{xii}

 4. The 'Revue Française,' a periodical established by him during
 this period, may be accounted in the number of his works,
 together with the principal articles in the journal called the
 'Globe.'

In the execution of all these labours he was constantly assisted
by his wife, who sat in the same room with him in which he
carried on his literary operations, attended by her two nieces,
and surrounded by a number of young men, who acted in various
capacities as copyists, arrangers, and amanuenses: the whole
group presenting a picture of silent activity and resolute
industry the most interesting that can be conceived.

At this period M. Guizot lived in a quiet retired house in a
small street behind the Madeleine, which he has rendered in some
degree famous by the indefatigable labours of which it was the
scene. He has since lived in sumptuous palaces; but it is
probable that in this modest abode he had more real enjoyment
than when seated amid the magnificence of high official pomp.
Though he was well known to be poor, and to be dependent on
literature for a livelihood, his condition, which in England
would have been considered one of the most degraded possible, was
no drawback to his social position, and his residence was the
resort of nearly all the most eminent men of the day both in
literature and in politics. On his reception nights his little
rooms were crowded with people of distinction, anxious to partake
the intellectual feast served out on such occasions; for no
substantial viands were there to regale them beyond a cup of tea,
dispensed by the fair hands of Madame Guizot and one or two
female friends--often the late Duchess de Broglie, a woman of
superior attainments. Yet sorrow, too, fell on him in this
otherwise cherished home, for here his wife died in the course of
1827, and shortly after her his only son. With her dying breath
she besought him to marry one of her nieces, who resided with
them; and in the following year he fulfilled her wish by
espousing Eliza Dillon, the eldest, whom he has likewise had the
misfortune to lay in the tomb, after bearing him two daughters.
It was in this same year, 1828, that the liberal ministry of M.
de Martignac was formed, one of whose first acts was to restore
M. Guizot to his professorship of modern history in the Sorbonne,
and in which situation he will he perhaps hereafter held to have
earned his chiefest glory.

The lectures that M. Guizot delivered from his university chair
have been collected into two publications, the one entitled 'A
Course of Modern History,' in six volumes, and the other 'The
History of Civilisation in Europe.' This latter course has been
very much admired, has passed into all modern languages, and
attained a most extensive celebrity. It was delivered on his
resumption of his chair in the session of 1828, and more than one
translation of it has already appeared in English. But recent
events have given to the work an additional interest and
importance, justifying its renewed publication and as it will
pass into the hands of a fresh class of readers, a few words on
its purport, scope, and execution, will scarcely be considered
misplaced:--

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It embraces a history of the general course of modern
civilisation, from the overthrow of the Roman Empire in the west,
to the mental convulsion which heralded the French Revolution.
The elements of that civilisation the author has reduced to
four--namely, the church, the feudal system, the boroughs, and
the royal power--and each of them in succession to its origin,
and followed in all its subsequent changes. The influence of the
great events that have occurred in modern Europe, on the
different orders of society, is exhibited with great force and
originality, particularly the effect of the crusades, the
Reformation, and the English revolution. The manner in which he
shows society to have been ultimately divided between two powers
only, nations and governments, is very striking and successful.
The most brilliant portion of the work is generally judged to be
that in which he describes the reign of Louis XIV., and the
contests of that monarch with William III., each of them being
the representative and personification of a great principle, the
one embodying absolute sovereignty, and the other civil and
religious liberty, the struggle between which is the
characteristic of later European history.

Throughout the work, M. Guizot displays great depth of thought
and originality, not only in his general views and analysations,
but also in his ideas touching particular orders of facts,
individual occurrences, or peculiar institutions. He possesses
the art, in a very high degree, of presenting known objects in so
novel and startling a light, as to arouse the attention of the
reader, and make him stretch his reflective faculties to the
utmost, in spite of himself. An exalted tone of philosophical
reasoning marks the whole inquiry, which, whilst it opens and
delights the mind, keeps it likewise steadfast and attentive; for
it will be found impossible to comprehend the greater part of M.
Guizot's deductions in a careless or occasional perusal.

Objections have been made to the style in which M. Guizot writes.
He is accused, and perhaps justly, of being sometimes barren and
spiritless, and at other times diffuse and tedious. But there is
no doubt that in his writings there are passages of great beauty
and expression, though he evidently is more concerned about the
strength and truthfulness of his ideas than the mere diction in
which he couches them. A certain suddenness of transition, in
which he frequently indulges, renders him a difficult author to
translate, in such a manner as to give so perfect an idea of his
style of writing as could be wished, though that object has in
the present instance been pursued as far as possible.

It will be found that, at the conclusion of the work, the author
gives an intimation of his intention to carry out the operation
of modern civilisation on the moral and internal development of
mankind at a future period, he having limited his present inquiry
to its effect on political and social development. From the
circumstances about to be related, M. Guizot has not hitherto
fulfilled this promise, but it is now understood that he intends
without delay to complete his original design.

{xiv}

From the celebrated epoch of 1830 M. Guizot is to be viewed
chiefly as a political character, although he has in the interval
published several esteemed works, such as the life of Monk, the
life of Washington, an Essay on Democracy, and a philosophical
essay on Death Punishments, particularly with reference to
political offences, which appears at the close of this volume. In
January of that year he was returned by the constituency of
Lisieux a member of the Chamber of Deputies, and he concurred in
the address from the majority of that body, which provoked
Charles X. to issue his famous ordinances of the 15th July 1830.
At a meeting of deputies held at the house of Casimir Perier, the
protest adopted against those ordinances was drawn up by Guizot,
and when Charles X. was driven from the kingdom, he was appointed
by the provisional government minister of public instruction. On
the elevation of Louis-Philippe to the throne, the first
administration selected by him was naturally drawn from different
parties, and was in a great measure heterogeneous, being left
without a head or president. But in it Guizot held unquestionably
the first place, since he had the appointment of minister of the
interior, which, immediately subsequent to a revolution, must be
deemed the most important office of the government. This first
ministry, which comprised men of all shades of opinion--Molé,
Dupin, Lafitte, and Perier--lasted only three months, being
displaced by one of a more decidedly liberal tendency under the
presidency of Lafitte, and Guizot retired from office with his
friends. It was from this time that the Chamber of Deputies
became broken up into so many different fractions, that scarcely
any combination was feasible to command for any length of time
the necessary majority to carry on the government. Hence changes
of ministry were almost continual during the first ten years of
Louis-Philippe's reign. The various parties in the Chamber were
generically four only--that is, distinguishable from each other
on account of fundamental principles. These four were the
Legitimatists, or partisans of the fallen dynasty; the
Reactionists, the Conservative Reformers, and the Radical
Reformers, according to the nomenclature best descriptive of
their respective tendencies; but they were known as the Right,
the Centre Right, the Centre Left, and the Left, from the
positions they occupied in the hall of the Chamber. But these
again were subdivided into minuter sections, particularly with
regard to the two Centres, which constituted the bulk of the
assembly, and from which all the ministries were drawn. Thus,
although Guizot belonged to the Centre Right, he, with
Royer-Collard and some twenty-five or thirty others, formed a
body apart called the Doctrinaires: a term applied to them, like
most political designations, from an accidental circumstance.
Previous to the Revolution, a teaching corporation had existed
under the title of the Doctrinaires, in one of whose colleges
Royer-Collard had been educated, whilst his brother and uncle
belonged to the fraternity. His style of oratory was of a severe
and logical character, proceeding always upon a foundation of
fixed doctrines, and the word, moreover, was continually upon his
lips.
{xv}
One day he was more than usually profuse of the phrase, and a
royalist member, irritated at the lecture he was delivering,
exclaimed aloud, 'Ah! hear the Doctrinaires! No one can ever
mistake the Doctrinaires!' From that moment the epithet clung to
him and his associates, who, sooth to say, accepted it willingly
enough. But though the origin of the appellation is easily
explained, it is far otherwise with regard to the precise
principles upheld by the Doctrinaires. Agreeing generally with
the Right Centre on the necessity of resisting any extension of
popular franchises, they nevertheless allowed that such an
extension might be advisable, and was consistent with reason and
justice, but at the same time care must be taken that the real
government of the country should always be vested in the men of
superior information and capacity. There was nothing so very
peculiar in these ideas as really to invest the Doctrinaires with
a distinct political character; but in truth both Guizot and
Collard were too proud and ambitious to confess the leadership of
another, and they aspired to hold the balance between the two
Centres, so as to render their support indispensable to the
formation of a ministry.

There is perhaps no more difficult task than to render
intelligible the struggles of parties and the changes of
government that took place during the early years of
Louis-Philippe's reign. With the exception of the two small
fractions on the extremes of the Chamber, the Legitimatists (of
whom Berryer was the leader) and the avowed Republicans (of whom
Garnier-Pages was the leader), all were unanimous in maintaining
in its integrity the Charter of 1830, and the dynasty it planted
on the throne of France. Even Odillon Barrot and Arago only
advocated certain electoral changes with a view to an extension
of the suffrage to a larger portion of the population, and the
adoption of sundry other reforms. But nevertheless, although the
battle-ground seemed thus contracted, and merely insignificant
points of difference to exist, there are few instances in
parliamentary history of a keener or more bitter strife being
maintained than between the main parties in the Chamber of
Deputies; and this can be explained only by the undoubted fact,
that the dissensions almost exclusively arose from personal
rivalries. Thus between Guizot and Thiers, who so far outshone
all others in oratory and talent as to be the incontestable
leaders of the assembly, there existed no such tangible practical
difference as to justify their mutual hostility. It is true that
Thiers, from the tenor of his writings and his previous
associations, was considered as of a more liberal cast; but his
name is identified with no measure of any liberal tendency, nor
did he hesitate to follow, when himself in power, the same
restrictive policy with regard to the press, public meetings, and
other matters, which marked what were deemed more retrograde
governments. Under such circumstances it was that Louis-Philippe,
who possessed great sagacity and knowledge of men, and was,
withal, tormented by the lust of ruling, saw that, by skilfully
poising between the adverse factions, he might himself hold the
reins of government, and violate the great maxim of a
constitutional monarchy, which assigns to the king the part of
_reigning_ only, and to his responsible advisers that of
_ruling_.
{xvi}
This he so far carried out, that notwithstanding the numerous
displacements of ministries, they were all essentially of his own
composition, and on the great affairs of policy the creatures of
his will. Yet it would be unjust to this monarch not to allow
that such a condition of things was in a great measure forced
upon him by the anomalous state of parties in the Chamber of
Deputies, and that throughout his reign he invariably exerted his
influence to discourage the passion for war so unhappily inherent
in the French people, insomuch that to him personally may be
ascribed the glory of preserving for so many years the peace of
the civilised world.

There is no doubt that although France attained a great
development of material prosperity under the reign of
Louis-Philippe, his government must be characterised, as regards
social and political improvement, as stagnant, if not retrograde.
Whether it could be otherwise or not, from the peculiar character
of the French, without its own stability being endangered, will
be the subject of curious inquiry with the future historian. But
on one important point a magnificent progress was made, and that
through the agency of M. Guizot. In October 1832 he took office
in a coalition ministry with Thiers, of which Marshal Soult was
president, and he received the appointment of minister of public
instruction, for which he was so admirably adapted, and which,
under innumerable modifications of the cabinet, he retained until
1836. And here it may be remarked in approbation, as indicating
the entire extinction of religious bigotry in France, that not a
single objection was raised, on the score of his Protestantism,
against Guizot being intrusted with the superintendence of the
education of the whole youth of France. But it may appear more
surprising that he was allowed to extend the system of public
education in so extraordinary a degree. Without entering into the
particulars of his educational organisation, it is a sufficient
proof of the gigantic ramifications he gave it, that whereas in
1829 the grant for education figured in the budget at the
moderate sum of 2,000,000 francs, it was increased in 1836 to
15,000,000 francs, or L.600,000 sterling; whilst the item for
primary instruction was in like manner swelled from 50,000 to
5,000,000 francs. Thus throughout the whole of France the means
of affording an adequate education to the bulk of the population
was provided by the foresight of this statesman, who wisely
judged that the spread of education among a community is the best
security of peace, prosperity, and order.

In February 1836 Guizot yielded to the superior address of his
rival, Thiers, who realised the full dream of his ambition in
becoming prime minister of France. His tenure of power, however,
was very brief, since it continued only to August of the same
year, when he in his turn gave way to Molé, whom Guizot joined as
a colleague. So brittle was the fabric of these cabinets, that
Molé's fell to pieces in March 1837, but was subsequently
reconstructed, by the substitution of Montalivet for Guizot, who
was sacrificed as obnoxious to the majority of the Chamber. In
1839 Soult was again made president of the council, and Guizot
accepted the honourable post of ambassador to England.
{xvii}
He was received at the court of London with distinguished regard;
and he has himself recorded his sense of the flattering reception
he experienced from all classes in Great Britain. His mission,
however, was not of long duration, since another ministerial
revolution had again hoisted to the head of affairs the
redoubtable Thiers, under whom he declined to serve. The warlike
propensities evinced by Thiers, consequent upon the coalition of
the other great powers to expel Mehemet Ali from Syria, induced
the king to dismiss him; and in 1840 Louis-Philippe formed his
last ministry, with Soult nominally at its head, but Guizot
virtually its chief in the all-important post of minister of
foreign affairs. Under this administration was finally
consummated the catastrophe, which to the foreseeing had long
hideously loomed, and against which the voice of warning had been
raised in vain.

The Charter of 1830, and the government established under it, had
been gradually becoming indifferent, if not repugnant, to the
bulk of the French people, who viewed with amazement the
successive variations of ministries, which produced indeed a
change of men, but led to no modification of system, to no
amelioration of measures. That this was a result almost
inevitably entailed on a mushroom institution is perhaps too
true, from the simple fact, that the primary function of every
orderly government in France is to protect its existence from the
ceaseless efforts of a faction the most unscrupulous and ruthless
in its means of action known since the days of Catiline in the
Roman Forum. The repeated attempts to assassinate the king, and
the constant plots to subvert his throne, sufficiently attest
this dire necessity, which nevertheless involved consequences
most disastrous to his popularity and the durability of his
dynasty. Compelled, in sheer self-defence, to adopt repressive
measures against the abettors of anarchy, the friends of liberty,
forgetting or overlooking the existing danger to order and to
society itself, saw in these measures evidences of tyranny, and
exclaimed against them as acts of treachery to the spirit of the
constitution. In some instances these measures might be too
severe, and those taken against the press would seem undoubtedly
so, were it not that newspaper articles exercise so extraordinary
an influence over the French, insomuch that Napoleon himself
stood more in awe of them than of all the million bayonets of the
Allies; but at least they were sanctioned by the principal men of
all parties, save the extreme republicans, and for the moment
acquiesced in as precautions of absolute necessity. Yet no
situation can be conceived more unfortunate for a government than
being thus continually driven to acts of harshness and severity
even against inveterate malefactors, since it thereby becomes
easy to represent it in odious colours. The whole system of the
government appeared directed to one single aim--that of
consolidating the dynasty on the throne, even at the expense of
public liberty--and this idea being assiduously circulated, soon
took root, and grew into a settled conviction throughout the
country. Thus the king grew unpopular, if not odious, and durst
not appear in public unless surrounded by innumerable guards.
{xviii}
The only member of his family, the Duke of Orleans, who was at
all beloved among the people, was unfortunately killed; and
although another of his sons, the Prince de Joinville, attempted
to gain popularity by pandering to the national hatred against
England, he failed in his object; and the whole family came to be
regarded by the nation with utter indifference, and perhaps
aversion. This was strikingly exemplified in the case of the
marriage of the Duke de Montpensier with the Infanta of Spain,
which was brought about by means very discreditable to the heads
of the French government, albeit regarding it as a master-stroke
of policy, but which created no excitement among the people, who
saw in it simply the aggrandisement of a family in whose fortunes
they had ceased to feel any interest.

It was under such untoward circumstances, with M. Guizot as chief
adviser of the crown, that an almost unanimous cry arose in
France for electoral reform, such as had been long advocated by
Odillon Barrot and his party. But for the general discontent
existing against the government, it is probable this cry would
have subsided, although founded on strict reason and justice; yet
this discontent was unhappily further inflamed by certain
disclosures of peculation on the part of high functionaries,
which tended to show the entire system of the administration to
be deeply tainted with corruption. The integrity of M. Guizot
himself was never questioned, nor was he personally affected in
character; but he could not escape the imputation of conniving at
impurities, certainly of long-standing, and difficult to be
eradicated, which could not fail to compromise the government
under which they were allowed to continue. [Footnote 1]

    [Footnote 1: M. Guizot carried his idea of ministerial
    integrity to the pitch of austerity. When the Boy of Tunis
    was received in Paris, one of the questionable proceedings
    that marked the latter years of Louie-Philippe, he sent
    presents to Guizot's daughters, amounting in value to L.6000,
    which the latter immediately returned.]

The question of reform consequently grew in magnitude, and,
independently of other causes, for these especial
reasons--1_st_, The electoral system of the Charter was
partial and defective; and, 2_ldy_, It had proved barren and
fruitless. The qualification of an elector being fixed at the
yearly payment of L.8, 6s. 8d. direct taxes, reduced the number
of electors below 200,000 in a population of 35,000,000.
Therefore the representation was partial and illusory. The
constituencies were so unequal, that whereas in large towns there
was only one deputy to every 2000 voters, in the rural districts
there was one also to every 150 voters; and these last were, from
the multitude of public functionaries in France, almost
completely under the influence, and, in fact, close boroughs, of
the government. It could not be denied, therefore, that the
composition of the Chamber was unequal and defective, and that it
might have been advantageously reformed. But Louis-Philippe had
grown only the more wedded to his system of repression with
increase of age, and he would hear of no change. Guizot himself
was of stubborn and haughty temper, and though he might feel all
the force of the arguments against the existing system, he
scorned to yield to what might be deemed intimidation.

{xix}

Confident in a force of 50,000 soldiers collected in the capital,
confident in the majority of the Chamber of Deputies, which was
actually composed of persons holding places under the crown, both
king and minister looked with composure on the movement,
determined to suppress it the moment it appeared to gather undue
strength or wax in real danger.

During the winter of 1847, Reform Banquets were held in almost
all the departments of France, which were signalised by the
significant omission of the king's health from the list of
toasts. This was in itself a circumstance sufficiently indicative
of the low estimation in which the monarch was held, not among
the lower classes, who are generally discontented with any
government, but among the bulk of the middle classes, the assumed
bulwarks of the throne. These banquets were of course watched,
but were not interfered with by the authorities; but when the
legislature again assembled at Paris for its usual session, in
the beginning of 1848, it was resolved to hold one on a gigantic
scale in the capital itself. This the government resolved to
prevent, and accordingly interdicted it; afterwards it withdrew
the prohibition, and eventually renewed it. This vacillation was
most injurious; it bespoke the government to be in doubt and
hesitation; it imparted to the reform leaders additional boldness
and determination. They persisted in holding the banquet, which
was appointed to take place on the 22d February. It would be out
of place to pursue the subject in detail. Suffice it to say, that
an insurrection of the people broke out, who erected barricades
in the principal thoroughfares of Paris; the national guards and
the troops refused to act against the populace, and in
four-and-twenty hours Louis-Philippe was dethroned! The palace of
the Tuileries was stormed and sacked; the mob burst into the
Chamber of Deputies, whence they expelled the members, and
proclaimed a Republic. The monarch, who a few days previously had
seemed as firmly seated on his throne as any in Europe, who was
esteemed as amongst the wisest and most sagacious, and who had to
fence around him 500,000 bayonets, was a fugitive with his queen,
flying in disguise, without money and without clothes, and at
length reaching the shore of England in an old pea-coat borrowed
from the master of a steamboat! So sudden and unaccountable an
event has never occurred in the history of the world, studded as
it is with remarkable vicissitudes and reverses of fortune. It is
for the historian, and not for the biographer, to investigate its
causes and trace its development.

The minister shared the fate of his master. With difficulty he
escaped through the insurgent multitude, and making good his way
to the Belgian frontier, took shipping at Ostend, and reached
England in safety. For better security, he had despatched his
mother and daughters in a different direction for the same
destination, and upon his arrival, had the happiness to find they
had preceded him. Now an exile from his native land, in which he
has played so varied and distinguished a part, he will at least
have letters and philosophy to console him; nor will his sterner
nature melt into those abject repinings for which we blush in
Cicero. In leisure and retirement, he will complete those works
which assure him a niche in the temple of fame, if the judgment
of posterity be adverse to him as a statesman.

         T. W. Redhead.

        ---------------
{xx}

Since the arrival of M. Guizot in England, he has lived in
studied seclusion. He has refused several invitations from public
bodies, and even offers of honourable appointments, for it is the
boast of Britain to feel sympathy with the unfortunate and the
exiled; but upon one occasion he has been tempted from his
privacy, and as the words of such a man must ever possess great
value and interest, it is deemed fitting they should be here
recorded. It was at a public entertainment given in August 1848
at Great Yarmouth, after the re-opening of St. Nicholas Church,
that M. Guizot was present; and on his health being drunk by the
chairman, he delivered himself as follows:--

  'I have come but twice during my life to England. The first
  time I came as the ambassador of a powerful king; the second
  time as an exile from my native land. When I came the first
  time to your country, Europe was in a state of perfect
  tranquillity and prosperity; there was peace present, and
  confidence in the future. The second time, some months ago,
  when I came, my own country--Europe generally--was involved in
  much sadness and fears for the future; but I found England
  perfectly quiet, enjoying in the deepest tranquillity her
  liberty, her constitution, her moral, intellectual, and
  material prospects; and I was received as an exile, as I had
  been when an ambassador, with the same kindness, the same
  sympathy, and, I venture to say, with the same friendship. I
  have hitherto refused myself to every invitation--declined
  every invitation to great feasts and to great meetings. Far
  from my dear country, and deeply sad, it is my inclination as
  well as my duty to live in retirement; and this I am doing. But
  this occasion is one of a very different kind. The restoration
  of a church of God, the piety of an immense people, the
  eloquence of two worthy bishops--these were the motives that
  attracted me to your town, after I had refused every other
  invitation. Only one word more. Allow me to say to you, keep
  your faith--keep your laws--be faithful to the examples, to
  the tradition of your ancestors; and I trust God will continue
  to pour on you and your country His best, His most abundant,
  His most fertile blessings.'

{xxi}

{xxii}

{23}

         History Of Civilisation In Europe.



                   Lecture I.

  Objects Of The Course--of Civilisation In General.

Gentlemen--I am deeply affected at the reception with which you
favour me, and which I accept as a pledge of the sympathy which
has continued to exist between us, notwithstanding so long a
separation. It is as if the same individuals, the same
generation, who seven years ago took part in my labours, were now
present within these walls. Because I myself return here, it
seems to me that everything is as it was, that nothing is
changed; yet all is changed, and changed for the better. Seven
years ago, we entered this building with uneasiness, beset by sad
and gloomy thoughts; we were aware that difficulties and perils
surrounded us; we felt ourselves drawn towards an evil which we
vainly strove to escape by a grave, calm, and reserved demeanour.
Now we all come, you as well as I, with confidence and hope, our
minds at peace, and our thoughts unshackled. There is only one
mode by which we can testify our gratitude, gentlemen; and it is
by observing in our meetings and our studies the same
tranquillity and prudence that marked them when every day brought
its fears that they would be fettered or suspended. Let us not
forget that good fortune is of a delicate and fragile texture,
and liable to accidents; that hope requires moderation like fear;
that the convalescent state demands almost the same cares and
caution as the approaches of illness. I feel assured, gentlemen,
that your ideas correspond with mine. The sympathy, the intimate
and unreserved communication of opinions and sentiments, which
united us in days of difficulty, and saved us at all events from
indiscretions, will equally unite us at this more favourable
period, and enable us to gather all its fruits. I reckon upon
your acquiescence, gentlemen, and I need nothing more.

{24}

The time allowed us between this and the close of the year is
very limited. I have myself had only a short period to arrange
the course that I should present to you. I have sought a subject
which might be the most completely handled, both with reference
to the time that is left us, and to the few days that have been
granted me for preparation. It has appeared to me that a general
picture of the modern history of Europe, considered with respect
to the development of civilisation--in other words, a glance at
the history of European civilisation, of its origin, its
progress, its objects, and its character--was best adapted for
the space at our disposal. It is upon this subject, therefore, I
have determined to address you.

I am justified in speaking of European civilisation, because it
is evident that a certain identity prevails in the civilisation
of the different states of Europe; that it results from facts
nearly similar, notwithstanding great diversities in time, place,
and circumstance; that it is traceable to the same principles,
and has an almost universal tendency to analogous results. Thus I
deduce an European civilisation, and with it, taken as a whole, I
am desirous of interesting you.

On the other hand, it is equally clear that this civilisation is
not to be looked for, that its history is not fully developed, in
the history of any single state of Europe. If it possesses unity,
its variety is not less prodigious: in no peculiar country can
its progress be completely traced. Its features are scattered:
the elements of its history are to be found sometimes in France,
sometimes in England, sometimes in Germany, sometimes in Spain.

We hold a favourable position for prosecuting this search and
study into European civilisation. We must avoid flattery to any
individual, and even to our country; yet I believe we can say
with truth that France has been the centre, the furnace, of the
civilisation of Europe. It would be absurd to pretend that she
has always marched in the van on all sides. She has been preceded
in the arts at different eras by Italy; and in political
institutions by England. Perhaps also, in other respects, we
should find that other nations have at particular periods been
superior to her; but it is impossible to deny that whenever
France has perceived herself backward in the race, she has
assumed a fresh vigour, has sprung forward, and has soon found
herself equal to, or in advance of all. And not only has this
come to pass; but when the civilising ideas or institutions, if I
may be allowed the phrase, have been transplanted, to render them
productive and universal, to fit them for the common good of
European civilisation, we have seen them obliged, in some degree,
to undergo a new preparatory process in France, and from her, as
from a second country, of a richer and more fertile soil, go
forth to the conquest of Europe. There is not a great idea, not a
great principle of civilisation, which has not first passed
through France to be disseminated in every quarter.
{25}
There is something more sociable and sympathetic, something
acting with more facility and energy, in the French character
than in that of any other nation: either from our language, or
the particular bent of our genius or our manners, our ideas are
more popular, are more clearly perceptible to the masses, and
penetrate amongst them more easily; in a word, perspicuity,
sociability, and sympathy, are the peculiar characteristics of
France and of her civilisation, and these qualities eminently fit
her to march at the head of European civilisation.

Therefore, in entering upon the history of this great fact, it is
from no arbitrary or conventional choice that we assume France as
the centre of our studies, but rather that we thereby place
ourselves, as it were, in the very heart of civilisation, in the
very heart of what we are about to engage our minds in
investigating. I call it a _fact_, gentlemen, and I call it
so designedly. Civilisation is a fact, and one as susceptible of
being studied, described, and related, as any other in history.

It has long ago been remarked with justice, that history should
be comprised in facts--that it should be a relation. Nothing is
more true. But there are more facts to relate, and these facts
are themselves more various than we are perhaps at first disposed
to believe: there are the material, visible facts, such as
battles, wars, the official acts of governments; there are the
moral, hidden facts, which are not the less real; there are
individual facts, which have a distinct designation; and there
are general facts, having no designation, to which it is
impossible to assign a precise date either of day or year, which
it is impossible to include in prescribed limits, and which are
unquestionably facts which cannot be excluded from history
without mutilating it.

That portion which we are accustomed to name the philosophical
part of history--the mutual relations of facts, the bond which
unites them, the causes and the effects of events--is as much
history as the recitals of battles and of external circumstances.
Facts of this description are doubtless more difficult to
unravel, and give frequent occasions for error: it is no easy
task to give them animation, or present them in clear and vivid
colours; but this difficulty affects not, nor changes, their
nature, nor renders them a less essential part of history.

Civilisation is one of these facts, a general, hidden, complex
fact; very difficult, I grant, to describe and relate, but not
the less, on that account, possessing existence, and a right to
be described and related. A great number of questions may be
raised on this fact: it may be asked, indeed it has been asked,
whether it is for good or evil? Some have most gloomy
anticipations, others most bright. It may be also asked whether
there be an universal civilisation of the human species, a
destiny for humanity, and whether there has been transmitted from
age to age something which cannot be lost, which must increase,
form a store, and thus be passed on to the end of time?
{26}
For my own part, I am convinced that there is, in fact, a general
destiny for humanity, a transmission of the store of
civilisation, and, as a necessary consequence, an universal
history of civilisation to write. But without raising questions
so grave and difficult to resolve, if we confine ourselves to a
fixed interval of time and space--that is, if we limit our
researches to the history of a certain number of centuries and of
certain people--we shall find it clear, that within these bounds
civilisation is a fact which can be described, related as matter
of history. I do not hesitate to add, that its history is the
most important of all, and that it embraces all others.

Is it not apparent that civilisation is the main fact, the
general and definite fact, in which all others terminate and are
included! Take all the facts which compose the history of a
nation, they being generally considered as the elements of its
existence; take its institutions, its commerce, its industrial
movements, its wars, all the details of its government; and when
we reflect upon these circumstances in their consolidated
tendency, and in their relations, when we weigh and judge them,
our view is directed to ascertain how they have contributed to
the civilisation of that nation, in what proportion they have
influenced it, what effect they have had in accomplishing it. We
thus not only form a complete idea of them, but we measure and
ascertain their real value: they are in some degree like rivers,
the quantity of water conveyed by which to the ocean is matter of
calculation. Civilisation is a species of ocean forming a
nation's wealth, and in the bosom of which all the elements and
sources of its existence are united. This is so true, that, with
respect to facts--which are from their nature detestable,
disastrous, a painful weight upon nations, as despotism and
anarchy, for example--if they have contributed in some degree to
civilisation, if they have given it a considerable impetus, up to
a certain point we excuse and pardon their injuries and their
evil nature; insomuch, that wherever we discover civilisation,
and the facts which have tended to enrich it, we are tempted to
forget the price it has cost.

There are, indeed, facts which, properly speaking, cannot be
styled social--individual facts, seeming to interest the human
soul rather than to affect public life: such are religious creeds
and philosophical ideas, sciences, letters, and arts. These are
matters apparently influencing man, either to perfect or delight
him, and having for their object rather his internal amelioration
or gratification, than his social condition. Yet it is with
reference to civilisation that these very circumstances are
frequently, and ought to be, considered. At all periods, in all
lands, religion has been glorified as an engine of civilisation;
sciences, letters, and arts, all the intellectual and moral
pursuits, have claimed a share in this glory; and we give them
praise and honour in our opinion when we admit that their claims
are just.
{27}
Thus facts the most important and sublime in themselves,
independently of all external result, and simply taken in their
relations with the human soul, increase in importance, and rise
in sublimity, from their connection with civilisation. So great
is the value of this general fact, that it imparts consideration
to everything it touches; and not only that, but there are even
occasions when the matters of which we speak--religious creeds,
philosophical ideas, letters, arts--are especially estimated and
judged with reference to their influence upon civilisation; and
the extent of this influence becomes, up to a certain point, and
during a certain time, the decisive measure of their merit and
value.

It is important to inquire, before undertaking its history, and
with regard only to itself, in what consists this grave, and
extensive, and precious matter, thus seeming to contain, and give
expression to, the entire existence of nations. And here I shall
avoid falling into pure philosophy; I shall avoid laying down a
reasoning principle, and then deducing the nature of civilisation
from it as a consequence: there would be many chances of error in
such a method. We encounter a fact preliminarily which requires
to be verified and described.

During a long period, and in many countries, the word
civilisation has been used; ideas more or less clear, more or
less expansive, have been attached to it, but it is in general
use, and it is understood. It is the general, human, popular
meaning of this word that we must study. It almost invariably
occurs, that in the usual acceptation of terms most in vogue,
there is more truth than in the more rigorous, and apparently
more precise, definitions of science. It is good sense which
gives their common signification to words, and good sense is the
genius of humanity. The popular meaning of a word is constituted
by a successive process as facts actually arise; so that when a
matter presents itself which seems to be comprised within the
meaning of a received term, it is comprehended within it by, as
it were, a natural tendency: the signification of the term
expands and takes a larger compass; and by degrees the various
facts and ideas which, from the very nature of things, men should
include under this word, become so included in reality. When the
meaning of a word, on the contrary, is determined by science,
such determination, being fixed by one or a small number of
individuals, is controlled by some particular fact which has
struck their minds. Thus scientific definitions are in general
much more confined, and from that circumstance alone, much less
true at bottom, than popular acceptations. In studying, as a
fact, the meaning of the word _civilisation_, in
investigating all the ideas comprised within it, according to the
common sense of mankind, we shall make greater progress in
gaining a knowledge of the fact itself, than if we endeavoured to
form for ourselves a scientific definition, although it might
appear at first more clear and precise.

{28}

As a commencement to this investigation, I shall attempt to place
before you certain hypotheses--I shall describe certain states of
society; and then will arise the question, Whether, by general
instinct, the condition of a people advancing in civilisation is
at once recognised--whether the meaning which mankind attach
naturally to the word _civilisation_ is thereby developed?

Let us take a people whose outward existence is agreeable and
comfortable, paying few taxes, exposed to no suffering, amongst
whom justice is well administered in private affairs; in a word,
whose material existence, in its full extent, is well and happily
regulated. But at the same time, the intellectual and moral
existence of this people is studiously held in a state of
numbness and inactivity, I will not say in a state of oppression,
because the feeling is unknown to it, but of compression. This
order of things is not without example. There has been a great
number of small aristocratic republics in which the people have
been treated like flocks, well tended, and materially happy, but
without moral and intellectual activity. Is this civilisation! Is
this a people in the process of self-civilisation?

Let us take another hypothesis. Here is a people whose material
existence is less agreeable, less comfortable, yet supportable.
But in return, its moral and intellectual wants have not been
neglected; a certain extent of pasture has been afforded them;
elevated and pure sentiments are cultivated amongst this people;
systems of religion and morality have attained a certain degree
of development; but great care is taken to strangle the principle
of liberty. Here the intellectual and moral wants, as before the
physical wants, are satisfied: to each individual is meted out a
portion of truth, but he is not permitted to seek it freely of
himself alone. The characteristic of the moral life is
immobility; it is the state into which the major part of the
Asiatic populations has fallen, where theocratic dominations
repress elasticity; it is the state of the Hindoos, for example.
I ask the same question as before--Is this a people advancing in
civilisation?

I change altogether the nature of the hypothesis. Here is a
people amongst whom is a great development of certain individual
liberties, but where disorder and inequality are excessive; the
empire of force and chance: he who is not strong is oppressed,
suffers, and perishes. Violence is the characteristic of the
social state. Every person knows that Europe has passed through
this state. Is it a civilised condition? It may doubtless contain
the principles of civilisation, which will be successively
developed; but the predominant fact in such a society is most
assuredly not that which the common sense of mankind calls
civilisation.

{29}

I take a fourth and last hypothesis. The liberty of each
individual is very great, inequality is rare, or at least
temporary. Each does almost what he pleases, and differs little
in power with his neighbour; but there are very few general
interests, public ideas or sentiments, very little society; in a
word, the faculties and career of individuals are deployed, and
run in isolation, without mutual action, and without leaving any
marks behind: successive generations leave society at the same
point at which it has come to them. This is the state of savage
tribes: liberty and equality are there, and yet as certainly is
not civilisation.

I could multiply these hypotheses, but I think we have enough to
prove what is the popular and natural meaning of the word
civilisation.

It is clear that none of the conditions which I have glanced at
answers, according to the common sense of mankind, to this term.
Why? It appears to me that the first fact comprised in the word
_civilisation_ (and this is deducible from the different
examples I have brought forward), is that of progress, of
development; its application is identical with the idea of a
people on the move, not for a change of locality, but of
condition; of a people whose state is in the process of expansion
and amelioration. Progress and development appear to me the
fundamental ideas contained in the word civilisation.

What is this progress? what this development? Here stands the
great difficulty.

The etymology of the word seems to afford a clear and
satisfactory solution; it says that it is the perfection of the
civil life, the development of society, properly so called, of
the relations of men amongst themselves.

Such is, in reality, the first idea which presents itself to the
human understanding when the word _civilisation_ is
pronounced; the extension of the social relations, the imparting
to them the greatest activity, the most perfect organisation, are
matters of immediate implication: on the one hand, an increasing
production of the means which secure strength and happiness to
society; on the other, a more equitable distribution amongst
individuals of the strength and happiness produced.

Is this all? Have we exhausted all that its natural and
prevailing meaning conveys? Does the fact of civilisation contain
nothing more?

It is almost as if we asked--Is the human species a mere swarm or
aggregation demanding only order and plenty, in which the greater
the amount of labour, and the more equitable the appropriation of
the fruits of labour, the more effectually will the object be
attained and the progress accomplished?

{30}

The human instinct rejects so narrow a definition of the destiny
of mankind. At the first glance, it concludes that the word
_civilisation_ comprehends something more extended and
complex, something superior to the mere perfection of the social
relations, or of social power and happiness.

Facts, public opinion, the generally received acceptation of the
term, are in accordance with this instinct.

Take Rome in the glorious periods of the republic, after the
second Punic war, at the time of its greatest virtues, when it
was marching to the empire of the world, when its social state
was in evident progress: then take Rome under Augustus, at the
era of the commencement of decay, when, at all events, the
progressive movement of society was arrested, when evil
principles were on the point of prevailing; and yet there is no
one who does not think and say that the Rome of Augustus was more
civilised than the Rome of Fabricius and Cincinnatus.

Again, let us take France in the seventeenth and eighteenth
centuries. In a social point of view, regarding the amount and
distribution of prosperity amongst individuals, France, at those
periods, was undoubtedly inferior to some other countries of
Europe--to Holland and England, for example. I believe that the
social activity in Holland and England was greater, increased
more rapidly, and distributed its results better, than in France;
yet if we consult general opinion, it will say that France, in
the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, was the most civilised
country in Europe. There was no hesitation upon the question: the
evidences of this public conviction, as to France, are found in
all the records of European literature.

I might point out several other states in which prosperity is
greater, of more rapid growth, and better dissemination amongst
individuals, than elsewhere, and in which, nevertheless,
according to the spontaneous instinct, the common understanding
of men, civilisation is estimated as inferior to that of other
countries not so well situated in a purely social sense.

How come these countries, then, thus styled civilised, to possess
their exclusive right? How are they so largely compensated, in
the opinion of mankind, for what they are so deficient in on
other grounds?

A different development from that of social life has been
brilliantly manifested by them--the development of the individual
and mental existence, the development of man himself, of his
faculties, sentiments, and ideas. If society be more imperfect
than in other places, humanity appears with more grandeur and
power. Many social conquests remain to be made, but prodigious
moral and intellectual conquests are effected; many possessions
and rights are wanting to numbers of men, but many great men live
and shine in the eyes of the world.
{31}
Letters, sciences, and arts, display all their splendour.
Wherever mankind beholds these great images, so glorious to human
nature, come forth resplendently, wherever it finds the treasury
of those elevating gratifications, it there recognises and
pronounces civilisation.

Two facts are therefore comprised in this great fact; it is based
on two conditions, and is revealed by two symptoms--the
development of social activity and that of individual activity;
the progress of society and the progress of humanity. Wherever
the external condition of man progresses, is quickened and
ameliorated, wherever the internal nature of man is exhibited
with lustre and grandeur--upon these two signs, the human race
applauds and proclaims civilisation, often even in spite of
fundamental imperfections in the social state.

Such, if I mistake not, is the result of the simple and merely
common-sense examination of the general opinion of mankind. If we
investigate history, properly so called, if we inquire into the
nature of the great crises of civilisation, of those facts which,
by universal confession, have given it a great impulse, we shall
invariably recognise one or other of the two elements I have just
described. They are always crises of individual or social
development, or facts which have wrought a change in the internal
man, in his creeds or habits, or in his external condition, or
his position in relation to his fellow mortals. For example,
Christianity, not merely at its first introduction, but during
the first ages of its existence, in no degree addressed itself to
the social state; it proclaimed aloud that it did not interfere
with it; it ordered the slave to obey his master; it attacked
none of the great evils and iniquities of the society of that
period. Who, however, will deny that Christianity, from the
first, was a great crisis in civilisation? Why? Because it
changed the internal man, the prevailing principles and
sentiments, because it regenerated the moral and intellectual
man.

We have witnessed a crisis of another nature, one which was
addressed, not to the internal man, but to his external
condition, which has changed and regenerated society. That,
likewise, was assuredly one of the decisive crises of
civilisation. Run through the whole of history, you will
everywhere find the same result: you will not discover any
important fact aiding in the development of civilisation, which
has not exercised one or other of the two sorts of influence
which I have mentioned.

{32}

Such is, I conceive, the natural and popular meaning of the term;
and we have the fact, I will not say defined, but described and
exemplified almost completely, or at least in its general
features. We understand the two elements of civilisation. Now, we
ask ourselves, Whether one of these two things suffices to
constitute it--whether, if the development of the social state,
or that of the individual man, be presented in disjunction, there
would be civilisation? Would the human race recognise it as such?
or is there between the two facts so intimate and necessary a
relation, that if they are not simultaneously produced, they are
notwithstanding inseparable, and the one draws on the other
sooner or later?

It appears to me we may approach this question on three sides. We
may examine the real nature of the two elements of civilisation,
and inquire whether by that alone they are closely united, and
mutually necessary or not? We may institute a historical search
to ascertain if they have, in reality, been made manifest
separately, or if they have always produced each other. We may
finally consult the general opinion of mankind, common sense. I
will first address myself to the general opinion.

When a great change is effected in the state of a country, when a
great development of wealth and power, and a revolution in the
distribution of the social prosperity, are worked out, this new
order of things encounters adversaries, provokes combats: it
cannot be otherwise. What say the enemies of the change? They say
that this progress in the social state does not ameliorate or
regenerate the moral and internal condition of man, that it is a
false and deceitful progress, detrimental to morality and the
true interests of mankind. On the other hand, the friends of the
social development repel this attack with great energy, and
maintain, in opposition, that the progress of society necessarily
draws with it the progress of morality, and that when the
external life is better regulated, the internal is rectified and
made purer. Thus stands the question between the opponents and
the partisans of the new order of things.

Reverse the hypothesis: suppose the moral development in
progress. What do the men who labour at it usually promise? What,
at the origin of societies, have religious leaders, sages and
poets, held out, when striving to soften and improve manners?--
the amelioration of the social condition, the more equitable
distribution of worldly goods.

Now, I ask, what do these disputes on the one hand, and these
promises on the other, imply! Doubtless that in the spontaneous,
instinctive conviction of mankind, the two elements of
civilisation, the social and moral developments, are intimately
connected, and that the appearance of one is the assured
harbinger of the other. It is to this natural conviction that the
arguments are addressed, when, for the purpose of assisting or
repulsing the one or the other of the two developments, their
union is affirmed or denied. It is known that if men can be
persuaded that the improvement of the social condition will be
detrimental to the moral progress of individuals, the revolution
effected in society will be successfully decried and enfeebled.
{33}
On the other hand, when men are promised the amelioration of
society as a consequence of individual improvement, it is known
that their tendency is to believe in such promise, and it is
effectually appealed to. Thus it clearly results that the
instinct of humanity is enlisted in the belief that the two
elements of civilisation are bound up in each other, and are
reciprocally productive.

If we turn to the history of the world, we shall arrive at the
same conclusion. We shall find that all the great developments of
the moral being have resulted in the advantage of society, and
that all the great developments of the social condition have
raised the character of humanity. The movement takes its peculiar
character from whichever of the two facts predominates and lends
its lustre. Sometimes long intervals of time, a thousand
transformations and obstacles, occur before the second fact is
developed, and comes, as it were, to complete the civilisation
which the first had commenced. But close observation convinces us
of the bond which unites them. The ways of Providence are not
confined within narrow limits; he hurries not himself to display
to-day the consequence of the principle that he yesterday laid
down; he will draw it out in the lapse of ages when the hour is
come; and even according to _our_ reasoning, logic is not
the less sure because it is slow. Providence is unconcerned as to
time; his march (if I may be allowed the simile) is like that of
the fabulous deities of Homer through space; he takes a step, and
ages have elapsed. How long a time, how many events, before the
regeneration of the moral man by Christianity exercised its great
and legitimate influence upon the regeneration of the social
state! It has succeeded, however: who can at this day gainsay it?

If we pass from history to the actual nature of the two facts
which constitute civilisation, we are irresistibly led to the
same result. It is consistent with the personal experience of
every individual. When a moral change is worked upon a man, when
he acquires an idea, a virtue, or a faculty, the more, in a word,
when his individual powers gain fuller development, what sudden
desire possesses him? It is the necessity he feels to bring his
sentiments into the external world, and realise his conceptions.
As soon as a man makes an acquisition, as soon as his being takes
in his own eyes a fresh development and additional value, to this
improved development and value is immediately attached by himself
the idea of a mission: he feels himself compelled and driven by
his instinct, by an internal voice, to spread and make
predominant abroad the alteration, the amendment, that has been
effected within himself. We owe great reformers to no other
cause: the great men who have changed the face of the world,
after being changed themselves, have been urged and governed by
no other necessity. So much for the alteration that is worked out
in the internal man: let us take the other.
{34}
A revolution is accomplished in the state of society; it is
better regulated, rights and possessions are more justly
disseminated amongst individuals--that is to say, the aspect of
the world is fairer and brighter, the action, both of governments
and of men in their mutual relations, is improved. Is it credible
that the contemplation of this spectacle, that this amelioration
in external affairs, will have no reaction on the internal man,
on humanity? All that is predicated of the authority of examples,
habits, and good models, is based upon nothing, unless it be upon
the conviction that an external, advantageous, reasonable, and
well-regulated order of things leads sooner or later, more or
less completely, to an internal order of the same nature and the
same merit; that a better arranged and juster world renders man
himself more just; that the inward is reformed by the outward, as
the outward by the inward; that the two elements of civilisation
are closely linked together; that ages and various impediments
may be cast between them; that it is possible they may have to
undergo a thousand transformations in order to be rejoined, but
that earlier or later they will be rejoined; that such is the law
of their nature, the leading fact of history, the instinctive
faith of the human species.

Thus far, I think, without exhausting the subject, I have laid
bare in a complete, though cursory manner, the fact of
civilisation: I think I have described it, and assigned its
limits, and I have weighed the principal and fundamental
questions to which it gives rise. I might here stop, but I cannot
avoid mentioning a question which meets me at this stage of the
inquiry; one of those questions which are not strictly
historical, and which I will call not hypothetical, but
conjectural; questions which we can grasp at only one of the
ends, without the possibility of ever reaching the other, nor can
we make their circuit, nor behold more than one of their sides;
and yet they are certainly not the less real, nor less
imperatively call for our deep reflection, since they, in spite
of ourselves, and at all moments, are forced upon our
observation.

Of those two developments of which we have just spoken, and which
constitute the fact of civilisation, that of society on the one
hand, and that of humanity on the other, which is the end, and
which is the means? Is it to expedite the perfectibility of his
social condition, for the amelioration of his earthly existence,
that man developes his faculties, sentiments, ideas, his whole
being?--or rather is not the improvement of the social
condition, the progress of society, society itself, the theatre,
occasion, and stimulant of the individual development? In a word,
is society made to serve the individual, or the individual to
serve society? On the answer to this question inevitably depends
the decision whether the destiny of man is purely social, whether
society drains and absorbs the whole man, or he bears within him
something foreign and superior to his existence on earth.

{35}

M. Royer-Collard, a man whom I am proud to call my friend, who
has passed from such peaceable meetings as ours to assume the
first station in more stormy and influential assemblies, and
whose words remain engraved wherever they fall, has solved this
question, or he has at least, according to his own conviction,
solved it, in his speech on the project of law relative to
sacrilege. I find in that speech these two sentences: 'Human
societies are born, live, and die on the earth; their destinies
are there accomplished. But they contain not the whole man. After
he has bound himself to society, there remains to him the noblest
part of himself, those lofty powers by which he elevates himself
to God, to a future life, to unknown bliss in an invisible world.
We as individual and identical creatures, as veritable beings
endowed with immortality, have a different destiny to that of
states.'

I will add nothing, nor will I undertake to treat the question
itself; I content myself with bringing it forward. It will be met
at the end of the history of civilisation. When the history of
civilisation is run through, when there is nothing more to say
concerning actual life, we are irresistibly driven to ask
ourselves whether all is exhausted, whether we have reached the
end? This, then, is the last and highest problem to which the
history of civilisation can conduct us. It is sufficient for me
to have indicated its position and importance.

From all that I have said, it is clear that the history of
civilisation may be treated of after two modes, drained at two
sources, considered under two different aspects. The historian
may place himself in the depths of the human mind for a given
period, a series of ages, and amongst a certain people; he may
study, describe, relate all the events, transformations, and
revolutions which are accomplished in the internal man; and when
he has reached the end, he will have a history of civilisation
amongst the people, and for the period he chose. He may proceed
in a different manner. Instead of penetrating the inward man, he
may place himself in the midst of the worldly spectacle; instead
of describing the vicissitudes in the ideas and sentiments of the
individual being, he may describe external facts, the events and
fluctuations of the social state. These two portions, these two
histories, of civilisation are closely united to each other; each
is the reflection and image of the other. Nevertheless, they may
be separated, and perhaps they ought to be so, at least in the
beginning, in order that both the one and the other may be
treated of in detail, and with perspicuity. For my own part, I do
not propose to investigate the history of civilisation in the
inward workings of the human mind; it is only with the history of
the external events of the visible and social world that I shall
occupy myself. I had a desire to unfold the fact of civilisation,
such as I conceive it, in all its complexity and extent, and to
lay down all those great questions which may spring from it. But
at present I restrict myself, and narrow my field of inquiry; it
is only the history of the social state that I purpose entering
upon.

{36}

We shall begin by searching out all the elements of European
civilisation in its cradle, at the fall of the Roman empire; we
will study with attention society, such as it was, in the midst
of those famous ruins. We will endeavour, not indeed to
resuscitate, but to rear its elements side by side; and when we
have them placed, we will strive to make them move, and to follow
them in their developments, through the fifteen centuries that
have elapsed since that epoch.

When we have advanced some way into this study, I believe we
shall very shortly feel convinced that civilisation is very
youthful, and that a great deal is wanting before the world can
measure its career. Human thought is most assuredly very far from
being at this day all that it may become, and we are very far
from embracing the whole future of humanity. Let each individual
search his own mind, let him interrogate himself as to the
greatest possible good of which he can form a conception or a
hope, and then compare his ideas with what actually exists at
this moment in the world; he will be convinced that society and
civilisation are very young, and that in spite of all the advance
they have made, they have incomparably more to make. But this
conclusion will not lessen the pleasure we shall experience in
the contemplation of our actual condition. When our attention is
awakened to the great critical junctures in the history of
civilisation in Europe during fifteen centuries, we shall see how
laborious, stormy, and harsh the condition of mankind has been,
even to our own time, not only outwardly, and in the social
state, but also inwardly, in the mental existence. For all those
ages, the human mind has had to suffer as much as the human
species. We shall see that, for the first time perhaps in modern
times, the human mind has arrived at a state, certainly very
imperfect, but in which some peace and harmony reign. It is the
same with society; it has evidently made immense strides: the
condition of men is easy and just when compared with what it
previously was. We may almost apply to ourselves, when thinking
of our ancestors, the verses of Lucretius:

  Suave mari magno, turbantibus æquora ventis,
  E terrâ magnum alterius spectare laborem. [Footnote 2]

    [Footnote 2: We can look calmly from the land on the perils
    of another tossed on the ocean by turbulent winds.]

We may even say of ourselves, without too much pride, as
Sthenelaus in Homer:

  [Greek text][Footnote 3]

    [Footnote 3: We are thankful to Heaven that we are worth
    infinitely more than those that went before us.]

{37}

Let us be careful, however, not to give up ourselves too much to
the idea of our happiness and amelioration, or we may fall into
two great dangers, pride and relaxation; and by placing too great
a confidence in the power and success of the human mind, and of
our actual advancement, we may become enervated by the
agreeableness of our condition. I know not whether others are
struck with the same thought as myself, but in my opinion we are
perpetually fluctuating between the temptation to complain of
having too little, and that of pluming ourselves on too much. We
have a mental susceptibility, an illimitable want and ambition in
the thought, in the desires, in the workings of the imagination;
and when we bring them to the practical ordeal of life--and it
behoves us to undergo pain, and make sacrifices and efforts, to
attain the object--our arms droop, and fall listless. We despond
with a facility almost equal to the impatience with which we
desire. We must take care not to be carried away by either one or
other of these two failings. Let us accustom ourselves to a just
measurement of what we can legitimately effect with our powers,
science, and strength; and let us pretend to nothing more than
what can be legitimately, justly, and regularly acquired, with a
due regard to the principles upon which our civilisation itself
reposes. We sometimes seem disposed to invoke principles that we
condemn and despise, the principles and means of barbarous
Europe--force, violence, falsehood, habitual usages four or five
centuries ago. And when we have yielded to this desire, we find
in ourselves neither the perseverance nor the savage energy of
the men of those times, who endured much suffering, and who,
dissatisfied with their condition, laboured unceasingly to get
freed from it. We are satisfied with ours; let us eschew the
risks of vague desires, the time for which has not yet come. Much
has been given to us, and much will be required from us: we must
render to posterity a severe account of our conduct: at the
present day, all people and governments must submit to
discussion, examination, and responsibility. Let us firmly and
faithfully adhere to the principles of our civilisation, justice,
legality, publicity, liberty; and let us never forget that if we
most reasonably ask that all things should be laid open to us, we
are ourselves under the eye of the world, and will in our turn be
examined and judged.

{38}

  [There are some remarks at the commencement of this lecture so
  purely personal between M. Guizot and his hearers, as to induce
  the translator to omit them.]

                   Lecture II.

    Peculiar Features Of Civilisation In Europe

    Influence Of The Church.

I have endeavoured, in the preceding lecture, to explain the fact
of civilisation in general, without speaking of any civilisation
in particular, without referring to circumstances of time and
place, but viewing the fact in itself, and in a purely
philosophical light. To-day I broach the history of European
civilisation; but before entering upon the strict recital, I wish
to give a general idea of the peculiar physiognomy of this
civilisation. I wish to characterise it so distinctly, that it
may appear quite apart from all the other civilisations that have
been developed in the world. I am about to attempt this, but I
can do little more than so declare, for I dare scarcely flatter
myself that I shall succeed in depicting European society with so
much fidelity as to lead you at once to recognise it as a true
picture.

When we observe the civilisations which have preceded that of
modern Europe, whether in Asia or elsewhere, including the Greek
and Roman civilisation, it is impossible not to be struck with
the unity which prevails in them. They appear to have emanated
from a single fact, from a single idea: it would seem as if
society clung to one great principle, which controlled it, and
determined its institutions, manners, opinions; in a word, all
its developments.

In Egypt, for example, it was the theocratic principle upon which
the whole social state depended; it was pourtrayed in its
manners, on its monuments, and all that remains to us of the
Egyptian civilisation. In India, the same fact is
perceptible--the almost exclusive domination of the theocratic
principle. In other quarters we discern another organisation--the
dominion of a conquering tribe: the principle of force alone
possesses society, and imposes upon it laws and character. Again,
elsewhere, the society is the expression of the democratic
principle; thus it appeared in the commercial republics which
covered the coasts of Asia-Minor and Syria, Ionia and Phoenicia.
Thus, when we survey the ancient civilisations, we find them all
impressed with a singular character of unity in institutions,
ideas, and manners; a single, or at least a very preponderating
power, governs and decides everything.

{39}

I do not say that this unity of principle and organisation always
prevailed in the civilisation of these states. If we go back to
their more ancient history, we find that the different powers
that may be formed in the bosom of one society often disputed for
empire. Amongst the Egyptians, Etruscans, even the Greeks, &c.
the caste of warriors, for example, strove against that of the
priests; in other places, the spirit of clan against the spirit
of free association, the aristocratic system against the popular
system, &c. But, generally speaking, it was in the
ante-historical periods that those contests occurred; only a
vague recollection of them remained.

The struggle sometimes recurred in the course of their career;
but it was almost always promptly terminated: one of the powers
that disputed the sway speedily carried it and took sole
possession of the society. The war always finished by the
dominion, if not exclusive, at least greatly preponderating, of
some special principle. The co-existence and the combat of
different principles were but a passing crisis, an accidental
circumstance, in the history of these people.

Thence resulted a remarkable simplicity in the major part of the
ancient civilisations, but attended with different consequences.
Sometimes, as in Greece, the simplicity of the social principle
drew forth a prodigiously rapid development; never did a people
unfold itself in so short a period, or with such lustre. But
after that wonderful burst, Greece suddenly appeared exhausted;
its decay, if it were not quite so rapid as its progress, was
nevertheless singularly prompt. It would seem that the creative
power of the principle of Greek civilisation was worn out, and
none other came to invigorate it. In other countries--in Egypt
and India, for example--the uniformity of the civilising
principle had a different effect; society fell into a stationary
state. Simplicity produced monotony; the country was not
destroyed, society continued to subsist, but motionless and
frozen, as it were.

It is to this same cause that that character of tyranny is
traceable which prevailed, under the most different forms, and as
an embodiment of principles, in all the ancient civilisations.
Society belonged to one exclusive power which would tolerate no
other. Every different tendency was proscribed and rooted out.
The dominant principle never would permit the coeval
manifestation and action of a distinct principle.

This character of unity in the civilisation is equally stamped on
the literature and on the works of the mind. Who is not
acquainted with the records of Indian literature not long ago
disseminated through Europe? It cannot fail to be remarked that
they are all imbued with the same spirit; they appear all the
result of an identical fact, the expression of an identical idea.
Works of religion or morals, historical traditions, dramatic and
epic poetry, on all is the same characteristic impressed; the
labours of the mind bear that same impress of simplicity and
monotony which is observable in their transactions and
institutions. In Greece, even, amidst all the riches of the human
understanding, a singular uniformity prevails in literature and
in arts.

{40}

It has been quite otherwise with the civilisation of modern
Europe. Without entering into detail, look around and collect
your thoughts; it will immediately appear to you a varied,
confused, and stormy scene; all the forms and principles of
social organisation are there co-existent; spiritual and temporal
powers, theocratical, monarchical, aristocratical, and
democratical elements, all classes, and all the social
arrangements, are mingled and pressing on each other: there are
extreme degrees as to liberty, wealth, and influence. And these
different powers are in a state of continual strife amongst
themselves, without any one succeeding in stifling the others,
and taking sole possession of society. In the olden times, all
societies seem, at every great epoch, to have been cast in the
same mould: it is sometimes pure monarchy, sometimes theocracy or
democracy which prevails, but each completely lords it in its
turn. Modern Europe presents examples of all the systems and
theories of social organisation; pure or mixed monarchies,
theocracies, republics, more or less aristocratic, exist there
simultaneously side by side; and notwithstanding their diversity,
they have all a certain resemblance, a certain family aspect,
which it is impossible to overlook.

In the ideas and sentiments of Europe there is the same variety,
the same combat. The theocratical, monarchical, aristocratical,
and popular creeds, encounter, struggle with, limit, and modify
each other. Open the boldest writings of the middle age; no idea
is ever followed to its ultimate consequences. The partisans of
absolute power recoil at once, and unknown to themselves, before
the results of their doctrine: they feel that there are ideas and
influences around them which arrest them, and prevent their
pushing to extremities. The democrats are subject to the same
law. On neither side is that imperturbable audacity, that
stubbornness of logic, which are displayed in the ancient
civilisations. The sentiments present the same contrasts, the
same variety; an energetic zeal for independence accompanying a
great facility in submission; a singular fidelity of man to man,
and at the same time an uncontrollable desire to exercise free
will, to cast aside all restraint, to live selfishly, without
concern for others. The minds are as various and as agitated as
the social state.

The same character is found in the literatures. We cannot but
confess that in artistic form and beauty they are far inferior to
the ancient literature; but in the depth of the sentiments and
ideas, they are more vigorous and rich. It is evident that the
later human mind has been moved on far more points, and to a much
greater depth. The imperfection of form proceeds from this very
cause.
{41}
The more rich and numerous the materials, the more difficult it
is to reduce them into a simple and pure form. What makes the
beauty of a composition--that which we call form in works of
art--is clearness, simplicity, a symbolic unity of workmanship.
From the prodigious diversity of ideas and sentiments in the
European civilisation, it has been much more difficult to attain
this simplicity and perspicuity.

This predominant character in the modern civilisation is thus
everywhere perceptible. It has doubtless been attended with this
consequence, that on considering by itself such or such
particular development of the human mind in letters, in arts,
indeed in all the directions in which it may advance, we find it,
in general, inferior to the correspondent development in the
ancient civilisations; but in return, when we look at the whole,
the European civilisation shows itself incomparably richer than
any other, and it has simultaneously exhibited a much greater
number of different developments. It has now existed for fifteen
centuries, and it is yet in a state of continuous progression; it
has not advanced by many degrees as quickly as the Greek
civilisation, but it has never ceased to wax in vigour. A
boundless career is open before it, and day by day it presses
onward the more rapidly, since an increasing liberty accompanies
all its movements. Whilst in the earlier civilisations the
exclusive domination, or at least the excessive preponderance, of
a single principle, of a single organisation, was the cause of
tyranny, the diversity of the elements of social order in modern
Europe, and the impossibility that has been met with of any
excluding another, have generated the liberty which reigns at
present. Lacking the power to exterminate, the different
principles have been fain to live together, and to make amongst
themselves a sort of forced compact. Each has agreed to take only
so much development as it could fairly gain; and whilst elsewhere
the preponderance of one principle produced tyranny, in Europe
liberty has resulted from the variety in the elements of
civilisation, and from the state of combat in which they have
been constantly involved.

There is a real and immense superiority in this; and if we go
farther, and penetrate beyond the outward facts, into the very
nature of things, we shall find that this superiority is approved
and supported by reason, as well as demonstrated by facts.
Passing by for a moment European civilisation, let us cast our
eyes upon the world at large, upon the general course of
terrestrial affairs. What is its character? How moves the world?
It moves precisely with this diversity and variety of elements, a
prey to this incessant struggle that we remark in European
civilisation. It has evidently been granted to no particular
principle or organisation, to no special idea or power, to gain
possession of the world to fashion it once for all, to banish
from it all other tendencies, and establish an exclusive sway.
{42}
Different powers, principles, and systems, are engaged in
ceaseless strife, commingling with and limiting each other,
alternately predominant and oppressed, but never completely
conquered or conquerors. Such is the general condition of the
world with regard to the diversity of forms, ideas, and
principles, their mutual combats, and their effort towards a
certain unity, a certain ideal perfection, which will be perhaps
never reached, but to which the human species is tending by
freedom and laborious exertion. European civilisation is, then,
the image of the world: like the course of things in this world,
it is neither narrow, nor exclusive, nor stationary. For the
first time, as I conceive, the character of specialty has
disappeared from civilisation; for the first time it has been
developed with the variety, richness, and activity of the great
theatre of the universe.

The European civilisation has entered, if it be permitted me to
say so, into the eternal truth, into the plan of Providence; it
advances according to the intentions of God. This is the rational
solution of its superiority.

I am anxious that this fundamental and distinctive character of
European civilisation be borne in mind. It is true that at the
present moment I only assert it, for the proof must be furnished
by the development of facts. Nevertheless, it will be allowed as
an important confirmation of my views, if the causes and elements
of the character which I attribute to our civilisation are found
at its very cradle; if at the moment when it was first born, at
the period of the fall of the Roman Empire, we discover in the
state of the world, and in the facts which, from its earliest
days, have concurred in forming the European civilisation, the
active principle of this tumultuous but fruitful diversity which
so distinguishes it. Into this scrutiny I am about to enter. I
shall proceed to examine the state of Europe at the fall of the
Roman Empire, and endeavour to discover, by an investigation into
institutions, creeds, ideas, and sentiments, what were the
elements which the ancient world bequeathed to the modern. If we
distinguish in these elements that character strongly marked
which I have just described, it will form a groundwork for belief
in its justness.

First of all, it will be necessary to have a correct conception
of what the Roman Empire was, and how it was constituted.

Rome at its origin was only a municipality, a corporation. The
Roman government was a mere concentration of the institutions
which are suited to a people shut up within the walls of a town--
that is, municipal institutions. Such was its distinctive
character.

{43}

This was not peculiar to Rome. When we look at Italy at this
epoch, around Rome, we find nothing but towns. What were then
called people, were mere confederations of towns. The Latin
people was a confederation of Latin towns. The Etruscans, the
Samnites, the Sabines, the people of Græcia Magna, were all in
the same state.

At this era there was no country--that is to say, the country had
no resemblance to what it is at present; it was cultivated--that
was necessary; but it was not inhabited. The rural proprietors
were the inhabitants of the cities; they went out to look after
their farms, and they often kept a certain number of slaves upon
them; but what we at present call the country, consisting of a
scattered population, in isolated abodes, or in villages, strewed
over the whole soil, was a thing altogether unknown to ancient
Italy.

When Rome extended, what were her proceedings? Peruse her
history, and you will see that she conquered or founded towns; it
was against towns she fought, or with towns she made treaties,
and also into towns she sent colonies. The history of the
conquest of the world by Rome, is the history of the conquest and
founding of a great number of cities. In the East, the extension
of the Roman sway does not quite bear this character; the
population was there distributed differently from the western:
being under another social system, it was much less concentrated
in towns. But as it is only with the European population that we
are interested, what was passing in the East is of little
importance.

Confining ourselves to the West, we everywhere discern the fact
that I have pointed out. In Gaul, in Spain, we meet with nothing
but towns; at a distance from them, the territory is covered with
marshes and forests. Examine the character of the Roman
monuments, of the Roman roads. We find great roads leading from
one town to another; that multitude of small roads which now
intersect the country in every direction had no existence. There
was nothing resembling that countless throng of small monuments,
villages, country-houses, churches, dispersed over the land since
the middle ages. Rome has transmitted to us only colossal
monuments impressed with the municipal character, suited for a
numerous population collected at one point. Under whatever aspect
the Roman world may be considered, this almost exclusive
preponderance of cities, and the consequent non-existence of a
country, socially speaking, will be found. This municipal
character in the Roman world evidently rendered the unity and
social bond of a great state extremely difficult to establish and
maintain. A municipality like Rome had been able to conquer the
world, but it was not so easy a task to govern and organise it.
Thus, when the work seemed consummated, when all the West, and a
great part of the East, had fallen under the Roman sway, we find
this prodigious accumulation of cities, of small states
instituted for isolation and independence, disunited, detached
from each other, and slipping the noose, as it were, in all
directions.
{44}
This was one of the causes which led to the necessity of an
empire of a more concentrated form of government, and one more
capable of holding elements so slightly coherent in a state of
union. The empire endeavoured to introduce unity and connection
into this scattered society. It succeeded to a certain extent.
Between the reigns of Augustus and Diocletian, a civil
legislation was developed, coincidental with that vast system of
administrative despotism which spread over the Roman world a
network of functionaries upon a hierarchical form of
distribution, closely linked amongst themselves, and to the
imperial court, and solely employed in giving effect to the
decrees of power in society, and in rendering available to power
the tributes and capabilities of society.

Not only did this system succeed in rallying and compressing
together the elements of the Roman world, but the idea of a
despotism, of a central power, penetrated the minds of men with a
singular facility. We are astonished at beholding in this
ill-united collection of small republics, in this association of
municipalities, a reverence for the imperial majesty, sole,
august, and sacred, prevail with such rapidity. The necessity of
establishing some common bond between all these portions of the
Roman world must have been extremely urgent when the modes and
almost the sentiments of despotism found so ready an acceptation
in the minds of men.

The Roman Empire was sustained against the dissolution which was
threatened from within, and against the barbaric invasions from
without, by these principles, by its administrative organisation,
and by the system of military organisation which was joined to
it. It strove for a long time in a continual state of decay, but
always defending itself. The moment at last arrived when the
struggle ceased; neither the skill and sagacity of despotism, nor
the stolid imperturbability of subjection, any longer sufficed to
hold up this great body. In the fourth century it was rented and
dismembered on all sides; the barbarians poured in at all points;
the provinces no longer made any resistance, or concerned
themselves with the general destiny. It was then that a singular
idea came into the heads of certain emperors; they wished to make
an experiment whether hopes of general freedom, a confederation
or system analogous to what we at the present day call the
representative form of government, would not better defend the
unity of the Roman Empire than the despotic administration. Here
is a rescript of Honorius and Theodosius the younger, addressed
in the year 418 to the Prefect of Gaul, the sole object of which
was to endeavour to establish a sort of representative government
in the south of Gaul, and by its assistance to still maintain the
integrity of the Empire:--

{45}

  'Rescript of the Emperors Honorius and Theodosius the younger,
  addressed in the year 418 to the Prefect of the Gauls sitting
  in the town of Arles.

  'Honorius and Theodosius, Augusti, to Agricola, Prefect of the
  Gauls.

  'In consequence of the very satisfactory exposition that your
  Magnificence has made to us, among other information greatly to
  the advantage of the republic, we decree, with the purpose of
  giving them the force of law in perpetuity, the following
  dispositions, to which the inhabitants of our seven provinces
  [Footnote 4] will pay due obedience, they being such as they
  themselves might have wished and demanded.

   [Footnote 4: The Viennoise, the first Aquitaine, the second
   Aquitaine, the Novempopulanie, the first Narbonnaise, the
   second Narbonnaise, and the province of the Maritime Alps.]

Inasmuch as persons in office, or special deputies, frequently
resort to your Magnificence on affairs either of public or
private utility, not only from each of the provinces, but also
from every town, either to render accounts, or to treat of
matters having reference to the interest of the proprietors, we
have considered that it might be turned to good account and great
advantage if, at a certain epoch in every year, dating from the
present, there should be an assembly of the inhabitants of the
seven provinces held in the chief city--that is to say, in the
town of Arles. By such an institution, we have equally in view
the providing for individual as well as general interests. In the
first place, by the most notable inhabitants meeting together in
presence of the prefect, if the public order should not induce
his absence, the best possible information will be obtained upon
every subject under deliberation. Nothing that is discussed and
decided, after mature deliberation, will remain unknown to any of
the provinces, and those persons who have taken no part in the
assembly will be equally bound to follow the same rules of
justice and equity. Furthermore, by ordaining that an assembly be
held every year in the city of Constantine, [Footnote 5] we
believe we shall promote not only the public good, but also
social relations. The city is so advantageously situated,
strangers frequent it in such numbers, and it enjoys so extended
a commerce, that everything that grows, or is manufactured
elsewhere, is brought thither.

    [Footnote 5: Constantine the Great had a singular affection
    for the city of Arles. It was he who established in it the
    seat of the Gaulish prefecture. He also wished that it should
    bear his name, but usage was more powerful than his
    inclination.]

  All the famous productions of the rich East, spicy Arabia, mild
  Assyria, fertile Africa, beauteous Spain, and valorous Gaul,
  abound in that place with such profusion, that all things
  admired for their magnificence in the various parts of the
  world seem the products of its soil. Besides, the junction of
  the Rhone with the Tuscan Sea draws near, and renders almost
  neighbours, the countries which the first traverses, and which
  the second bathes with its sinuosities.
{46}
  Thus, since the whole earth places at the disposal of this city
  all its most estimable possessions, since the individual
  productions of all countries are there transported by land, by
  sea, by the course of rivers, by means of sails, oars, and
  wagons, will not our Gaul perceive the benefit of the order
  that we give to convoke a public assembly in that city, where
  all the enjoyments of life, and all the facilities for
  commerce, are found concentrated by, as it were, the especial
  gift of God?

  'The illustrious prefect, Petronius [Footnote 6] with a
  praiseworthy and most reasonable purpose, issued orders at a
  previous date that this custom should be observed; but as its
  fulfilment was interrupted by the confusion of the times, and
  the reign of usurpers, we have resolved to restore it to vigour
  by our authoritative prudence. Therefore, your Magnificence
  Agricola, our dear and well-beloved cousin, conforming yourself
  to our present ordinance, and the custom established by your
  predecessors, will cause the following dispositions to be
  observed in the provinces:

    [Footnote 6: Petronius was prefect of the Gauls between the
    years 402 and 408.]

  'Let intimation be given to all persons honoured with public
  functions, or proprietors of domains, and all the judges of the
  provinces, that they must assemble in council every year in the
  city of Arles, in the interval elapsing between the ides of
  August and those of September, the actual days of meeting and
  of sitting being fixed at pleasure.

  'Novempopulanie and the second Aquitaine, as the most distant
  provinces, may, if their judges are retained by indispensable
  duties, send deputies in their place, according to custom.

  'Those who shall fail to appear at the prescribed place and
  time shall pay a fine, rated to the judges at five pounds of
  gold, and to the members of the _curiæ_ [Footnote 7] and
  the other dignitaries, three pounds of gold.

    [Footnote 7: The municipal bodies of the Roman towns were
    called _curiæ_, and the members of those bodies, who
    were very numerous, _curiales_.]

  'We design by this measure to confer great advantages and an
  important boon on the inhabitants of our provinces. We are
  likewise assured of adding to the embellishment of the city of
  Arles, to the fidelity of which we owe much, according to our
  brother and patrician. [Footnote 8]

    [Footnote 8: Constantine, the second husband of Placidea,
    whom Honorius had taken for a colleague in 421.]

  'Given on the 15th of the calends of May, and received at Arles
  the 10th of the calends of June.'

The provinces and towns refused the boon; no deputies were named,
no one would go to Arles. Centralisation and unity were contrary
to the primitive nature of that society; the spirit of locality,
of municipality, was displayed in full force, and the
impossibility of reconstituting a general society or country was
clearly evidenced.
{47}
The towns shut themselves up within their walls, and looked not
beyond their own affairs; and the Empire fell because no one
would be of the Empire, because the citizens would no longer
concern themselves with anything but their own city. Thus, at the
fall of the Roman Empire, we find again the same fact that was
observable at its commencement--the predominance of the municipal
form and spirit. The Roman world returned to its first condition:
towns had formed it; it was dissolved, but the towns remained.

It is the municipal system that the ancient Roman civilisation
bequeathed to modern Europe; in a very irregular and weakened
form, and doubtless very inferior to what it had been in the
early times, but still the only real constituted system which had
alone survived all the elements of the Roman world.

When I say _alone_, I am wrong. Another fact, another idea,
equally survived--namely, the idea of the Empire, the name of the
emperor, the maxim of imperial majesty, and of an absolute,
sacred power, attached to that name. These are the elements that
Roman civilisation transmitted to the European civilisation; on
one hand, the municipal system, its customs, rules, and
precedents, containing the germ of liberty; on the other, a
uniform and universal civil legislation, coupled with the idea of
the absolute power and the sacred majesty of the imperial name,
containing the principle of order and subjection.


         <h4>Influence Of The Church.</h4>

But at the same time a very different society, founded upon
totally distinct principles, animated by other sentiments, and
one destined to infuse into the modern European civilisation
elements of quite a different nature, had arisen in the bosom of
the Roman society--namely, the _Christian church_. I speak
peculiarly of the Christian church, and not of Christianity. At
the end of the fourth, and commencement of the fifth century,
Christianity had ceased to be simply an individual creed; it had
become an institution, and had taken a constituted form; it had
its own government, a body of clergy, a hierarchy arranged for
the different clerical functions, revenues, means for independent
action, and rallying-points suitable to a great society,
provincial, national, and oecumenical councils, and the custom of
deliberating in common upon the affairs of the society. In a
word, Christianity at this epoch was not merely a religion, it
was a church.

If it had not been a church, it is impossible to say what might
have happened to it amid the fall of the Roman Empire. I confine
myself to purely human considerations; I put aside every element
foreign to the natural consequences deducible from natural facts;
and I believe that if Christianity had been, as in the early
times, only an individual belief, sentiment, or conviction, it
would have sunk under the ruins of the Empire, and the invasions
of the barbarians.
{48}
It succumbed at a later date in Asia and in the north of Africa,
under an invasion of the same nature, an invasion of Moslem
barbarians, even when it was in a state of institution, when it
was an established church. Much more might the same result have
occurred at the fall of the Roman Empire. There were at that time
none of the means in existence by which at the present day moral
influences are established or offer resistance independently of
institutions, none of the means by which a mere truth or idea
acquires an empire over the minds of men, governs actions, and
determines events. Nothing existed in the fourth century to give
to personal ideas and sentiments such a sway. It is clear that a
society powerfully organised and vigorously governed was needed
to struggle against so destructive a crisis, and to arise
victorious from so fearful a conflict. It is not therefore too
much to affirm that, at the end of the fourth, and beginning of
the fifth century, it was the Christian church which saved
Christianity; it was the church, with its institutions, its
magistrates, its temporal power, which strove triumphantly
against the internal dissolution which convulsed the Empire, and
against barbarity which subdued the barbarians themselves, and
became the link, the medium, the principle of civilisation, as
between the Roman and barbarian worlds. Hence it is the state of
the church rather than of Christianity, properly so called, in
the fifth century, which ought to be investigated, in order to
discover in what Christianity has from that period aided modern
civilisation, and what elements it has introduced. An inquiry
necessarily arises, What was the Christian church at that epoch?

When we consider, under a merely human aspect, the different
revolutions which have been accomplished in the development of
Christianity, from its origin to the fifth century, taking it
only as a society, and not as a religious creed, we find that it
has passed through three stages essentially distinct.

In the earliest period, the Christian society presents itself as
a simple association arising from a common creed, from common
sentiments; the first Christians congregated in order to enjoy
amongst themselves an interchange of the religious emotions and
convictions common to all their breasts. There was no settled
system of doctrines, of rules, or of discipline, or no body of
persons invested with authority.

There is no doubt that in every society that exists, however
newly-born or feebly-constituted it may be, a moral power is
perceptible, animating and directing it. So in the different
Christian congregations there were men who preached, taught, and
morally governed the rest, but no superior, or no discipline, was
regularly instituted; the primitive state of the Christian
society was simply an association of persons drawn together by an
identity of creed and sentiment.

{49}

In proportion as it progressed (and very speedily, for the marks
are traceable in the earliest records), a system of doctrines, of
rules, of discipline, and of functionaries or magistrates, was
brought out. Of the magistrates some were called
_presbuteroi_, or _ancients_, who became the priests;
others _episkopoi_, or inspectors, or watchers, who became
bishops; and others _diakonoi_, or deacons, charged with the
care of the poor and the distribution of alms.

It is almost impossible to determine the precise functions of
these different magistrates; the line of demarcation was probably
very vague and fluctuating, but at all events the institutions
had a commencement. This second epoch, however, had a predominant
feature, which consisted in the control, the preponderance
belonging to the body of the faithful. It was they who decided
both as to the choice of dignitaries or magistrates, and as to
the adoption as well of systems of discipline as of doctrine. The
Christian people were not as yet separated from the government of
the church. They did not exist apart from or independently of
each other, and the Christian people continued to exercise the
principal influence in the society.

In the third era everything was changed. A clergy was formed
distinct from the people, a body of priests having riches,
jurisdiction, a constitution of their own, in a word, a complete
government, being in itself a regular society, furnished with all
the means of existence independently of the society for whose
behoof it was intended, and over which it extended its influence.
This was the state in which the Christian church appeared at the
commencement of the fifth century, and in the third stage of its
constitution. The government was not completely taken out of the
hands of the people, or separated from them; a system prevailed
which is without any parallel, especially in religious affairs;
but in the relations between the clergy and the flocks of the
faithful, the clergy ruled almost without control.

The Christian clergy had, besides, another means of influence of
a different character. The bishops and clerks became the chief
municipal magistrates. We have seen that the municipal system
was, properly speaking, all that remained of the Roman Empire.
From the annoyances of despotism, and the ruin of the towns, it
came to pass that the _curiales_, or members of the
municipal bodies, fell into despair and apathy. The bishops and
the body of priests, on the contrary, being full of life and
zeal, naturally offered themselves to guard and direct affairs.
It would be wrong to reproach them with officiousness, or to tax
them with usurpation; they merely obeyed the natural impulse of
events. The clergy alone were morally strong and animated, and it
became powerful; the result is a law of the universe.

{50}

All the legislation of the emperors at that epoch bears marks of
this revolution. In the codes both of Theodosius and Justinian we
find a great number of regulations which remit municipal affairs
to the clergy and the bishops. I will quote some of them.

  'Cod. Just. 1. i. tit. iv. _de episcopali audientia_, §
  26.--With regard to the annual affairs of the cities (whether
  they refer to the ordinary city revenues, resulting either from
  funds arising from the city property, or from individual gifts
  or legacies, or from any other source, whether deliberation is
  required touching the public works, or magazines of provisions,
  or aqueducts, or the maintenance of baths or of harbours, or
  the construction of walls or towers, or the repairing of
  bridges and roads, or lawsuits in which the city may be
  engaged, on account of public or private interests), we ordain
  as follows:--The very pious bishop, and three men of good fame
  amongst the chief men of the city, shall assemble together;
  they shall examine every year the works that have been
  performed, and they shall take care that those who conduct
  them, or have conducted them, do measure them with precision,
  give in accounts of them, and make it clear that they have
  fulfilled their engagements in the administration, whether it
  be of the public monuments, or of the sums appropriated to
  provisions and baths, or of what is expended for the repair of
  roads, aqueducts, or any other work.

  '_Ibid_. § 30.--With regard to the guardianship of young
  people, of the first or second age, and of all those to whom
  the law assigns curators, if their fortune does not exceed 500
  _aurei_, we ordain that the nomination of the president of
  the province shall not be waited for, as it might give rise to
  heavy charges, especially if the said president did not reside
  in the city where the guardianship is required to be provided.
  The nomination of the curators or tutors shall therefore be
  made by the magistrate of the city, in concert with the most
  pious bishop, and other persons invested with public functions,
  if the city possess several.

  '_Ibid_. 1. i. tit. lv. _de defensoribus_, § 8.--We
  will that the defenders of the cities, being well instructed in
  the holy mysteries of the orthodox faith, be chosen and
  instituted by the venerable bishops, the clerks, the notables,
  the proprietors, and the curiales. As to their installation, it
  shall be referred to the glorious power of the Prefect of the
  Pretorium, in order that their authority may gather more
  solidity and vigour from the admissory letters of his
  Magnificence.'

I might cite a great number of other laws illustrative of the
fact everywhere displayed, that between the Roman municipal
system and the municipal system of the middle ages an
ecclesiastical municipal system interposed; that the
preponderance of the clergy in city affairs succeeded that of the
old municipal magistrates, and preceded the organisation of the
modern corporations.

{51}

Thus, by its own constitution, by its action on the Christian
population, and also by the part it bore in civil affairs, the
Christian church exercised prodigious means of influence. From
that epoch, therefore, it operated powerfully on the character
and development of modern civilisation. I will endeavour to sum
up the elements it has infused into it.

In the first place, an incalculable benefit resulted from the
existence of a moral influence and force, of a force which simply
rested on moral convictions, persuasions, and opinions, in the
midst of that deluge of physical force which poured upon society
at that epoch. If the Christian church had not been established,
the whole world had been overborne by pure physical force. It
alone exercised a moral power. It did more: it sustained and
spread the idea of a rule or law which was superior to all human
laws; it maintained, for the safety of humanity, that fundamental
doctrine that there is above all human laws a law, which,
according to the spirit of times and manners, is sometimes called
reason, and sometimes Divine will, but which, at all periods, and
in all places, is the same law under different designations.

The church, then, originated a great fact--namely, the separation
of the spiritual from the temporal power. This separation is the
source of liberty of conscience; and it rests upon no other
principle than that which serves as the base of the most
unrestricted and extended liberty of conscience. The separation
between the temporal and spiritual powers is founded upon the
principle that physical force has no right or influence over the
minds of men, or over conviction and truth. It results from the
distinction established between the world of thought and that of
action, between circumstances of an internal and those of an
external nature. So that this maxim of liberty of conscience--for
which Europe has struggled and suffered so much, and which has
prevailed only so lately, often against the exertions of the
clergy--was laid down under the name of a separation between
temporal and spiritual power in the earliest stages of European
civilisation; and its introduction and maintenance was owing to
the Christian church being compelled, by the necessity of its
situation, to defend itself against the barbarism of the times.

The Christian church, therefore, shed upon the European world in
the fifth century three essential blessings--the recognition of a
moral influence, the upholding a divine law, and the disjunction
of temporal and spiritual power.

But even at that period all its influence was not equally
salutary. So early as the fifth century, some evil principles
made their appearance in the church, which have played an
important part in the development of our civilisation. Thus there
arose within it at that era the doctrine of the separation of the
governing and the governed, the attempt to establish the
irresponsibility of rulers to subjects, to impose laws, to
control opinion, and to dispose of men, without the consent of
the governed, or regard being paid to their reason and
inclination.
{52}
It likewise strove to infuse into society the theocratic
principle, to seize upon temporal power, and to exercise
exclusive domination. And when it failed in fully accomplishing
this design, it allied itself with temporal princes, and
supported their absolute power at the expense of the liberty of
the people, in order that it might obtain a share for itself.

Such were the principal elements of civilisation that Europe drew
from the church and the Empire in the fifth century. It was in
this state that the barbarians found the Roman world when they
came to take possession of it. In order to comprehend all the
elements which were included and mingled in the cradle of our
civilisation, there remains nothing but the barbarians to
contemplate.

It is not with the history of the barbarians that we have to
concern ourselves, for relation is not our province. We are aware
that, at the epoch in question, the conquerors of the Empire were
almost all of the same race, all Germans, except some Slavonic
tribes, as the Alani, for example. We are likewise aware that
they were all pretty nearly in the same state of civilisation.
Some difference might exist amongst them, according to the
greater or less degree of contact into which they had
respectively come with the Roman provincials. Thus there is no
doubt that the Goths were more advanced and milder in their
manners than the Franks. But considering things in a general
point of view, and with reference to their results upon
ourselves, this early diversity amongst the barbaric tribes in
civilisation is of no importance.

It is the general state of society amongst the barbarians that it
behoves us to ascertain; and this is a subject which is involved
in considerable difficulty. We can understand with comparative
ease the Roman municipal system and the Christian church, because
their influence is perpetuated even to our own days, and we
discover traces of them in a multitude of actual institutions and
circumstances, affording us a thousand means of identifying and
explaining them. But the manners and the social state of the
barbarians have completely perished; we are reduced to the
necessity of evoking them either from the most ancient historical
monuments, or by an effort of the imagination.

There is a sentiment, a fact, which we must impress upon our
minds, in order to have a true idea of what a barbarian was, and
that is the feeling of individual independence, the joy he
experienced in casting himself, in the fulness of his strength
and freedom, into the midst of worldly vicissitudes--the pleasure
to him of activity without labour, the charm of an adventurous
career, full of uncertainty, inequality of fortune, and danger.
This was the predominant sentiment of the barbarian state, the
moral craving which urged these human masses to movement. At
present, in a society so regular as that into which we are
wedged, it is difficult to imagine the extent of dominion which
this sentiment exercised over the barbarians of the fourth and
fifth centuries.
{53}
There is only one work which in my opinion presents this
character of barbarism in its full strength--namely, 'The History
of the Conquest of England by the Normans,' by M. Thierry; it is
the only book in which the motives, the longings, and the
impulses, which are the springs of actions in men when in a
social state bordering upon the barbaric, are perceived and
brought out with true Homeric vividness. Nowhere do we perceive
so well what a barbarian is, or in what his life consists.
Something also of the same is found, though, according to my
ideas, in a far inferior degree, and in a much less simple and
truthful manner, in Mr. Cooper's romances of the North American
savages. The existence of the American savages, the ties and the
sentiments which they bear with them in the midst of the woods,
recall to a certain extent the manners of the ancient Germans. Of
course these pictures are somewhat idealised and poetical, the
dark side of barbaric life and manners being studiously glossed
over. I speak not only of the ills provoked by these manners in
the social state, but also of the inward and individual state of
the barbarian himself. In this furious craving for personal
independence there was far more grossness and animalism than we
would conclude from the work of M. Thierry; there was a degree of
brutality, frenzy, and sullen apathy, which is not always
faithfully given in his account. Nevertheless, when we regard
things fundamentally, we are convinced that, in spite of this
alliance of brutality, materialism, and boorish selfishness, the
desire for individual independence is a noble moral sentiment,
which derives its strength from the moral nature of man; it
consists in the gratification of feeling as a man, in the
consciousness of personality and of human free-will in its
fullest development.

The German barbarians introduced this feeling into the European
civilisation; it was unknown to the Roman world, to the Christian
church, and to almost all the ancient civilisations. Liberty in
those ancient civilisations meant political, municipal liberty.
Men were not engaged in a strife for personal liberty, but for
their liberty as citizens; they belonged to an association, to it
they were devotedly attached, and for it they were prepared to
sacrifice themselves. It was the same in the Christian church:
there prevailed within it a sentiment of strong regard for the
Christian corporation, of devotion to its laws, and an ardent
desire to extend its empire; or rather the religious sentiment
caused a reaction in the minds of men, which was displayed in an
inward struggle to subdue individual liberty, and to give blind
submission to what faith decreed. But the feeling of personal
independence, the taste for liberty making itself apparent at all
moments without other design sometimes than that of proving
itself--this was a sentiment unknown to the Roman society and to
the Christian church.
{54}
It was imported and fixed by the barbarians at the birth of
modern civilisation, and it has performed too important a part,
and produced too many happy results in connection with it, to be
omitted as one of its fundamental elements.

There is a second fact, a second element in civilisation, that we
likewise draw exclusively from the barbarians. It is the military
chieftainship, the tie that was formed between individuals as
warriors, and which, without destroying the liberty of each,
without destroying, except to a certain extent, the equality
which almost completely existed amongst them, introduced a
graduated subordination, and gave a beginning to that
aristocratic organisation which at a later date expanded into the
feudal system. The groundwork of this relation was the attachment
of man to man, the fidelity of one individual to another, without
any outward compulsion, and without any obligation founded on the
general principles of society. In the ancient republics, no man
was of his own accord specially attached to any other man; all
were bound to their city. With the barbarians the social bond was
formed amongst individuals, in the first place by the relation of
the chief to his companion, when they lived in a banded state
traversing the face of Europe, and later by the relation of
suzerain and vassal. This second principle, which has also had an
important effect on modern civilisation, this devotedness of man
to man, comes to us from the barbarians, and from their manners
it has passed into ours.

Was I wrong, then, in stating at the commencement that modern
civilisation was at its very origin as varied, agitated, and
confused as I endeavoured to represent it in the general picture
which I gave of it? Do we not discover at the dissolution of the
Roman Empire almost all the elements which meet in the
progressive development of our civilisation? Three perfectly
different societies are found at that period; the municipal
society, the last remnant of the Roman Empire, the Christian, and
the barbarian society. We find these societies very differently
organised, based upon perfectly distinct principles, and
inspiring men with opposite sentiments: we perceive the longing
for the most absolute independence by the side of the most
complete subservience; military chieftainship ranged with
ecclesiastical domination; the spiritual and temporal powers in
activity on every side; the canons of the church, the studied
legislation of the Romans, and the almost unwritten customs of
the barbarians--everywhere a mixture, or rather a co-existence,
of races, tongues, social situations, manners, ideas, and
feelings, all the most contrary to each other. This I adduce as a
satisfactory proof of the accuracy of the general character under
which I have laboured to present our civilisation.

{55}

This confusion, diversity, and strife, have doubtless cost us
dear; they have retarded the progress of Europe; to them are
owing the storms and agonies to which she has been a prey. Yet I
am not of opinion that we should regret them. To nations, as well
as to individuals, the opportunity of the most varied and
complete development, of pushing onwards in all directions, and
to an almost indefinite extent, compensates by itself alone for
all the sacrifices it may have cost to obtain the faculty of
enjoying it. Upon a comprehensive view, this agitation, violence,
and laboriousness, have availed more than the simplicity with
which other civilisations are marked, and the human race has
thereby gained more than it has suffered.

We have now traced in its general features the state in which the
fall of the Roman Empire left the world, and the different
elements which were in turmoil and commixture, germinating
European civilisation. Henceforth we shall see them advancing and
acting. In the next lecture I shall endeavour to show what they
became, and what they effected, in the epoch that we are
accustomed to call the times of barbarism--that is to say, the
period during which the chaos of the invasion lasted.

{56}


                   Lecture III.

            First Ages Of Civilisation.

I have brought forward the fundamental elements of European
civilisation by tracing them in its very cradle, at the moment
that the Roman Empire fell. I have endeavoured to point out how
great was their diversity, how constant their strife, and that
none of them succeeded in gaining a mastery over our society, or
at least in ruling it so effectually as to subject or expel the
others. We have seen that in this consists the distinctive
character of the European civilisation. We now come to its
history, at its first start, in the ages that it is usual to
designate 'the barbarous.' At the first glance that we cast upon
this epoch, it is impossible not to be struck with a fact which
seems in flat contradiction to what I have just advanced. In
investigating the opinions that have been formed upon the
antiquities of Europe, it is surprising to observe that the
different elements of our civilisation--the monarchical,
theocratical, aristocratical, and democratical principles--all
lay claim to the original proprietorship of the European society,
and all pretend that they have lost exclusive empire by the
usurpations of contrary principles. If we turn to all that has
been written, and listen to all that has been said, on this
subject, we shall find that all the systems by means of which our
groundworks are sought to be displayed or explained, maintain the
exclusive predominance of one or other of the elements of
European civilisation.

Thus there is a school of feudal advocates, the most celebrated
of whom is M. de Boulainvilliers, who asserts that after the fall
of the Roman Empire, the conquering nation, subsequently formed
into a nobility, possessed all power and rights, that society was
its lordship, that kings and people have despoiled it, and that,
in fact, the aristocratic organisation was the primitive and
veritable constitution of Europe.

Alongside of this school we find that of the monarchists, amongst
whom is the Abbé Dubos, who maintain, on the contrary, that the
European society belonged to royalty. They say that the German
kings inherited all the rights of the Roman emperors, that the
ancient populations--the Gauls amongst others--appealed to them,
that they alone ruled legitimately, and that all the acquisitions
of aristocracy are mere encroachments upon monarchy.

{57}

A third school presents itself, that of liberals, republicans,
democrats, as you may choose to style them. If we follow the Abbé
de Mably, we shall conclude that the government of society was
handed over, from the dawning of the fifth century, to a system
of free institutions, to assemblies of free men, to the people
properly so called; that nobles and kings have enriched
themselves with the spoils of primitive liberty, which shrunk
under their attacks, but nevertheless reigned before them.

And above all these monarchical, aristocratical, and popular
pretensions, rises the theocratic claim of the church, which says
that, by virtue of her very mission and divine title, society
belonged to her, that she alone had any right to govern it, and
that she alone was the legitimate queen of the European world,
reclaimed by her labours to civilisation and truth.

Thus we are placed in a peculiar position. We imagined that we
had demonstrated that none of the elements of European
civilisation has had exclusive sway in the course of its history,
but that they have existed in a constant state of vicinage, of
amalgamation, of strife, and of activity; and at our very first
step, we find this directly contrary opinion maintained, that at
its birth, in the bosom of barbaric Europe, some one or other of
these elements had sole possession of society. And it is not in a
single country, but in all the countries of Europe, that the
advocates for the different principles of our civilisation have
put forward their irreconcilable pretensions, under forms and at
periods somewhat variable. The historical schools that we have
just characterised are not confined to one country, but are met
throughout Europe.

This fact is important, not in itself, but because it brings to
light other facts which hold a material place in our history. Two
important particulars are started by this simultaneous advocacy
of the most incongruous pretensions to the exclusive possession
of power in the first ages of modern Europe. The first is the
principle or idea of political legitimacy, which has enacted a
prominent part in the drama of European civilisation: the second
is the actual and veritable character of the state of barbarian
Europe of that epoch, with which we have specially to concern
ourselves at this period of our inquiry.

I shall proceed to draw these two particulars from obscurity, and
to sever them in succession from the contest of allegations which
I have previously mentioned.

What do the different elements of European civilisation--the
theocratical, monarchical, aristocratical, and popular--claim
when they assert themselves the first possessors of society in
Europe? Is it not that each proclaims itself to be solely
legitimate? Political legitimacy is evidently a right based on
antiquity and duration. Priority of time is invoked as the source
of right, as the proof of the legitimacy of power. And here I beg
attention to the fact, that this pretension is not confined to
one particular system or element of our civilisation, but that it
spreads over all.
{58}
We are accustomed in modern times to consider the idea of
legitimacy as involved in only one system--the monarchical--which
is a great mistake, for it is at issue in all the others. We have
already seen that all the elements of our civilisation have
endeavoured to monopolise it; and if we cast a look forward into
the history of Europe, we shall see the most varied social forms
and governments equally in possession of this character of
legitimacy. The Italian and Swiss aristocracies and democracies,
the republic of San Marino, like the greatest monarchies of
Europe, have styled themselves, and have been esteemed,
legitimate; they, exactly like the others, have founded their
claim to legitimacy upon the antiquity of their institutions,
upon the historical priority, and upon the prolonged duration, of
their system of government.

If we go beyond Europe, and carry our observation to other times
and countries, we encounter on all sides this idea of political
legitimacy, and find it clinging to some portion of the ruling
government, to some of its institutions, forms, or maxims. There
is no country or time in which a certain portion of the social
system, of the public powers, has not bestowed upon itself, and
had recognised as inherent in it, this character of legitimacy
derived from antiquity and stability.

And what is this principle! What are its elements? How came its
introduction into European civilisation?

All systems of power are, at their origin, mixed up with force. I
do not mean to say that they are all based upon force alone, or
that if they had not originally had other titles than force, they
would have been established. They most certainly needed others;
powers are established in accordance with certain social wants,
and with reference to the state of society, to manners and
opinions. But we cannot avoid perceiving that force has sullied
the foundation of all the systems of power in the world, whatever
may have been their nature and form.

But every one repudiates this origin, all the systems of every
description deny it, and there is none that will consent to
spring from force. An invincible instinct apprises governments
that force does not confer right, and that if their claims rested
upon that alone, right could never be deduced. For this reason,
when we recur to ancient times, and unmask the different systems
and powers abandoned to violence, all hasten to exclaim, 'I was
earlier, I subsisted previously, and by virtue of other titles;
society belonged to me before this state of violence and strife
in which you discover me; I was legitimate; my just prerogatives
were contested and wrenched from me.'

This single fact demonstrates that the maxim of force is not the
groundwork of political legitimacy, and that it reposes upon some
other base. What is the effect of this formal repudiation of
force by all the systems?
{59}
Their acknowledgment that there is another legitimacy, the
veritable foundation for all others, the legitimacy of reason,
justice, and right. Such is the origin to which they are all
eager to cling. And because they discard force as their
initiatory element, they are driven to assert themselves robed
with a different title, quoting their antiquity. The main
characteristic, then, of political legitimacy, is to deny force
as the source of power, and to allege it as cohesive with a moral
idea and force, with the idea, in fact, of right, justice, and
reason. This is the fundamental element which constitutes the
principle of political legitimacy. It has taken its rise
therefrom, receiving a helping hand from time and stability. We
will trace the process.

Force having presided at the dawn of all governments and
societies, time progresses and effects changes in the operations
of force; it administers correctives, from the very circumstance
that a society endures and is composed of men. Man bears within
him a certain number of notions of order, justice, and reason,
and a certain craving to give them sway, and to introduce them
into the facts amidst which he lives. To attain this object, he
labours unremittingly; and if the social state in which he is
located continues, his labours are not fruitless. Man brings
reason and right to bear in the sphere he moves in.

Independently of the exertions of man, there is a law of
Providence too palpable to be denied, a law analogous to that
which rules the material world, by which a certain measure of
order, reason, and justice, is indispensable to the continuance
of a society. Indeed, from the mere fact of durability, we may be
assured that any particular society is not utterly absurd,
insensate, or iniquitous, and that it is not entirely bare of
that element of reason, truth, and justice, which can alone give
life to any society. If, furthermore, the society is developed,
if it becomes more vigorous and powerful, if its terms are from
time to time accepted by an increasing number of people, then are
we sure that by the action of time, more reason, justice, and
right have been infused into it; for facts imperceptibly arrange
themselves according to true legitimacy.

Thus has the idea of political legitimacy spread over the world,
and from the world penetrated men's minds. For foundation or
first origin, it has, in a certain degree, at least, moral
legitimacy, justice, reason, and truth; and afterwards the
sanction of time, which gives ground for belief that reason has
become part and parcel of existing facts, that, in reality, true
undeniable legitimacy has been introduced into external matters.
In the epoch we are about to open upon, we shall find force and
falsehood ingredients in the first composition of royalty,
aristocracy, democracy, and even of the church; and then force
and falsehood will be perceived undergoing gradual reformation
under the plastic hand of time, and right and truth taking their
places in civilisation. It is this introduction of right and
truth into the social state that has developed by degrees the
principle of political legitimacy, and it is thus that it has
become established in modern civilisation.

{60}

When attempts have been made at various times to raise this idea
as the banner of absolute power, its real origin has been grossly
mistaken or perverted. So utterly apart is it from identification
with absolute power, that right and justice are the titles by
which it has been diffused, and has taken root in the world. It
is not in any degree exclusive, it appertains to none in
particular, but is planted wherever right finds development.
Political legitimacy, I assert again, is as much bound up with
liberty as with power, and with individual rights equally with
the forms, whatever they may be, by which public functions are
exercised. We will meet it in our progress, in the most
discordant systems--equally in the feudal system, in the
municipalities of Flanders and Germany, in the republics of
Italy, as in monarchy. It is a character partaken of by all the
different elements of modern civilisation, and it behoves us
fully to comprehend it in investigating the history of that
civilisation.

The second fact which is brought to light by the simultaneous
pretensions of which I have so often spoken, is the real
character of the epoch styled barbarous. As I have said, all the
elements of European civilisation assert that they possessed
Europe at that period; as a consequence, none of them
predominated. When a social form domineers in the world, there is
not so much difficulty in recognising it. When we come to the
tenth century, we shall have no hesitation in recognising the
preponderance of the feudal system; in the seventeenth, we shall
have no doubt in affirming the prevalence of the monarchical
principle; and if we regard the Flemish corporations or the
Italian republics, we shall immediately declare the sway of the
democratic principle. When a principle is really predominant in
the world, there is no possibility of mistaking it.

The contest that has arisen among the various systems which are
included in European civilisation, upon the question as to which
ruled it at its origin, proves that they had all a co-existence
therein, without any one so generally or assuredly prevailing as
to impress upon society its form and name.

And herein lies the actual character of the barbarous epoch--a
chaos of all the elements, an outburst of all the systems, a
universal hubbub, in which the struggle was neither permanent nor
systematic. By examining, in all its phases, the social state of
that era, I might demonstrate the impossibility of discovering
any fact or principle approaching to a general or established
recognition. I will confine myself to two essential points--the
state of individuals, and the state of institutions. They will
suffice to depict the entire society.

{61}

We discern four classes of persons at this epoch: 1_st_, The
free men--that is to say, those who depended upon no superior or
patron, who held their possessions, and regulated their lives, in
full liberty, without any tie binding them to another man;
2_d_, The _leudes, fideles, anstrustions_, &c. bound by
a relation--first that of companion to a chief, then of vassal to
a suzerain--to another man towards whom they had contracted the
obligation of a service, in respect of a grant of lands or other
gifts; 3_d_, The freedmen; 4_th_, The slaves.

But these different classes were not immovably fixed; men, when
once included within their limits, did not remain there for ever;
the relations of the various classes were neither definite nor
permanent. Among the free men were some ever and anon leaving
their position to assume service under a particular person,
receiving from him some gift, and passing into the class of
leudes; whilst others fell into that of slaves. On the other
hand, some leudes struggled to get rid of their patron, to
re-establish their independence, and return into the free class.
On all sides was a continual movement and transition from one
class to another, a general uncertainty and instability in the
mutual bearings of the classes: no man adhered to his position,
and no position remained unchanged.

Tenures of land were in the same state; they were distinguished
as allodial, or completely free, and beneficiary, or subject to
certain obligations towards a superior. It is well known that
attempts have been made to establish, in this last class of
tenures, a precise and determined system; it has been said that
the grants were made for a certain number of years, then for
life, and that finally they became hereditary. The attempts are
vain; all these varieties of tenure existed simultaneously; the
self-same epoch displays benefices for years, for life, to heirs;
and even the same lands passed in a few years through those
different states. Nothing was more stable or generalised in the
condition of landed property than in that of individuals. The
difficult transition is everywhere perceptible from the wandering
to the sedentary life, from relations merely personal to those in
combination with bodies of men and the rights of property, which
are real, substantial, obligatory relations. In this state of
transition all was confused, partial, and disordered.

The same instability and turmoil marked the institutions. Three
systems were in juxtaposition--royalty, aristocratical
institutions, or superiorities over men and lands in gradation,
and free institutions, or assemblies of free men deliberating in
common. No one of these systems was in possession of society, no
one had a preference. Free institutions existed, but the men who
should have taken part in the assemblies did not attend. The
signorial jurisdiction, likewise, was not exercised.
{62}
Royalty, which is the most simple institution, and the easiest to
determine, had no fixed character: election and hereditary right
were mingled together: sometimes the son succeeded his father;
sometimes a selection was made out of the royal family; and
sometimes a pure and simple election took place of a distant
relative, or perhaps of a stranger. We find nothing settled in
any system; all the institutions, like the social conditions,
existed together, were confounded, and continually changing.

Countries were in the same unsettled state. They were created and
suppressed, united and divided. Frontiers, governments, nations,
ceased to be distinguishable. A universal confusion in positions,
principles, facts, races, and tongues, was the condition of
barbarian Europe.

Within what limits is this strange epoch contained? Its
commencement is well marked--it occurred at the fall of the Roman
Empire. But when did it end? In order to answer this question, we
must inquire to what this state of society was owing, what were
the causes of the barbarism.

I think two main ones are discoverable. The one physical, arising
outwardly from the course of events; and the other moral, working
inwardly from the mental state of man himself.

The physical cause was the prolongation of the invasion. We are
not to conclude that the invasion of the barbarians was arrested
at the fifth century, nor that because the Roman Empire had
fallen, and barbaric kingdoms were founded on its ruins, the
populations brought their movements to a close. On the contrary,
they continued long after the fall of the Empire, of which we
have all-sufficient proof.

We see the Frank kings, even of the first race, continually
compelled to make war beyond the Rhine; we see Clotaire,
Dagobert, incessantly engaged in expeditions into Germany,
fighting against the Thuringians, the Danes, and the Saxons, who
occupied the right bank of the Rhine. For what reason? Because
those nations wished to cross the river, and gather their share
of the spoils of the Empire. What caused, about the same period,
those great invasions of Italy by the Franks established in Gaul,
principally of the eastern or Austrasian Franks? Why did they
precipitate themselves on Switzerland, pass the Alps, and enter
Italy? Because they were pushed on the north-east by new
populations; their expeditions were undertaken from necessity,
and were not mere forays for pillage; their settlements were
interfered with, and they went forth to seek others. Then a new
German nation appeared upon the stage, and founded in Italy the
kingdom of the Lombards. In Gaul, the first Frank dynasty was
subverted: the Carlovingians succeeded the Merovingians. It is
now acknowledged that this change of dynasty was in truth an
accession of population which displaced the western for the
eastern Franks.
{63}
The change was effected, and the second race reigned. Charlemagne
began against the Saxons what the Merovingians had directed
against the Thuringians, and became involved in ceaseless wars
with the nations beyond the Rhine. And these were urged onwards
by the Obotrites, the Wiltzes, the Sorabes, the Bohemians, by the
whole Slavonic race which pressed upon the Germanic, and from the
sixth to the ninth century goaded it to advance towards the west.
To the whole of the north-east, the invading movement continued
and controlled events.

In the south a movement of the same nature occurred, occasioned
by the Moslem Arabs. Whilst the Germanic and Slavonic populations
crowded along the Rhine and the Danube, the Arabs began their
career of conquest on all the coasts of the Mediterranean.

The invasion of the Arabs had a peculiar character. The spirit of
conquest and that of proselytism were united; their invasion was
made both to conquer territory and spread their faith. There was
a great difference between this movement and that of the Germans.
In the Christian world, the spiritual and temporal arms were
disjoined. Zeal for the propagation of a faith was not felt by
the same men who burned with the desire of conquest. The Germans
on their conversion had preserved their manners, sentiments, and
tastes; earthly interests and passions continued to sway them;
and though they might be Christians, they were not missionaries.
The Arabs, on the contrary, were conquerors and missionaries;
with them the sword and the Word were wielded by the same hands.
At a later date, this circumstance gave the unfortunate turn to
the Mussulman civilisation; for it is from the unity of the
temporal and spiritual powers, from the confused mixture of moral
influence with material force, that the tyranny which seems
inherent in that civilisation took its rise; and such is, as I
believe, the principal cause of the stagnant state into which it
has fallen. But this was far from appearing at the first
outburst; on the contrary, a prodigious power was thereby
imparted to the Arab invasion. Strengthened as it was by moral
ideas and passions, it gained, upon the instant, a lustre and
greatness which had been signally wanting to the German invasion;
more energy and enthusiasm were displayed in it, and the minds of
men were affected by it in a very different manner.

Such was the situation of Europe from the fifth to the ninth
century; pressed on the south by the Mohammedans, on the north by
the Germans and Slavi, the interior of the European region was
inevitably kept in continual disorder by the reaction of this
double invasion. Populations were incessantly displaced and
hurled upon each other; no settlement could be established; the
nomade life recommenced in every quarter.
{64}
There was certainly some difference in this respect amongst the
various countries; the turmoil was greater in Germany than in the
rest of Europe, for it was the very furnace of agitation; and
France was more convulsed than Italy. But nowhere could society
get fixed or regulated; barbarism was prolonged on all sides,
from the same cause which had given it a commencement.

So much for the material cause which sprang from the course of
events. I now come to the moral cause, founded upon the internal
state of mankind, which was not less powerful.

Whatever external events may be, it is, after all, man himself
who makes his world; it is from the ideas and sentiments, the
moral and intellectual dispositions of men, that the world is
regulated in its progress; it is upon the inward state of men
that the outward state of society depends.

What is needful to men in order to found a society at all durable
and regular? It is evidently requisite that they have a certain
number of ideas sufficiently expansive to suit that society, and
to be applicable to its wants and relations. It is furthermore
necessary that these ideas be common to the majority of the
members of the society, and that they exercise some sway over
their desires and actions.

It is clear that if men have no ideas extending beyond their own
existence, if their intellectual horizon be limited to
themselves, if they give unrestrained play to the fury of their
passions and inclinations, if they have not amongst them a
certain number of notions and sentiments held in common, around
which they may be rallied, then it is clear, I repeat, that no
society can possibly exist among them, and that each individual
will be an element of disorder and dissolution in any society
into which he enters.

Wherever individuality gains a nearly absolute sway, where man
considers only himself, where his ideas stretch not beyond his
own person, where he listens only to his own passions, society
(meaning thereby a society calculated for some small degree of
extension and permanence) is almost an impossibility. Now this
was the moral state of the conquerors of Europe in the epoch
treated of. I observed, in the preceding lecture, that we are
indebted to the Germans for the vigorous sentiment of individual
liberty, of human individuality. But in a state of extreme
coarseness and ignorance, this sentiment is pure selfishness in
all its brutality and unsociability. It was at this point among
the Germans from the fifth to the eighth century. They were
concerned only for their own interests, with their own passions
and inclinations, and how could they thus accommodate themselves
to a state approaching the social? Attempts were made to induce
them to enter into it; they even tried it of themselves. But from
some act of recklessness, some burst of passion, or some
deficiency in understanding, they broke immediately loose.
{65}
Society was incessantly endeavouring to form itself, but as
incessantly was it routed by the act of man, by the absence of
those moral conditions which are essential to its existence.

Such were the two disposing causes of the barbaric state. So long
as they lasted, barbarism continued. Let us inquire how, and
when, they finally ceased.

Europe laboured to get out of this state. It is the nature of man
to struggle to emerge from such a chaos, even though he has been
plunged into it by his own fault. However brutal and ignorant,
however much devoted to his own gratification and passions, there
is within him a voice or instinct which repeats to him that he is
made for something else, that he has another capacity and
destiny. In the midst of his disorganisation, a taste for order
and advancement pursues and torments him. Longings for justice,
for foresight, for development, agitate his breast even under the
yoke of the most boorish selfishness. He feels himself urged to
reform the material world, society, and himself; and he labours
for this object without much cognisance of the want that goads
him. Thus the barbarians aspired at civilisation, although
utterly incapable of it, I may say, indeed, utterly detesting it,
when its restraints were felt.

There remained, likewise, some considerable remnants of the Roman
civilisation. The name of the Empire, the remembrance of that
great and glorious society, agitated the memories of men,
especially of the town senators, the bishops, the priests, and of
all those who had their origin in the Roman era.

Many of the barbarians themselves, or of their barbarian
forefathers, had been witnesses of the grandeur of the Empire;
they had served in its armies, or fought against it. The image
and name of the Roman civilisation had an imposing effect upon
them, and they experienced a desire to imitate it, to bring it
back, or to preserve some portion of it. In this was an
additional stimulus to drive them from the state of barbarism
which I have described.

There was a third, which suggests itself to every mind--I mean
the Christian church. The church was a society regularly
constituted, having principles, rules, and discipline of its own,
and actuated by an ardent zeal to extend its influence, and to
vanquish its conquerors. Among the Christians of that epoch, in
the ranks of the clergy, there were men who had pondered deeply
upon all moral and political questions, who held fixed opinions
and energetic sentiments upon all things, and strove strenuously
to propagate them and render them paramount. No society ever made
such efforts as did the Christian church, from the fifth to the
tenth century, to extend its sphere, and smooth the external
world into its own likeness. When we study its particular
history, we shall perceive the full extent of its labours. It
attacked barbarism, as it were, on all its sides, to civilise by
subduing it.

{66}

Finally, there existed a fourth cause of civilisation, one which
it is impossible accurately to weigh, but which is not the less
real on that account--namely, the influence of great men. No one
can say why a great man comes at a particular era, or what he
infuses of his own into the development of the world; the secret
remains with Providence, but the fact is certain. There are men
whom the spectacle of anarchy or of social stagnation strikes and
distresses, who are intellectually shocked thereat as with a fact
which should not be, and who become possessed with an
uncontrollable desire to change it, and to plant some rule, some
uniformity, regularity, and permanency in the world before them:
a terrible, and often a tyrannical power, committing a thousand
iniquities and errors, for human weakness accompanies it; yet a
glorious and salutary power, for it gives to humanity a vigorous
jerk, an admirable impulse.

These different causes and influences originated various attempts
to emancipate European society from the clutch of barbarism, in
the epoch stretching from the fifth to the ninth century.

The first of these attempts (although it may have had little
effect, yet requires to be noticed, for it emanated from the
barbarians themselves) was the digesting the barbarian laws.
Between the sixth and eighth centuries, the laws of almost all
the barbarous tribes were written. Formerly it was otherwise,
these people having mere customs for governance before they
established themselves on the ruins of the Roman Empire. There
were the laws of the Burgundians, of the Salian and Ripuarian
Franks, of the Visigoths, the Lombards, the Saxons, the Frisons,
the Bavarians, the Allemanni, &c. Here was evidently a
commencement of civilisation, an endeavour to transfer society to
the empire of general and regular principles. It was impossible
for much success to attend it, for it presented the laws of a
society which no longer existed, the laws of the social state of
the barbarians before their establishment on the Roman territory,
before they had changed a wandering for a sedentary life, and the
condition of nomad warriors for that of proprietors. Here and
there are found some articles as to the lands which the
barbarians had acquired, and as to their relations with the old
inhabitants of the country, and even attempts are made to
regulate some of the new circumstances with which they were mixed
up; but the ground-work of the majority of these laws is the
ancient life and state of things in Germany, which were utterly
inapplicable to the new society, and have had but little
influence in its development.

An attempt of another nature was commenced in Italy and the south
of Gaul at the same period. The Roman society had not perished
there so completely as in other quarters; in the cities there
remained a somewhat greater degree of order and energy.
Civilisation attempted to rear itself there again.
{67}
For example, we find the municipal system recover breath, as it
were, and exercise some influence upon the general course of
events, in the kingdom of the Ostrogoths in Italy, under
Theodoric, although both king and nation were barbarian. The
Roman society had humanised the Goths, and to a certain extent
assimilated them with itself. The same fact is perceptible in the
south of Gaul. At the commencement of the sixth century, a
Visigoth king of Toulouse, Alaric, caused the Roman laws to be
collected, and published a code for his Roman subjects, under the
name of the _Brevarium Aniani_.

It was the church which endeavoured to give a new beginning to
civilisation in Spain. Instead of the old German assemblies of
warriors (the _malla_), the council of Toledo held sway in
Spain, and although influential laymen attended the council, the
bishops governed it. In the laws of the Visigoths there is not a
barbaric enactment; the compilation is evidently the work of the
philosophers of the era, the clergy. They abound in general ideas
and in theories which are completely foreign to barbarian
manners. Thus it is known that the legislation of the barbarians
was a personal legislation; that is to say, the same law applied
only to men of the same race. The Roman law governed the Romans,
the Franco law governed the Franks; each people had its own law,
although they were united under the same government, and
inhabited the same territory. This is the system which is called
personal legislation, in opposition to the system of real
legislation, founded upon territorial distinctions. Now the
legislation of the Visigoths was not personal, but territorial.
All the inhabitants of Spain, whether Romans or Visigoths, were
subject to the same law. But there are still more evident traces
of philosophy to be found. Amongst the barbarians, men were
valued at a fixed rate, according to their situations; the
barbarian, the Roman, the freeman, the vassal, &c. were not
estimated at the same sum; their lives were made matter of
tariff. The principle of men being of equal value in the eyes of
the law, was established in the code of the Visigoths. With
regard to the system of procedure, we find the oath of
_compurgatores_ and the judicial combat displaced for the
proof by witnesses, and such a rational examination into facts as
might be adopted in any civilised society. In a word, the whole
Visigoth code bears a wise, systematic, and social character. We
perceive in it the labours of that same clergy which held command
in the councils of Toledo, and operated so powerfully on the
government of the country.

Therefore in Spain, up to the great invasion of the Arabs, it was
the theocratic principle which laboured to raise up civilisation.

{68}

In France, the same endeavour was the work of a different
influence; it originated with great men, especially with
Charlemagne. If we examine his reign in its various phases, we
shall find that the prevailing idea of his mind was the
civilisation of his people. First, with regard to his wars. He
was constantly in the field, ranging from the south to the
north-east, from the Ebro to the Elbe or the Weser. These were
not mere arbitrary expeditions, arising from an insatiable thirst
for conquests. I do not assert that all he did may be
systematically accounted for, or that his plans display a
profound diplomatic or strategetic wit, but he obeyed the impulse
of a great necessity resulting from his scheme to repress
barbarism. During the whole period of his reign, he was employed
in arresting the double invasion of the Mussulmans on the south,
of the Germans and Slavi on the north, in prosecution of that
object. This is the character of the military part of the reign
of Charlemagne: as I have previously said, this was also the end
and purpose of his expeditions against the Saxons.

Passing from his wars to his internal government, we find the
same principle in activity, the attempt to introduce order and
uniformity into the administration of all the countries which he
possessed. I cannot call them a _kingdom_ or a _state_,
for these expressions are of too regular a stamp, and raise ideas
too little in accordance with the society over which Charlemagne
presided. This much, however, is certain, that he, master of an
immense territory, was indignant at beholding all things therein
in a most dissevered, anarchical, and brutish condition, and
devoted his energies to soften its hideousness. His first measure
was to despatch his _missi dominici_ into the different
districts of his possessions, to inquire into facts, and either
reform them, or report them to him. He afterwards held general
assemblies with much more regularity than his predecessors, which
he compelled almost all the influential men of his territories to
attend. These were not free assemblies; nor were they summoned
for what we would call deliberation. They were used by
Charlemagne as a means of getting information as to facts, and of
introducing some regularity and union among his disorganised
subjects.

In whatever point of view the reign of Charlemagne is considered,
the same character is found predominant, a contest against the
barbaric state, the genius of civilisation at work. This is the
spirit which is evinced in his eagerness to institute schools, in
his taste for learned men, in his predilection for ecclesiastical
influence, and in his adoption of everything which appeared to
him capable of acting beneficially either on society as a whole,
or on man as an individual.

An attempt of the same nature was made by King Alfred in England
somewhat later.

Thus the different causes which I have particularised, as tending
to put an end to barbarism, were in action, in some quarter or
other of Europe, from the fifth to the ninth century.

{69}

Not one was successful. Charlemagne failed to give stability to
his great empire, and the system of government which he wished to
institute. In Spain, the church was not more happy in its
endeavours to establish the theocratic principle. In Italy and
the south of Gaul, although the Roman civilisation made various
efforts to rise again, it was not until afterwards, towards the
end of the tenth century, that it really assumed any vigour. Up
till that period, all the endeavours to extinguish barbarism were
fruitless: they proceeded on the idea that men were more advanced
than the reality demonstrated: they all strove for a society more
extended and regular than comported with the actual diffusion of
coercive influences, and the state of men's minds. However, they
were not completely thrown away. At the commencement of the tenth
century, there was no longer any question about the great empire
of Charlemagne, or the glorious councils of Toledo, but barbarism
did not the less surely approach extinction. Two great results
were obtained:

1_st_, The invading movements were arrested both on the
north and the south. After the dismemberment of the empire of
Charlemagne, a strong barrier was opposed to the tribes still
pushing to the west, by the nations established on the right bank
of the Rhine. The Normans prove this fact incontestibly; for up
to this era, excepting the tribes that had fallen on Britain, the
action of maritime invasion had not been considerable. It was in
the course of the ninth century that it became constant and
general, and principally because invasions by land were rendered
very difficult, since society had acquired more fixed and assured
frontiers on that side. That portion of the roving population
which could not be driven back, was yet constrained to turn away
and pursue its adventurous career on the sea. Whatever evil the
Norman invasions inflicted on the west, they were much less fatal
than the inroads by land, and gave infinitely less general
disturbance to the infant society.

In the south, the same consequence ensued. The Arabs took up
quarters in Spain, and the struggle between them and the
Christians continued, but it was no longer attended with the
displacement of the population. The Saracenic bands still
infested from time to time the coasts of the Mediterranean, but
Islamism had evidently ceased its grand march.

2_d_, In the interior of the European territory, the
wandering life came to a cessation; populations were settled,
property was fixed, and the relations of men no longer varied
from day to day at the impulse of force or chance. The internal
and moral state of man himself began to change, his ideas and
sentiments acquired some stability as well as his life; he became
attached to the locality he inhabited, to the ties he had
contracted, to those domains which he flattered himself with
leaving to his children, to that abode which in time he was to
designate his castle, and to that miserable assemblage of
colonists and slaves which was one day to rise into a village.
{70}
Small societies, petty states, were everywhere formed, hewn, so
to express myself, according to the extent of ideas and knowledge
possessed by men. Amongst these societies a bond of
confederation, which did not destroy individual independence, was
gradually introduced, according to a principle which lurked in
the barbarian manners. On one hand, every considerable personage
established himself in his domains with his family and retainers;
on the other, a certain gradation of services and rights was
instituted among these warlike proprietors scattered over the
territory. What was the result?--the feudal system, which
ultimately arose from the bosom of barbarism. Of the different
elements of our civilisation, it was natural that the Germanic
should first of all prevail, for it had the force, and it had
conquered Europe; and the first social form and organisation were
necessarily received from it.

The feudal system, its character, and the part which it has
played in the history of European civilisation, will be the
object of the next lecture. In the very heart of the victorious
feudal regime, we shall, however, encounter at every step the
other elements of our civilisation, royalty, the church, and
corporations; and we shall have little difficulty in concluding
that they were not destined to be crushed under that feudal form
to which they assimilated themselves, whilst struggling against
it, and waiting for the hour that victory might declare for them
in their turn.

{71}

                   <h3>Lecture IV.</h3>

            Influences Of The Feudal System.

We have now surveyed the state of Europe after the fall of the
Roman Empire, in the first epoch of modern history--namely, the
barbaric. We have seen that, at the end of that era, at the
commencement of the tenth century, the first principle or system
which was developed, and which took possession of European
society, was the feudal system, the earliest offspring of
barbarism. It is therefore the feudal system that we shall make
the present object of our inquiry.

I need scarcely here repeat that it is not the history of events,
properly so called, that I treat of. I am not called upon to
detail the destinies of feudalism: it is the history of
civilisation with which I concern myself, and that is the
general, hidden fact, which I seek for under all the exterior
facts which envelope it.

Thus events, social crises, and the various states through which
society has passed, interest us only in their relations with the
development of civilisation; we have to inquire how they opposed
or aided it, what they gave to it, and what they abstained from
giving. It is simply in this point of view that we take the
feudal system into consideration.

On commencing this inquiry, we determined what civilisation was,
we endeavoured to distinguish its elements, and we became aware
that it involved, in one respect, the development of man himself,
of the individual, of human nature; and in the other, that of his
outward and visible condition, of society. Every time, therefore,
that we open out an event, a system, a general order of things,
we have this double question to ask: What has it effected for or
against the development of humanity--what for or against the
development of society?

In this investigation, it is impossible for us to avoid
encountering in our progress very important questions in moral
philosophy. When we would decide to what extent an event or
system has contributed to the development of man and of society,
it behoves us to ascertain what is the true development of
society and of humanity, and whether certain developments are not
deceitful and illegitimate, tending to pervert rather than to
ameliorate, and leading to a retrograde instead of an advancing
movement.

{72}

We shall not attempt to elude the task that is imposed upon us.
Not only should we thereby emasculate and degrade our ideas, and
the facts themselves, but the actual state of the world compels
us frankly to adopt as law this unquestionable alliance between
philosophy and history. This conjunction is precisely one of the
features, if not the main and essential feature, of our age. We
are called upon to study, and to give simultaneous weight to
science and reality, to theory and practice, to right and fact.
In previous times, these two powers have lived apart: the world
was accustomed to behold scientific theory and practice take
different routes, without acknowledging each other, or at least
without forming a union. And when doctrines or general ideas
operated upon events, and stirred up the world, they have
succeeded in doing so only by the impulsion of fanaticism. The
sway over human societies, and the direction of their affairs,
have hitherto been divided between two sorts of influences: on
the one hand, the believers, the men of general ideas and of
principles, the fanatics; on the other, men strangers to all
rational principle, making circumstances their only rule of
conduct, practicians, libertines, as the seventeenth century
called them. This state of things has now ceased; neither the
fanatics nor the libertines can any longer wield predominance. In
order to govern and have influence amongst men at present, it is
necessary to ascertain and comprehend both general ideas and
circumstances; it is necessary to have the capacity to keep count
of principles and facts, to respect truth and expediency, and to
avoid as well the blind presumption of the fanatics, as the
insensate disdain of the libertines. The development of the human
mind and of the social state has conducted us to this point: on
the one hand, the human understanding, elevated and unshackled,
has a clearer conception of the entirety of things, can direct
its scrutiny to all questions, and bring everything that has
being into its combinations; on the other hand, society is
brought to that state of advancement that it can bear testing by
the application of truth; and facts may be supported by appeal to
principles, without inspiring, by such comparison, an
overwhelming discouragement or disgust, in spite of their great
imperfection. Therefore, by passing, as occasions arise, from the
examination of circumstances to that of ideas, from an exposition
of facts to an inquiry into theories, I shall only follow the
natural tendency, the tone and the demands of our age. Perhaps,
also, there is an additional reason in favour of this method,
derived from the actual disposition of men's minds. For some time
past, a decided taste, I will even say a sort of predilection,
for facts, for the practical point of view and the positive side
of human affairs, has manifested itself amongst us. We have been
so much a prey to the despotism of general ideas and theories,
and they have cost us in many respects so dear, that they have
become objects of partial distrust. We prefer to appeal to facts,
to special circumstances, and to the tests of application.
{73}
Nor is this matter for regret: it is a fresh advance, a great
step towards the knowledge and empire of truth; taking care,
nevertheless, that we avoid being carried too far by this
disposition, and provided we always bear in mind that truth alone
has a prerogative to reign in the world, and that facts have no
merit but as they give it expression, and take form upon its
model; that all true greatness springs from thought, and is
indebted to it for fruitfulness. The civilisation of our country
has this peculiar character, that it has never been wanting in
intellectual grandeur: it has always been rich in ideas: the
influence of the human understanding has been great in French
society, perhaps greater than anywhere else. It must not lose
this glorious feature, it must not fall into that somewhat
subordinate and material state which characterises other
societies. Intellect and thought must still hold in France at
least the place that they have hitherto occupied.

We shall therefore on no account shun general and philosophical
questions; we shall not beat about in search of them, but when
facts bring us on them, we shall face them without hesitation or
embarrassment. More than one occasion for this hardihood will
present itself, on considering the feudal system in its relation
to the history of European civilisation.

That the feudal system was necessary, and the only possible
social state, in the tenth century, is proved by the universality
of its establishment. Wherever barbarism ceased, everything took
the feudal form. At the first moment, men saw in it only the last
stage of chaos. All unity and general civilisation seemed finally
prorogued; society was seen dismembered on all sides, and a
multitude of petty, obscure, isolated, and incohesive societies,
to arise. This appeared to contemporaries the dissolution of all
things, a universal anarchy. Both the poets and chroniclers of
the era believed the end of the world at hand. Yet this feudal
society was so necessary and inevitable, so completely the only
possible consequence of the anterior state, that all entered into
it, all adopted its form. Even elements the most foreign to the
system--the church, municipalities, royalty--were constrained to
accommodate themselves to it: churches became superiors and
vassals, towns had lords and vassals, and royalty was hid under
the mask of paramount lordship. All things were given as fiefs--
not only lands, but certain rights, as those of cutting in
forests, and of fishing: churches gave their casualties to be
held in fief, revenues from baptisms, and the churchings of
women. And in the same manner that all the general elements of
society entered into the feudal frame, the minor details and
circumstances of common life became its objects.

{74}

On beholding the feudal form thus take possession of everything,
we are tempted to believe at the first blush that its essential
and vital principle had also universal predominance. But this is
a great error. The institutions and elements of society, which
were not analogous to the feudal system, did not renounce their
peculiar nature or principle, although borrowing the feudal form.
The feudal church did not cease to be animated and governed at
bottom by the theocratic principle; and in order to give it
prevalence, it struggled unceasingly, sometimes in concert with
the royal power, sometimes with the pope, and sometimes with the
people, to destroy the system whose livery, so to speak, it wore.
It was the same with royalty and the corporations; the first
continued, at bottom, to be actuated by the monarchical
principle, the last by the democratic. In spite of their feudal
trappings, these varied elements of the European society
constantly laboured to free themselves from a form alien to their
nature, and to assume that which corresponded to their own vital
principle.

After demonstrating the universality of the feudal form, it
behoves us, then, to avoid concluding therefrom the universality
of the feudal principle, and studying that system
indiscriminately wherever its outward aspect meets our eyes. In
order to gain a full knowledge and comprehension of it, in order
to unfold and form a judgment of its effect upon modern
civilisation, we must seek it only where the principle and form
are in harmony; we must contemplate it in the hierarchy of the
conquerors of the European territory. There truly resides the
feudal society, and upon it I shall forthwith enter.

I mentioned just now the importance of moral questions, and the
necessity of grappling with them. There is another order of
considerations quite opposed to that one, which has in general
been too much neglected; I mean the physical condition of
society, the physical changes introduced into men's modes of
existence by a new occurrence, by a revolution in the social
state. Sufficient attention has not always been paid to this
matter; inquiry has not been sufficiently directed to the
modifications these great crises in the world have produced in
the material existence of men and in their relations. These
modifications have more influence upon the entirety of society
than is usually imagined. Every one knows how much the question
of the influence of climate has been discussed, and the great
importance attached to it by Montesquieu. If the direct influence
of climate upon men be mooted, it is perhaps not so extensive as
is supposed; at all events, the appreciation is vague and
difficult. But the indirect influence of climate--that which
results, for example, from the fact, that in a hot country men
live in the open air, whilst in cold countries they shut
themselves up in habitations, and that they support themselves in
the two extremes after different modes--becomes of extreme
importance, since the mere variation in physical life has a
powerful operation on civilisation. Now every great revolution
brings with it modifications of the sort I have mentioned into
the social state, and it is incumbent upon us to give them great
attention.

{75}

The establishment of the feudal system produced one of these
changes of grave import; it completely altered the distribution
of the population on the face of the land. Previously, the
masters of the territory, the conquering population, had lived in
masses more or less numerous, either sedentary in the interior of
towns, or roving in bands over the country. By the feudal system,
these men came to live isolated, each in his habitation, at great
distances from each other. This change of course exercised
material influence upon the character and course of civilisation.
The social preponderance, the government of society, passed at
once from the towns to the country; private property necessarily
became of greater importance than public property, and in the
same manner public life was absorbed in private life. Such was
the first effect, a purely physical effect, of the triumph of the
feudal society. The farther we investigate it, the more will the
consequences of this single fact be unveiled.

In order to get more unequivocally at the part borne by this
system in the history of civilisation, let us first of all take
it in its most simple phase, in its primitive and fundamental
element; let us contemplate a possessor of a fief in his domain,
and inquire what becomes of all those who compose the petty
society around him.

He establishes himself in an isolated and elevated locality,
which he takes care to render sure and strong; he builds there
what we shall call his castle. With whom does he establish
himself? With his wife and children: perhaps some free men, who
are not proprietors, are attached to his person, and continue to
live with him and frequent his table. These are the occupiers of
the interior of the castle. Around its base is grouped a small
population of colonists and serfs, who cultivate the domain of
the owner of the fief. In the midst of this inferior population
religion erects a chapel, which attracts a priest. In ordinary
cases, during the first period of the feudal government, this
priest was at once the chaplain of the castle and the curate of
the village; in time these two characters were separated, and
each village had its minister, who dwelt beside his church. Such
was the elementary, the atomic state (so to speak), of the feudal
society. This is the condition that we have first to examine; and
we will subject it to the double question that it is expedient
for us to address to all facts--What resulted from it towards the
development, 1_st_, of man himself, 2_d_, of society?

We are strictly correct in submitting this narrow society to the
double analysation, and in relying on the result, for it is the
faithful type and image of the feudal society in its full extent.
The lord, the people of his domains, and the priest, represent
feudalism on the large scale as well as on the small, when it is
severed from royalty and the towns, which were distinct and
foreign elements.

{76}

The first fact which strikes us in considering this petty
association, is the prodigious importance which the possessor of
the fief must have had in his own eyes, and in the eyes of those
who surrounded him. The sentiment of personality, of individual
liberty, was the predominant one of the barbarian life. But here
the matter was quite altered; there was not only the independence
of the man or warrior, but also the importance of a proprietor,
of a family chief; of a master. From this position must have
sprung an impression of immense superiority, a superiority
altogether peculiar, and greatly different from anything
perceptible in the course of other civilisations. I will give an
illustration of this. I take a high aristocratic condition in the
ancient world; a Roman patrician, for example. Like the feudal
lord, he was the head of a family, a master, a superior. He was
the priest, the pontiff, in the interior of his family. Now his
importance as a religious magistrate came to him from without; it
was not an importance purely personal or individual; he received
it from above, as the delegate of the Divinity, the interpreter
of the religious doctrines attached to that idea. The Roman
patrician was, furthermore, the member of a corporation which was
gathered into one place, the senate, giving him an additional
importance derived from without, received and borrowed from his
corporation. The grandeur of the ancient aristocrats, associated
as it was with a religious and political character, belonged to
the station, to the corporation in general, rather than to the
individual. That of the possessor of a fief was purely personal;
he drew nothing from any one; all his rights and all his power
came to him from himself alone. He was not a religious
magistrate, he made part of no senate; in his own person, in his
individual self, all his importance resided, and all that he was
he was by himself, and in his own right. How great an influence
must such a position have exercised upon him who occupied it! How
much of individual haughtiness, what prodigious pride--let us not
mince the word--what insolence, must have been generated in his
mind! Above him was no superior whose representative and
interpreter he might be; near him, no equals; no powerful and
general system of law restraining him, no external control
shackling his will, and no curb upon him but the limitations of
his strength and the presence of danger. Such was the moral
result of the situation on the character of the man.

I proceed to a second consequence, also of grave moment, and too
little noticed--the particular tone of the feudal family spirit.

{77}

Let us cast a glance upon the various systems of family, taking
first of all the patriarchal, of which the Bible and the eastern
records sketch the model. Here the family was very numerous; it
formed a tribe. The chief or patriarch lived in common with his
children, his near relatives, the different generations which had
sprang up around him; in a word, his whole kindred, together with
his servants; and not only did he live with them, but he had the
same interests and occupations, and his existence was in all
things the same as theirs. Was this not the situation of Abraham,
of all the patriarchs, and of the Arab chiefs who still present
the image of the patriarchal life?

Another family system offers itself, the _clans_, a sort of
petty associations, of which the type is to be found in Scotland
and Ireland, through which in all probability a great portion of
the European world has passed. This was very different from the
patriarchal family. There existed an important distinction
between the situations of the chief and the rest of the
population: they did not lead the same life; the greater part
tilled and served, whilst the chief was an idler and a warrior.
But they had a common origin, and they all bore the same name;
whilst relations of kindred, old traditions, identity in
recollections, and feelings of attachment, established a moral
tie, a sort of equality, amongst all the members of the clan.

These are the two principal types of family association that
history supplies. But do they contain the feudal family?
Certainly not. At the first glance, some similarity may be
imagined to exist with the clan, but in reality there was a great
difference. The population which surrounded the possessor of a
fief was perfectly alien to him; it neither bore his name, nor
was there between him and it any relationship, or traditional or
moral tie. And assuredly it was not the patriarchal family. The
fief-holder led not the same life, nor surrendered himself to the
same labours, as those who encompassed him; he was addicted to
idleness and war, and their occupations were servile and
toilsome. The feudal family was not numerous; it formed no tribe;
it included simply the family, properly so called, the wife and
children, who lived apart from the rest of the population in the
seclusion of the castle. The serfs made no part of it; their
origin was distinct, and their inequality of condition
prodigious. The feudal family was composed of five or six
individuals, occupying a position at once superior and
antagonistic. In such a state, it was sure to be invested with a
peculiar character. Thus it was close and concentrated,
perpetually on the alert to defend itself, doubtful of, or at
least isolating itself from, its very retainers. The home life,
or domestic manners, were certain to become of preponderating
influence in this sequestered state. I am well aware that the
development of domestic manners would meet with great obstacles
from the brutal passions of the chief, and his habits of
consuming time in war and the chase.
{78}
But these obstacles would be overcome; the chief, of course, must
have habitually returned to his home, and there he would always
find his wife and children; they alone must have been his
permanent society, and the assured sympathisers with his
interests and projects. Under these circumstances, it was
impossible that the domestic existence should not acquire a great
sway. There are numerous proofs of it. Was it not in the bosom of
the feudal family that the importance of women received its grand
development! In all the ancient societies, not adducing those in
which the spirit of family did not prevail, but in those even
where it was potential, in the patriarchal life, for example, the
women were very far from holding the station they acquired in
Europe under the feudal system. This change or advancement in
their position was mainly owing to the development, to the
necessary preponderance, of domestic manners in the feudal state.
Its cause has been sought for in the peculiar manners of the
ancient Germans, in a sort of national respect which, it is
asserted, they paid to women amidst their primeval forests.
Founding upon a phrase of Tacitus, German patriotism has reared a
fabric of such superior gentleness, of such native and
ineffaceable purity, in the relations of the two sexes amongst
the old Germans, as is truly surprising. Similar phrases to those
of Tacitus, sentiments and usages analogous to those of the
ancient Germans, are found in the recitals of a host of
describers of savage or barbarian populations. The result was not
owing to anything primitive, or peculiar to a certain race. It
was from the consequences of a social situation strongly marked,
from the progress and preponderance of domestic manners, that the
importance of women in Europe originally sprang, and this very
preponderance became, at a very early date, an essential
characteristic of the feudal system.

A second fact, forming an additional proof of the sway of
domestic ties, likewise distinguished the feudal family--namely,
the hereditary spirit, the desire for perpetuity which clearly
prevailed in it. The idea of hereditary descent is inherent in
the spirit of family, but it never took so great a development as
in the feudal system. This resulted from the nature of the
property to which the family was linked. The fief was not like
any other property; it had constant need of a possessor to defend
it, to do its services, to fulfil the obligations cohesive to the
domain, and so maintain its position in the general association
of the lords of the soil. Thence arose a species of
identification between the actual possessor of the fief, and the
fief itself, and the series of his future successors.

This circumstance greatly contributed to strengthen and bind more
closely the family ties, already so powerful from the nature of
the feudal state.

{79}

I shall now leave the seignorial abode, and descend amongst that
petty population which surrounded it. Here things bore a very
different aspect. The nature of man is so happily disposed, so
open to impressions, that when a social situation endures any
length of time, a certain moral tie, sentiments of protection,
benevolence, and affection, are inevitably established between
those whom it draws together, whatever conditions may clog the
junction. So it happened in the feudal system. There is no doubt
that after the lapse of a certain period, some moral relations,
some habits of affectionate regard, were formed between the serfs
and the owner of the fief, in spite of their reciprocal
situation, and certainly not in consequence of it; for,
considered in itself, the situation was radically vicious. There
was nothing morally in common between the lord and the serfs;
they formed part of his domain, and were his property; under
which designation were comprised all the rights that we at
present call rights of public sovereignty, as well as the
privileges of private property, he having the right of giving
laws, of imposing taxes, and of inflicting punishment, as well as
that of disposing and selling. In fact, as between the lord and
the labourers on his domain, there were no recognised laws, no
guarantees, no society, at least so far as may be predicated of
any state in which men are brought into contact.

Hence arose, as I believe, that vast inextinguishable hatred
which the country people have borne at all times to the feudal
system, to its recollections, and to its very name. We are not
without examples that men may endure oppressive despotisms,
become used to them, and even voluntarily accept them. Both
theocratic and monarchical despotisms have more than once
obtained the sanction, almost the affection, of the population
subjected to them. The feudal despotism was always repulsive and
odious; it sat heavily on the destinies, but it never reigned
over the minds, of men. The reason of the difference is obviously
deducible from the fact, that power in a theocracy or monarchy is
exercised by virtue of principles common to the wielder and the
subject; the former is the representative and administrator of
another power, superior to all human powers; he speaks and acts
in the name of the Divinity, or of a general idea, and not in
right of man himself, and of man alone. The feudal despotism was
quite the contrary; it recognised the power of one individual
over another, the dominion of the personal and capricious will of
a man. This is perhaps the only tyranny that man, to his eternal
honour, never would yield to. Wherever he perceives that his
master is but a man, so soon as the will which weighs upon him is
but a human individual will like his own, he grows indignant, and
submits to the yoke with wrath. Such was the veritable and
distinctive character of the feudal sway, and such also was the
origin of the antipathy which it never ceased to inspire.

{80}

The religious element which was associated with it was little
calculated to lighten the burden. I do not believe that the
influence of the priest was at all considerable in the confined
society I have just depicted, nor that he succeeded, to any great
extent, in imparting a juster character to the relations between
the servile population and the lord. The church has doubtless
exercised an important influence on European civilisation, but it
has done so by proceeding in a general manner, by operating a
change on the general dispositions of men. Now when we narrowly
scrutinise the petty feudal society, limiting the designation as
I have previously done, we find the influence of the priest, as
between the lord and the serfs, almost a nullity. In the majority
of cases, he was himself as boorish and subservient as the serf,
and in very poor condition and weak inclination to bear up
against the arrogance of the superior. We can readily imagine
that he, the sole instrument to sustain and develop any sort of
moral life in the lower population, would be useful to it in that
respect, and attract some regard; he would confer a modicum of
consolation and enlightenment; but he neither could nor did
effect much in his ministry.

I have now examined the elementary feudal society, and brought
forward the principal consequences that necessarily flowed from
it, as affecting the possessor of the fief himself, his family,
and the population gathered around him. We will now emerge from
this narrow circle. The population of the fief was not alone on
the face of the land; there were other societies, analogous or
different, with which it had relations. The influence of this
general society upon civilisation, therefore, becomes our present
object of inquiry.

Before entering upon it, I will hazard a short remark. It is true
that the owner of the fief and the priest both belonged to a
general society; at a distance, they had numerous and frequent
relations. It was not so with the serfs: whenever we use a
general word, as, for instance, the word 'people,' to designate
the rural population at this epoch, which conveys the idea of a
society, one and indivisible, we speak inaccurately. For this
population there was no general society; its existence was purely
local. Beyond the territory in which they had habitation, the
serfs held communication or interests with no individual or
thing. There was for them no common destiny or common country:
they did not compose a people. Therefore when we speak of the
feudal association in its entirety, reference is made to the
owners of fiefs alone.

Let us see, then, what were the relations of the lord of the
isolated society with the general society in which he was
involved and what consequences they brought to bear upon the
development of civilisation.

{81}

The reciprocal ties that united the possessors of fiefs, the
duties attached to their tenures, the obligations of service on
one side, of protection on the other, are well known. I will not
enter into their detail; a general idea of them is sufficient for
my purpose. There must necessarily have flowed from them a
certain number of ideas and moral sentiments, conceptions of
duty, and feelings of attachment, impressed on the mind of each
proprietor. That the principle of fidelity, of devotedness, of
loyalty to engagements, and all the sentiments thereunto
persuading, were evolved and sustained by the mutual relations
amongst the holders of fiefs, is sufficiently evident.

It was attempted to convert these obligations, duties, and
feelings, into rights and institutions. Every one is aware that
the feudal system endeavoured to make matter of legal regulation
the services that the possessor of the fief owed to his superior,
and those that he might claim in return, the cases in which the
vassal could be called upon by his suzerain for a military or
money aid, and the forms in which he might obtain the consent of
his vassals for services to which they were not bound by the
holding of their fiefs. They essayed to put all these rights
under the guarantee of institutions calculated to insure respect.
Thus, the seignorial jurisdictions were intended to administer
justice between holders of fiefs, upon reclamation to their
common suzerain. Thus, also, every considerable lord gathered his
vassals into a parliament, in order to treat with them upon
affairs which required their consent or co-operation. In fact,
there was a concourse of political, judicial, and military modes,
by which they strove to organise the feudal system, and to
convert the relations of the possessors of fiefs into rights and
institutions.

But these rights and institutions had no substantiveness or
guarantee.

When we are asked in what a political guarantee consists, we are
induced to acknowledge that its fundamental character is the
constant presence in society of a force, disposed and conditioned
to impose law upon individual will and power, and to compel their
observance of rules laid down for all, and their respect to
general rights.

There are only two possible systems of political guarantees.
Either there is requisite one particular will or force, so
superior to all others, that none can resist it, and to which all
are obliged to submit when it interferes; or a public force and
will, the result of the concurrence and demonstration of
individual wills, is required to be in such a state, when once
fairly developed, as to awe and impose submission upon all.

Therefore the despotism of a single man or body, or a free
government, are the only two possible systems of political
guarantees. When we come to review the various governing forms,
we shall find that they are all assignable within one or other of
these systems.

{82}

But neither the one nor the other existed, or could exist, in the
feudal state.

Yet the possessors of fiefs were not all equal amongst
themselves, for a great many of them were powerful enough to
oppress the weaker. But there was none, even taking the king, the
first of the suzerains, who was in a condition to impose law upon
all the others, and enforce obedience. All the permanent means of
power and action were wanting; no permanent troops, or imposts,
or tribunals, were in existence. Every time a call was made for
aid on the social strength and institutions, they required a new
commencement, a fresh creation, as it were. Tribunals were to be
created at each process, an army when war was imminent, a revenue
when the necessity for money was urgent: all was occasional,
accidental, and merely adapted for the special exigency: all the
springs of a central, stable, and independent government were
deficient. In such a system, it is quite clear that no individual
was in a condition to make his will a rule for others, or to
render the general law respected by all.

On the other hand, resistance was as easy as repression was
difficult. The possessor of a fief could defend himself with
great facility, shut up in his habitation, having but a small
number of enemies to oppose, and many means of forming
coalitions, and drawing succour from vassals in the same
situation as himself.

Therefore the first system of political guarantees--namely, that
which intrusts them to the intervention of one preponderating
strength--was palpably impossible in the feudal state.

The other system, that of free government, of a public power and
force, was likewise out of the question; it never could have
taken root in the midst of feudalism. This was owing to a very
simple cause. When we speak at the present day of a public power,
and of what we call the rights of sovereignty--namely, the rights
of legislation, of taxation, and of punishment--we know and feel
that they appertain not to any individual, and that no person has
a prerogative, derived from himself alone, to punish others, or
to impose upon them a burden or a law. These are privileges which
are only vested in society as a mass, exercised in its name, and
held not from itself, but imparted from a higher influence. So
when an individual is arraigned before a power invested with
these rights, he is irresistibly, and perhaps unwittingly,
impressed with the feeling, that he is at the bar of a public and
legitimate tribunal, which holds a mission to command over him,
to which he yields a mental and immediate submission. Now, in the
feudal system, on the contrary, the holder of a fief was invested
with all the rights of sovereignty in his domain, and over the
people inhabiting it; they were inherent to the domain, and
matter of private property--so much so, that the prerogatives now
recognised as public were then private, and the public powers
were equally appropriated.
{83}
When the possessor of a fief, in the habit of exercising
sovereignty, in his own name, and by right of property, over all
the population amongst which he lived, attended an assembly or
parliament held by his suzerain--a parliament generally scanty
in numbers, and composed of his equals, or those who were nearly
so--he carried neither to it nor from it the idea of a public
power. Such an idea was in contradiction to his whole existence,
and to all that he was accustomed to do in the interior of his
domains. He saw in that assembly only men invested with the same
rights as himself, in the same situation as he was, and acting,
like him, by virtue of personal will. Nothing led or compelled
him to acknowledge in the most elevated portion of the
government, or in the institutions now known as public, that
superior and general character inherent in the idea that we
entertain of political powers. And if he were dissatisfied with
the decision, he refused to concur in it, or appealed to force to
resist it.

In reality, force was the true and habitual guarantee of rights
in the feudal system, if it be permitted to call force a
guarantee. The only means of inducing acknowledgment and respect
to rights was an incessant recurrence to force. No institution
availed; and so perfectly was this felt, that institutions ceased
to be invoked. If the seignorial courts and feudal parliaments
had been conditioned to act, they would have been much more
energetic and frequent than history represents them: their rarity
proves their uselessness.

Nor need we be surprised at this result, for it proceeded from a
cause yet deeper and more decisive than those I have just
indicated.

Of all systems of government and political guarantees, assuredly
the most difficult to establish, and give stability to, is the
federative; that system which consists in leaving to each
locality and particular society all the portion of governing
power that can possibly remain in it, and removing only that
portion which is indispensable to the maintenance of general
society, in order to form therefrom, in the heart of that
society, a central government. In fact the federal system,
although logically the most simple, is actually the most complex.
To reconcile the degree of local independence and liberty which
it leaves in force, with the degree of general order and
submission which it demands and involves in certain cases,
evidently requires a very advanced civilisation: it is absolutely
essential that the inclinations of men, and individual choice,
co-operate in the establishment and maintenance of the system
much more than in any other, for the coercive means are far
inferior.

{84}

The federal system, therefore, is one which certainly requires
the highest development of reason, morality, and civilisation, in
the society for which it is intended. Yet this was the system
that feudalism essayed to establish, for, in its general
features, it was an actual federation. It rested upon the same
principles as those upon which the confederation of the United
States of America is at present founded. It assumed to confer
upon each lord all the government and sovereignty that he could
wield, and invest the suzerain, or the general assembly of
barons, with the least possible portion of power, and this only
in cases where it was absolutely necessary. The impossibility of
establishing such a system amidst the ignorance, the brutal
passions, and the imperfect moral state of men, as existing under
the feudal regime, cannot be matter of doubt. The very nature of
such a government was utterly opposed to the manners of the men
to whom it was to be applied. Who, then, can be surprised at the
failure of these attempts at organisation!

We have now considered the feudal society, first in its most
simple and fundamental element, and latterly in its entirety.
Under these two aspects, we have endeavoured to trace what its
necessary and natural influence must have been on the course of
civilisation. We are led, as I conceive, to this double result:

1_st_, Feudalism has exercised a considerable, and, upon the
whole, a salutary influence upon the inward development of the
individual being; it excited in the minds of men energetic ideas
and sentiments, moral wants, and fine displays of character and
passion.

2_nd_, In a social point of view, it failed in founding
either legal order or political guarantees. It was a system
indispensable to give a new commencement in Europe to the society
so utterly dissolved by barbarism as to be incapable of a more
regular or extended form, and the feudal form, radically bad in
itself, could neither be reduced to regularity, nor be made
expansive. The only political right that the feudal system has
given prevalence to in the European society, is the right of
resistance. I do not speak of legal resistance, for that could
not become a question in a society so little advanced. The
progress of society alone effects the substitution, on the one
hand, of public powers for individual wills, and on the other, of
legal resistance for that offered by particular persons. In this
is the great object and chief perfection of the social order: a
considerable latitude is left to personal liberty, and when that
liberty comes to fail, and is reduced to defend its rightfulness,
it is to public reason only that appeal can be made, to decide
the process instituted against individual freedom. Such is the
system of legal order and of legal resistance. Under the feudal
system, there was of course nothing similar.
{85}
The right of resistance, supported and practised by the feudal
law, was the right of personal resistance--a terrible and
unsocial right, since it is an appeal to force, to war, which is
the destruction of society itself; but it is nevertheless a right
which can never be completely extinguished in the human mind, for
its abolition would be a recognition of servitude. The sentiment
of the right of resistance had perished in the decay of the Roman
society, and could not be raked up from its ashes; nor could it
spring very naturally, as I imagine, from the principles of the
Christian society. Feudalism, then, introduced it into the
manners of Europe. It is to the honour of civilisation to render
it always active and dormant, whilst it is to the credit of the
feudal system to have constantly professed and asserted it.

Such is the result, if I mistake not, of the examination into the
feudal society, considered in itself and in its general elements,
independently of the historical development. If we pass to facts,
to history, we shall find that everything has happened as was
destined, that the feudal regime has effected what it was sure to
do, and that its destiny has been in conformity with its nature.
Events may be adduced in corroboration of all the conjectures and
inductions that I have drawn from the mere nature of that system.

Let us cast a glance upon the general history of feudalism from
the tenth to the thirteenth century. It is impossible to be blind
to the fact, that it exercised a great and salutary influence
upon the individual development of man, of his sentiments,
character, and ideas. We cannot open the histories of that period
without meeting a crowd of noble sentiments, of great actions,
and agreeable developments of humanity, evidently springing from
the inward temper of the feudal manners. It is true, chivalry
does not resemble feudalism, yet it is its daughter. It was from
feudalism that the first notions of those lofty, generous, and
faithful sentiments came.

Again, in another point of view, the first burst of the European
imagination, the first essays at poetry and literature, the first
intellectual pleasures that Europe tasted after shaking off
barbarism, were encouraged and fostered by the feudal spirit, and
were brought forth in the recesses of the castles. For this sort
of development of humanity, a movement in the mind and in life,
leisure, a thousand conditions are required, which cannot be met
with in the toilsome, sad, and boorish existence of the common
people. Hence it is with the feudal times in France, England, and
Germany, that the first literary recollections, the first
intellectual enjoyments of Europe, are associated.

In return, if we investigate history as to the social influence
of feudalism, it will tell us, agreeably to our conjectures, that
it has been everywhere opposed, as well to the establishment of
general order, as to the extension of general liberty. In
whatever quarter we consider the progress of society, we shall
find the feudal system standing as an obstacle.
{86}
From the first period of its existence, we perceive the two
forces that have been the great levers in the development of
order and liberty, the monarchical power on the one hand, and
popular power on the other, royalty and the people attack it, and
struggle unceasingly against it. Some attempts were made at
various eras to give it regularity, to bring it to a state
somewhat legal and general; as in England by William the
Conqueror and his sons, in France by St. Louis, and in Germany by
several of the emperors. But all the trials and attempts failed,
for the very nature of the feudal society was repugnant to order
and legality. In modern times, some ingenious men have
endeavoured to dress up feudalism as a social system, and to give
it a legal, regular, and progressive form: they have made a
golden age of it. But if they are asked to adduce their proofs,
to assign a locality or a time for this Utopia, they are unable
to do so; for they would represent a drama, for which neither
theatre nor actors are to be found in the past. The cause of this
error is easy of discovery, and it is one which equally explains
the contrary mistake of those who cannot entertain the idea of
the feudal system without absolute execration. Both parties have
failed to take into consideration the double aspect under which
feudalism presents itself: to distinguish, on the one hand, its
influence upon the individual development of man, upon his
character, sentiments, and passions; and on the other, its
influences on the social state. The first are unable to conceive
that a social system should be so full of evils, and so fatal, as
is alleged, in which such lofty sentiments, and so many virtues,
are found, in which they see literature take root, and manners
assume a certain elevation and dignity. The others behold only
the ill resulting from feudalism to the mass of the population,
and the obstacles planted by it to the establishment of order and
liberty, and are unwilling to believe that noble characteristics,
great virtues, or any advancement whatsoever arose from it. Both
have overlooked the double element of civilisation, and forgotten
that it consists in two developments, one of which can be
produced in the course of time, independently of the other;
although after many ages, and a long series of events, they must
reciprocally call and bring forth each other.

In conclusion, what the feudal system was, and what it effected,
it was necessitated to be and to effect. Individuality, a
personal existence in full energy, was the predominant feature
amongst the conquerors of the Roman world, and therefore the
development of individuality necessarily resulted from the social
system founded by them. What man himself bears with him into a
social system when he enters it, his inward and moral
dispositions, powerfully influence the situation he occupies.
{87}
The situation in its turn reacts upon the dispositions, fortifies
and developes them. The individual swayed in the German society;
therefore the feudal system, the offspring of the German,
exercised its influence to the promotion of individual
development. The same fact is discernible in the various elements
of civilisation. They have remained faithful to their original
principles; they have advanced and pushed forward the world in
the route upon which they first entered. In the succeeding
lecture, which will embrace the history of the church from the
fifth to the twelfth century, and of its influence upon European
civilisation, a new and striking example will be supplied.

{88}

                   Lecture V.

  The Church From The Fifth To The Twelfth Century.

Having examined the nature and influence of the feudal system, we
next enter upon the subject of the Christian church from the
fifth to the twelfth century; of the _church_, as I have
once before remarked, because I do not purpose to descant upon
Christianity properly so called, upon Christianity as a religious
system, but upon the church, upon the Christian clergy as an
ecclesiastical society.

In the fifth century this society was almost completely
organised. Of course it has undergone since that era many and
important changes, but it may be asserted that the church,
considered as a corporation and government for the Christian
people, had attained a complete and independent existence.

It requires but a single glance to recognise a prodigious
difference between the state of the church in the fifth century,
and that of the other elements of European civilisation. I have
particularised, as the fundamental elements of our civilisation,
the municipal and feudal systems, royalty, and the church. In
that age the municipal system was a mere relic of the Roman
Empire, a lifeless and formless shadow. The feudal system had not
emerged from chaos. Royalty existed but in name. All the civil
elements of modern society were in decay or struggling infancy.
The church alone was at once young and constituted; it alone had
acquired a definitive form, and preserved all the vigour of its
first ages; it alone possessed the principle of movement and of
order, energy and system, the two great instruments of influence.
Is it not, I ask, by the moral action, the internal movement on
the one hand, and by order and discipline on the other, that
institutions are ingrafted upon societies? Besides, the church
had stirred up all the great questions which interest men; all
the problems concerning human nature, and all the chances of
human destiny, were its matters of discussion. Thus its influence
upon modern civilisation has been very great, much greater,
perhaps, than its hottest adversaries or its most zealous
defenders made it. They, occupied in serving or opposing it,
considered it only in a polemical point of view, and were unable,
as I conceive, to judge it with impartiality, or to measure it in
all its extent.

{89}

The church of the fifth century presents itself as an independent
and constituted society, standing between the masters and
sovereigns of the world, the possessors of temporal power on the
one hand, and the people on the other, serving as a link between
them, and acting upon all.

Therefore, to ascertain and perfectly understand its action, we
must consider it under three aspects. We must first of all survey
it in itself, and take account of what it was, its internal
constitution, the principles which predominated in it, its
nature; then examine it in its relations with temporal
sovereigns, kings, lords, or others; and finally, in its
relations with the people. And when, from this triple
examination, we have deduced a complete idea of the church, of
its principles, situation, and the influence it was destined to
exercise, we will verify our reasonings by history, or, in other
words, we will inquire whether facts, properly so called, are in
accordance with the results which the study of the church and of
its various relations led us to draw.

First, then, of the church in itself, of its internal state, its
nature.

The first imposing fact, and the most important perhaps, is its
mere existence--the existence of a government based on religion,
of a clergy, of an ecclesiastical corporation, of a priesthood,
of a religion in the sacerdotal state.

To very many enlightened men, these words alone, a body of
priests, a priesthood, a government based on religion, appear
decisive of the question. They are of opinion that a religion
which has worked up to a body of priests, to a clergy holding a
legal constitution, a religion, in fact, under governance,
exercises an influence, taken upon the whole, more hurtful than
beneficial. According to their idea, religion is a purely
individual affair between man and God; and whenever it loses this
character, and an external authority is interposed between the
individual and the object of his religious creed, that is to say,
the Almighty, religion is adulterated, and society endangered.

The examination of this question is imposed upon us. In order to
learn the influence exercised by the Christian church, it is
necessary to have a distinct idea of what ought to be the
influence of a church or body of clergy, from the nature of the
institution itself. To attain this end, it behoves us to enter
upon the preliminary investigation, whether religion is, in fact,
purely individual? whether it provokes, and gives rise to,
nothing more than an inward relation between each man and God? or
whether it of necessity becomes a source of new relations between
men, from which religious society, and a government for that
society, as inevitably result?

{90}

If religion be reduced to the religious sentiment properly so
called, to that sentiment certainly quite real, yet still
somewhat vague and uncertain in its object, which we cannot
further characterise than by its mere mention; that sentiment
which addresses itself sometimes to exterior nature, sometimes to
the most subtle emotions of the soul, now to poetic effusions,
now to the mysteries of the future, which ranges inimitably,
seeking everywhere for satisfaction, and fixing itself nowhere;
if religion be restricted to this sentiment, I say, then must it,
in my understanding, remain purely individual. Such a sentiment
may indeed provoke a momentary association amongst men; it may,
and in fact must, take pleasure in sympathy, and be nourished and
strengthened by it. But from its unsettled and wavering nature,
it is incapable of becoming the principle of a permanent and
extended association, or of accommodating itself to any system of
precepts, rites, and forms; in a word, to give origin to a
religious society and government.

But I am strangely at fault, if this religious sentiment gives
complete expression to the whole religious nature of man.
According to my idea, religion is a great deal more.

There are problems in human nature and in human destiny whose
solution is beyond this world, which are linked to an order of
things unknown to the visible creation, but which irrepressibly
torment the minds of men, and which they are absolutely bent upon
solving. The solution of these problems, with the creeds and
dogmas which contain, or at least profess to contain it, is the
first object, and the first source of religion.

Yet another route conducts mankind to it. To those who have
pursued philosophic studies to some extent, it is, I believe,
clear enough that morality exists independently of religious
ideas; that the distinction between good and evil in morals, and
the obligation to shun evil and do good, are laws that man
recognises in his own nature as much as the laws of logic, having
their principle inherent in him, and their application in his
actual life. But these facts being settled, and morality invested
with independence, a question arises in the human
understanding--Whence comes morality?--whither does it lead? Is
this obligation to do good, which subsists by itself, an isolated
fact, without an author or an end? Does it not veil from, or
rather does it not reveal to man, an origin and a destiny which
is not of this world? This is a spontaneous, inevitable question,
and it is one by which morality, in its turn, leads man to the
threshold of religion, and opens to him a sphere from which he
has not originally received it.

Thus, on one hand, the problems concerning our nature, on the
other, the necessity of seeking for morality a sanction, an
origin, and a purpose, are fruitful and assured sources to
religion. Hence it presents itself under many other aspects than
that of a pure sentiment, such as I have described: it presents
itself as a whole, combining, 1_st_, Doctrines evoked by the
problems which beset man himself; 2_d_, Precepts
corresponding to those doctrines, and giving a meaning and
sanction to natural morality; and, 3_d_, Promises addressed
to the hopes of futurity entertained by humanity. These are what
truly constitute religion, and such it is at bottom, and not a
mere expression of sensibility, a burst of the imagination, or a
variety in poetic inspiration.

{91}

Thus brought to its true elements, to its essence, religion no
longer appears as a matter purely individual, but as a powerful
and fruitful principle of association. First take it as a system
of creeds and dogmas. Truth belongs to none peculiarly; it is
universal and absolute; men require to seek and profess it in
common. Then as to the precepts associated to doctrines: an
obligatory law for one individual is so for all; it must be
promulgated, and all men must be brought under its empire.
Lastly, as to the promises which religion makes under sanction of
its creeds and precepts: they must be spread far and wide, and
all must be called to enjoy their blessing. Therefore it is from
the essential elements of religion that religious society arises;
and it results so infallibly from them, that the word
proselytism, which is especially applied to religious creeds, and
seems almost exclusively consecrated to them, is still that which
expresses the most forcible of social sentiments, that incessant
craving to propagate ideas, and give extension to any particular
society.

When the germs of the religious society are once laid, that is,
when a certain number of men are united in common religious
articles of belief, under a law of common religious precepts, and
in common religious hopes, a government is needed for them. No
society can exist a week, even an hour, without a government. At
the very moment that the society is formed, and by the mere fact
of its formation, it calls up a government to proclaim the common
truth, the bond of the society, and to promulgate and maintain
the precepts which that truth may bring to light. The necessity
for a power or government over the religious society, as over
every other, is implied in the fact of the existence of the
society. And not only is the government absolutely essential, but
it forms itself naturally. I cannot linger long in explaining how
government is produced and established in society at large; I
will confine myself to the remark, that when things follow their
natural laws, when force takes no part, power falls to the most
able, to the best, to those who will lead society to its object.
Is a warlike expedition contemplated? The most valiant will take
the power. Has the association in view some skilful investigation
or enterprise? The most qualified will attain the mastery. In all
cases, whenever the world is left to its natural course, the
natural inequality of men is freely displayed, and each takes the
place which he is capable of filling.
{92}
And in the religious relation, men are not more equal in talents,
powers, and capacity, than in other respects: such a man will be
more capable than another to shed light upon religious doctrines,
and to make them generally adopted; another will derive from
himself more authority to enforce the observance of the religious
precepts; and some other will excel in sustaining and raising the
emotions of the mind and the religious hopes. Hence the same
inequality in faculties and influence, which gives birth to power
in civil society, is equally its cause in religious. Missionaries
come forth and declare themselves, like generals. So that, as on
the one hand a religious government necessarily results from the
nature of a religious society, so on the other, by the mere
operation of human faculties, and their unequal distribution, its
development also is perfectly natural. Therefore, as soon as
religion is planted in man, a religious society is formed; and as
soon as the religious society appears, it produces its
government.

But here a fundamental objection arises, from the absence of
anything to ordain and impose, and from nothing coercitive being
legitimate. That there is, in fact, no scope for government,
since liberty ought to subsist unrestricted.

It is, I believe, a very confined and rude idea of government to
imagine it to reside solely, or even with regard to the force
which it exhibits to insure obedience, in its coercitive element.

I leave the religious point of view, and take civil government,
following the simple course of events. Society exists: there is
something to do, no matter what, for its interest, or in its
name; there is a law to give, a measure to take, or a judgment to
pronounce. Most assuredly there is likewise a good law to make, a
good resolve to follow, and a good judgment to deliver.
Whatsoever may be the subject under discussion, or the interest
brought in question, upon all occasions there is a truth
necessary to be known, and which ought to decide the conduct.

The first act of government is to seek out this truth, and to
discover what is just and reasonable, and what is suitable to the
society. When it has found it, it proclaims it. Then it must
endeavour to impress upon the minds of those upon whom it is to
act, that it is right, so as to gain their approval and
acquiescence. Is there anything coercive in all this? Certainly
not. Now suppose that the truth, which ought to decide the
affair, whatever it may be, is found out and proclaimed, that all
understandings are immediately convinced, all inclinations
determined, that all universally recognise the government to be
right, and give it spontaneous obedience; there is still no
coercion, there is no need for the employment of force. But is it
to be concluded from this that government has not subsisted,
that, in fact, there has been no government? Most clearly there
has been a government, and it has accomplished its true task.
Coercion comes only when the resistance of individual wills
presents itself, when the idea, or the measure which government
has adopted, obtains not the approbation or the voluntary
submission of all.
{93}
Then the government employs force to make itself be obeyed, a
necessary result of human imperfection, an imperfection residing
at once both in the governing power and in the society. There
will never be any means for absolutely avoiding it; civil
governments will always be obliged to have recourse to it in a
certain degree. But surely coercion does not constitute them;
whenever they can dispense with it, they do so, to the great
advantage of all, and their highest state of perfection is to
pass from it, and to rely upon purely moral means, upon the
influence exercised over the intelligence of men; insomuch that
the more a government departs from coercion, the more faithful is
it to its true nature, and the better fulfils its end. It is not,
therefore, lowered or unduly contracted, as is vulgarly echoed;
it acts in another manner, and that manner infinitely more
general and powerful. Those governments which employ most
coercion, effect much less than those which employ none. By
addressing itself to good sense, by convincing free wills, by
acting with means purely intellectual, a government, instead of
lowering itself, is extended and elevated, and it is under such
circumstances that it accomplishes its greatest actions. On the
contrary, it is when it is obliged to ceaselessly employ coercion
that it contracts and shrinks, effects very little, and that
little very badly.

The essence of government, then, is far from residing in
coercion, or the employment of force. That which constitutes it
most especially, is a system of means and powers, based on the
principle of truly seeking the discovery of what is fitting to be
done upon each occasion, the discovery of the truth which ought
to govern society, so that it may be afterwards made to penetrate
the minds of men, and procure their voluntary and free adoption.
The necessity for, and the existence of a government, are
therefore quite conceivable, even when there is no scope given to
coercion, or when it is absolutely interdicted.

Now this is exactly the government of a religious society. There
is no doubt that coercion is prohibited in it, for inasmuch as
the human conscience is its only territory, the employment of
force is unquestionably illegitimate, whatever may be the object
in view; but it does not the less subsist, nor is it the less
incumbent upon it to accomplish all those things previously
mentioned. It behoves it diligently to search for the religious
doctrines which solve the problems upon the human destiny, or if
there be already a general system of articles of belief in which
those problems are solved, then, in each particular case, to
unveil and place in full light the ordinances of the system; it
must promulgate and enforce the precepts which correspond to its
doctrines, and it must preach and expound them, and when society
falls from them, call it back. But nothing compulsory; simply
investigation into, the preaching and the expounding of,
religious truths; in case of need, admonitions and censure.
{94}
In this lies the task, as also the duty, of the religious
government. Set aside coercion out of view altogether, still, all
the essential questions as to the organisation of government
arise and claim a solution. For instance, the question whether a
body of religious magistrates be necessary, or whether it be
possible to trust to the religious inspiration of individuals?--
a question which is at issue between the majority of religious
societies and the Quakers--is one which will always exist, and
must always demand discussion. So also the question, whether,
when it is agreed that a body of religious magistrates is
necessary, preference should be given to a system of equality,
where the ministers of religion are equal amongst themselves, and
deliberate in common, or to a hierarchical constitution with
different degrees of power? is one which will never cease, on
account simply of all coercitive power being denied to the
ecclesiastical magistrates, whatever may be their denomination.
Instead, therefore, of seeking the dissolution of the religious
society, so as to attain a right to destroy the religious
government, we are bound to remember that the religious society
is formed in the natural order of things, and that the government
results as naturally from the society; and that the real problem
to resolve is, to determine upon what conditions this government
ought to subsist, and what are the bases, the principles, the
conditions of its legitimacy. This is the true investigation
which the necessary existence of the religious government, as of
every other, imposes.

Now the conditions of legitimacy are the same for the government
of the religious society as for every other. They may be reduced
to two: the first, that the power devolves upon and remains
constantly in the hands of the best and most capable, so far, at
least, as is practicable in the imperfection of human affairs;
that the men, legitimately superior, scattered through society,
be sought out, brought forward, and called upon to decide the
social law, and to exercise the power; the second, that power,
rightfully constituted, respects the rightful liberties of those
upon whom it is exercised. A good system in the formation and
organisation of power, and a good system of guarantees for
liberty, are the two conditions which imply the goodness of
government in general, religious or civil. They must all be
judged by this twofold criterion.

Therefore, instead of urging its existence as a reproach to the
church, or government of the Christian world, it is incumbent
upon us to investigate how it was constituted, and whether its
principles corresponded to the two essential conditions of every
good government. Let us examine the church under this double
aspect.

{95}

With regard to the creation and transmission of power in the
church, there is a word in frequent use in speaking of the
Christian clergy, which I desire to repudiate--namely, the
appellation of _caste_. The body of ecclesiastical
magistrates has been often styled a caste. The expression is far
from being a just one; for the idea of hereditary descent is
inherent in that of caste. If we take the countries in which the
system of castes was produced, India and Egypt, we shall find it
was essentially hereditary, the transmission of the same
situation and power from father to son. Where the hereditary
principle did not prevail, neither did the caste, but a
corporation. The spirit engendered in an established body has its
evil results, but it is quite different from the spirit arising
from the system of castes. The word caste cannot be at all
applied to the Christian church. The celibacy of the priests
prevented the Christian clergy from becoming a caste.

Now the consequences of this difference are considerable. To the
system of caste, to the fact of hereditary descent, monopoly is
inevitably attached. The very definition of the word proves it.
When the same functions and powers become hereditary in the same
families, it is clear that an exclusive privilege is transmitted,
and that no one can acquire these functions or powers
independently of his origin. Such, in fact, was the result; for
where the religious government fell into the hands of a caste, it
became matter of privilege, and no person entered it but those
who sprang from the families of the caste. But nothing of this
sort is met in the Christian church, and indeed so far from that
being the case, the church maintained the principle of the equal
admissibility of all men, whatever might be their origin, to all
its charges and dignities. The ecclesiastical career, more
particularly from the fifth to the twelfth century, was open to
all. The church was recruited from all ranks, from the inferior
as well as the superior, and most frequently, indeed, from the
inferior. All things were crumbling around it, under the
influence of the exclusive system; it alone maintained the
principle of equality and fair competition, and summoned the
possessors of legitimate superiority to the assumption of power.
This was the first great consequence that naturally resulted from
it being a body and not a caste.

Again, there is a spirit inherent in castes, that of immutability
or stagnation. This assertion has no need of proof. All history
informs us that the spirit of stagnation has possessed all
societies, political or religious, in which the system of castes
predominated. The fear of change or progress was certainly
introduced into the Christian church at a certain epoch, and up
to a certain point. But we cannot say that it predominated, nor
can we assert that the church has remained immovable and
stationary: during many ages it was in movement and progress,
sometimes stimulated by the attacks of an outward opposition,
sometimes impelled from within by the necessities for internal
reform and development.
{96}
Upon the whole, it is a society which has constantly changed and
progressed, and whose history is marked with corresponding
characteristics. It admits of no doubt that the indiscriminate
admission of all men to ecclesiastical charges, and the continual
recruitment of the church upon a principle of equality,
powerfully aided in maintaining and unceasingly reanimating its
activity and energy, and in preventing the triumph of the
immutable or stagnant spirit.

How was the church, thus admitting all men to power, assured as
to the justness of their claims? How did it discover, and draw
out from the obscurity of the mass, those legitimately superior
spirits entitled to take part in the government?

Two principles were vigorous in the church: first, the election
of the inferior by the superior, a power of choice and nomination
exercised by the latter; secondly, the election of the superior
by subordinates, properly an election such as we esteem it at the
present day.

The ordination of priests, for example, the faculty of making a
man a priest, belonged to the superior alone; the choice was
exercised by the superior upon the inferior. Likewise with regard
to the presentation to certain ecclesiastical benefices, amongst
other benefices attached to feudal grants, it was the superior,
whether king, pope, or lord, who named the incumbent. In other
cases, the principle of election proper was in force. The bishops
had been for a long time, and were frequently, at the epoch which
now engages our attention, elected by the body of the clergy, and
the congregations even sometimes interfered. In the cloisters of
the monasteries, the abbot was elected by the monks. At Rome, the
pope was elected by the college of cardinals, and formerly the
whole Roman clergy took part in that nomination. Therefore we
find these two principles, the choice of the inferior by the
superior, and the election of the superior by subordinates,
recognised and active in the church, especially at the epoch in
question, and it was by the one or the other of these means that
it designed the men called to exercise a portion of the
ecclesiastical power.

The co-existence of two principles so essentially different was
accompanied by a struggle for mastery. After many ages and
vicissitudes, the nomination of the inferior by the superior has
prevailed in the Christian church. But in general it was the
other principle, the choice of the superior by the subordinates,
which prevailed from the fifth to the twelfth century. There is
no reason for astonishment in the co-existence of two principles
so very distinct; for looking at society in general, at the
natural course of things, and at the manner in which power is
transmitted in the world, it is unquestionable that this
transmission is effected, sometimes according to one of these
modes, and sometimes according to the other. The church did not
invent them; it found them in the providential arrangement of
human things, and it thence borrowed them.
{97}
There is much sound sense and utility in each mode, and their
combination might often be the best means of discovering the
really legitimate claimant to power. It is a great misfortune, in
my opinion, that one of the two, the choice of the inferior by
the superior, has been victorious in the church. But the other
has never completely perished, and under different names it has
been reproduced more or less successfully at every era, so as at
all events to enter protests, and interrupt the prescription.

Returning to the epoch immediately under view, the Christian
church then derived a prodigious strength from its respect for
equality and legitimately superior minds. It was a society in the
highest degree popularised, illimitably accessible and open to
all the faculties, to all the noble aspirations, in human nature.
Thence sprang its power, much more than from its riches and the
illegitimate means of influence which it has too frequently
employed.

With regard to the second condition of a good government, respect
for liberty, the church was greatly deficient.

Two evil principles met in it; the one avowed and incorporated,
so to speak, in its doctrines; the other introduced into it by
human weakness, not as a legitimate consequence of its doctrines.

The first was the debasement of the rights of individual reason,
the pretension to transmit articles of belief from high to low
throughout the whole religious society, without allowing any one
the right of private judgment. It is more easy to lay down this
pretension as a principle, than to make it actually prevail. A
conviction does not penetrate the human intellect, unless the
intellect be itself accessory to its admission; it must be made
acceptable to reason. In whatever manner it presents itself,
whatever sanction it may invoke, reason weighs it, and if it
prevail with the human understanding, it is because of its
rationality. Thus there is always, under whatever form it may be
veiled, an action of individual reason upon the ideas which are
pretended to be imposed upon it. It is true, nevertheless, that
reason may be perverted; it may to a certain extent nullify or
emasculate itself; it may be induced to make a bad use of its
faculties, or not to make such use of them as it has a right to
do. Such, in fact, has been the consequence of this evil
principle admitted into the church, although it never had, and
never could have, an unmixed and uncontrollable action.

The second evil principle was the right of coercion arrogated to
itself by the church--a right contrary to the nature of a
religious society, to the origin of the church itself, and to its
primitive maxims--a right contested by several of the illustrious
fathers of the church, Saint Ambrose, Saint Hilary, and Saint
Martin--but which, nevertheless, was upheld, and became a
predominant assertion. The pretension of forcing to believe--if
we can put these two words together--or of physically punishing
belief, as the persecution of heresy--that is to say, contempt
for the legitimate liberty of human thought, is an error which
was introduced into the church even before the fifth century, and
has cost it dear.

{98}

If, therefore, we consider the church in its relations with the
liberty of its members, we perceive that its principles in this
respect were less legitimate and salutary than those which
presided at the formation of the ecclesiastical power. We are
not, however, to conclude that one evil principle radically
vitiates an institution, nor even that it does all the mischief
with which it is pregnant. Nothing falsifies history more than
logic. When the human understanding has fixed upon an idea, it
deduces therefrom all possible consequences; it makes it bring
forth all that in pure possibility it could bring forth, and then
represents it in history as attended by all these results. But
matters do not come out after this fashion; events are not so
prompt as the deductions of the human mind. There is in all
things a mixture of bad and good so deep-seated and invincible,
that when you dive to the most hidden elements of society or the
mind, whatever portion you open out, you there find these two
orders of things co-existent, developing themselves side by side,
and struggling with, but not exterminating each other. Human
nature never goes to the last limits either of good or bad; it
passes unceasingly from one to the other, recovering itself when
it seems nearest the fall, and faltering at the moment that its
step seems firmest. We discover here once more that
characteristic of discordance, variety, and strife, which I have
already remarked as the fundamental characteristic of European
civilisation.

There is, furthermore, a general fact illustrative of the
government of the church of which it is necessary to take notice.
At the present day, when the idea of a government, whatever may
be its nature, presents itself to us, we feel that there is no
longer any pretension of controlling aught else than the outward
actions of men, and their civil relations amongst themselves;
governments profess to go no farther. As to the human thought and
conscience, morality, properly so called, or as to individual
opinions and private manners, they do not interfere; those
matters fall to the domain of liberty.

Now the Christian church did, or wished to do, directly the
reverse. Human thought, human liberty, private manners, and
individual opinions, were precisely what it endeavoured to rule
over. It did not make a code like other powers, to define the
actions at once morally culpable and socially dangerous, and to
award them punishment in proportion only as they bore this double
character; but it set out a catalogue of all actions morally
culpable, and, under the name of sins, it punished and acted on
the design of repressing them all; in a word, the government of
the church was not applied, like modern governments, to the
outward man, and to the purely civil relations of men amongst
themselves; it was applied to the inward man, to the thought and
the conscience--that is to say, to what is held by man as most
intimately his own, to what is most free and restive to
constraint.
{99}
The church, then, by the very nature of its enterprise, in
combination with the tendency of some of the principles upon
which its government was founded, was placed in peril of becoming
tyrannical, and of using an illegitimate employment of force. But
at the same time the force encountered an opposition which it
could not vanquish. However little movement or scope may be left
to them, human thought and love of liberty react energetically
against every attempt to prostrate them, and repeatedly compel
the very despotism which they endure to step down and abdicate
its supremacy. This is what happened in the bosom of the
Christian church. We have enumerated the proscription of heresy,
the anathema upon the right of examination, the contempt for
individual reason, and the principle of the imperative
transmission of doctrines through those in authority. Yet
scarcely a society is to be found in which individual reason has
been more boldly developed than in the church. What are sects and
heresies but the fruit of individual opinions? And these sects
and heresies, and all this species of opposition encountered by
the Christian church, afford incontestible proof of the moral
life and activity which reigned in it; a troubled and painful
life, strewed with dangers, errors, and crimes, yet noble and
potential, and giving scope to the finest developments of
intellect and opinion. But setting aside the opposition, and
entering into the ecclesiastical government itself, we find it
constituted and acting in a manner quite different to what some
of its principles seem to have prescribed. It denied the right of
examination, it wished to deprive individual reason of its
liberty; yet it is to reason that it for ever addressed its
appeals; liberty was actually its mainspring. What were its
institutions and means of action? Provincial councils, national
councils, œcumenical councils, a continual correspondence and an
incessant publication of letters, admonitions, and other
writings. Never did any government proceed to such an extent in
the way of discussion and common deliberation. We might imagine
ourselves in the schools of the Greek philosophy. And yet it was
not a mere discussion or investigation of truth which was at
issue; it involved questions of authority, of measures to adopt,
of decrees to promulgate, a government in fact. But the energy of
the intellectual life in the heart of this government was such,
that it became the predominant and universal standard to which
all others yielded, and the main fact displayed on all sides was
the exercise of reason and liberty.

{100}

I am very far from concluding, on this account, that the evil
principles which I have endeavoured to unfold as existing, in my
opinion, in the system of the church, remained without effect. At
the epoch which now engages our attention, they had already
produced bitter consequences, and afterwards they were productive
of much more disastrous results; but what I mean to affirm is,
that they did not perpetrate all the mischief of which they were
capable, and that they did not smother the good which was growing
out of the same soil.

Such was the church considered in itself, in its internal state,
in its nature. I proceed to its relations with sovereigns, the
masters of temporal power. It is the second point of view under
which I promised to consider it.

When the Empire fell, and instead of the old Roman system,
instead of that government in the midst of which it had taken
root, with which it had common feelings and long-formed ties, the
church found itself exposed to those barbarous kings and chiefs
roaming over the country or quartered in their castles, to whom
no tie founded on a community of traditions, creeds, or
sentiments, united it; the danger which impended over it was
great, and of corresponding magnitude was its terror.

The idea which then seized predominantly upon the church was to
gain possession of the new-comers, or, in other words, to convert
them. The relations between the church and the barbarians had
scarcely any other object at first.

In order to captivate the barbarians, it was chiefly necessary to
address their senses and imagination. Therefore we find that at
this epoch the number, pomp, and variety of ceremonious rites
were augmented. The chronicles prove that it was mainly by these
means that the church acted upon the barbarians. She converted
them by imposing spectacles.

When the barbarians were finally established and converted, and
some ties formed between them and the church, it did not cease to
incur great danger from them. The brutality and recklessness in
the barbarian manners were such, that the new creed, and the
sentiments with which it had inspired them, exercised very little
sway over them. Violence soon reassumed the upper hand, and the
church was a victim to it equally with the rest of society. As a
means of defence, it proclaimed a principle formerly asserted,
although more indefinitely, under the Empire--namely, the
separation of spiritual from temporal power, and their reciprocal
independence. By the aid of this principle it was that the church
continued unmolested by the barbarians. The church maintained
that force could have no action upon a system of religious
articles, hopes, and promises, and therefore that the temporal
world was completely severed from the spiritual.

{101}

The salutary consequences resulting from this principle are
discernible at a glance. Independently of the temporary utility
it was to the church, it had the inestimable advantage of placing
on the basis of right the separation of the two powers, and of
controlling them by means of each other. Furthermore, by
sustaining the independence of the intellectual world in general,
in its full extent, the church prepared the way for the
independence of individual intellect and of thought. The church
said that the system of religious belief could not fall under the
yoke of force, so each individual was tempted to use the same
language on his own account. The principle of free discussion or
examination, and of liberty for individual thought, is exactly
the same as that of the independence of the general spiritual
authority with respect to the temporal power.

Unfortunately, it is an easy matter to pass from the want of
liberty to the lust of dominion. The church exhibited a proof of
it at this period. By a tendency natural to human ambition and
pride, the church endeavoured to establish for the spiritual
power not only independence, but supremacy over the temporal
power. Yet we must not believe that this pretension had no other
source than the failings of humanity; there were others still
deeper, which it behoves us to inquire into.

When liberty reigns in the intellectual world, when the human
thought and conscience are not subjected to a power which denies
them the right of discussion and decision, and employs force to
crush them--when, in fact, there is no visible and constituted
spiritual government, arrogating and exercising the right of
dictating opinions--then is the idea of the dominion of a
spiritual order over a temporal impossible. Such is pretty nearly
the present state of the world. But when there exists, as in the
tenth century did exist, a government of the spiritual order;
when thought and conscience come under laws, institutions, and
powers, which assert a right to command and coerce them; in a
word, when the spiritual power is constituted, when it has taken
effective possession, under the sanction of right and of force,
of human reason and conscience, it is natural that it should be
tempted to lay claim to dominion over the temporal order, and
that it should exclaim, 'How! I have right and sway over what is
most lofty and independent in man--over his reason, his inward
will, his conscience--and shall I not have right over his
outward, material, and fleeting interests? I, who am the
interpreter of justice and truth, shall I be debarred from
regulating earthly matters according to justice and truth?' By
the mere provocative of this reasoning, the spiritual order was
sure to be urged into an invasion of the temporal order. And this
was still more certain when the spiritual order monopolised all
the developments of the human mind then possible: there was but
one science, theology; but one spiritual order, the theological:
all the other sciences, rhetoric, arithmetic, even music,
everything was comprised in theology.

{102}

The spiritual power thus finding itself at the head of the whole
activity of the human brain, naturally fell into a
self-assumption of the general government of the world.

A second cause was equally powerful in urging it to this
appropriation--namely, the frightful state of the temporal order,
and the violence and iniquity which prevailed in the temporal
government of all communities.

We can speak of the rights of the temporal power without
difficulty; but at the epoch under review, the power in question
was a mere brute force, an intractable ruffianism. The church,
however imperfect its notions of morals and of justice might
still be, was infinitely superior to such a government, and the
cry of the people was continually raised, beseeching it to take
its place. When a pope or a few bishops proclaimed a sovereign
denuded of his rights, and his subjects freed from the oath of
fidelity, such an intervention, although doubtless open to
serious abuses, was often in particular cases legitimate and
salutary. In general, whenever liberty has been wanting to
mankind, its restoration has been the work of religion. In the
tenth century, the people were not in a state to defend
themselves, or to make their rights available against civil
violence, and religion came to the rescue in the name of Heaven.
This is one of the reasons which have mainly contributed to the
victories of the theocratic principle.

There is a third cause for the arrogation of the spiritual order,
which has been too little noticed, arising out of the complexity
in the situation of the chiefs of the church, and the variety of
aspects under which they appeared in society. On the one hand
they were prelates, members of the ecclesiastical order, part and
parcel of the spiritual power, and by right thereof independent;
on the other they were vassals, and, as such, engaged in the
bonds of civil feudalism. And, furthermore, they were not only
vassals, but also subjects: some portion of the old relations of
the Roman emperors with the bishops and clergy had passed into
those formed between the priesthood and the barbarian kings. By a
series of causes which it would be too tedious to develop, the
bishops had been led to regard, to a certain extent, the
barbarian sovereigns as successors of the Roman emperors, and to
attribute to them all their prerogatives. The chiefs of the
clergy had therefore a triple character--an ecclesiastical
character, and, as such, independent; a feudal character, and, as
such, bound to certain duties, and holding by certain services;
and the character of a simple subject, and, as such, held to obey
an absolute sovereign. Now, the temporal sovereigns, who were not
less greedy or ambitious than the bishops, frequently availed
themselves of their rights as lords or sovereigns to encroach
upon the spiritual independence, and to possess themselves of the
presentation to benefices, the nomination to bishoprics, &c.
{103}
On their side, the bishops often intrenched themselves behind
their spiritual independence, to get rid of their obligations as
vassals or subjects. In this manner there was an almost
inevitable tendency leading the sovereigns, on the one hand, to
destroy the spiritual independence; and the chiefs of the church,
on the other, to make that independence an instrument to work out
universal dominion.

This result has been illustrated by facts notorious to all, as in
the disputes concerning investitures, and the struggles between
the priesthood and the empire. The distinct positions of the
chiefs of the church, and the difficulty of reconciling them,
have been the real source of the uncertainty and the contests
with regard to these pretensions.

Finally, the church had a third relation with the sovereigns, the
least favourable, and the most disastrous, for itself: it laid
claim to coercion, to the right of repressing and punishing
heresy: but it had no means to effect this; it had no physical
force at its disposal; so that when it had condemned heresy, it
was unable of itself to put its judgment in execution. In this
strait it invoked what was called the secular arm; in other
words, it borrowed the force of the civil power as a means of
coercion. In consequence, it placed itself, with regard to the
civil power, in a situation of dependence and inferiority. Such
was the deplorable necessity to which the adoption of the evil
principle of coercion and persecution reduced the church.

There remains to be considered the relations of the church with
the people, which I shall enter upon in the next lecture, as well
as such other questions as arise out of this branch of our
inquiry.

{104}


                   Lecture VI.

      Relations Of The Church With The People.

I have preliminarily laid down that the church ought to be
considered under three principal aspects: firstly, in itself, in
its internal constitution, in its nature, and as a distinct and
independent society; secondly, in its relations with sovereigns
and the temporal power; and finally, in its relations with the
people. We have accomplished the two first divisions of this
task, and I now proceed to the last. I shall subsequently
endeavour to draw from this triple examination a general
appreciation of the influence of the church upon European
civilisation from the fifth to the twelfth century. I shall then
verify my assertions by an epitome of facts, by the history of
the church at that epoch.

In speaking of the relations of the church with the people, I am
of course obliged to restrict myself to very general terms. I
cannot enter into a detail of the usages of the church, or of the
every-day relations of the clergy with the faithful. The
predominant principles, and the great results of the system, and
of the conduct of the church towards the Christian people, are
what I concern myself with.

The main characteristic, and the radical vice (for so it must be
called) of the relations of the church with the people, was the
separation of the governing and the governed, the non-influence
of the governed over their government, the independence of the
Christian clergy, with reference to the body of the faithful.

This evil must have been provoked, one would imagine, by the
state of man and of society, for it was introduced into the
Christian church at a very early date. The separation was not
fully consummated at the era we are contemplating, as upon
certain occasions, the elections of bishops, for instance, there
was still an occasional direct interference by the Christian
flocks in their government. But such efforts were weak and rare;
and even from the second century of our era, this intervention
had commenced a visible and rapid decline. A tendency to the
isolation and independence of the clergy is in some degree the
burden of church history from its dawn.

It cannot be denied that from this circumstance has arisen the
major part of the abuses which, at this period, and still more at
a later date, have so injured the church. We must not, however,
impute them absolutely to it, or regard this tendency to
isolation as peculiar to the Christian clergy. There is, in the
very nature of a religious society, a strong inclination to raise
the government far above the governed, and to attribute to the
former something distinct and holy.
{105}
It comes from the mission itself with which they are charged, and
from the character under which they offer themselves to the eyes
of the multitude. Yet this result is more baneful in a religious
society than in any other. What is at stake to the governed?
Their reason, their conscience, their immortal destiny--that is
to say, such considerations as are most strictly inward, most
individual to each, and most incapable of thraldom. We can, to a
certain extent, imagine that, although some evil may result from
it, mankind may abandon to a visible authority the direction of
their material interests and temporal destiny. We can understand
the philosopher who, on being informed that his house was on
fire, answered, 'Go and tell my wife: I have nothing to do with
the affairs of the household.' But when the matter at issue is
conscience, thought, the inward moral existence, for men to
abdicate the government of themselves, and to give themselves up
to a foreign sway, is an actual moral suicide, a servitude a
hundred times more abject than can befall the body, or than that
endured by the tethered serf.

Such, nevertheless, was the evil which overbore the church in its
relations with the faithful, though its weight became alleviated,
as I shall hereafter demonstrate. We have already seen, that for
the clergymen themselves, and in the heart of the church, liberty
had no guarantee. For laymen, and outside the church, the matter
was much worse. Amongst ecclesiastics, there was at all events
discussion, deliberation, and a deployment of individual
faculties; with them the excitement of dispute supplied in some
sort the lack of liberty. But there was nothing of this
description between the clergy and the people. The laymen
assisted in the government of the church as simple spectators.
And thus we perceive that idea so early vegetate and expand, that
theology, or religious questions and affairs, are the privileged
domain of the clergy, that the clergy alone have a right to
decide, or even to canvass them, and that on no account, or under
any pretence, ought laymen to interfere. At the era under review
this theory was already in full blossom; and it has required ages
and terrible revolutions to subdue it, and to bring back, even
partially, religious questions and science to the public domain.

Therefore, in principle as well as in fact, the legal separation
of the clergy and the Christian people was nearly complete before
the twelfth century.

In spite of this, however, the Christian people were not without
influence, even at this epoch, upon their government. Legal
interference was wanting to it, but not influence. In fact its
extinction is scarcely possible in any government, much less in
one founded upon articles of belief common to the governing and
the governed.
{106}
Whenever an actual community of ideas is developed, or an
intellectual movement of the same order is participated by both
government and people, a bond necessarily exists between them
which no viciousness in the organisation can utterly break. To
give a clear explanation of my meaning, I will take an example
from our own history of the political cast. At no date in the
history of France have the French people had less legal control
over their government, by means of institutions, than in the
seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, under Louis XIV. and Louis
XV. Every one knows that almost all the direct and official
interference of the country, in the exercise of authority, had
died away at those periods. Yet there is no doubt that the public
and the country then exercised much more influence over the
government than at other times--in those, for instance, in which
the States-General were frequently convoked, in which the
parliaments took considerable part in politics, and in which the
legal participation of the people with power was unquestionably
greater.

It is because there is a force which laws do not entomb, and
which, upon occasion, can shake off the burden of institutions,
the force of ideas, of public intelligence and opinion. In the
France of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, there was a
public opinion much more potential than at any other epoch.
Although it was debarred from legal means of acting on the
government, it acted indirectly, by the sway of ideas common to
the governing and the governed, and by the impossibility
experienced by the rulers to set at nought the opinion of
society. A similar fact occurred in the Christian church of the
fifth to the twelfth centuries: the Christian people, it is true,
were deficient in means of legal action, but there was a great
mental movement in religious matters, which operated conjointly
upon laymen and ecclesiastics, and gave means of action to the
people upon the clergy.

In studying history, it is essential to set great value upon
indirect influences in all things, for they are much more
efficacious, and sometimes more salutary, than are commonly
represented. It is natural for men to wish that their action
should be prompt and palpable, and to derive pleasure from taking
part in their own success, power, and triumph. But this is not
always possible, nor even useful. There are times and situations
in which indirect and imperceptible influences are alone
advantageous and practicable. I will again adduce an example of
the political order. More than once, in 1641 especially, the
English parliament has claimed, like many other assemblies in
analogous cases, the right of directly nominating the great
officers of the crown, the ministers and councillors of state,
&c. regarding this direct interference in the government as a
great and precious guarantee.
{107}
It has sometimes exercised this privilege, and the experiment has
always met with bad success. Yet what takes place now in England?
Is it not the influence of the two houses of parliament which
decides the formation of the ministry, and the nomination of all
the great officers of the crown? Certainly; but it is an indirect
and general influence, instead of a special intervention. The
result for which England has long laboured is produced, but by
another course; the first had never worked beneficially.

There is a reason for this, upon which I shall linger for a
moment. The direct action requires, in those to whom it is
confided, an unusual share of enlightenment, sound sense, and
prudence: as they aim at reaching their point at once, and
without delay, they have good need of caution, lest their
enterprise be ill-timed, and fail. Indirect influences, on the
contrary, encounter obstacles ere they come into play, and
undergo trials which test and rectify them: before succeeding,
they are subjected to discussion, opposition, and restriction:
their triumph is slow, and upon conditions, in a certain degree.
Therefore, when the minds of men are not sufficiently advanced
and ripened to render the direct action secure, indirect and
mitigated influences are preferable. It was thus that the
Christian people acted on their government, very incompletely,
and far too stintedly, I am aware, yet they certainly did act.

There was likewise another cause of reconcilement between the
church and laymen, existing in the dispersion, so to speak, of
the Christian clergy amongst all the conditions of society.
Almost everywhere, when a church has been constituted independent
of the people whom it governed, the body of priests has been
formed of men nearly in the same situation; not that marked
inequalities did not prevail amongst them; but still, upon the
whole, the power has been vested in colleges of priests, living
in community, and governing, from the depths of a temple, the
people bowing under their yoke. The Christian church was quite
differently organised. From the miserable hut of the boor or
serf, at the foot of the feudal castle, to the palace of the
king, there was throughout society a priest or member of the
clerical body. Clergymen were associated to all conditions of
men. This diversity in the situation of the Christian priests,
this sharing in all fortunes, has been a great principle of union
between the clergy and laymen, which has been entirely wanting to
the majority of churches invested with power. The bishops and
chiefs of the Christian church were furthermore, as has been
previously mentioned, mixed up with the feudal organisation, and
were members of the civil as well as of the ecclesiastical
hierarchy. Hence arose common interests, usages, and manners,
between the civil and religious orders. It has been judged
scandalous, and reasonably, that bishops waged war, and that
priests led the life of laymen.
{108}
Assuredly it was a great abuse, and yet one infinitely less
disastrous than was elsewhere the existence of those priests who
never issued out of the temple, and who were altogether separated
from the people in their course of life. The bishops, who took
part, to a certain extent, in the civil disorders, were of more
avail than priests, complete strangers to the population, its
affairs, and its manners. In this respect there was a parity of
destiny and situation between the clergy and the people, which,
if it did not correct, certainly lessened, the evil of the
separation between the rulers and the governed.

Now, this separation being admitted, and its limits and
countervailing influences determined, let us next inquire how the
church governed, in what manner it acted upon the populations
subject to its empire; what it effected, on the one hand, for the
development of the man, for the moral advancement of the
individual, and, on the other, for the amelioration of the social
state.

To speak the truth, I do not believe that, at the era in
question, the church concerned itself greatly about the
development of the individual. It endeavoured to inspire the
powerful in the world with milder sentiments, and to induce them
to act with more justice in their relations with the weak; and it
taught the oppressed to lead a moral life, and to indulge in
sentiments and hopes of a loftier order than those to which their
immediate destiny condemned them. Yet for individual development,
properly so called, for imparting value to the personal nature of
men, I do not believe that the church then did much, at least so
far as laymen were concerned. What it did was confined to the
ecclesiastical society itself; it made great exertions for the
development of the clergy, for the instruction of priests; for
them it had schools, and all the institutions which the
deplorable state of society allowed. But they were ecclesiastical
schools, appointed for the instruction of the clergy alone, and,
with their exception, the church acted indirectly, and by very
slow means, towards the progress of ideas and manners. It
doubtless gave a stimulus to general mental activity by the
career it proffered to all those whom it judged capable of
serving it; but that was pretty nearly all it did, at that
period, for the intellectual development of the laity.

It had a greater influence, and acted in a more efficacious
manner, towards the amelioration of the social state. It
resolutely struggled against the great vices of the social
state--for example, against slavery. It has been often asserted
that the abolition of slavery in modern Europe was exclusively
owing to Christianity. I think that is saying too much. Slavery
long existed in the heart of the Christian society, without
greatly exciting its astonishment, or drawing down its anathema.
A multitude of causes, and a great development in other ideas of
civilisation, were required to eradicate this evil of evils, this
iniquity of iniquities.
{109}
Yet it is indubitable that the church employed its influence in
restraining it. There exists an unquestionable proof of this
fact. The greater part of the formulas of enfranchisement, made
out at different eras, are founded upon a religious motive; it is
upon the invocation of religious ideas, of hopes of eternal
bliss, and of the equality of men in the eyes of Heaven, that the
enfranchisement is almost invariably pronounced.

The church laboured likewise for the suppression of a great many
barbarous practices, and for the amelioration of the criminal and
civil legislation. Although containing certain principles of
liberty, the laws were absurd, and fruitful of injustice; the
most stupid ordeals, the judicial combat, and the unsupported
oaths of a specified number of men, were esteemed the only means
of arriving at the discovery of truth. The church strove to have
more rational and legitimate means substituted. I have already
spoken of the difference observable between the laws of the
Visigoths, derived principally from the councils of Toledo, and
the other barbarian laws. It is impossible to compare them,
without being struck with the immense superiority of the ideas of
the church on the subject of legislation and the administration
of justice, in all that relates to the investigation of truth and
of what is befitting to man. Doubtless most of these ideas were
borrowed from the Roman legislation; but if the church had not
preserved and asserted them, and done its utmost to propagate
them, they would certainly have perished. For example, the
employment of the oath in process is wisely regulated in the law
of the Visigoths.

'Let the judge, in order fully to understand the cause, first
interrogate the witnesses, and then examine the writings, so that
the truth may be discovered with more certainty, and the oath not
too lightly administered. A determination according to truth and
justice requires that the writings on both sides be carefully
examined, and that the necessity for the oath, kept in suspense
over the heads of the parties, come upon them unexpectedly. Let
the oath be administered only in causes in which the judge shall
not succeed in discovering any writing, any proof, or any certain
clue to the truth.'--(For. Jud. 1. ii. tit. i. 1. 21.)

In criminal matters, the relation of the punishments to the
offences is determined according to philosophical and moral
notions, of singular justness. The efforts of an enlightened
legislator struggling against the violence and irreflectiveness
of the barbarian manners, are clearly distinguishable. The
enactments under the title or head of '_Cœde et morte
hominum_'--['Of the slaying and death of men'], compared to
those of a correspondent nature in use amongst other nations, is
a very remarkable example of these characteristics.
{110}
In other codes, it is almost exclusively the damage which is held
to constitute the crime, and the penalty is comprised in that
tangible reparation which results from a principle of
composition. But here the crime is reduced to its moral and true
element, intention. The different shades of criminality, the
purely involuntary homicide, accidental homicide, justifiable
homicide, and homicide with or without premeditation, are
distinguished and defined almost as well as in our codes, and the
punishments vary on a very equitable scale. The legislator has
rendered justice more indiscriminate; he has attempted, if not to
abolish, at least to lessen, that diversity in the legal value of
men established by the other barbarian laws. The only distinction
he has maintained is that of the free man and the slave. With
regard to free men, the punishment is not varied either according
to the national origin, or according to the rank of the defunct,
but simply according to the different degrees of moral
culpability in the murderer. With regard to slaves, not venturing
to completely deprive masters of the right of life and death,
attempts are at all events made to restrain it, by making it
subject to a public and regular process. The text of the law
deserves to be cited.

  'If no malefactor or accomplice in a crime ought to remain
  unpunished, how much more ought he to be put down who commits
  murder wickedly and trivially! Thus, as masters in their pride
  frequently put their slaves to death without any fault on their
  parts, it is expedient to utterly abrogate this license, and to
  ordain that this law shall be for ever observed by all. No
  master or mistress shall be allowed to inflict death, without
  public judgment, upon any of their slaves, male or female, or
  upon any person dependent upon them. If a slave or any other
  servant commits a crime which may subject him to capital
  punishment, his master or his accuser shall immediately make it
  known to the judge of the place where the action has been
  committed, or the count, or the duke. After investigation into
  the matter, if the crime is proved, let the guilty undergo,
  either through the judge or his own master, the sentence of
  death he has deserved; provided that, if the judge will not put
  the criminal to death, he shall draw up in writing a capital
  sentence against him, and then it shall be in the discretion of
  the master to slay him or to spare his life. At the same time,
  if the slave, by a fatal audacity, offering resistance to his
  master, has struck him, or attempted to strike him, with a
  weapon, a stone, or any other thing, and if the master,
  endeavouring to defend himself, has slain the slave in his
  anger, he shall not be at all held amenable to the penalties of
  homicide. But it shall be necessary to prove that the fact has
  thus happened, and that by the testimony or oath of the male or
  female slaves who were present, and by the oath of the
  perpetrator himself. Whoever, from pure wickedness, by his own
  hand, or by that of another, shall kill his slave without
  public judgment, shall be declared infamous, and incapable of
  appearing as a witness, condemned to pass the rest of his life
  in exile and penitence, and his possessions fall to his next of
  kin, to whom the law accords the inheritance.'--(For. Jud. 1.
  vi. tit. v. 1. 12.)

{111}

In the institutions of the church there was an article which has
been hitherto very little noticed--namely, its penitential
system. The study of this system is rendered much more
interesting at the present day, since it is almost completely in
accordance with the ideas of modern philosophy as to the
principles and objects of the penal law. If we investigate the
nature of the punishments used by the church, of the public
penances which were its principal mode of inflicting
chastisement, we shall find that their main design was to excite
repentance in the mind of the criminal, and moral terror by the
example in the beholders. There was also another idea mixed up
with it--that of expiation. In a general point of view, I do not
know if it be possible to separate the idea of expiation from
that of punishment, and if there be not in every punishment a
hidden and imperative demand for the expiation of the wrong
committed, independently of the design of leading the guilty to
repentance, and of scaring those who might be tempted to fall
into crime. But putting aside this question, it is quite clear
that repentance and example were the objects proposed by the
church in its penitential system. Are these not also the objects
of truly philosophic legislation? Have not the most enlightened
jurists of the last age, and of our own days, advocated reform in
the European penal legislation, upon the allegation of these very
principles? Look at their works--look at those of Bentham, for
example--and you will be surprised at the numerous resemblances
you will find between the penal modes proposed by them and those
employed by the church. They most certainly did not borrow them
from her, nor could she have foreseen that her example might be
one day adduced in aid of plans propounded by the least devout of
philosophers.

By all sorts of methods the church likewise strove to repress the
tendency of society to violence and continual wars. Every one is
aware that it was by 'the truce of God,' and numerous measures of
the same nature, that the church struggled against the employment
of force, and devoted itself to introduce into society a greater
degree of order and mildness. These facts are so well known, that
I am spared the trouble of entering into any detail. [Footnote 9]

    [Footnote 9: As many readers of this edition may not be such
    perfect masters of these facts as M. Guizot's auditory, it
    may be permitted the translator to mention, that the first
    volume of Robertson's History of Charles V. will be found the
    best expositor of these and other references which may not be
    familiar to the reader.]

{112}

Such are the principal points which I have to bring forward
regarding the relations of the church with the people. We have
now considered it under the three aspects which I first
announced, and gained a knowledge of it both within and without,
both in its internal constitution, and in its twofold outward
position. It now remains to apply our knowledge to decide, by
means of induction and conjecture, its general influence upon
European civilisation. This is a labour almost accomplished, or
at least much advanced, as the simple announcement of the
predominant facts and principles in the church reveals and
explains its influence; the results have in some sort already
passed before us with the causes. However, in summing them up, we
are led, I think, to two general conclusions.

The first is, that the church must necessarily have exercised a
very considerable influence upon moral and intellectual order in
modern Europe, and upon public ideas, sentiments, and manners.
That the fact is unquestionable, is proved by the moral and
intellectual development of Europe being essentially theological.
A survey of history from the fifth to the sixteenth century
exhibits theology possessing and directing the human
understanding, and giving its impress to all opinions:
philosophical, political, and historical questions, were all
considered under a theological point of view. The church was so
supreme in the intellectual order, that even mathematical and
physical sciences were held to be subject to its doctrines. The
theological spirit was, as it were, the blood which flowed in the
veins of the European world, until Bacon and Descartes--Bacon in
England, and Descartes in France--were the first to carry
intellect out of the beaten tracks of theology.

The same fact is found in all branches of literature; theological
modes of thought, feeling, and expression, are displayed at every
step.

Upon the whole, this influence was salutary. Not only did it keep
up, and render productive, the intellectual movement in Europe,
but the system of doctrines and precepts, under sanction of which
it imparted the movement, was very superior to anything that the
ancient world had known. Movement and advancement existed at one
and the same time.

The situation of the church, furthermore, has given an extension
and variety to the development of the human mind which it never
had previously. In the East, intellectual progress was altogether
religious; in the Greek society it was almost exclusively human;
in the one, humanity, properly so called, its actual nature and
destiny, completely disappeared; in the other, it was man
himself, his immediate passions, sentiments, and interests, which
occupied the whole stage. In the modern world, the religious
spirit has mingled with all things, without excluding any. Modern
intelligence is impressed at once with humanity and divinity.
{113}
Human sentiments and interests hold a material place in our
literatures, and yet the religious character of man--that portion
of his existence which is directed to another world--appears at
every step therein; insomuch that the two great sources of the
development of man, humanity and religion, have flowed
abundantly, and at the same time; so that, in spite of all the
evil and all the abuses mixed up with it, in spite of all its
acts of tyranny, in an intellectual point of view the church has
exercised an influence more calculated for development than
repression, for expansion than contraction.

In a political point of view, the matter is very different. There
can be no doubt that by softening feelings and manners, by
decrying and suppressing a great number of barbarous practices,
the church powerfully contributed to the amelioration of the
social state; but in the political order, as properly defined, in
that which affects the relations of government with subjects, of
power with liberty, I do not believe that, upon the whole, its
influence has been beneficial. Under this head the church has
always come forward as the interpreter and defender of two
systems--the theocratical and the imperial--that is to say, of
despotism, sometimes under a religious form, sometimes under a
civil form. Taking all its institutions, its entire
legislation--taking its canons, and its modes of procedure--the
principle of theocracy, or of the old empire, is throughout found
predominant. When weak, the church sheltered itself under the
absolute power of the emperors; when strong, it claimed that
absolutism on its own account, on the plea of its spiritual
power. We need not linger in adducing facts or particular cases.
There is no question that the church often invoked the rights of
the people against the bad government of the sovereigns; it often
even approved of, and stimulated, insurrections; and it likewise
frequently advocated, in its intercourse with the sovereigns, the
rights and interests of the people. But whenever the question of
political guarantees has arisen between power and liberty,
whenever attempts have been made to establish a system of
permanent institutions, which might truly and effectually shelter
liberty from the encroachments of power, the church has generally
ranged itself on the side of despotism.

There is no occasion for much astonishment at this, or to charge
upon the clergy an undue proportion of human weakness, or to
imagine it a vice peculiar to the Christian church. It has a much
deeper and more powerful origin.

What does every religion lay claim to? The governance of human
passions and of human will. Every religion is a curb, a power, a
government. It comes in the name of divine law to subdue human
nature. Therefore human liberty is its especial antagonist, which
it is its object to vanquish. To this purpose is its mission and
hope directed.

{114}

But although religions have to struggle with human liberty, and
although they aspire to cast the will of man in a new mould, at
the same time they have no other moral means of acting upon man
than what he himself supplies, than his own will and liberty.
When they act by outward means, as by force or seduction--in
other words, by means other than the free concurrence of man--
they treat him as we would one of the elements, water or wind, as
a purely physical or material power; and they fail in their
object, for they do not thereby reach or influence the
inclination. For religions really to accomplish their task, it is
necessary that man yields himself up to them, but voluntarily and
of his own free will, and that he preserves his liberty even
amidst his submission. Religions are thus called to solve a
double problem.

This they have too often overlooked. They have considered liberty
as an obstacle, and not as a means; they have forgotten the
nature of the force to which they were to address themselves, and
have acted with the human soul as with a material object. It is
in consequence of this error that they have been led to range
themselves on the side of power or despotism against human
liberty, regarding it only as an adversary, and straining much
more to subdue it than to procure it guarantees. If religions had
well considered their means of action, if they had not given way
to a natural but deceitful tendency, they would have discovered
that their province was to strengthen liberty, in order morally
to control it, that religion can, and ought to act only by moral
influences; and they would have respected the free will of
mankind, whilst applying themselves to direct it. This they have
not done, and in the end the religious influence has itself
suffered as much as liberty.

I will not go further with the examination into the general
consequences of the influence of the church upon European
civilisation. I sum them up in this twofold result--a great and
salutary influence upon the intellectual and moral development;
an influence more disastrous than beneficial upon the political
order of things, properly so called. We have now to test our
assertions by facts, and to verify by history what we have
deduced from the mere nature of the ecclesiastical society, and
the situation occupied by it. Let us see what was the condition
of the Christian church from the fifth to the twelfth century,
and whether, in fact, the principles which I have laid down, and
the results I have endeavoured to draw from them, were such in
their development as I have ventured to surmise.

We are not to believe that these principles and consequences have
all appeared at once, and as connectedly as I have presented
them. It is a signal, and yet a very common error, when
contemplating the past at the distance of many centuries, to
forget with a singular obliviousness that history is essentially
successive.
{115}
Take the life of a man, of Cromwell, Gustavus Adolphus, or
Cardinal Richelieu. He enters upon his career, and marches
forward; great events influence him, he influences great events;
finally he reaches the goal. Then we know him, but in his
entirety, such as long experience and varied events have made
him. [Footnote 10]

    [Footnote 10: The original is not strictly followed in this
    phrase. M. Guizot gives vent to the following conceit:--'Tel
    qu'il est sorti en quelque sorte, après un long travail, de
    l'atelier de la Providence.']

Now, at starting he was not what he thus became, nor at any
single period of his life was he complete and fully fashioned:
his development was by a successive process. Men have a moral
growth as well as a physical: every day brings its change: their
being is perpetually undergoing modifications. The Cromwell of
1650 was not the Cromwell of 1640. There is, of course, always a
certain individuality at bottom--it is the same man who works his
way; but how changed are his ideas, his feelings, his designs!
How many things were lost and acquired! In a word, whatever
moment we may select in the life of a man, there is none in which
he was such as we behold him when its term is reached.

Nevertheless, the majority of historians have fallen into error
upon this point. Because they have acquired a complete idea of a
man, they see him such during the whole course of his career: to
them it is the same Cromwell who entered parliament in and who
died thirty years afterwards in Whitehall palace. And with regard
to institutions and general influences, the same mistake is
incessantly committed. Let us take care to avoid it. I have
sketched in their whole bearing the principles of the church and
their consequences, but historically the picture is not correct.
The whole has been partial, successive, distributed here and
there over space and time. Our entirety, our prompt and
systematic concatenation, will not be found in the recital of
actual facts. Here one principle shoots forth, there another; all
is incomplete, dissimilar, and scattered; and it is only by
coming to modern times, to the end of the career, that the whole
result is perceived.

I shall proceed to represent the different states through which
the church passed from the fifth to the twelfth century. I
thereby go to the fountain head; and if I fail in the complete
demonstration of the assertions that I have thrown out, yet
perhaps enough will be shown to evince them warrantable.

The first state in which the church is found in the fifth century
is that of the imperial church, the church of the Roman Empire.
At the period the Roman Empire fell, the church was indulging in
the idea that her mission was accomplished, her triumph assured.
She had then completely vanquished paganism. The last emperor who
had assumed the office of _pontifex maximus_, a pagan
dignity, was the Emperor Gratian, who had died at the end of the
fourth century. She likewise believed herself at the end of her
contest with heretics, especially with the Arians, the principal
heretics of the day.
{116}
The Emperor Theodosius had drawn up against them a peculiar and
stringent body of laws at the end of the fourth century. The
church, therefore, was in possession of the government, and had
triumphed over her two greatest enemies. She was in this
prosperous state when the Roman Empire suddenly failed her, and
she found herself opposed to other pagans and heretics in the
shape of the barbarians, as the Goths, Vandals, Burgundians, and
Franks. It was a prodigious fall. It may be easily imagined that
a warm attachment for the Empire must have been preserved in the
bosom of the church. Thus we see her steadily adhere to what
remained of it, the municipal system and absolute power; and when
the barbarians were converted, the church attempted to
resuscitate the Empire. She addressed herself to the barbarian
kings, and besought them to declare themselves Roman emperors, to
assume all the rights formerly held by them, and to enter into
the same relations with the church as she had had with the Roman
Empire. It was especially to this point that the bishops of the
fifth and sixth centuries laboured, and they imparted the general
feature to the whole church.

It was impossible for this attempt to succeed. There were no
means amongst the barbarians to reconstitute the Roman society.
Like the civil world around it, therefore, the church itself fell
into barbarism. That was its second state. When a comparison is
made between the writings of the ecclesiastical chroniclers of
the eighth century, and of those in the preceding ages, an
immense difference is found. Every vestige of Roman civilisation
disappeared, even to the language, and barbarism was at its very
acme. For, on the one hand, barbarians entered into the clerical
order, and became priests and bishops; and on the other, bishops
adopted the barbarian life, and without quitting their
bishoprics, constituted themselves chiefs of banditti, roaming
over the country, pillaging and fighting, like the companions of
Clovis. Gregory of Tours mentions several bishops who passed
their lives after this fashion.

Two important facts, nevertheless, received their development in
the bosom of this barbarian church. The first was the separation
between the spiritual and temporal powers, which principle took
its stand at that epoch, as a natural consequence of the state of
things. The church not having succeeded in resuscitating the
absolute power of the Roman Empire, so as to gain a share of it
for herself, was driven to seek safety in independence. She was
called upon to defend herself on every side, for she was
incessantly threatened. The bishops and priests saw their
barbarian neighbours interfere every instant in the affairs of
the church, in order to seize upon her riches, her lands, and her
power, and they had no other means of defending themselves than
alleging--'The spiritual order is completely separated from the
temporal, and you have no right to intervene in its affairs.'
This principle became the defensive weapon of the church against
barbarism in all quarters.

{117}

The second important fact which belongs to the same epoch, is the
development of the monastic order in the West. It was at the
commencement of the sixth century that Saint Benedict instituted
his order amongst the monks of the West, who were then very few
in number, but who subsequently multiplied prodigiously. The
monks were not, up to that period, members of the clerical body,
but were still regarded as laymen. No doubt priests and even
bishops had been sought out amongst them; but it was not until
the end of the fifth, and the beginning of the sixth century,
that the monks in general were considered as forming part of the
clergy, properly so called. After that, matters were reversed;
priests and bishops became monks, conceiving that they thereby
made a new progress in the religious life. Thus the monastic
order took all at once an excessive development in Europe. The
monks struck the imagination of the barbarians more forcibly than
the secular clergy; their numbers, as well as the singularity of
their lives, had an imposing effect upon them. The secular
clergy, indeed--the bishop and the simple priest--were less
reverently looked upon by the barbarians, accustomed as they were
to see, maltreat, and despoil them. An attack on a monastery, on
so many holy men congregated in one holy place, was a much more
serious affair. Thus the monasteries were, during the barbarian
epoch, places of asylum for the church, as she herself was a
resort for refuge to the laity. Pious men flocked to them for
shelter, as in the East they fled to the Thebaide to escape a
worldly life and the contamination of Constantinople.

Such are the two great facts which appertain to the barbarian
epoch in the history of the church: on the one hand, the
development of the principle of the separation between the
spiritual and temporal powers; and on the other, the development
of the monastic system in the West.

Towards the end of the barbarian epoch, there was a new attempt
to resuscitate the Roman Empire made by Charlemagne. The church
and the civil sovereign contracted once more a strict alliance.
It was a period of great docility, and therefore of great
advancement to the Papacy. The attempt at resuscitation again
failed; the Empire of Charlemagne fell, but the advantages that
the church had drawn from its alliance remained with her. The
Papacy was definitively planted at the head of Christianity.

{118}

After the death of Charlemagne, chaos came again; the church
relapsed into it as well as civil society, and emerged in like
manner to enter into the frame of feudalism. This was its third
state. The dissolution of the Empire of Charlemagne produced in
the ecclesiastical order almost the same effect as in the
civil--the complete disappearance of unity, a break-up into
local, partial, and individual distributions. This situation of
the clergy, then, originated a struggle not previously known up
to that period--namely, the struggle between the sentiments and
interests of a fief-holder and those of a priest. The chiefs of
the church were between these two temptations, each striving for
the mastery; the ecclesiastical spirit was no longer so powerful
or universal, private interest had more charms, whilst the taste
for independence, and the habits of a feudal life, relaxed the
bonds of the ecclesiastical hierarchy. An attempt was made in the
bosom of the church to avert the effects of this relaxation, and
by a system of federation, by means of general assemblies and
deliberations, to organise in various quarters national churches.
It is at this epoch, under the feudal system, that we perceive
the greatest number of councils and convocations, of provincial
and national ecclesiastical assemblies, held. This essay at unity
appears to have been especially followed out in France. Hincmar,
archbishop of Rheims, may be considered as the chief organ of
this idea; he was constantly engaged in the labour of organising
the French church; he sought out and employed all the means of
intercourse and correspondence which might restore some portion
of unity to the feudal church. Hincmar maintained, on the one
hand, the independence of the church with regard to the temporal
power, and on the other, its irresponsibility to the Papacy. It
was he who, knowing that the Pope wished to come into France, and
threatened to excommunicate some bishops, said, '_Si
excommunicaturus venerit, excommunicatus abibit_' ('If he come
here to excommunicate, he shall go back with an anathema at his
own head.')

But the endeavour thus to organise the feudal church, had no
better success than the previous one to restore the organisation
of the imperial church. There were no means available to
reestablish unity in that church. Its disorganisation was
continually increasing. Each bishop, prelate, and abbot, isolated
himself more and more in his diocese or in his monastery.
Disorders multiplied from the same cause. This period was
distinguished for the greatest abuses of simony, for the
completely arbitrary disposition of ecclesiastical benefices, and
for the most deplorable corruption of manners amongst the
priests.

These disorders were extremely revolting both to the people and
the better-minded portion of the clergy. Hence we see that at an
early date a spirit of reform arose in the church, and a desire
to find some authority competent to rally the stray elements and
give them law. Claude, bishop of Turin, and Agobard, archbishop
of Lyons, made some attempts of this sort in their respective
dioceses; but they were in no condition to accomplish so great a
work. There was only one force within the church itself which
could succeed in such an object, and that was the court of Rome,
the Papacy.
{119}
In consequence, it was not long in becoming predominant. In the
course of the eleventh century the church passed to her fourth
state, that of a theocratical and monastical church. The creator
of this new form assumed by the church, so far as it belongs to a
man to create, was Gregory VII.

We are accustomed to regard Gregory VII. as a man who strove to
render all things stagnant, as an adversary of intellectual
development and of social progress, as a man, in fact, who
laboured to retain the world in a stationary or retrograding
system. No idea can be less correct; Gregory VII. was a reformer
by means of despotism, like Charlemagne and Peter the Great. He
was in the ecclesiastical order pretty nearly what Charlemagne in
France and Peter the Great in Russia were in the civil order. His
object was to reform the church, and, through her, civil
society--to introduce into them a greater degree of morality,
justice, and regularity; and this he wished to effect through the
Holy See, and to its advantage.

At the same time that he endeavoured to subject the civil world
to the church, and the church to the Papacy, in the spirit of
reform and advancement, and not of stagnation or retrogression,
an attempt of the same nature was made, a similar movement was
produced, in the cloisters of the monasteries. A desire for
order, discipline, and rigid morality was zealously manifested.
It was the period in which Robert de Molême introduced a severe
order at Citeaux, it was the era of St. Norbert, and the reform
of the prebendaries, of the reform of Cluny, and finally of the
great reform of St. Bernard. A general ferment reigned in the
monasteries; the old monks stood up in their own defence,
asserted innovation to be a thing of evil, proclaimed their
liberty infringed upon, maintained that the people ought to rest
satisfied with the manners of the age, that it was out of the
question to return to the primitive strictness of the church, and
treated all these reformers as madmen, dreamers, and tyrants.
Look at the history of Normandy by Orderic Vital, and these
complaints will be found unceasingly urged.

All, therefore, seemed turning to the advantage of the church, to
its unity and power. But whilst the Papacy was striving to clutch
the government of the world, and the monasteries were reforming
themselves in a moral point of view, a few vigorous-minded,
although isolated, men asserted the right of human reason to be
considered of some value, and to take part in the constitution of
opinions. The majority of them did not attack the received
doctrines, the articles of religious belief; they merely said
that reason had a right to investigate them, and that it was not
sufficient that they were affirmed by authority.
{120}
John Erigena (Scotus), Roscelin, and Abelard--these were the
advocates by whom individual reason recommenced to claim its
inheritance; these were the first authors of the movement made
for liberty, which was contemporaneous with the movement for
reform made by Hildebrand and St. Bernard. When we inquire into
the predominant character of this movement, we perceive it was
not a change of opinion, or a revolt against the public articles
of faith, but merely an assertion of the right of reason to
exercise its functions. The scholars of Abelard asked him, as he
tells us himself in his 'Introduction to Theology,' 'for
philosophical arguments proper to satisfy reason, begging him to
instruct them, not merely so as to repeat by rote what he
communicated to them, but to understand him; for no one can
believe without first comprehending, and it is absurd to preach
to others of things which neither he who professes, nor those
whom he teaches, can understand. What object can the study of
philosophy have, if not to lead to that of God, to whom all ought
to be referred? With what view are the faithful permitted to read
the writings treating of the events of the age and the books of
the Gentiles, unless it be to form them for the understanding of
the truths of the Holy Scriptures, and to give them the necessary
ability to defend them? It is especially necessary to be
fortified by all the powers of reason, in order to prevent, upon
questions so difficult and complicated as those which are the
objects of the Christian faith, the subtleties of its enemies
succeeding too easily in adulterating the purity of our faith.'

The importance of this first attempt at liberty, of this
reproduction of the spirit of examination, was soon felt.
Although occupied in reforming itself, the church did not the
less take alarm: it immediately declared war against these new
reformers, whose appearance threatened it much more than their
doctrines. Behold the great fact which illustrates the end of the
eleventh and the commencement of the twelfth century, whilst the
church presented itself in the theocratic and monastic state! For
the first time, a serious contest arose between the clergy and
the free-thinkers. The quarrels of Abelard and St. Bernard, the
councils of Soissons and Sens, in which Abelard was condemned,
are but the evidences of that fact which has held so important a
place in the history of modern civilisation. It was the principal
circumstance in the state of the church in the twelfth century,
the point of time at which we shall now leave it.

A movement of a different nature took place at the very same
period, the movement towards the enfranchisement of the boroughs.
It was attended by a singular proof of the inconsistency of
barbarian and rude minds. If those burgesses who maintained their
own freedom with such zeal, had been told that there were men who
asserted the rights of human reason, of free examination, and
were denounced by the church as heretics, they would have stoned
or burnt them on the instant.
{121}
Abelard and his friends were exposed to this danger more than
once. On the other hand, those very writers who were the
champions of the rights of human reason, spoke of the efforts for
enfranchisement of the boroughs as productive of abominable
disorder, and of the overthrow of society. Thus war seemed
declared between the philosophical and the municipal movement,
between intellectual and political enfranchisement. To reconcile
these two great actions, and to bring them to a comprehension of
the community of their interests, ages have been required. In the
twelfth century they were utterly severed, as we shall see in our
succeeding inquiry into the enfranchisement of the boroughs.

{122}

                Lecture VII.

         Boroughs And Their Influence.

The feudal system and the church, the two first great fundamental
elements of modern civilisation, have now been brought down to
the twelfth century, and our present object will be to trace the
third of those elements, the boroughs, to the same era, confining
ourselves within the limits we have observed with regard to the
other two.

Our inquiry into boroughs commences with a different situation
from that held by the church or the feudal system. From the fifth
to the twelfth century, these latter, although they afterwards
underwent new developments, exhibited themselves as nearly
complete, and in a definitive state; their birth, growth, and
maturity, all occurred within that interval. It was very
different with boroughs. It was not until the end of the epoch
upon which our attention is engaged, in the eleventh and twelfth
centuries, that they took any place in history; not meaning
thereby that their previous history calls for no examination, or
that the traces of their existence long before that period are
not discoverable, but that it was only in the eleventh century
that they made a distinct appearance on the great stage of the
world, and came out as an important element of modern
civilisation. Thus, in surveying the feudal system and the church
from the fifth to the twelfth century, we have found effects
developed and produced from causes, or, in other words, whenever,
by induction or conjecture, we have deduced results from certain
principles, we have been able to verify them by reference to
facts. This is a facility which we do not possess with the
boroughs. At the present moment, I shall only speak of causes and
origins; and what I may say upon the effects of their existence,
and upon their influence on the progress of European
civilisation, will be in some sort by way of prediction, as the
adducement of contemporary and known facts will be impossible. It
is not until a later date, in the period stretching from the
twelfth to the fifteenth century, that we shall perceive
corporations take their development, as an institution bear
fruit, and history prove our predictions. I mark this difference
of situation the more emphatically, in order to obviate
objections against the incompleteness and prematureness of the
picture I am about to give.

{123}

I will suppose that a burgher of the twelfth century had suddenly
appeared amongst us in 1789, at the moment that the terrible
regeneration of France commenced, and that there had been given
him to read (for we must endow him with the power to read) one of
those pamphlets which then so violently agitated the minds of
men; for example, the pamphlet of M. Sieyes--'What is the third
estate?' Let us imagine his eyes falling on this phrase--the main
point of the publication--'The third estate is the French nation,
less the nobility and the clergy.' I ask, what impression would
such a phrase produce on the mind of this man? Would he
understand it? The words, '_the French nation_,' would be
beyond his comprehension, for they would convey no idea of
anything known to him, or existing in his own day; but if he
should understand the phrase--if he had a clear conception of
that sovereignty attributed to the third estate over all society,
it would assuredly appear to him a nearly insane and impious
proposition, so much would it be in contradiction to what he had
seen, and to the entire bent of his ideas and sentiments.

Now, ask this bewildered burgher to follow you, and conduct him
to some of the then boroughs of France, to Rheims, Beauvais,
Laon, or Noyon. A surprise of a different nature would here await
him. On entering the town he would perceive no towers, no
ramparts, no burgher guard, no means of defence, but all open and
exposed to the first hostile occupant. The safety of such a
municipality would appear to him very uncertain and weakly
guaranteed. Penetrating into the interior, and inquiring into
what was there passing, into the manner in which it was governed,
and into the condition of the inhabitants, he would be told that
there was a power outside which taxed them as it pleased,
summoned their militia, and sent it to distant wars, regardless
of their consent; that there were magistrates, mayors, and
sheriffs, whom the burgesses had no share in nominating, and that
the affairs of the borough were not decided in the borough
itself, but that a man named by the king, an intendant, alone and
from a distance, administered them. Furthermore, he would be told
that the inhabitants had no right to assemble and deliberate in
common upon what concerned them--that the bell of their church
did not summon them to the public square. The burgess of the
twelfth century would be perfectly at a loss to comprehend these
matters. First he was bewildered and dismayed at the grandeur and
importance that the burgher community, the third estate,
attributed to itself, and now he finds it, upon its own
hearthstone, in a state of servitude, weakness, and nullity,
worse than anything he had known as most disastrous. Passing from
one contemplation to the other--from the idea of a sovereign
commonalty to the survey of its powerlessness--how could he
comprehend and reconcile the difference, or disentangle his mind
from confusion?

{124}

On the other hand, let us carry a burgess of the nineteenth
century back to the twelfth, and he will find things under the
same double aspect, but the situations changed. Contemplating the
general affairs of the age, the state, the government of the
country, and society at large, we see or hear nothing of the
burgesses; they are altogether without importance in the state.
And not only so, but in speaking or thinking of themselves and
their situation in relation to the general government of France,
their language is timid and humble in the extreme. Their old
masters, the lords of fiefs, from whom they wrung their
franchises, are found treating them, in words at least, with a
pride which surprises us, but was far from astonishing or
irritating them.

But entering into the borough itself, and surveying what is there
passing, we find the scene changed. We are in a sort of fortified
place, defended by the armed burgesses, who tax themselves, elect
their own magistrates, sit in judgment, inflict punishments, and
assemble to deliberate upon their own affairs; making war even
against their lord, and having their own militia. In a word, they
govern themselves, and are superior to control.

Here is a contrast of the same order as that which so much
surprised the burgess of the twelfth century in the France of the
eighteenth, only the parts are reversed. In the latter, the
burgher order or nation is everything, the borough nothing; in
the former, the degrees of importance are diametrically opposite.

Assuredly many things and many extraordinary events must have
passed, and many revolutions have been accomplished between the
twelfth and eighteenth centuries, to produce so prodigious a
change in the state of one social class. Yet, in spite of this
change, there is no doubt that the third estate of 1789 was,
politically speaking, the descendant and heir of the burghers of
the twelfth century. That haughty and ambitious 'French nation,'
which raised its pretensions so high, proclaimed its sovereignty
with such pomposity, and pretended not only to regenerate and
govern itself, but also to govern and regenerate the world,
incontestibly descended from those borough communities, who made
their obscure though courageous stands in the twelfth century,
with the sole object of throwing off the tyrannical yoke of
nameless lords in their respective isolated corners.

Now, although there is no question that the explication of so
great a metamorphosis will not be found in the state of the
boroughs in the twelfth century, but that it has been effected
and has its causes in the events which have occurred between the
twelfth and eighteenth centuries, yet the origin of the third
estate has been of great consequence in its history; and whilst
we shall not therein discover the full secret of its destiny, we
may at least discern the germ thereof; for what it was at first,
is found again in what it has become, to a much greater extent
than appearances would lead us to presume. A survey, although an
incomplete one, of the state of the boroughs in the twelfth
century, will, I think, be decisive of the fact.

{125}

In entering upon an investigation into this state, in order fully
to comprehend it, we must consider the boroughs in two main
points of view. There are two important questions to resolve: the
first, that of the enfranchisement of the boroughs themselves,
the inquiry how the revolution operated, and from what causes,
what change it produced in the situation of the burghers, and
what was its effect upon society at large, upon the other
classes, and upon the state. The second question is relative to
the government of the boroughs, the internal condition of the
enfranchised towns, the relations of the burgesses amongst
themselves, and the principles, the forms, and the manners in
vogue within the communities.

From these two sources--on the one hand, from the change
introduced into the social position of the burghers, and on the
other, from their internal or borough government--all their
influence on modern civilisation has been derived. That influence
has been productive of no one fact which may not be referred to
one or other of these two causes. Therefore, when we shall have
thoroughly sifted them, and obtained an insight into the
circumstances of their enfranchisement on the one hand, and their
government on the other, we shall possess, as it were, the two
keys to their history.

I will first say a few words on the diversity in the state of
boroughs throughout Europe. The facts which I shall bring forward
will not apply indifferently to all the Italian, Spanish,
English, and French boroughs; some of them are referable to them
all; but there are great and important differences. These I will
indicate as I go on: we shall subsequently find them in the
progress of civilisation, and will then investigate them more
narrowly.

To have a proper idea of the enfranchisement of the boroughs, it
is necessary to go back to the state of towns from the fifth to
the tenth century, from the fall of the Roman Empire to the time
at which the borough revolution commenced. The differences were,
I repeat, very great; the condition of towns varied extensively
in the different countries of Europe, yet there are some general
facts which may be affirmed of almost all towns, to which I shall
endeavour to restrict myself. When I have done with them, the
more special matter will apply to the boroughs of France, and
particularly to those in the north of France, above the Rhone and
the Loire. These will be prominent points in the picture it is my
object to draw.

{126}

After the fall of the Roman Empire, from the fifth to the tenth
century, the towns were in a state neither of liberty nor of
servitude. In the use of words, we run the same chance of error
as I previously remarked took place in the description of men and
of events. When a society has endured for a long period, and also
its language, words take a complete, determinate, and precise
meaning, a legal and official sense, as it were. Time has
introduced into the meaning of each term a multitude of ideas
which are awakened as soon as it is pronounced, but which, not
being all included at the same date, are not all applicable to
one period. For example, the words _slavery_ and
_liberty_ arouse ideas in our minds at the present day
infinitely more precise and perfect than correspond to the facts
existing in the eighth, ninth, or tenth centuries. If we say that
the towns were in a state of liberty in the eighth, we say far
too much, for we attach at present a meaning to the word
'liberty' which does not portray the state of things in that
century. We fall into the same error if we say that the towns
were in servitude, for this word implies something very different
from the municipal conditions of the period. Thus, I repeat, the
towns were not then in a state either of servitude or of liberty;
they suffered all the evils which befall weakness, and were a
prey to the continual violence and depredations of the strong;
but in spite of so many and such frightful disorders, in spite of
their impoverishment and depopulation, they never lost a certain
degree of importance. In the major part there was a clergy or a
bishop who exercised considerable power, having influence over
the inhabitants, and serving as a link between them and their
conquerors, thus maintaining the town in a species of
independence, and covering it with the shield of religion.

Considerable remnants of the Roman institutions likewise lingered
in the towns. Frequent instances of the convocations of the
senate and the curia are met with at this epoch, and many facts
of that nature have been collected by Messrs de Savigny and
Hulmann, Mademoiselle de Lezardière, &c. There is some doubt
concerning public assemblies and municipal magistrates. But the
affairs of civil life, testaments, donations, and a multitude of
other acts, are legalised in the curia by its officers, as took
place in Roman municipalities. Yet barbarism, and an always
increasing disorder, hastened the depopulation of towns, and
gradually undermined all that remained of urban activity and
freedom. The establishment of the masters of the land in the
country districts, and the growing preponderance of the rural
life, were additional causes of decay to the towns. The bishops
themselves, when they had entered into the feudal frame, attached
much less importance to their municipal ties. Finally, when
feudalism had completely triumphed, the towns, without falling
into the slavery of the serfs, found themselves under the sway of
liege lords, and comprised within fiefs, in consequence of which
they lost that share of independence which had been left to them
in times even more barbarous, in the first ages of the invasion.
So that from the fifth century to the period of the complete
organisation of feudalism, the state of towns was continually
getting worse.

{127}

When feudalism was once fairly established, when each man had
taken up his station, and planted himself on an estate, and the
wandering life had finally ceased, the towns, after a certain
interval, began again to acquire some importance, and to deploy a
renewed activity. Human activity is like the fecundity of the
earth; as soon as the storm ceases, it reappears, germinates, and
bears fruit. Whenever there is the least glimpse of order and
peace, mankind resumes hope, and with hope labour. Thus it
happened in the towns: so soon as the feudal system was well
fixed, there sprang up amongst the fief-holders new wants and a
certain taste for advancement and amelioration, to satisfy which
a little commerce and industry took root in the towns of their
domains, and wealth and population returned to them; slowly, I
admit, but still they returned. Amongst the circumstances which
hastened that result, may be reckoned one not hitherto much
regarded--namely, the right of sanctuary in churches. Even before
the boroughs were constituted, and before their force and
ramparts enabled them to hold out an asylum to the wretched
population of the fields, the protection which could be found in
the church alone was sufficient to attract a great many fugitives
into the towns. They came to shelter themselves either in the
church itself, or around the church; and they were not confined
to men of the inferior class, serfs and boors, but were
frequently men of consideration and wealth who had been
proscribed. The chronicles of the epoch are full of such
examples. We see men, formerly powerful, pursued by a neighbour
yet more powerful, or by the king himself, abandoning their
domains, carrying off all their movables, and flying to a town to
put themselves under the protection of a church. These men became
burgesses; and such refugees were, in my opinion, of some
influence on the progress of towns, as they brought into them
both wealth and the elements of a population superior to the bulk
of the former inhabitants. Besides, is it not probable that when
anything like a considerable association had been formed in any
quarter, men would flock to it not only on account of the greater
security afforded by it, but also from the mere spirit of
sociability which is so natural to them?

By dint of all these causes, the towns acquired a certain degree
of strength after the feudal system had become somewhat
regulated. But security was not gained in the same proportion. It
is true the wandering life had ceased, yet this wandering life
had been to the conquerors and new proprietors of the soil a
great means of gratifying their passions. When urged by a craving
for plunder, they had made a foray, or gone to a distance in
search of fresh fortune or a fresh domain.
{128}
But when each had fixed himself, and it was necessary to renounce
the conquering vagabond life, the taste for it was far from
ceasing, or brutish appetites, or fierce desires, from abating.
Their weight fell upon that part of the population lying most at
the mercy of those possessed of power, upon the towns. Instead of
going to a distance to pillage, they pillaged near their own
homes. The extortions of the lords upon the burgesses redoubled
from the beginning of the tenth century. Every time that the
proprietor of a domain in which a town was included had any lust
of pelf to satisfy, the burgesses were sure to feel its worst
effects. It was at this epoch, more than at any other, that the
complaints of the boroughs were loud and repeated, in consequence
of the absolute want of security to commerce. The merchants,
after making their rounds, were unable to return in peace into
their towns; the roads and avenues were incessantly blocked up by
the lord and his followers. The period in which industry
recommenced its exercise was thus precisely that in which
security was most deficient. Nothing frets men more than to be
thus troubled in their labours, and despoiled of the fruits which
they had thence anticipated. They are thereby much more annoyed
and enraged than when they are subjected to suffering in a course
of life for a long time fixed and monotonous, or when that of
which they are deprived is not the result of their own activity,
exerted in the reasonable hope of drawing sure returns. In the
progressive movement which lifts up a man or a population to a
new fortune, there is a principle of abhorrence for iniquity and
violence much more energetic than in any other situation.

This, then, was the condition of the towns in the course of the
tenth century. Their strength, importance, and riches had
increased; and these acquisitions rendering them every day
objects of greater envy to the lords, it became more than ever
necessary to be able to defend them. The danger and the evil grew
in magnitude with the means of resisting them. Indeed the feudal
system offered to all its participators the continual example of
resistance; it presented to the mind, under no modification, the
idea of an organised government, capable of regulating and
controlling all by its intervention alone. On the contrary, the
spectacle of individual will, refusing to submit to any
restraint, was unceasingly displayed. The greater number of the
fief-holders was in this position with regard to their
lords-paramount, and the small lords with regard to the great; so
that, at the very time when the towns were oppressed and
tormented, and they began to have new and important interests to
maintain, they had under their eyes a continual lesson of
insurrection. Feudalism has certainly done this service to
humanity, that it has given a perpetual exhibition of individual
will acting in all its energy. The lesson was not thrown away,
for notwithstanding their weakness, and the prodigious inequality
of condition between them and their lords, the towns became
insurgent on all sides.

{129}

It is difficult to assign a precise date to the event. It is
generally said that the enfranchisement of the boroughs commenced
in the eleventh century; but in all great events, how many
unknown and unsuccessful efforts are made before that which
finally prevails! In all things, Providence, to accomplish its
designs, lavishes courage, virtues, sacrifices man himself; and
it is only after a countless multitude of unknown labours, in
appearance utterly lost, after numberless noble hearts have sunk
under discouragement, and the painful conviction of the
hopelessness of their cause, that the triumph is achieved. This
was doubtless the case with the boroughs. There can be little
question but that very many attempts at resistance and struggles
for enfranchisement were made in the eighth, ninth, and tenth
centuries, which not only did not succeed, but the memory of
which remained without renown, because unfortunate. But these
endeavours most assuredly exercised an influence upon posterior
events; they gave animation and prevalence to the spirit of
liberty, and laid the train for the great insurrection of the
eleventh century.

I call it insurrection designedly. The enfranchisement of the
boroughs, in the eleventh century, was the result of a veritable
insurrection, of a real war declared by the inhabitants of towns
against their lords. The first fact which is always met with in
such histories, is a levy of the burghers, who arm themselves
with any weapon they can catch, the expulsion of the officers of
the superior, who had come to make exactions, or an enterprise
against his castle; the characteristics of war are always there.
If the insurrection is suppressed, what is the first act of the
conqueror? He orders the destruction of the fortifications raised
by the burghers, not only around their town, but around each
house. We find that at the formation of the confederacy, after
undertaking to act in common, and swearing the _borough_ as
a whole, the first proceeding of each burgher was to place his
house in a state of defence. Some boroughs, whose names are at
the present day buried in obscurity--for example, the petty
borough of Vézelai in Nivernais--maintained a prolonged and
energetic contest with their lords. In the case of Vézelai,
victory fell to its abbot, and he instantly enjoined the
demolition of the fortified houses of the burgesses. The names of
several of those whose houses were thus destroyed have been
preserved.

If we enter the interior of these houses of our ancestors, and
study the mode of construction, and the kind of life which it
reveals, we shall find everything adapted for war, and possessing
a warlike character.

{130}

The following is the construction of a burgher's house of the
twelfth century, as far as we can judge at the present day. There
were generally three floors, with a single room on each floor.
The ground-floor was a low room, in which the family fed; the
first floor was very elevated, as a means of safety, affording
the most remarkable peculiarity in the construction. On this was
a room in which the owner of the house dwelt with his wife. The
building was almost always flanked by towers at the angles,
usually of a square form, another adaptation for war, and a means
of resistance. On the second and last floor was a room, the use
of which is uncertain, but which probably served for the children
and the rest of the family. Above, there was very often a small
platform, evidently destined to serve as an observatory. Thus the
whole construction of the house gives an idea of war. In reality,
such was the actual character and true designation of the
movement which produced borough enfranchisement.

Now, when war has continued a certain time, whoever may be the
belligerents, it necessarily ends in peace. The treaties of peace
between the boroughs and their adversaries were the charters. The
borough charters were mere treaties of peace between the burghers
and their superiors.

The insurrection was general. When I use the term _general_,
I do not mean that there was any concert or coalition amongst all
the burghers of a country; far from it. The situation of the
boroughs was almost everywhere the same, exposed to the same
danger, and overborne by the same misfortunes. Having acquired
pretty nearly the same means of resistance and offence, they
employed them at almost the same moment. It is possible, also,
that example may have had some effect, and that the success of
one or two boroughs may have been contagious. The charters
sometimes seem drawn upon the same pattern; that of Noyon, for
example, served as a model for those of Beauvais, Saint Quentin,
&c. Yet I am very doubtful that example operated to such an
extent as is commonly supposed. The communications were difficult
and rare, reports vague and unaccredited. There are more grounds
for believing that the insurrection was the consequence of an
identical situation, and of a spontaneous general movement.
Again, I mean the word general merely to express that it took
place in almost every district, for it was not the result of a
unanimous and concerted movement. On the contrary, all was
individual and local; each borough rose against its superior on
its own peculiar account, and all was effected in separate
localities.

Great were the vicissitudes of the strife. Not only did success
alternate, but even after peace appeared made, and charters had
been sworn to on both sides, they were broken or eluded in every
possible way. The royal power bore an important part in the
alternations of this strife, of which I will speak more in detail
when I come to treat of royalty itself.
{131}
Its influence in the movement of borough enfranchisement has been
perhaps too much exaggerated; sometimes it has been denied
altogether, or too much underrated. At present, I confine myself
to the declaration that it frequently interfered, invoked
sometimes by the boroughs, sometimes by the lords; that it often
played contrary parts, acting now on one principle, then upon
another, and unceasingly changing its designs and conduct; but
that, upon the whole, its action was attended with more good than
bad consequences.

Notwithstanding all these vicissitudes, and the continual
violations of charters, the enfranchisement of the boroughs was
consummated in the twelfth century. Europe, and especially
France, which had been overrun with insurrections, was now filled
with charters of a more or less favourable tendency. The degree
of security with which the boroughs enjoyed them was variable,
but still they enjoyed them. The fact was established, and the
right was recognised.

We will now inquire into the immediate results of this great
fact, and the changes it produced in the position of the burghers
in society.

In the first place, it altered nothing, at least at the
commencement, in the relation of the burghers with the general
government of the country, with what we now call the state; they
interfered with it to no greater extent than before. Everything
remained local, and confined to the limits of the fief.

One circumstance, however, must be taken to modify this
assertion. Between the burghers and the king a tie began at that
time to be formed. In many cases the boroughs had invoked the
support of the king against their superior, or his guarantee,
when a charter was promised or sworn to. In other cases the lords
had called for the judgment of the king between themselves and
the burghers. At the demand of one or other of the parties, from
a concourse of different causes, the royal power had interfered
in the quarrels, whence sprang up pretty constant relations
between the burghers and the king, which sometimes became very
intimate. By these means the commonalty grew connected with the
centre of the state, and began to have ties with the general
government.

Although everything remained local, still the effect of the
enfranchisement was to call a new and general class into being.
No coalition had existed amongst the burghers, nor had they, as a
class, any public and common existence. But the land was covered
with men occupying an identical situation, with common interests
and manners, amongst whom there could not fail to be formed by
degrees a certain bond and unity, which was sure to originate a
burgher class. Thus a necessary result of the local
enfranchisement of boroughs, was the formation of a great social
order, the citizen or burgher class.

{132}

We must not imagine that this class was then what it has since
become. Not only has its situation greatly changed, but its
elements or component parts were quite different. In the twelfth
century, it was only composed of dealers and traders driving a
trifling commerce, and of small proprietors, either of houses or
of land, who had taken up their abodes in towns. Three centuries
afterwards, the burgher class comprised, in addition, lawyers,
physicians, local magistrates, and persons engaged in various
literary avocations. It was thus formed successively, and of very
distinct elements; but neither to the succession nor to the
diversity has proper attention been paid in its history. Whenever
the burgher class is spoken of, it has been considered,
apparently, as at all epochs composed of the same elements. Such
a conclusion is absurd. It is, perhaps, more than all in the
diversity of its composition, at the various eras of history,
that the secret of its destiny ought to be sought. So long as it
included neither magistrates nor lettered men--so long, in fact,
as it was not what it became in the sixteenth century--it
possessed neither so high a standing nor so great an influence in
the state. The successive rise within itself of new professions
and relative moral positions, of a new intellectual development,
must be traced, in order to comprehend the vicissitudes of its
fortunes and its power. In the twelfth century it was composed, I
repeat, of petty traders, who retired into the towns after making
their purchases and sales, and of owners of houses or small
estates who had fixed their residence in them. Such was the
European burgher class in its first elements.

The next great result of the enfranchisement of boroughs was the
contest of classes, which thereupon arose inevitably from the
fact itself, a contest which occupies all modern history. Europe,
as at present constituted, has sprung from the struggles amongst
the different orders of society. In other regions, as I have
formerly stated, the contest produced very opposite effects. In
Asia, for example, one class completely triumphed; the system of
castes succeeded that of classes, and society fell into
stagnation. Thanks be to God, no such consequence has happened in
Europe. No one order has been able to vanquish or enslave the
others; the contest, instead of becoming a principle of
immobility, has been the cause of advancement. The relations of
the different classes amongst themselves, and the necessity in
which they have found themselves to struggle and to yield by
turns, the variety of their interests and passions, the desire
for conquest, without being able to accomplish it--from all this
has resulted, perhaps, the most energetic and fruitful principle
of development in European civilisation. The orders have been
engaged in constant warfare: they detested each other; a
deep-seated diversity in position, interests, and manners,
wrought amongst them a profound moral hostility or antagonism,
and yet they have progressively drawn together, amalgamated, and
merged their differences.
{133}
Every country in Europe has witnessed a certain general spirit, a
certain community of interests, ideas, and feelings, take root
and gain development within its own confines, which has triumphed
over dissension and division. For example, in France, in the
seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the social and moral
separation of the orders was still deeply planted; yet there is
no doubt that the fusion was even then far advanced, and that
there was a veritable French nation, not of one class
exclusively, but comprising all classes, animated with a certain
common sentiment, having a common social existence, and strongly
impressed with nationality.

Thus, from our diversity, enmity, and warfare, has arisen in
modern Europe that national unity, which has become so brilliant
a feature of the present times, and which is tending, day by day,
to a development still more glorious and beneficial.

Such are the great external, palpable, and social effects that
have resulted from the revolution under review. We will now
proceed to inquire what were its moral effects, or what changes
it wrought in the minds of the burghers themselves, what, in
fact, they became, in a moral sense, in their new position.

There is one fact with which it is impossible to avoid being
struck, when we study the relations of the burghers, not merely
in the twelfth century, but in after ages, with the state, or
government of the state, with the general interests of the
country. I speak of the extraordinary timidity and humility of
the burghers, of the excessive modesty of their pretensions with
regard to the government of their country, and of the facility
they display in being contented. They give no token of possessing
that true political spirit which aspires to influence, to reform,
and to govern; they are utterly devoid of boldness of thought and
greatness of ambition. They seem more like prudent and plodding
freedmen.

There are only two sources whence greatness of ambition and
boldness of thought, in the political sphere, can result. There
must be present either the feeling and consciousness of
exercising an important influence and great power over the
destinies of others, and upon a vast stage, or an energetic
self-conviction of complete personal independence, an absolute
certainty of individual liberty, and an inward persuasion of a
destiny dependent upon no other will than that of the individual
himself. Upon one or other of these conditions seem to depend
hardihood of mind, loftiness of ambition, and a desire to act in
an extended sphere, and to be instrumental in obtaining results
of high import.

{134}

Neither the one nor the other entered into the situation of the
burghers of the middle ages. Their importance was limited to
themselves: out of their own towns, or upon the state at large,
their influence was trifling. Neither could they have any strong
sentiment of personal independence. It was of little moment that
they had conquered and obtained charters. The burgher of a town,
comparing himself to a petty lord who lived near him, and who had
just been vanquished, felt, notwithstanding the latter incident,
his extreme inferiority; he was a stranger to that haughty
feeling of independence which swelled the breast of the
fief-holder; his portion of freedom was held not from himself,
but from his association with others, resting on a succour
difficult and precarious. Thence arose that character of reserve,
timidity of spirit, modest awe, and cringing humility of speech,
even in the midst of stem resolution, which was so profoundly
impressed on the burgher life of the twelfth century, and which
has come down to their latest descendants. They have never had a
taste for great enterprises; and when fate has plunged them into
such, they have been beset with disquietude and embarrassment;
the weight of responsibility has pressed too heavily upon them;
they have felt themselves out of their sphere, and longed to
return to more accustomed habits; thus they have always been
ready to treat on moderate terms. We therefore find, in the
course of European history, and especially in the French, that
the burgher class was esteemed, flattered, even consulted, but
very rarely feared; it seldom impressed its adversaries with the
idea of its being a great or high-spirited power of real
political weight. This weakness in the comparatively modern
burgher class is not matter of astonishment, since its principal
cause is clearly assignable to its origin, and to those
circumstances of its enfranchisement which I have shortly before
noted. A high ambition, entertained independently of social
station, expansion and boldness in political thought, desire for
intervention in the affairs of the realm, full consciousness of
the dignity of man as a human being, and of the extent of his
power, if he have capacity to exercise it--these are sentiments
and dispositions altogether modern, the proceeds of modern
civilisation, and the fruit of that glorious and elastic
generality which characterises it, and which can never fail to
assure to the people an influence and a weight in the government
of the country, which were always wanting, and must of necessity
have been wanting, to the burghers, our ancestors.

But, on the other hand, they acquired and displayed a degree of
energy, devotedness, perseverance, and patient zeal, in the
strenuous maintenance of the local interests intrusted to them
upon their narrow stage, which has never been surpassed. The
difficulty of accomplishing that task was so great, and they had
to struggle against so many perils, that an unexampled deployment
of courage was required. A very false idea of the life of a
burgher of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries is entertained at
this day.
{135}
Sir Walter Scott has given in one of his novels, Quentin Durward,
a description of the burgomaster of Liege, whom he has
represented as a true burgher of comedy, fat, sluggish, ignorant,
and cowardly, solely occupied in passing his life comfortably.
But the burghers of those times had always their coats of mail on
their breasts, and their pikes in their hands; their course of
life was almost as disturbed, as warlike, and as rough, as that
of the lords with whom they fought. It was in their constant
danger, and in their bearing up against all the hardships of
military life, that they acquired that strong determination and
stubborn energy which have become somewhat mitigated in the
softer activity of modern times.

None of these social or moral effects of the enfranchisement of
the boroughs had taken its full development in the twelfth
century; it is in the following ages that they incontestably
appear, and give opportunity for their clear discernment. Yet it
is just as sure that their seed was sown in the original position
of the boroughs, in the mode of their enfranchisement, and the
place or station which the burghers thereafter took in the
general society. Therefore I am justified in anticipating them at
present. We will, in consequence, penetrate into the very
interior of the borough of the twelfth century, and will see how
it was governed, and what principles and facts predominated in
the mutual relations of the burghers amongst themselves.

It will be recollected that, in speaking of the municipal system
bequeathed by the Roman Empire to the modern world, I stated that
the Roman Empire was a great coalition of municipalities, which
had formerly been sovereign powers like Rome herself. Each of
those towns had had originally the same existence as Rome, and
had been a small independent republic, making peace and war, and
governing itself at its own pleasure. In proportion as they were
incorporated into the Roman Empire, the rights which constitute
sovereignty, the rights of peace and war, of legislation,
taxation, &c. were taken from each town, and concentred in Rome.
Then there remained but one sovereign municipality, Rome,
reigning over a great number of municipalities, which no longer
preserved anything but a civil existence. The municipal system
changed its character, and instead of being a political
government, invested with sovereignty, it became a mere mode of
administering affairs. This was the great revolution consummated
under the Roman Empire. The municipal system, having become a
mode of administration, was reduced to the government of local
affairs, and the civil interests of the city. The fall of the
Roman Empire left the towns and their institutions in this state.
In the midst of the barbaric chaos, ideas were jumbled in as much
confusion as facts; the attributes of sovereignty, and those of
mere administration, were confounded.
{136}
These distinctions were no longer attended to, and affairs were
abandoned to the course of necessity. Each locality had its
sovereign or its administrator, according to events or immediate
wants. When the towns rose in insurgency to secure themselves
from arbitrary spoliation, they assumed the sovereignty. This was
not owing in the slightest degree to any respect for political
theory, or to any sentiment of their own dignity. But in order to
have the best means of resisting the lords against whom they
rebelled, they appropriated to themselves the right of making
militia levies, of self-taxation for supporting war, of making
their own chiefs and magistrates--in a word, of governing
themselves. Government administered in the interior of the towns
was essential to defence and security. Thus sovereignty returned
to the municipal system, from which it had departed in
consequence of the Roman conquests. The boroughs became again
independent and self-governing. Such is the political
characteristic of their enfranchisement.

It is of course not to be inferred that this sovereignty was
complete. There always remained some trace of external
sovereignty; sometimes the lord preserved a right to send an
officer into the town, who took the borough magistrates for his
assessors; sometimes he had a right to collect certain revenues,
or a tribute was in some instances secured to him. Occasionally
the outward sovereignty of the borough passed into the hands of
the king.

The boroughs themselves, having entered into the folds of
feudalism, had vassals, and became suzerains, or superior lords,
and under this title they possessed all that portion of
sovereignty which belonged inherently to feudal lordship. A
confusion ensued between the rights with which they were invested
by their feudal position, and those which they had conquered by
their insurrection; but under this twofold title sovereignty
appertained to them.

The description of what took place, and how the government was
carried on in the interior of a borough in the first ages, may be
drawn as follows from the very incomplete monuments left for our
guidance. The entirety of the inhabitants formed the borough
assemblies; all those who had been sworn in burgesses (and
whoever lived within the walls, was obliged to take the oaths)
were called together to general assembly by the sound of the
clock. There the magistrates were nominated. The number and form
of magisterial offices were very variable. The magistrates being
named, the assembly was dissolved. They governed almost alone
with a considerable degree of arbitrariness, and without any
other check or responsibility than what might arise from new
elections, or rather popular risings, which were the grand method
of calling to account in use at that day.

{137}

Thus the internal organisation of the boroughs was reduced to two
simple elements--the general assembly of the inhabitants, and a
government invested with a nearly arbitrary power, under the
check of insurrection or risings. It was impossible, chiefly from
the state of manners, to establish a regular government and
veritable guarantees for order and stability. The greatest part
of the borough population was in such a condition of ignorance,
brutality, and ferociousness, as rendered it very difficult to
govern. In a short time, there was almost as little security in
the interior of a borough, as there existed formerly in the
relations of the burghers with the superior lord. Still, a higher
class of burghers was rather speedily formed, the cause of which
may be easily divined. The state of ideas and of social relations
produced the establishment and legal constitution of industrial
professions into companies or corporations. The system of
privilege or monopoly was thus introduced into the interior of
the boroughs, and, as a consequence, great inequality. There was
shortly in all of them a certain number of important and wealthy
burghers, and a labouring population more or less numerous,
which, in spite of its inferiority, had a considerable share of
influence in the affairs of the borough. Therefore the boroughs
were divided into two classes--the higher burghers, and a
population prone to all the errors and vices of a mob. The
superior burghers were trammelled by the enormous difficulty of
governing this lower population on the one hand, and by the
continual efforts of the old lord of the borough to re-usurp his
power on the other. This was their situation not only in France,
but in all Europe, up till the sixteenth century, and this was
perhaps the principal cause which prevented the boroughs from
obtaining all the political importance which they might otherwise
have had in several countries of Europe, and especially in
France. Two principles were in constant strife within them: among
the inferior population, a blind, reckless, and ferocious
democratic spirit; and thence among the superior population, a
spirit of timidity and management, inducing an extreme facility
to make accommodations either with the king or with the ancient
lords, in order to re-establish order and docility in the
interior of the community. These two tendencies, by their
separate action, effectually prevented the boroughs from assuming
an important station in the general state.

All these consequences had not broken out in the twelfth century;
yet we are enabled to anticipate them from the very character of
the insurrection, from the manner in which it had commenced, and
from the condition of the different component parts of the
borough population.

{138}

Such are, if I mistake not, the principal characteristics and
general results both of the enfranchisement of the boroughs and
of their internal government. I have already stated that they
were not so uniform and universal as I have represented them.
There is, on the contrary, a great diversity in the history of
European boroughs. For example, in Italy and in the south of
France, the Roman municipal system prevailed; the population was
not so much divided or so unequal as in the north. The borough
organisation was also much better, either on account of the
lingering Roman traditions, or on account of the superior state
of the population. In the north, it was the feudal system which
influenced the borough existence. There, all was made subordinate
to a successful struggle against the lords. The southern boroughs
were much more occupied with their internal organisation, with
improvements, and with the means of advancement. They were paving
the way for their becoming independent republics. The destiny of
the northern boroughs, of the French especially, assumed a more
rude and incomplete aspect; a destiny of far inferior
development. If we survey the boroughs of Germany, Spain, and
England, we shall find in them differences of other kinds. It is
not my purpose to enter into these details; we shall have
occasion to remark some of them as we advance in the history of
civilisation. At their original formation, all things were
confounded in pretty nearly one likeness, and it was only by
successive developments that the variety occurred. By subsequent
developments, societies have been urged to that grand and
concurrent unity which is the glorious goal of the efforts and
hopes of the human race.

{139}

                   Lecture VIII.

  The Twelfth And Thirteenth Centuries

  The Crusades.

I have not hitherto stated the entire plan of my inquiry. I
commenced by indicating its object, and then I proceeded, without
considering European civilisation as a whole, or without marking
out at one and the same time the point of departure, the course,
and the port; that is, the commencement, the middle, and the end.
We are now, however, arrived at an era in which this survey of
the whole, this general sketch of the region we are traversing,
becomes necessary. The periods that we have investigated so far,
are illustrated in some sort by themselves, or by immediate and
distinct results. Those upon which we are about to enter would
not be understood, and would indeed fail in exciting any lively
interest, if they were not connected with their most indirect and
remote consequences. In so extensive an investigation, moments
occur in which the mind seeks for elucidation as to the ultimate
object, and feels reluctant to proceed with mists and darkness
before it; not only whence we come, and where we are, does it
seek to know, but also whither we go. This is what we feel at
present. The epoch upon which we now open is intelligible, and
its importance can be appreciated only by the relations which
link it to modern times. Its true tendency has only been revealed
at a very late period.

We are now in possession of almost all the essential elements of
European civilisation. I say almost, because I have not yet
entered upon royalty. The era of the decisive development of
royalty did not take place until the twelfth or even the
thirteenth century; it was not till then that the institution was
truly established, and began to assume its definitive station in
modern society. For this reason I have not treated of it earlier,
but it will form the subject of my next lecture. With this
exception, however, we grasp all the great elements of European
civilisation: the feudal aristocracy, the church, and the
boroughs, have all been traced to their origin; the institutions
corresponding to each of these matters have been laid open, and
not only the institutions, but also the principles and ideas
which they were calculated to excite in the minds of men. Thus,
when treating of feudalism, we have gone to the cradle of the
modern household, to the sanctuary of domestic life; and we have
fully understood the prevailing sentiment of individual
independence in all its energy, and the influence it was destined
to exercise upon our civilisation.
{140}
On the question of the church, we have witnessed the rising of
the purely religious society, its relations with civil society,
the theocratic principle, the separation of the spiritual from
the temporal power, the first objects of persecution, and the
first cries of liberty of conscience. The consideration of the
infant boroughs has shown an association founded upon very
opposite principles to those of feudalism or the church, the
diversity of the social classes, their contests, the first and
deep-rooted characteristics of modern burgher manners, timidity
of spirit by the side of firm determination, and mob
licentiousness accompanied by principles of legality, In a word,
all the elements which have concurred in the constitution of
European society, and all that that society has been, have now
been fully searched into.

Now let us transport ourselves into the midst of modern Europe; I
do not mean the present Europe, after the astonishing change we
have witnessed, but that of the seventeenth and eighteenth
centuries. Do we recognise the society we have just beheld in the
twelfth? How prodigious the difference! I have already dilated
upon this difference when on the subject of the boroughs; I then
endeavoured to show how little the third estate of the eighteenth
century resembled that of the twelfth? Scrutinising feudalism and
the church in the same manner, we are struck by a similar
metamorphosis. There was no more resemblance between the nobility
of Louis XIV.'s court and the feudal aristocracy, or between the
church of Cardinal de Bernis and that of the Abbot Suger, than
between the third estate of the eighteenth century and the
burghers of the twelfth. In the interval between these two
epochs, society (although in possession of all its elements) was
completely transformed.

I shall attempt a clear explication of the general and essential
character of this transformation.

From the fifth to the twelfth century, society contained all that
I have described--kings, a lay aristocracy, a clergy, burghers,
serfs, religious and civil powers, the germs, in fact, of all
that constitutes a nation and a government, and yet there was no
government or nation. As to a people, properly so called, or a
veritable government, in the sense with which those words are now
applied, there was nothing of the sort in the whole period
mentioned. We have encountered a multitude of particular forces,
of special facts and of local institutions, but nothing general
or public, no political system, in the strict sense of the word;
in fine, no real nationality.

Let us look, on the contrary, to Europe in the seventeenth and
eighteenth centuries. We behold in every quarter two great forms
appear on the stage of the world, the government and the nation.
Society is formed by, and history is occupied in the relation of,
the action of a general power upon a whole country, and the
influence of that country upon the power which governs it; the
mutual ties of these two great forces, their alliance and their
strife, are the especial objects of history.
{141}
The nobles, the clergy, the burghers, all those particular
classes and powers, have no longer a prominent appearance, but
are merged in and effaced by these two great bodies, the
government and the nation.

This is, if I mistake not, the essential feature which
distinguishes modern from primitive Europe, and the metamorphosis
was accomplished between the thirteenth and sixteenth centuries.

It is therefore between these two eras that the secret is
embowelled, and the distinctive character of the epoch upon which
we are entering is, that it has been employed to turn primitive
Europe into modern Europe; hence its importance and high historic
interest. Unless we contemplate it under that aspect, and unless
we seek to learn what has resulted therefrom, not only shall we
be utterly at a loss to understand the epoch, but we shall also
feel tired and wearied with its pursuit. In fact, viewed by
itself, and apart from its consequences, it was a period without
character, a time during which confusion went on increasing,
without the causes being apparent, an era of movement without
direction, of agitation without result; royalty, nobility,
clergy, burghers, all the elements of social order, kept moving
in the same circle, all equally incapable of progress and repose.
Experiments of all kinds were made, and all failed; attempts were
made to give stability to government, foundation to public
liberty, even to introduce religious reforms, but nothing was
effected, nothing grew to a head. If the human race was ever
delivered over to a destiny at once agitated and stationary, to
labour at once unremitting and barren, such were certainly the
features of its condition from the thirteenth to the fifteenth
century.

I know only one work in which this characteristic is truthfully
portrayed--namely, 'The History of the Dukes of Burgundy,' by M.
de Barante. I do not refer to the truth which sparkles in his
descriptions of manners, or minute relations of events; but to
that general truthfulness which renders his whole work a faithful
image, a transparent mirror of the whole epoch, the restlessness
and the monotony of which it so well unfolds.

Considered, on the contrary, in its relation to what followed it,
as the period of transition from the primitive to the modern
state of Europe, the epoch in question brightens into perspicuity
and animation; a uniformity in the whole, a direction and a
progress, are instantly discoverable; its unity of action and its
interest are contained in the heavy and obscure labour itself
which worked out the accomplishment.

The history of European civilisation may therefore be summed into
three great periods. First, a period which I shall call that of
origins, of formation, in which the different elements of our
society emerged from chaos, took being, and displayed themselves
in their native forms with their animating principles.
{142}
This period was prolonged almost to the twelfth century. Second,
the second period was one of trial, experiment, groping; the
different elements of social order drew towards each other, came
in contact, and, so to express myself, felt each other, yet were
unable to strike out anything of a general, regular, and lasting
order. This state did not terminate until the sixteenth century.
Third, the last is the period of development, properly so called,
in which human society took a definitive form in Europe, pursued
a determined direction, and progressed, rapidly and as a whole,
towards a clear and precise object. This commenced in the
sixteenth century, and still holds its course.

Such appears to me, upon a combined survey, the aspect of
European civilisation, and in such a light I shall endeavour to
present it. We are entering at the present moment upon the second
period. We have to search it for the great crises and the
determining causes of the social transformation which thence
resulted.

The first great event which stands before us, and opens, as it
were, the epoch of which we speak, is the phenomenon of the
crusades. They began at the end of the eleventh, and filled the
twelfth and thirteenth centuries. They form assuredly a great
event, which, from the era of its accomplishment, has unceasingly
occupied philosophic historians, all of whom, even before
engaging in a particular analysis, have felt that it was one of
those influences which change the condition of populations, and
which it was imperatively incumbent well to study, in order to
obtain a clear comprehension of the general course of things.

The main characteristic of the crusades is their universality.
All Europe together took part in them; they were the first
European occurrence. Previous to the crusades, Europe had never
been moved by an identical sentiment, nor had acted in one and
the same cause; there was, in fact, no Europe. The crusades
unfolded a Christian Europe. The French formed the bulk of the
first army of the crusaders, but there were also Germans,
Italians, Spaniards, and Englishmen. Take the second or the third
crusade; all the Christian nations were engaged in each. Nothing
similar had ever been witnessed.

This was not all. In the same manner as the crusades were an
European event, so were they in each country a national event. In
each nation all classes of society were animated with the same
conviction, obeyed the same idea, and abandoned themselves to the
same enthusiastic impulse. Kings, lords, priests, burghers,
husbandmen, all took the same interest and the same share in the
crusades. A moral unity amongst the nations broke forth--a fact
as novel as the European unity.

{143}

When such events occur in the youth of nations, in those times
when they act spontaneously, and from free impulse, without
premeditation, political intention, or governmental combinations,
we acknowledge them to be what history calls heroic events, and
to evidence the heroic age of nations. The crusades were, in
fact, the heroic era of modern Europe--a movement at once
individual and general, national, and yet unguided.

All documents avouch, and all facts prove, that this was actually
their primitive character. Who were the first crusaders who put
themselves in motion? Bands of populace, who departed under the
conduct of Peter the Hermit, without preparation, and without
guides or chiefs, followed, rather than led, by some obscure
knights, and who, after traversing Germany and the Greek empire,
dispersed or perished in Asia Minor.

The superior class, the feudal nobility, was, in its turn, eager
for the crusade. Under the command of Godfrey of Bouillon, the
lords and their followers set off full of ardour. When they had
traversed Asia Minor, the chiefs became lukewarm and weary, were
little disposed to continue the route, and felt inclined to throw
aside all considerations but themselves, to make conquests, and
gain establishments. The commonalty of the army rose in anger;
they were bent on proceeding to Jerusalem; the deliverance of
Jerusalem was the object of the crusade, and not to gain
principalities for Raymond of Toulouse, Bohemond, or any other.
The popular, national, European impulse prevailed over all
individual schemes; the chiefs had not sufficient ascendancy over
the masses to bend them to their selfish interests.

The sovereigns, who had remained aloof from the first crusade,
were finally drawn into the movement like the people. The great
crusades of the twelfth century were commanded by kings.

I pass at once to the end of the thirteenth century. Crusades
were still talked of in Europe, were still preached with zeal.
The popes urged sovereigns and people; councils were held in
commendation of the Holy Land; but every one hung back, and was
indifferent about going. Something had passed into the European
mind and society which put an end to crusades. There were still
some particular expeditions; a few lords and parties of men still
departed for Jerusalem, but the general movement was evidently
arrested. Yet it does not appear that either the necessity for
continuing in it or the facility of so doing had ceased. The
Moslems triumphed more and more in Asia. The Christian kingdom
founded at Jerusalem had fallen into their power. It was
necessary to reconquer it; to secure success, the means were much
greater than they were at the time that the crusades commenced; a
great number of Christians were established, and still powerful,
in Asia Minor, Syria, and Palestine. The best modes of travelling
there, and of acting effectually, were much better known than at
the earlier period. But, however, all this was unavailing to
reanimate the crusading spirit. It is clear that the two great
powers of society--the sovereigns on the one hand, and the
nations on the other--wished for no more crusades.

{144}

It has been repeatedly said that this arose from lassitude; that
Europe was tired with thus pouring upon Asia. It is proper that
this word _lassitude_, which is so often used on similar
occasions, should be understood, for it is singularly
inappropriate. It is not true that human generations are weary
with what they have not done, weary of the fatigues of their
fathers. Lassitude or weariness is personal, and is not
transmitted like an inheritance. The men of the thirteenth
century were not fatigued with the crusades of the twelfth;
another cause operated upon them. A great change had been
effected in ideas, feelings, and social positions. The same wants
and desires were no longer felt. The same things were no longer
either believed or wished for. Such political or moral
metamorphoses, and not weariness, explain the varying conduct of
successive generations. The lassitude which is attributed to them
is a metaphor void of truth.

Two great causes, the one moral, the other social, threw Europe
into the crusades.

The moral cause was the impulse derived from religious sentiments
and creed. Since the end of the seventh century, Christianity had
fought against Mohammedanism, and had conquered it in Europe,
after being fearfully menaced by it; it had succeeded in
restricting it to Spain. Thence also it was constantly labouring
to expel it. The crusades have been represented as a sort of
accident, as an unforeseen and unbruited event, brought about by
the recitals of pilgrims on their return from Jerusalem, and the
preachings of Peter the Hermit. Nothing of the kind. The crusades
were the continuation and apogœum of the great contest carried on
for four centuries between Christianity and Mohammedanism. The
theatre of that contest had previously been in Europe, then it
was transported into Asia. If I put any value on those
comparisons and parallels in which people sometimes delight to
press, suitably or unsuitably, historical facts, I might exhibit
Christianity as running in Asia exactly the same career, and
undergoing the same fate, as Mohammedanism in Europe.
Mohammedanism was established in Spain, where it conquered and
founded a kingdom and principalities. The Christians did that
also in Asia, and they found themselves, with regard to the
Mohammedans, in the same position as the latter in Spain with
regard to the Christians. The kingdom of Jerusalem and that of
Grenada precisely corresponded. However, such likenesses or
similitudes are of very little consequence. The great fact was
the contest of the two religious and social systems. The crusades
were its main and culminating crisis. In that is their historical
character, the bond which unites them to the entirety of affairs.

{145}

Another cause, the social state of Europe in the eleventh
century, equally contributed to their breaking forth. I have been
particular in explaining why nothing of a general nature could
gain establishment in Europe from the fifth to the eleventh
century, and I endeavoured to show how completely the local
system prevailed, and within what narrow limits states,
existences, and minds were confined. The feudal system had
effected that. After some time, limits so narrow no longer
satisfied; human thought and activity were eager to overleap the
bounds to which they were restricted. The wandering life had
ceased, but not the taste for its excitement and adventures. The
populations rushed to the crusades as to a new existence, wider
and more varied than their own, pleasurable to them as both
recalling the ancient liberty of barbarism, and opening out vast
prospects for the future.

Such were, in my opinion, the determining causes of the crusades
in the twelfth century. At the end of the thirteenth century,
neither the one nor the other of them any longer existed. Mankind
and society were so changed, that neither the moral impulse nor
the social wants which had precipitated Europe upon Asia, were
any longer felt. It is a curious matter to compare the
contemporary chroniclers of the first crusades with those of the
end of the twelfth and of the thirteenth century; for example,
Albert of Aix, Robert the monk, and Raymond of Agiles, who were
present in the first crusade, with William of Tyre and James of
Vitry. When we bring these two classes of writers together, we
are immediately struck with the distance which separates them.
The first are animated chroniclers, with excited imaginations,
who relate the events of the crusade with great warmth. But their
minds were prodigiously narrow, having no idea out of the petty
sphere in which they lived, strangers to all science, filled with
prejudices, and incapable of forming any judgment whatsoever upon
what was passing around them, or upon the events which they
recount. On the contrary, opening the history of William of Tyre,
we are astonished to discover almost an historian of modern
times, a developed, expansive, and unprejudiced mind, a rare
political insight into events, comprehensive views, and a
judgment based upon causes and effects. James of Vitry presents
the example of another order of development; he is a learned man,
who carries his inquiries beyond what has immediate reference to
the crusades, and dilates upon the state of manners, upon
geography, heathenism, and natural history; in fact, one who
observes and describes the world. In fine, there is a vast
interval between the chroniclers of the first crusades and the
historians of the last, sufficient to convince us of a veritable
revolution in the state of the human mind.

{146}

This revolution is especially perceptible in the feeling with
which the two classes mention the Mohammedans. To the first
chroniclers, and consequently to the first crusaders, of whom
they are but the expression, Mohammedans are objects only of
hatred; it is evident that those who speak of them do not know
them or judge them upon proof, but consider them only with the
blindness of the religious hostility which exists between them:
we discover no trace of any mutual social relation; they hate and
they fight them, nothing more. William of Tyre, James of Vitry,
and Bernard the Treasurer, speak of the Mussulmans quite
differently; although engaged in combating them, it is clear that
they look upon them no longer as monsters, that they have to a
certain extent entered into their ideas, that they have lived
with them, and that relations, and even a sort of sympathy, have
been established between them. William of Tyre passes a fine
eulogium upon Noureddin, and Bernard the Treasurer upon Saladin.
They even sometimes go so far as to place the manners and conduct
of the Mussulmans in opposition to the manners and conduct of the
Christians, and they praise the Mohammedans, in order to satirise
the Christians, as Tacitus painted the manners of the Germans as
a contrast to those of Rome. Now, the change must have been
immense which was accomplished between the two epochs, since we
find in the last a freedom and impartiality of spirit in regard
to the very enemies of the Christians, those against whom the
crusades themselves were directed, which would have filled the
first crusaders with astonishment and rage.

Here was the first and main result of the crusades, a great step
towards the enfranchisement of the mind, and a considerable
advance towards more extended and unprejudiced ideas. Commenced
in the name, and under the influence of religious principles, the
crusades took from religious ideas, I will not say their
legitimate share of influence, but the exclusive and despotic
possession of the human mind. This consequence, doubtless a very
unforeseen one, was produced by various causes. The first arose
certainly from the novelty, the extent, and the variety of the
scenes that were offered to the contemplation of the crusaders.
There happened to them what usually happens to travellers. It is
a mere commonplace to say that the mind of a traveller is set
free, and that the custom of comparing different nations,
manners, and opinions expands the ideas, and clears the judgment
from ancient prejudices. Now, the same fact occurred to these
travelling populations who have been called crusaders; their
minds were opened and elevated by the mere circumstance of
witnessing a multitude of different things, and by becoming
acquainted with manners distinct from their own. Besides, they
came into relations with two civilisations, not only different,
but more advanced--namely, the Greek society on the one hand,
and the Mussulman on the other.
{147}
There can be no doubt but that the Greek society, although its
civilisation was emasculated, corrupted, and expiring, had on the
crusaders the operation of a society in a more advanced state,
more polished and enlightened than theirs. The Mussulman society
offered to them a spectacle of the same nature. It is curious to
perceive in the chronicles the impression that the crusaders
produced upon the Mohammedans; the latter regarded them upon
their first approach as barbarians, as the most brutal,
ferocious, and stupid mortals it had been their lot to behold.
The crusaders, on their side, were struck with the exhibition of
wealth and the refinement of manners amongst the Moslems.
Frequent relations between the two people soon succeeded this
first impression. These extended, and became much more important
than is generally believed. Not only had the Christians of the
East habitual relations with the Mohammedans, but the East and
the West came to know, to visit, and to mingle with each other.
Not long ago, one of those learned men who made France honourable
in the eyes of Europe, M. Abel Remusat, has brought to light the
intercourse between the Mongol emperors and the Christian kings.
Mongol ambassadors were sent to the Frank kings, to St. Louis
amongst others, to induce them to enter into alliance, and to
recommence crusades for the common interests of Mongols and
Christians against the Turks. And not only were diplomatic or
official relations thus established between the sovereigns, but
they extended to frequent and varied relations amongst the
populations. I shall quote literally from M. Remusat. [Footnote
11]

    [Footnote 11: 'Memoirs of the Political Relations of the
    Christian Princes with the Mongol Emperors.'--Second Memoir,
    p. 145-157.]

  'A great many Italian, French, and Flemish monks were charged
  with diplomatic missions to the great khan. Mongols of
  distinction came to Rome, Barcelona, Valentia, Lyons, Paris,
  London, and Northampton, and a Franciscan of the kingdom of
  Naples was archbishop of Pekin. His successor was a professor
  of theology of the faculty of Paris. But how many other persons
  less known were drawn after these, either as slaves, or
  attracted by the love of gain, or urged by curiosity, into
  countries up to that period unknown! Chance has preserved the
  names of some. The first envoy who came to visit the king of
  Hungary, on the part of the Tartars, was an Englishman,
  banished from his country for certain crimes, and who, after
  having wandered over all Asia, had finished by taking service
  amongst the Mongols. A Flemish shoemaker met in the depths of
  Tartary a woman from Metz, named _Paquette_, who had been
  carried off in Hungary; a Parisian goldsmith, whose brother was
  established in Paris upon the great bridge; and a young man
  from the environs of Rouen, who had been at the taking of
  Belgrade.
{148}
  He saw also some Russians, Hungarians, and Flemings. A
  chorister, named _Robert_, after traversing Oriental Asia,
  returned to end his days in the cathedral of Chartres. A Tartar
  was purveyor of helmets in the armies of Philip the Handsome.
  John de Plancarpin fell in, near Gayouk, with a Russian
  nobleman whom he calls _Temer_, who was officiating as
  interpreter; several merchants of Breslau, Poland, and Austria
  accompanied him in his journey to Tartary. Others returned with
  him by way of Russia; they were Genoese, Pisans, and Venetians.
  Two merchants from Venice, whom hazard had conducted to
  Bokhara, consented to follow a Mongol ambassador from Houlagou
  sent to Khoubalai. They sojourned several years in China and
  Tartary, returned with letters from the great khan for the
  pope, went back to the great khan, taking with them the son of
  one of them, the celebrated Marco Polo, and once more quitted
  the court of Khoubalai to return to Venice. Travels of this
  sort were not less frequent in the following age. In the number
  are those of Sir John Mandeville, an English physician, of
  Orderic of Frioul, of Pegoletti, of William Bouldeselle, and of
  several others. We can readily conceive that those whose memory
  is preserved are but a very small portion of those that were
  undertaken, and that there were at the period in question more
  people capable of executing distant journeys than of writing
  accounts of them. Very many of these adventurers must have
  settled and died in the countries they went to visit. Others
  returned to their native land as obscure as they went away, but
  with an imagination filled with what they had seen, and gave
  relations to their families, highly coloured doubtless, but
  thereby leaving around them, amidst ridiculous fables, useful
  remembrances, and traditions capable of bearing good fruit.
  Thus in Germany, Italy, and France, in the monasteries, in the
  castles of the feudal lords, and even in the lowest ranks of
  society, were deposited precious mementos, destined at a
  somewhat later period to be turned to account. All these
  unknown travellers, carrying the arts of their own countries
  into distant lands, brought back others not less precious, and
  made, without perception on their parts, more advantageous
  exchanges than all those of commerce. By these means, not only
  the trade in silks, porcelain, and Indian commodities became
  extended and more practicable, opening up new routes to
  commercial industry and activity, but what was of still greater
  consequence, foreign manners, unknown nations, and
  extraordinary productions, crowded upon the minds of Europeans,
  repressed since the fall of the Roman Empire into too narrow a
  circle. They began to estimate properly the finest, the
  best-peopled, and the most anciently-civilised of the four
  quarters of the globe. They set about studying the arts,
  creeds, and idioms of the nations who inhabited it, and there
  was even a project for establishing a chair of the Tartar
  language in the university of Paris.
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  Romantic accounts, being soon investigated and valued as they
  deserved, spread on all sides more just and comprehensive
  ideas. The world seemed to open on the side of the East;
  geography made a prodigious stride; and an ardour for
  discoveries became the new direction which the adventurous
  spirit of Europeans fell into. When our own hemisphere was
  better known, the idea of another ceased to present itself to
  the mind as a paradox stripped of all likelihood; and it was
  upon an expedition in search of the Zipango of Marco Polo, that
  Christopher Columbus discovered the New World.'

Here we see how vast and novel a world was opened to the European
mind by means of circumstances brought about by the impulse of
the crusades in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. We
cannot doubt it to have been one of the most powerful causes of
the mental development and freedom which broke forth at the end
of that great era.

Another circumstance deserves to be mentioned. Previous to the
crusades, the court of Rome--the centre of the church--had held
communication with laymen only through the agency of
ecclesiastics, either of legates sent by Rome, or of bishops and
the whole body of clergy. Of course there were always some laymen
in direct relation with Rome; but, upon the whole, it was by
ecclesiastics that it communicated with the populations. During
the crusades, on the contrary, Rome became a place of passage to
a great proportion of the crusaders, either in going or
returning. Multitudes of laymen thus enjoyed an opportunity of
more narrowly inspecting the policy and manners of the papal
court, and of discriminating how much of personal interest was
mixed up with religious discussions. There can scarcely be a
doubt that this new species of knowledge inspired numerous minds
with a hardihood previously undreamt of.

When we reflect upon the state of public opinion in general, and
especially with regard to ecclesiastical matters, at the
termination of the crusades, a singular fact cannot fail to
strike us. We do not find that the religious ideas had changed,
or that they had been supplanted by contrary or merely different
opinions, yet was opinion infinitely more free, religious dogmas
were no longer the only sphere in which the human mind gave
itself scope; but without altogether forsaking them, it commenced
to shake them off, and carry its inquiries into other quarters.
Thus, by the end of the thirteenth century, the moral cause which
had provoked the crusades, or which had been at least their most
energetic principle, had disappeared; the moral state of Europe
had undergone deep-seated modifications.

{150}

The social state also had suffered an alteration of an analogous
nature. Much labour has been spent in investigating the influence
of the crusades in a social respect; it has been shown that a
great number of proprietors of fiefs was reduced to the necessity
of selling them to the kings, or of granting charters to the
boroughs, for the purpose of raising money and going to the
crusades; and also that, by their mere absence, many lords lost a
considerable portion of power. Without entering into details, I
think the influence of the crusades upon the social state may be
summed up into a few general facts.

They greatly diminished the number of small fiefs, of petty
domains, and of small proprietors, and concentrated property and
power into a less number of hands. It is subsequent to the
crusades that we find the great fiefs, the great feudal
formations, spread over the face of the country.

I have often regretted that there is no map of France divided
into fiefs, in the same manner as we have one divided into
departments, arrondissements (circles), cantons, and boroughs, in
which all the fiefs were denoted, with their extent, relations,
and successive changes. If by the aid of such a map we could
compare the state of France before and after the crusades, we
should perceive at a glance how many fiefs had disappeared, and
to what extent the great and middle fiefs had increased. This was
one of the most important results of the crusades.

And even when the small proprietors preserved their fiefs, they
ceased to live so isolated as formerly. The possessors of large
fiefs became centres, around which the small ones flocked and
passed their lives. During the crusades they had found it
necessary to range themselves under the banner of the wealthiest
and most powerful, and receive assistance from him. With this
chief they had lived, partaken his fortunes, and shared his
adventures. When they returned home, this sociability and habit
of associating with the superior became fixed in their manners.
So, whilst we perceive the great fiefs enlarged after the
crusades, we likewise find that their owners held a much more
considerable court than theretofore in their castles, and had
about their persons a great number of gentlemen, who preserved
their small domains, but no longer shut themselves up in them.

The extension of the great fiefs, and the creation of various
centres for society, instead of the dispersion and isolation
previously existing, were the two greatest effects of the
crusades within the folds of feudalism.

As to the burghers, a result of the same nature is instantly
perceptible. The crusades were the means of creating large towns.
Petty inland commerce and industry had been insufficient to form
boroughs such as the great towns of Italy and Flanders. Their
rise was owing to commerce upon an extensive scale, maritime
commerce, and particularly that between the East and the West.
Thus it was the crusades which gave to maritime commerce the
strongest impulse it had ever received.

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Upon the whole, when we look to the state of society at the
conclusion of the crusades, we find that that tendency to
dispersion and dissolution, that movement to universal
localisation, if I may be permitted so to speak, which had
preceded that epoch, had ceased and been replaced by a tendency
of a contrary nature, by a movement to centralisation. Everything
was disposed for junction and amalgamation. The smaller
existences were absorbed in the greater, or grouped around them.
In this direction society marched, to this object were its
advancements pointed.

We now clearly understand why nations and sovereigns, at the end
of the thirteenth and in the fourteenth century, were indifferent
about crusades. They had no longer any occasion or inclination
for them; they had been thrown into them by the impulse of a
religious spirit, and by the exclusive dominion held by religious
ideas over the entirety of their existence; this dominion was on
the wane, its energy was gone. The crusades had been recommended
to them also by the novelty, extent, and variety of the scenes
they opened up, and they began to find in Europe itself, in the
progress of social relations, a life possessing all such
characteristics. It was at this epoch that the career of
political aggrandisement opened to kings. Why go in search of
kingdoms in Asia, when they had them to conquer at their
thresholds? Philip Augustus went to the crusades much against his
inclination; his unwillingness was quite natural, for he had yet
to make himself king of France. The people were affected in the
same manner. The career of wealth was laid open before them, and
they renounced romance for labour. Political affairs were
substituted by sovereigns for adventures, and extended industry
by the people. One class only of society continued to keep up a
taste for adventures, namely, that portion of the feudal nobility
which, being on too low a scale to pretend to political
aggrandisement, and despising labour, preserved its old position
and its ancient manners. It therefore continued to rush to the
crusades, and to endeavour their revival.

Such, according to my conception, were the great and veritable
effects of the crusades; on the one hand, expansion of ideas,
enfranchisement of opinion; on the other, the aggrandisement of
particular powers, and a wider sphere opened to all sorts of
activity. They produced, at one and the same time, an increase to
individual liberty and to political unity. They conduced to the
independence of man and to the centralisation of society.

Many inquiries have been directed to ascertain what means of
civilisation were directly imported from the East. It has been
said that the majority of the great discoveries which, in the
course of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, stimulated so
vastly the development of European civilisation--the compass,
printing, and gunpowder--were known in the East, and might have
been brought thence by the crusaders. That is true to a certain
extent.
{152}
Yet some of these assertions are impugnable. But what is not so,
is that influence, that general effect of the crusades upon the
minds of men on the one hand, and upon society on the other; they
drew European society out of a narrow drain, and sent it forward
upon new and broad ways; they commenced that transmigration of
the different elements or parts of European society into
governments and nations, which is the character of modern
civilisation. At the same period, royalty, one of the
institutions which have most powerfully contributed to that great
result, was developed. Its history from the birth of modern
states to the thirteenth century will be the object of my next
lecture.

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                   Lecture IX.

          Rise And Progress Of Royalty.

In my last lecture I endeavoured to determine the essential and
distinctive character of modern society, as compared with the
primitive European society; and it was my object to show that it
was exhibited in this fact, that all the elements of the social
state, at first numerous and distinct, were reduced to two--the
government on the one hand, and the people or nation on the
other. Instead of encountering as predominant powers and chief
actors in history, the feudal nobility, the clergy, kings,
burghers, boors, and serfs, we find in modern Europe but two
great forms alone occupying the historical stage--the government
and the country.

If such be the head to which European civilisation has gathered,
such also must be the object towards which we are to direct our
steps, to which our researches must be made subservient. It is
incumbent on us to trace the great result through its different
stages, its origin, development, and progressive consolidation.
We have already entered upon the epoch to which its origin may be
assigned; and it was, as we have seen, between the twelfth and
sixteenth centuries that a slow and hidden labour was at work in
Europe, which drew our society to that new and definitive
configuration. So also have we investigated the first great event
which, in my opinion, palpably and irresistibly impelled Europe
into that direction--namely, the crusades.

In the same epoch, nearly at the instant that the crusades broke
loose, the institution which has mainly contributed to the
formation of modern society, and to that fusion of all the social
elements into the two powers mentioned, royalty commenced its
aggrandisement.

Royalty has assuredly played a prodigious part in the history of
European civilisation, as a glance at facts will convince us. We
see the development of royalty progressing step by step, if I may
so say, with that of society itself; at least for a long time the
advancement is mutual. And not only so, but whenever society
advances towards its definitive and modern character, royalty
appears to expand and prosper; so that when the work is achieved,
and there remains in none, or nearly none, of the great states of
Europe any other important and decisive influence than that of
the government and the body of the nation, it is royalty which
forms the government.

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It has thus come to pass not only in France, where the fact is
evident, but in the great majority of the countries of Europe; a
little earlier or a little later, and under forms somewhat
differently modified, the history of society in England, Spain,
and Germany offers us the same result. In England, for example,
it was under the Tudors that the old particular and local
elements of English society were displaced, broken up, and
supplanted by the system of public powers; it was likewise the
period in which royalty exercised the greatest influence. There
have been the same circumstances in Germany, in Spain, and in all
the great European states.

If we proceed out of Europe, and carry our views to the rest of
the world, we encounter an analogous fact. We everywhere find
royalty occupying an important station, and appearing as an
institution perhaps the most general, the most permanent, and the
most difficult to prevent, where it did not previously exist, and
to eradicate where it had existed. From time immemorial it has
possessed Asia. On the discovery of America, all the great states
were there found, in different combinations, subjected to the
monarchical system. Even in the interior of Africa, wherever
nations of any extent are met with, it is the prevailing regime.
And not only has royalty penetrated into all quarters, but it has
accommodated itself to situations the most various, to
civilisation and barbarism, to the most pacific manners--as in
China, for example--and to those in which war or the military
spirit held predominance; it has established itself at one time
in the heart of the system of castes, in societies the most
rigorously classified, and at another in the midst of a system of
equality, and in societies the most alien to all legalised and
permanent classification. Often despotic and oppressive, and
again, elsewhere, favourable to the progress of civilisation and
liberty, it seems to be a head fitted for a multitude of
different bodies--a fruit which may grow from the most
diversified germs.

From this fact we might deduce many important and curious
consequences. I will take but two; the first, that it is
impossible such a result should be the offspring of mere hazard,
or of force and usurpation alone, and that a profound and
powerful analogy must exist between the genius of royalty
considered as an institution, and the nature either of individual
man or of human society. Doubtless force mingled at the origin of
the institution, and has had a great share in its progress; but
when a result like this is met with, when we find a great fact
constantly developing or reproducing itself during a long series
of ages, and amidst so many varied ramifications, we can never
attribute it exclusively to force. Force is a great instrument,
an every-day instrument in human affairs, but it is not their
moving or highest principles; above force, and the part it
enacts, is always hovering a moral cause, which decides the
course of affairs. Force, in the history of societies, is like
the body in the history of man.
{155}
The body assuredly holds an important place in the life of man,
yet it is not the principle of life. Life circulates within it,
but emanates not from it. This also is the case with human
societies; whatever part may be borne by force, it does not
govern them, or exercise a sovereign sway over their destiny;
this is the province of ideas and moral influences, which are hid
under the accidents of force, and which, in their concealment,
regulate the course of societies. It is undoubtedly a cause of
this nature, and not force, which has made royalty so prosperous.

The second fact is scarcely less important. It consists in the
flexibility of the institution, its faculty for modification, and
for adaptation to a multitude of diverse circumstances. In this
it presents a strong contrast; its form is of itself permanent
and simple, not offering that great variety of combinations which
are perceived in other institutions, and yet it accommodates
itself to societies which have the least resemblance to it. It
therefore evidently consists with a great diversity, and is
linked, either through man himself, or through society, to many
different elements and principles.

From not having contemplated the institution of royalty in all
its extent; from not having, on the one hand, pierced to its
peculiar and invariable principle, to that which makes its
essence, and still subsists, whatever may be the circumstances to
which it is made applicable; and from not having, on the other,
estimated all the variations to which it lends itself, all the
principles with which it may enter into alliance; from not having
considered royalty under this twofold and expansive point of
view, its part in the history of the world has often been
mistaken, and erroneous conceptions formed as to its nature and
effects.

To embrace these points is the task I impose upon myself, so as
to present a complete and precise account of the effects of this
institution in modern Europe, whether as flowing from its
peculiar principle, or from the modifications it has undergone.

There can be no doubt that the strength of royalty, that moral
power which is its true character, does not rest in the personal
or self-will of the man who is for the moment king, or that
nations, in receiving it as an institution, and philosophers in
supporting it as a system, have not intended or wished to subject
themselves to the will of one man, which in its essence is
narrow, arbitrary, capricious, and ignorant.

Royalty is a thing quite distinct from the will of one man,
although it presents itself under that form. It is the
personification of the supremacy of right, and of that will which
is essentially reasonable, enlightened, just, and impartial,
foreign and superior to all individual wills, and having, by
virtue of these claims, a right to govern them. Such is the
meaning attached to royalty in the minds of nations, and such is
the motive of their adhesion to it.

{156}

Is it true, then, that there is a sovereignty of right, a will
which has the right to govern men! It is certain that they
believe so, for they seek, and have constantly sought, and they
cannot but seek, to be placed under its empire. Let us conceive,
I will not say a nation, but the smallest assembly of men
subjected to a sovereign, who is so only _de facto_, to a
power, whose only right is that of force, governing in spite of
reason, justice, and truth. Human nature instantly revolts
against such a supposition; it will yield only to some claim of
right. The object it wishes to attain, therefore, is, that right
should reign, and to it alone will it consent to pay obedience.
What is history but the demonstration of the universality of this
fact! What has caused the majority of those contests which have
worried the life of nations, but a neverceasing effort to make
right supreme, so as to range themselves under its empire? And
not only nations, but philosophers, firmly believe in its
existence, and are incessantly in search of it. What are all the
systems of political philosophy but disquisitions for the
discovery of right, to give it sovereignty! What do they treat
of, unless it be to decide who has the right to govern society?
Take the theocratical, monarchical, aristocratical, and
democratical systems, do they not all boast of having found out
in whom the sovereignty by right resides, and do they not all
profess to place society under its legitimate master? I assert
again that this is the object of all the speculations of
philosophers, as well as of all the efforts of nations.

How could it be otherwise than that both, philosophers and
nations, should believe in the veritable existence of a sovereign
right? or that they should not constantly be on the search for
it? Take one of the most simple propositions in elucidation; let
there be some action to work out, or some influence to exercise,
over society as a whole, or over some of its members, or even
over one man; there is most certainly and indispensably a rule
for that action or influence, a legitimate will to follow and
apply. Whether we descend to the minor details of the social
life, or rise to its greatest events, we find in all a truth to
discover, a rational law to infuse into realities. In this
consists the sovereignty of right, after which nations and
philosophers have never ceased, and, in the nature of things,
never can cease, earnestly to yearn.

And now arises the question as to the extent to which the
sovereignty of right can be represented, in a general and
permanent form, by an earthly power, by a human will. Is there
nothing necessarily false or dangerous in granting that it is
thereby adequately represented? What is to be thought, in
particular, of the personification of the sovereignty of right
under the image of royalty? Upon what conditions, and under what
limitations, is that personification admissible? These are
important questions, which I am not called upon here to discuss,
but which I cannot avoid alluding to, or bestowing a few words
upon, as I proceed.

{157}

I affirm, and the simplest common sense must coincide, that the
sovereignty of right, complete and permanent, can belong to no
individual, and that all attribution thereof to any human power
whatever is false and dangerous. Hence comes the necessity for
limiting all powers, whatever may be their names and forms; and
hence also comes the radical illegitimacy of every absolute
power, whether its origin may rest on conquest, hereditary claim,
or election. Differences may exist as to the best means to be
employed in establishing the supremacy of right; indeed they must
be varied according to times and places; but at no time, in no
place, can any power be legitimately the independent possessor of
that supremacy.

This principle being laid down, it is nevertheless certain that
royalty, in whatever system it is contemplated, protrudes itself
as the personification of the sovereign right. Here is the
theocratic system; it tells us that kings are the image of God on
earth, which means nothing else than that they are the
personification of sovereign justice, truth, and goodness. Here
are the jurisconsults; they tell us that the king is the living
law; which again means that the king is the personification of
sovereign right and of the just law which has a prerogative to
govern society. Here is royalty itself in a system of pure
monarchy; it asserts itself the personification of the state, of
the general interest. In whatever conjunction or situation it is
beheld, it is always found gathering itself into an allegation of
its representing and giving embodiment to that sovereign right
which is alone entitled legitimately to govern society.

In this there is no occasion for astonishment. What are the
characteristics of supreme right, such as it derives from its
very nature? First, it is by itself alone; for as there is but
one truth, and one justice, there can be but one supreme right.
Furthermore, it is permanent, always the same: truth changes not.
It is placed in a situation superior and unknown to all the
vicissitudes, all the hazards, of this world: in some degree it
is of this world only as a judge and spectator--such is its part.
Now, it is royalty which substantively brings out these rational
and natural characteristics of right under the most sensible
outward form, and seems their most faithful representative. M.
Benjamin Constant has ingeniously likened royalty to a neutral
moderating power, raised above the accidents and contests of
society, and interfering only in great crises. This is, as it
were, the very attitude of supreme right in the government of
human affairs. This idea must have had something calculated to
convince the judgment, for it passed with surprising rapidity
from books to facts. One sovereign made it the very base of his
throne, in the constitution of Brazil, in which royalty appears
as a moderator, raised above the active powers as spectator and
judge.

{158}

Under whatever point of view the institution may be regarded,
when tested in comparison with sovereign right, it will be found
to possess a great external resemblance, naturally calculated to
strike the minds of men. Thus, whenever their reflection or their
imagination has been turned towards the contemplation or study of
the nature of the sovereignty of right and of its essential
characteristics, they have inclined towards royalty. As, for
instance, in those periods in which religious ideas had
predominance, the habitual contemplation of the attributes of God
has led mankind to the monarchical system. So, also, when
jurisconsults have swayed society, the habit of studying, under
the name of law, the nature of the supremacy of right, has been
conducive to the dogma of its being personified in royalty. The
attentive application of the human intellect to the investigation
of the nature and the qualities of rightful sovereignty, when
other causes have not interfered to destroy its operation, has
invariably given strength and credit to royalty, as portraying
its likeness.

Furthermore, there are times peculiarly favourable to this
personification, times in which individual forces range through
the world with all their accidents and caprices, and in which
selfishness rules paramountly over individuals from ignorance and
brutality, or from corruption of manners. Then society, abandoned
to the conflict of personal wills, and unable to constitute by
their free concurrence a common and general will capable of
rallying and controlling them, passionately longs for a superior
to whom all individuals may be compelled to yield obedience; and
as soon as any institution presents itself which bears some of
the characteristics of rightful supremacy, and holds out to
society its legitimate empire, all cling to it with eager haste
as fugitives fly to a sanctuary. This is witnessed in the season
of the disorganised youth of nations, in times such as we have
surveyed. Royalty is admirably adapted for those eras of anarchy
in which society longs for constitution and regularity, and
cannot accomplish its aspiration by the free concord of
individual inclinations.

There are other times in which, from a totally different cause,
it has the same good quality. How did the Roman world, on the
verge of dissolution at the end of the republic, still subsist
for nearly fifteen centuries under the name of that empire which,
after all, was but a continual decay, a prolonged agony! Royalty
alone could have produced such an effect, it alone could have
repressed a society which corruption was perpetually tending to
destroy. Thus the imperial power bore up for fifteen centuries
against the ruin of the Roman world.

{159}

Hence there are periods in which royalty alone is able to retard
the dissolution of society, and also periods in which it alone
can accelerate its formation. And in both cases it exercises this
power over events, because it represents more vividly and
energetically the sovereignty of right than any other form of
government.

Upon the whole, therefore, we may conclude that in every aspect
under which the institution is viewed, and in every epoch that it
is taken, its essential character, its moral principle, its real
and inherent spirit, and that which constitutes its strength,
consists in its being the image, the personification, the
presumed interpreter of that single, supreme, and essentially
legitimate will which alone holds the right to govern society.

Let us now consider royalty under the second point of view--that
is to say, with regard to its flexibility in the vast variety of
the parts it has played, and of the effects it has produced. It
is incumbent on us to find a reason for it, and to determine its
causes.

We have here an advantage, as we can immediately plunge into
history, and into our own history too. By a singular concourse of
circumstances, it has come to pass that royalty has assumed in
modern Europe all the characters under which it has displayed
itself in the history of the world. If I may be allowed to use an
arithmetical expression, European royalty has been in some degree
the multiplicand of all possible species of royalty.

My intention is to take its history from the fifth to the twelfth
century, in the course of which it will be made evident under how
many distinct phases it presents itself, and to what extent that
character for variety, complication, and conflict which belongs
to all European civilisation is met with.

In the fifth century, at the period of the great invasion of the
Germans, two royalties are before us--the barbarian royalty, and
the imperial royalty; that of Clovis, and that of Constantine--
each very different in principles and consequences.

The barbarian royalty was essentially elective: the German kings
were elected, although their election was not accompanied by the
forms to which we are accustomed to attach that idea; they were,
in fact, military chiefs, bound to render their power freely
acceptable to a great number of companions, who obeyed them as
the bravest and ablest. Election, therefore, was the true source
of barbarian royalty, its primitive and essential characteristic.

I do not mean to state that even in the fifth century this
quality had not been somewhat modified, or that other elements
had not been introduced into royalty. The different tribes had
had their chiefs for a certain time; some families had raised
themselves to more consideration, trust, and wealth than others.
This gave a beginning to the hereditary principle; the chief was
no longer elected out of particular families. This was the first
circumstance of a different order which became associated to the
predominant principle of election.

{160}

Another idea or element had also previously been infused into the
barbarian royalty, springing from religious feelings. We find
amongst some of the barbarian nations--for example, amongst the
Goths--the conviction that the families of their kings were
descended from their gods, or from the heroes whom they had made
gods--from Odin, for instance. It is the situation of the kings
of Homer, who had sprung from gods or demigods, and under that
title were the objects of a sort of religious veneration,
notwithstanding the narrow limits of their power.

Such was barbarian royalty in the fifth century, already
exhibiting different and fluctuating characteristics, although
its primitive principle still prevailed.

Now I take the Roman or imperial royalty, and find it perfectly
distinct. It was the impersonation of the state, the inheritor of
the sovereignty and majesty of the Roman people. In the royalty
of Augustus and Tiberius, the emperor was the representative of
the senate, of the comitiæ, of the entire republic; them he
succeeded, and combined in his own person. The modest pretensions
of the first emperors, of those at least who were men of sense,
and understood their position, give proof of this fact. They felt
themselves before the people so lately supreme, and who had
abdicated in their favour; they addressed them as their
representatives and ministers. But in reality they exercised the
whole power of the people, and in the most formidable intensity.
Such a phenomenon is easy for us to comprehend, as we have
ourselves witnessed it: in the history of Napoleon we have seen
the sovereignty pass from the people into the hands of one man.
He also was the impersonation of the sovereign people, as he
perpetually said. 'Who ever was elected, like me, by eighteen
millions of men! Who is so perfect a representative of the people
as I!' he was accustomed to exclaim. And when we read on his
coins, 'The French republic' on one side, and 'Napoleon,
emperor,' on the reverse, does it not prove the fact as I
describe it, the people merged into a king?

In this was exemplified the fundamental character of the imperial
royalty, which it preserved for the three first centuries of the
Empire, as it was only under Diocletian that it took its
definitive and complete form. At that time, however, it was on
the point of undergoing a great modification; a new species of
royalty was about to appear. Christianity had laboured for three
centuries to introduce the religious element into the Empire; and
under Constantine it succeeded, not in making it paramount, but
in enabling it to perform an important part.
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Then royalty presented itself under a totally different aspect;
its origin ceased to be of the earth; the prince was not the
representative of the public sovereignty, but the image of God,
the delegate and representative of Heaven. Power came down to him
from on high, whilst in the imperial royalty it had come up from
below. These two positions were quite distinct, and had analogous
results. The rights of liberty and political guarantees were
difficult to combine with the principle of religious royalty; but
the principle itself was elevated, moral, and salutary. Let us
see the idea formed of the prince in the seventh century, amid
the system of religious royalty. I take it from the canons of the
council of Toledo.

  'The king is called king (_rex_) because he governs justly
  (_recte_). If he acts with justice (_recte_), he
  possesses legitimately the name of king; if he acts with
  injustice, he perishes miserably. Therefore our fathers rightly
  said, "Thou wilt be king if thou perform just actions; but if
  thou do not so act, king thou wilt not be." [Footnote 12] The
  two principal royal virtues are justice and truth (the science
  of truth, reason).

    [Footnote 12: Rex ejus eris si recta facis; si autem non
    facis, non eris. (The reverend fathers of Toledo have here
    indulged a sort of play on the words _rex_ and
    _recta_.)]

  'The royal power is bound, like the whole body of the people,
  to pay respect to the laws. Obeying the behests of Heaven, we
  give, as well to ourselves as to our subjects, wise laws, to
  which our own majesty and that of our successors is bound to
  render submission, as well as all the population of our
  kingdom.

  'God, the creator of all things, in disposing the structure of
  the human body, has placed the head on high, and has willed
  that thence should proceed the nerves of all its members. And
  he has placed in the head the torch of the eyes, in order that
  thence should be discerned all things that might be noxious.
  And he has there established the seat of intelligence, imposing
  on it the duty of governing all the members, and discreetly
  regulating their action. Therefore is it necessary, in the
  first place, to make order for what concerns princes, to
  provide for their safety and protect their lives, and
  afterwards to prescribe what affects the people; so that by
  guaranteeing, as is fitting, the safety of kings, that of the
  people may be at the same time and more effectually secured.'
  [Footnote 13]

    [Footnote 13: Forum Judicum, tit. i. 1. 2; tit. i. 1. 2. 1. 4.]

But another element besides royalty itself almost always intruded
itself into the system of religious royalty. A new power seated
itself by its side, a power more connected with God, and
therefore with the source whence the royalty emanated, than
royalty itself. This was the ecclesiastical power, which came
forward to interpose between God and kings, and between kings and
people, so that royalty, the image of the Divinity, ran the
chance of sinking to a mere instrument of human interpreters of
the Divine will. Here was a new cause of diversity in the
destinies and effects of the institution.

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Such were the various orders of royalty which manifested
themselves amid the wreck of the Roman Empire in the fifth
century--namely, the barbarian royalty, the imperial royalty, and
the rising religious royalty. Their fortunes were as diverse as
their principles.

In France, under the first race, the barbarian royalty prevailed.
There were several attempts on the part of the clergy to impress
on it the imperial or the religious character; but election in
the royal family, with some mixture of hereditary right and
religious ideas, remained predominant.

In Italy, amongst the Ostrogoths, the imperial royalty overcame
the barbarian manners. Theodoric asserted himself the successor
of the emperors. The pages of Cassiodorius bear sufficient
evidence to this character of his government.

In Spain, royalty appeared more religious than elsewhere. As the
councils of Toledo were, I will not say the masters, but the
influencing power, the religious character held the sway, if not
in the government, properly so called, of the Visigoth kings, at
least in the laws with which the clergy inspired them, and the
language it caused them to hold.

In England, amongst the Saxons, the barbarian manners subsisted
almost entire. The kingdoms of the heptarchy were no more than
the domains of different bands having each its chief. Military
election was more clearly displayed there than anywhere else. The
Anglo-Saxon royalty was the most faithful type of the barbarian.

Thus, from the fifth to the seventh century, whilst the three
sorts of royalty manifested themselves in general affairs, some
one prevailed, according to circumstances, in each of the
different states of Europe.

The confusion was such at that epoch, that nothing general or
permanent could be established; and through a maze of
vicissitudes we arrive at the eighth century, without finding
that royalty had taken a definitive character in any quarter.

Towards the middle of the eighth century, upon the triumph of the
second race of Frank kings, affairs become more generalised and
capable of explication. Inasmuch as events were accomplished upon
a larger scale, their results were proportionately increased, and
they themselves more easy to be understood. We then distinctly
perceive the different royalties succeed and combine with each
other in a short space of time.

{163}

At the period that the Carlovingians supplanted the Merovingians,
a return to the barbarian royalty is visible; the system of
election reappears. Pepin got himself elected at Soissons. When
the first Carlovingians gave kingdoms to their sons, they took
care to have them accepted by the great men of the countries
which they assigned them; and whenever they made a partition,
they were anxious to have it sanctioned in national assemblies.
In a word, the elective principle, under the form of a general
acceptation, reassumed some reality. It will be borne in mind
that this change of dynasty was like a new invasion of Germans
into the west of Europe, bringing back a certain portion of their
ancient institutions and manners.

In the same period the religious principle was more unequivocally
introduced into royalty, and exercised a greater influence upon
it. Pepin was acknowledged and crowned by the Pope. He had need
of a religious sanction; it was already a tower of strength, and
he availed himself of it. Charlemagne took the same precaution;
the religious royalty was gaining development. But under
Charlemagne that character did not grow predominant, for the
imperial royalty was what he attempted to resuscitate. Although
he closely allied himself with the clergy, he made use of them,
and was not their instrument. The idea of a universal state, of
one prodigious political unity--in fact, the resurrection of the
Roman Empire--was the favourite contemplation and dream of
Charlemagne.

Louis le Debonnaire (the Good-hearted) succeeded him. Every one
knows the character the royal power momentarily assumed in his
reign. He fell into the hands of the clergy, who censured,
deposed, re-established, and governed him. The subordinate
religious royalty seemed on the point of organisation.

Thus, from the middle of the eighth to the middle of the ninth
century, the variety of the three royal systems was exemplified
in considerable, connected, and palpable events.

After the death of Louis le Debonnaire, the three sorts of
royalty almost equally disappeared amid the anarchy into which
Europe was plunged; everything was jumbled together. After a
certain interval, when the feudal system prevailed, a fourth
royalty presented itself, different from all those we have
hitherto contemplated--namely, the feudal royalty. This species
is very confused and difficult to define. It has been said that
the king, in the feudal system, was the suzerain of suzerains,
the chief of chiefs; that he was held by fixed ties, through the
different degrees, to the whole society; and that in calling
around him his vassals, then the vassals of his vassals, and so
on, he called the whole nation, and showed himself truly a king.
I do not deny that this was the theory of the feudal royalty; but
it was a mere theory, which never governed facts. That general
influence of the king by means of the graduated organisation,
those ties which united royalty to the entire feudal society,
exist only in the dreams of publicists. In fact, the majority of
the feudal lords were at that epoch completely independent of
royalty; many of them scarcely knew it by name, and had no, or
very trifling, relations with it. All the sovereignties were
local and separate. The name of king, borne by one of the feudal
chiefs, expressed a thing past rather than present.

{164}

This is the state in which royalty presented itself in the course
of the tenth and eleventh centuries. In the twelfth, in the reign
of Louis the Fat, things began to change in aspect; the name of
the king was more frequently invoked, his influence penetrated
into places to which it had previously never approached, and in
fact his part in society became decidedly more active. Yet we do
not find that this increased sway was owing to any one of the
titles by which royalty had been accustomed to make good its
claims. It was not as inheritor of the emperors, or under colour
of the imperial royalty, that it waxed in strength, and settled
into a firmer consistence. Neither was it by virtue of election,
or as an emanation of the Divine power; every appearance of an
elective nature had vanished, and the principle of hereditary
succession to the throne definitively established; and although
religion sanctioned the accession of kings, the minds of men were
not at all awed by any religious character in the royalty of
Louis the Fat. A new element or character, hitherto unknown, came
forth in royalty at that period. A new royalty commenced.

It is scarcely necessary to observe that society was at that
epoch in a state of deplorable disorder, and a prey to continual
violence. Society had in itself no means of successfully
grappling with this shocking condition, or of regaining any
regularity or unity. The feudal institutions, those baronial
parliaments and seignorial courts, all those forms under which
feudalism has been portrayed in modern times, as a systematic and
well-ordered regime, were absolutely null and powerless,
possessing nothing which could at all conduce to the
re-establishment of order and justice; so that, in the midst of
this social desolation, none knew to whom recourse might be had
to get reparation for wrong, or to apply a remedy to crying
evils--in a word, to constitute a state to however small an
extent. The name of king still remained, borne by one of the
chiefs; some addressed themselves to him. The various titles by
which royalty had previously been recommended were not quite
eradicated from all minds, although they had long ceased to
exercise any great sway; yet on some occasions they were adduced.
It often happened that recourse was had to the king to repress
some scandalous course of violence, or to establish some degree
of order, in a locality approximate to his own residence, or to
terminate a long-standing dispute, so that he was called upon to
interfere in affairs that were not strictly his own; and in these
interventions he came forward as the protector of public order,
as an arbiter, and as a redresser of wrongs. The moral authority
which still lingered around his name gradually drew to him this
power.

{165}

Such was the character that royalty began to assume under Louis
the Fat, and under the administration of Suger. Then, for the
first time, we perceive arising in the minds of men an idea,
although still imperfect, confused, and feeble, of a public power
superior to the local powers which had possession of society,
invested with authority to render justice to those who could not
obtain it by ordinary means, and capable of establishing, or at
least of commanding, order; the idea of a great magistracy, whose
essential province was to maintain peace, to protect the weak,
and to decide differences which none other could terminate. This
was the perfectly new character under which royalty presented
itself in Europe, and especially France, dating from the twelfth
century. It was not in the light either of a barbarian,
religious, or imperial royalty, that it exercised its empire; the
power it possessed was very limited, imperfect, and occasional;
the power, in some degree (I know not any expression more exact),
of a great justice of the peace for the whole country.

This is the veritable origin of modern royalty, its vital
principle, so to speak; that which has been developed in the
course of its career, and which, I do not hesitate to affirm, has
been the cause of its prosperity. In the different eras of
history we perceive the various characters of royalty, the
distinct orders that I have described, endeavouring by turns to
reassume preponderance. Thus the clergy have always preached up
the religious royalty; jurisconsults have laboured to resuscitate
the imperial royalty; and the nobles have sometimes been inclined
to renew the elective royalty, or to assert its feudal character.
And not only have the clergy, the publicists, and the nobility,
striven to make predominant in royalty such or such a character,
but it has itself rendered them all subservient to the
aggrandisement of its power. Kings have asserted themselves
sometimes the delegates of the Almighty, sometimes the successors
of the emperors, or the first nobles of the land, according to
the exigency or the whim of the moment; they have illegitimately
availed themselves of these different titles, but not one of them
has been the true title of modern royalty, or the source of its
preponderating influence. It is, I once again assert, as the
depositary and protector of the public order, of general justice,
and of the common interests--under the features of a great
magistracy, the centre and nucleus of society--that it has
exhibited itself to the eyes of nations, and has monopolised
their force by obtaining their adhesion.

As we proceed onwards, we shall see this character of modern
European royalty, which commenced with the reign of Louis the Fat
in the twelfth century, gain strength, develop itself, and
finally become, so to speak, its political physiognomy. It is
through it that royalty has contributed to the great result which
characterises European societies, the reduction of all the social
elements to two--the government and the nation.

{166}

Thus, then, Europe, after the termination of the crusades,
entered upon the track which was to lead it to its actual state,
and we have now seen that royalty took its appropriate part in
that great transition. We shall next survey the different
attempts at political organisation that were made, from the
twelfth to the sixteenth century, with the object of maintaining,
by rendering it more regular, the order of things then in vogue,
but ready to crumble. We shall inquire into the efforts of
feudalism, the church, and even the boroughs, to constitute
society after its ancient principles, and under its primitive
forms, and thus defend themselves against the general
metamorphosis
which was in preparation.

{167}

                   Lecture X.

        Union Of Elements Of Modern Society.


I think it proper preliminarily to determine the precise object
of this lecture.

It will be recollected that one of the most striking facts in the
elements of the ancient European society is their diversity,
separation, and independence. The feudal nobility, the clergy,
and the boroughs, had each a position, laws, and manners,
entirely distinct; they were so many separate societies, each
governing itself for its own behoof, and by its individual rules
and power. They were in mutual relation and contact, but not in a
veritable union, nor did they form a nation or state, properly so
called.

The fusion of all these societies into one has been accomplished;
this is distinctly, as has been seen, the distinguishing fact,
the essential character, of modern society. The old social
elements have been reduced to two--the government and the
nation--that is to say, diversity having ceased, similarity
produced union. But before this result was consummated, and
indeed to avert it, numerous efforts were tried to render it
possible for all these particular societies to live and act in
common, without destroying their diversity or independence. Their
object was not to make any attack of moment on their individual
position, their privileges, or their special nature, and yet to
unite them into one single state, to form from them the substance
of a nation, and to rally them under one and the same government.

All these attempts failed. The result which I have just
mentioned, the unity of modern society, attests their bad
success. Even in those countries of Europe where there still
subsist some traces of the ancient diversity in the social
elements--in Germany, for example, where there are yet a true
feudal nobility and a true burgher order, and in England, where a
national church is in possession of special revenues and a
peculiar jurisdiction--it is clear that this distinct existence
is but a semblance and pretence, and that these particular
societies are politically confounded in the general society,
absorbed in the nation, governed by the public recognised powers,
in subjection to one system, and drawn along in the current of
the prevailing ideas and manners. Therefore, I repeat, the
separation and independence of the old social elements have no
sort of reality, even where they are formally sustained.

{168}

Nevertheless, these attempts to make them co-ordinate without
changing them, to link them to a national unity without
abolishing their variety, hold an important place in the history
of Europe. They partly fill the epoch upon which we are now
engaged, that epoch which divides primitive from modern Europe,
and in which was accomplished the metamorphosis of European
society. They have, furthermore, had a vast influence upon
posterior events, upon the manner in which the reduction of all
the social elements to two, government and nation, has been
effected. It is therefore of great consequence to investigate and
thoroughly understand all the essays at political organisation,
from the twelfth to the sixteenth century, designed to create
nations and governments, without rooting out the diversity in
character of the secondary societies placed side by side. Such is
our present task.

It is a difficult and even a painful task. All these attempts at
political organisation were assuredly not conceived and framed
with good intentions; several were instigated by views of
selfishness and tyranny. More than one, however, was pure and
disinterested; more than one had really for its object the moral
and social wellbeing of mankind. The state of incohesiveness,
violence, and injustice in which society was then plunged, was
disgusting to great and elevated minds, and they were incessantly
devising means to emancipate it. Yet the very best of those noble
efforts failed; all that amount of courage, sacrifices, energy,
and virtue, was utterly thrown away. Is not this a mournful
consideration? And there is upon this point something still more
painful, ground for still deeper sadness, when we reflect that
not only did these experiments for social amelioration miscarry,
but an enormous mass of errors and of evil accompanied them. In
spite of good intentions, the greater part were absurd, and
avouch a profound ignorance of what reason and justice required,
of the rights of humanity, and the conditions upon which the
social state is founded; so that not only did the men fail in
success, but they deserved their discomfiture. We have here,
therefore, the spectacle both of the hard fate of humanity, and
of its weakness. And we have also placed in striking light how
the smallest portion of truth suffices so completely to dazzle
the greatest minds, that they lose sight of all the rest, and
become blind to what is not comprised within the narrow scope of
their ideas; and so that there be a particle of justice in their
cause, to what extent men may overlook all the injustice which
that cause involves and sanctions. The contemplation of such a
display of the faults and imperfection of human nature is, in my
opinion, still more sad than the evil of its condition, for its
errors are more afflictive to me than its sufferings. The efforts
of which I have to speak will present us with both spectacles. It
behoves us, however, to encounter them, and at the same time to
be just towards those men and those times that have so often
mistaken the right course, and been so signally worsted, but have
nevertheless displayed many great virtues, made many noble
struggles, and have merited well of fame.

{169}

The attempts at political organisation formed between the twelfth
and sixteenth centuries were of two sorts. The first, those that
had for their object the giving predominance to some one of the
social elements, making all the others subordinate to it, and
producing unity at that sacrifice; the clergy, the feudal
nobility, and the boroughs, each in turn attempted this. The
next, those that were designed to make all the particular
societies harmonise and act together, leaving to each its
independence, and securing to it an adequate share of influence.

The first description of efforts is, much more than the second,
open to the suspicion of selfishness and tyranny. They were, in
fact, more frequently tainted with those vices; indeed, from
their very nature, they were essentially tyrannical in their
modes of action. Some of them, nevertheless, might be, and in
truth were, conceived in the pure spirit of promoting the good
and the advancement of humanity.

The first which offers itself to our notice was the attempt at
theocratic organisation--that is to say, the design of subjecting
the different societies to the principles and empire of the
ecclesiastical society.

What I said upon the history of the church will be recollected. I
there endeavoured to demonstrate what principles had gained
development within its own pale, what share of legitimacy each of
those principles possessed, how naturally they flowed from the
course of events, and what services they rendered, and what evil
they perpetrated. I there characterised also the different states
through which the church had passed from the eighth to the
twelfth century, under its various aspects, as the imperial, the
barbarian, the feudal, and finally the theocratic church. Those
circumstances must be borne in mind whilst I am on the topic of
what the clergy did to monopolise power in Europe, and the causes
of their miscarriage.

The theocratic organisation was very early attempted, as is
evinced both in the acts of the court of Rome and in those of the
general body of the clergy. It resulted naturally from the
political and moral superiority of the church; but from the
commencement of its efforts, it encountered obstacles which it
never succeeded in breaking through, even in its greatest vigour.

The principal opposition arose from the nature of Christianity
itself. Very different from the majority of religious creeds,
Christianity was established by persuasion alone, simply by moral
influences. From its earliest stages it was never armed with
force; it prevailed in the first ages by the Word alone, and it
prevailed only over minds.
{170}
Hence it happened that even after its triumph, when the church
was in possession of great wealth and consideration, it never
found itself invested with the direct government of society. The
purely moral origin of the church, and the merely persuasive
character of its action, pervaded its condition at all times. It
had considerable influence, but did not wield power. It
insinuated itself into the municipal magistracies, and exercised
great sway over the emperors and all their agents; but the actual
administration of public affairs, the government, properly so
called, was never possessed by the church. Now, a system of
government, theocracy or any other, cannot be established in an
indirect manner, or by means of mere influence; it must perform
the functions of judge, administrator, and commander, gather
taxes, disburse revenues; in a word, govern and take positive
possession of society. When action is limited to persuasion, much
certainly may be effected, and great control exercised, both over
nations and governments; but a system of rule or political
supremacy is not thereby founded, nor future stability
sufficiently provided for. This was the position of the Christian
church on account of its very origin; it was always on a level
with the actual government of society, but it never could thrust
it aside and take its place. This great obstacle to its attempts
at theocratic organisation it never was able to surmount.

Very early in its career, also, the church encountered a second.
When the Roman Empire fell, and the barbarian states were
founded, the church was composed of the vanquished race. Its
first object was to emerge from this position by converting the
conquerors, and thus raising itself to their rank. When this
labour was accomplished, and when the church aspired to dominion,
it encountered the disdain and resistance of the feudal nobility.
This was a prodigious service which lay-feudalism rendered to
Europe. In the eleventh century, the people were almost
completely subjugated by the church, and the sovereigns were
scarcely able to stand up against it. The feudal nobility alone
scorned the yoke of the clergy, and refused to bow before them.
It is sufficient to recall the general features of the middle
age, to be convinced of the singular mixture of pride and
submissiveness, of blind belief and freedom of spirit, that
prevailed in the relations of the lay lords with the priests. In
this we discern some remnants of their relative primitive
situation. It will recur to the mind of the reader that I have
previously endeavoured to describe the origin of feudalism, its
first elements, and the manner in which the earliest feudal
society was formed around the abode of the fief-holder. I then
remarked upon the fact of the priest being at that period under
the lord. Now there always remained in the minds of the feudal
nobility a remembrance or fueling of that position, and they
always regarded themselves not only as independent of the church,
but as superior to it, and as alone entitled to possess and
actually govern the country.
{171}
They were always disposed to live on good terms with the church,
but not to abandon their own claims, or give in to those set up
by it. Thus, during many ages, it was the lay aristocracy which
maintained the independence of society with regard to the church;
it proudly defended itself, when monarchs and people were tamely
crouching. It was the first to enter an opposition, and it
contributed more perhaps than any other force to render the
attempt to give society a theocratic organisation abortive.

A third obstacle stood equally opposed to it, one upon which, in
general, very little stress has been laid, and even its effects
erroneously judged.

Wherever a body of priests has seized upon society, and subjected
it to a theocratical organisation, we find that this empire has
devolved upon a married clergy, recruiting itself within its own
folds, and rearing children from their infancy in, and for, the
same profession. Look at Asia and Egypt: all the great
theocracies were the work of a clergy forming of itself a
complete society, sufficing for all its own purposes, and
dependent for nothing from without.

The Christian clergy were placed in a totally different
situation, owing to the celibacy of the priests. In order to
perpetuate their own body, they were obliged to have perpetual
recourse to the lay society, and to seek their means of
durability from out all the social positions and callings.
Doubtless great pains were taken to assimilate these foreign
elements, by infusing into them the spirit of the institution,
but not with full success: something of the origin of the
new-comers always remained: whether burghers or nobles, they
invariably preserved some trace of their ancient spirit and
primitive condition. There is no question but that this celibacy,
by giving to the Catholic clergy a situation altogether peculiar,
and divested of participation with the interests and general life
of mankind, was a powerful promoter of their isolation; but it
has also forced them into constant and close connection with the
lay society, to recruit and renew their members, and thus exposed
them to receive and undergo some portion of the moral revolutions
which were accomplished in that society. Therefore I do not
hesitate to aver that this ever-recurring necessity has
infinitely more impeded the success of the attempt at
theocratical organisation, than the spirit engendered by the
institution, and strongly maintained by celibacy, has been able
to promote it.

The church finally encountered, within its own bosom, powerful
adversaries to its attempt. The unity of the church is a thing
perpetually talked of, and it is true enough that it has
diligently laboured to attain it, and has done so in certain
respects. But let us not be led away by imposing words, or a few
partial facts.
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What society has been torn by more civil dissensions, or suffered
more disruptions, than the clerical? What nation has been more
divided, broken up, or varied, than the ecclesiastical nation?
The national churches, in the majority of the countries of
Europe, have been in almost constant strife with the court of
Rome; councils have risen against popes; heresies have been
innumerable and inextinguishable; and schisms have incessantly
prevailed: nowhere has there been so much diversity in opinion,
so much bitterness and fury in contest, or so much splitting up
of power. The internal existence of the church, the dissensions
which have broken loose within it, and the revolutions which have
shaken it, have been perhaps the greatest obstacle to the triumph
of that theocratical organisation which it has striven to impose
on society.

All these impediments were in action, and are discernible from
the fifth century, at the very commencement of the great attempt
which now occupies our attention. They did not, however, prevent
it continuing its course, or being in progress for several
centuries. Its most glorious moment, its critical day, so to
speak, was the reign of Gregory VII., at the end of the eleventh
century. It has been already remarked that the predominant idea
of Gregory VII. was to subject the world to the clergy, and the
clergy to the Papacy--Europe to one vast and regular theocracy.
In working out this design, that great man committed, in my
opinion, as far as it is permitted us to judge at such a distance
from the events, two capital faults, the one in his speculative,
the other in his revolutionary character. The first consisted in
pompously proclaiming his plan, and systematically parading his
principles upon the nature and the rights of the spiritual power,
and deducing from them beforehand, as an unbending logician, the
most remote consequences. He thus menaced and attacked all the
lay sovereignties of Europe, before he had made sure of his means
to subdue them. Success in human affairs is not obtained by such
a dictatorial process, or by the sanction of a mere philosophical
argument. In the next place, Gregory fell into the common error
of revolutionists, which is, to attempt more than they can
execute, and not to take the possible as the measure and limit of
their efforts. To hasten the dominion of his ideas, he engaged in
contest with the Empire, with all sovereigns, and with the clergy
themselves. He insisted upon consequences being immediate,
scorning all regard for existing interests, haughtily proclaiming
that he would reign over all kingdoms as well as over all minds,
and thus rousing against himself not only the temporal powers,
which perceived themselves in imminent peril, but also the
freethinkers, who were beginning to come out, and already felt
apprehensive of tyranny on thought. On the whole, therefore,
Gregory VII. perhaps compromised more than he advanced the cause
he was wishful to serve.

{173}

Nevertheless, it continued to prosper during the whole course of
the twelfth, and up to the middle of the thirteenth century. This
was the period in which the church possessed its greatest power
and splendour. Yet I do not think it can be strictly said to have
made at that epoch any very great progress. To the end of the
reign of Innocent III., it had rather been parading than
extending its glory and power. It was at the moment of its
greatest apparent success that a popular reaction arose against
it in a considerable portion of Europe. In the south of France,
the heresy of the Albigenses exploded, which carried off a
numerous and powerful society. About the same period, ideas and
desires of a similar nature were broached in the north and in
Flanders. A little later, Wickliffe, in England, made a talented
attack upon the power of the church, and founded a sect which is
not yet extinct. The sovereigns were not long in entering upon
the same course as the people. It was at the commencement of the
thirteenth century that the most powerful and able monarchs of
Europe, the emperors of the house of Hohenstaufen, succumbed in
their contest with the Papacy. Before that century was over,
Saint Louis, the most pious of kings, proclaimed the independence
of the temporal power, and promulgated the first pragmatic
sanction, which became the base of all the succeeding ones. At
the opening of the fourteenth century, the quarrel between Philip
the Handsome and Boniface VIII. began to rage, whilst the king of
England, Edward I., was not more docile towards Rome. It is
clear, therefore, that at this epoch the attempt at theocratic
organisation had failed, that the church was thenceforth put upon
the defensive, and had so much difficulty in preserving what it
had conquered, as to stop all further endeavour to impose its
system on Europe. Hence the true date of the emancipation of the
lay European society is from the end of the thirteenth century;
it was then that the church ceased its pretensions to monopolise
it.

For a long time previously, it had renounced that attempt in the
very sphere in which it seemed to have the best chance of
success. At the very threshold of the church, around its throne
in Italy, theocracy had been completely discomfited, and given
place to a very different system, to that attempt at democratic
organisation of which the Italian republics are the type, and
which played so distinguished a part in Europe from the eleventh
to the sixteenth century.

What I have already stated upon the history of the boroughs, and
the manner in which they were formed, will be recollected. Their
establishment was more precocious and powerful in Italy than
anywhere else; the towns there were much more numerous and
wealthy than in Gaul, Britain, or Spain, and the Roman municipal
system had remained there in greater force and regularity.
{174}
The districts of Italy, besides, were much less suited for the
habitation of its new masters than those of the rest of Europe.
They had been all cleared, drained, and cultivated, and were no
longer covered by forests, so that the barbarians were unable to
follow the exciting hazards of the chase, or to lead a life at
all analogous to that of their old Germany. Furthermore, a part
of that territory did not belong to them. The south of Italy, the
Campagna di Romagna, and Ravenna, continued to depend upon the
Greek emperors. In this portion of the country the republican
system very early gained strength and development, favoured as it
was by the distance of the sovereign, and by the vicissitudes of
almost constant war. But in addition to the circumstance of Italy
not being wholly in the power of the barbarians, those hordes
that overran it never remained its undisturbed and definitive
possessors. The Ostrogoths were hunted down and destroyed by
Belisarius and Narses. The Lombards had little better success
with regard to their kingdom: the Franks destroyed it; and at the
period of their overthrow, Pepin and Charlemagne judged it
expedient, instead of exterminating the Lombard population, to
form an alliance with the old Italian population to keep down the
recently-subdued Lombards. Therefore the barbarians never were
exclusive and tranquil masters of the territory and society of
Italy, as they were elsewhere. For this reason, only a very
feeble, thin, and scattered feudalism was established beyond the
Alps. The preponderance, instead of passing to the inhabitants of
the country districts, as had happened in Gaul, for example,
continued to adhere to the towns. When this fact unequivocally
declared itself, a considerable proportion of the fief-holders,
either of their own accord, or impelled by necessity, forsook the
country, and settled within the walls of the cities. The
barbarian nobles then became burghers. It may be easily imagined
how great was the strength and superiority which the towns of
Italy gained by this single circumstance, in comparison with the
other boroughs in Europe. What was chiefly remarkable in the
latter, as has been observed, was the inferior condition and the
timidity of their inhabitants. Those burghers, we have seen, were
like desperate freedmen, courageously but painfully struggling
against a master always at their gates. Very different was the
lot of the Italian burghers; the conquering and the conquered
populations were mingled together within the same walls; they had
no neighbouring master to defend themselves against; and the
majority of the citizens were men free from all time, who
asserted their independence and their rights against distant and
foreign sovereigns, sometimes against the Frank kings, and
sometimes against the emperors of Germany. From these causes
sprang the great and precocious superiority of the Italian towns;
and whilst miserable boroughs were formed elsewhere with much
difficulty, they at once emerged into important republics and
states.

{175}

Thus the success of the attempt at republican organisation in
this part of Europe is explained. It early swamped the feudal
element, and became the predominant form of the society. But it
was little calculated to extend, or be perpetuated, for it
contained but very few seeds of amelioration, a condition
necessary to extension and durability.

When we contemplate the history of the Italian republics from the
eleventh to the fifteenth century, we are struck with two facts
apparently contradictory, and yet incontestable. We perceive an
admirable development of courage, activity, and genius, and, as
its consequence, great prosperity. A movement and a liberty were
there in operation, which were utterly wanting to the rest of
Europe. Now, let us ask, what was the real lot of the
inhabitants, how were their lives passed, and what was their
share of happiness? In this respect the aspect of things is
instantly changed. No history, perhaps, is more mournful and
gloomy, nor has there ever been an epoch, or a country, in which
the destiny of man appears to have been more beset with alarms
and disorder, more liable to deplorable hazards, or more
afflicted by dissensions, crimes, and calamities. At the same
time, there is another fact equally striking. In the political
system of the major part of those republics liberty was always
diminishing. The deficiency of security was such, that the
community was driven to seek for refuge in some system less
boisterous and popular than that with which the state commenced.
Take the history of Florence, Venice, Genoa, Milan, or Pisa; it
is everywhere clear that the general course of events, instead of
developing liberty, and enlarging the circle of the institutions,
tended to coop up and concentrate power in the hands of a
decreasing number of men. In a word, two things were wanting in
those republics, so energetic, brilliant, and wealthy, in their
outward aspect--namely, security for life, the first condition of
the social state, and progressive action in the institutions.

Thence sprang a new evil, which served as an effectual barrier to
the farther spread of the attempt at republican organisation. It
brought down interference from without, and thenceforth the
greatest danger incurred by Italy arose from foreign sovereigns.
Yet this peril never succeeded in reconciling the different
republics, and making them act in common. Thus several of the
most enlightened and patriotic Italians of the present time,
deplore the republican system of Italy in the middle ages as the
true cause of hindrance to its becoming a nation. It was
parcelled out, say they, into a multitude of petty states, so
bent on the gratification of their several momentary designs, as
to be incapable of confederating together and constituting a
united people.
{176}
It is to them a subject of regret that their country has not
passed, like the rest of Europe, through a despotic
centralisation, which would have formed it into one nation, and
rendered it independent of the stranger. It therefore appears
that the republican organisation, even in the most favourable
circumstances, did not contain at that era the principle of
advancement, of durability, or of extension, and that it was
deficient in what regarded futurity. The organisation of Italy in
the middle ages may be compared to a certain extent with that of
ancient Greece. Greece was likewise a country strewed with small
republics, always rivals, often enemies, and occasionally uniting
in a common object. The advantage of the comparison rests
entirely with Greece. There was undoubtedly much more order,
security, and justice in the interior of Athens, Sparta, or
Thebes, although history presents us with many instances of
iniquity, than in the republics of Italy. Yet we see how short
was the political existence of Greece, and how surely weakness
followed its minute subdivisions of territory and power. Whenever
Greece came in contact with powerful neighbours--Macedonia and
Rome, for instance--she yielded at once. Those small republics,
so glorious, and still so flourishing, were unable to coalesce
for a common resistance. How much more, then, was the same result
sure to happen in Italy, where society and intellect were far
less developed, and infinitely weaker, than amongst the Greeks!

If the attempt at republican organisation had so few chances of
stability in Italy, where it had originally triumphed, and where
the feudal system had been vanquished, it may be readily
conceived that in other parts of Europe it was destined to meet a
yet more speedy overthrow.

I will take a rapid glance at its fate in various places.

There was a portion of Europe which greatly resembled Italy;
namely, the south of France, and the provinces of Spain adjoining
it--Catalonia, Navarre, and Biscay. The towns had there likewise
gained considerable development, importance, and wealth. Several
petty feudal chiefs had allied themselves with the burghers, and
a part of the clergy had also embraced their cause, so that the
country was actually in a situation very analogous to that of
Italy. We therefore find that in the course of the eleventh, and
at the commencement of the twelfth century, the towns of
Provence, Languedoc, and Aquitaine were disposed to try a
political essay, and form themselves into independent republics,
upon the model of those beyond the Alps. But the south of France
was in contact with a very powerful feudalism, predominant in the
north. And upon the occasion of the heresy of the Albigenses, war
broke out between feudal and municipal France. The history of the
crusade against the Albigenses, commanded by Simon do Montfort,
is well known. It was an attack by northern feudalism upon the
southern attempt at democratic organisation.
{177}
In spite of the heroism of southern patriotism, the north carried
the victory. It was promoted by the want of political unity, and
civilisation was not sufficiently advanced for men to be aware
that the deficiency might be remedied by skilful concert. The
experiment at republican organisation was therefore put down, and
a crusade re-established the feudal system in the south of
France.

At a later date, the republican movement succeeded better on the
mountains of Switzerland. There the theatre was very contracted,
and it had to struggle only against a foreign sovereign who,
although possessing superior strength to the Swiss, was not one
of the most formidable monarchs of Europe. The contest was
maintained with infinite courage. The Swiss feudal nobility also
joined in a great measure with the towns; bringing certainly
powerful aid, but altering the nature of the revolution which
they supported, and imparting to it a more aristocratical and
stationary character than it seemed destined to bear. [Footnote
14]

    [Footnote 14: M. Guizot has allowed himself to be carried
    away by his speculative deduction from history in this
    description of the early attempts of the Swiss to establish
    their independence. The movement began in the most rural part
    of Switzerland, in the three _forest_ cantons of
    Schweiz, Uri, and Underwalden, and not in towns, and was
    almost throughout conducted by peasants. It was only in a
    portion of Switzerland that feudalism prevailed. Besides, the
    Swiss cantons are only partially aristocratic--_See
    Muller's Hist. de la Suisse_.]

I pass to the north of France, to the boroughs of Flanders, to
those on the banks of the Rhine, and to the Hanseatic League.
There the democratic organisation completely triumphed within the
walls of the town; but we can discern from its commencement that
it was not destined to extend or to take possession of all
society. The boroughs of the north were surrounded and hemmed in
by feudalism, by chiefs and sovereigns, so that they were
constantly put upon the defensive. They were not calculated to
make conquests; their great object was to protect themselves. In
this they succeeded; they maintained their privileges, but they
were confined to their own precincts. Thus the democratic
organisation was shut up and stopped; it never spread over the
face of the country.

Such, then, was the state of the republican experiment;
triumphant in Italy, but with few chances of durability and
expansion; suppressed in the south of France; victorious, on a
small stage, in the Swiss mountains; and restricted to the walls
of the towns in the north, in Flanders, on the Rhine, and in the
Hanseatic League. Nevertheless, whilst in this state, so palpably
inferior in strength to the other elements of society, it
inspired the feudal nobility with prodigious alarm. The barons
were not only envious of the wealth of the boroughs, but they
were afraid of their power; the democratic spirit penetrated into
the rural districts, and insurrections among the peasants became
more frequent and stubborn.
{178}
Hence a great coalition was formed by the feudal nobility,
throughout almost all Europe, against the boroughs. The contest
was not at all equal, for the boroughs were isolated, and had no
understanding or intercourse amongst themselves. Doubtless there
existed a certain sympathy between the burghers of different
countries; the successes or the reverses of the Flemish towns, at
war with the Dukes of Burgundy, excited a lively sensation in the
French towns, but it was an emotion transitory, and without
result; no veritable bond or union was established amongst the
different boroughs, nor did they lend any strength to each other.
Feudalism, therefore, had an immense advantage over them; but it
was itself divided and irreflective, and was far from succeeding
in destroying them. When the contest had lasted a certain time,
and it had become clear that a complete victory was impossible,
there arose a necessity for consenting to recognise these small
burgher republics, to negotiate with them, and to receive them as
members of the state. Then commenced a new order of things, and a
new attempt at political organisation--to wit, the attempt at a
mixed organisation, which had for its object the reconciling the
different elements of society, the feudal nobility, the boroughs,
the clergy, and the sovereigns, and, notwithstanding their mutual
deep-rooted antipathy, bringing them to live and act together.
This branch of the subject remains to be investigated.

The purposes of the states-general in France, the cortes in Spain
and Portugal, the parliament in England, and the diets in
Germany, are sufficiently well known. The elements of these
different assemblies were the feudal nobility, the clergy, and
the burghers, who collected together with the view of uniting
themselves into one single society, into one and the same state,
and under an identical law and power. This was the tendency and
design of them all, under different names.

I will take as the type of this attempt at organisation the
states-general of France, as being the most familiarly known. I
say familiarly known, and yet the name of the states-general
calls up none but vague and imperfect ideas. There is no one who
can state with any precision what was fixed or regular in the
states-general of France, what was the number of their members,
what the subjects of deliberation, or what the periods of
convocation, and the duration of their sessions. We know nothing
of all these things; it is impossible to draw from history any
clear and general results on tins subject. When we inquire into
the character of these assemblies in the history of France, they
appear to have been purely accidental, a sort of political shift,
on the part of the people as well as on that of the kings: a last
shift to the kings when they had no money, and were at their
wits' ends for expedients; and a last shift to the people, when
evil became so intolerable, that the usual remedies for
alleviation were exhausted in vain.
{179}
The nobility and the clergy each took part in the states-general,
but they came there with reluctance, and distrustfully, as they
were well aware that it was not in them their best means of
action lay, or that they could thereby promote their real
participation in the government. The burghers themselves were not
more eager for the sitting; it was not a right which they
exercised with alacrity, but rather a necessity to which they
submitted. We find these facts exemplified in the character of
the political actions of those assemblies. They were sometimes
perfectly insignificant, and sometimes vastly terrible. If the
king was the strongest, their humility and docility were extreme;
if the situation of the crown was disastrous, if it had an
absolute occasion for the assistance of the states, they fell
into factious opposition, and became the instruments either of
some aristocratic intrigue, or of some ambitious schemers. In a
word, they were sometimes mere assemblies of notables, and
sometimes veritable conventions. Thus their labours seldom or
ever survived them; they promised and attempted much, but did
nothing. Not one of the great measures which have really acted on
society in France, not one important reform in government,
legislation, or administration, has emanated from the
states-general. We must not, however, too rashly conclude that
they have been without utility or effect. They have served a
moral purpose, which has been generally overlooked, by operating,
from time to time, as a protestation against political servitude,
and distinctly proclaiming certain tutelary principles; such, for
example, as that the country has the right to impose taxes, to
interfere in affairs, and to make the agents of power
responsible. That these maxims have never perished in France, is
chiefly owing to the states-general; and it is certainly not a
small service to render to a nation, the keeping up in its
manners, and reviving in its recollection, the name and dues of
liberty. The states-general effected that good, but they never
were a means of government, nor ever entered into a political
organisation. They never attained the object for which they were
formed--namely, the fusion into one single body of the different
societies which subdivided the country.

The cortes of Spain and Portugal present the same result. There
are, however, a thousand different attendant circumstances. The
importance of the cortes varied according to the kingdoms and the
times; in Arragon and Biscay, and amid the contests for the
succession to the crown, or the struggles against the Moors, they
were more frequently convoked, and more powerful than in other
places and periods. In certain cortes--for example, in those of
Castile in 1370 and in 1373--the nobles and the clergy were not
summoned.
{180}
There is a multitude of circumstances to be taken into account,
if we were to look more narrowly into the events; but in the
generalising system, to which I am forced to restrict myself, it
is sufficient to affirm that the cortes, like the states-general
of France, were but an accident in history, and never a system, a
political organisation, or a regular means of government.

The destiny of England was different. I will not enter upon the
subject of England at any great length now, as it is my purpose
to devote a lecture specially to an inquiry into its political
career. I shall only say a few words upon the causes which
imparted to it a direction so completely different from that of
the continent.

In the first place, there were no great vassals, no subjects in a
state individually to oppose royalty, in England. The barons, the
great lords, were obliged, at a very early date, to coalesce
together, in order to form a common resistance. Thus the
principle of association, and manners essentially political,
prevailed in the high aristocracy. In the next place, English
feudalism, or the possessors of small fiefs, were led be a series
of events to which I cannot do more than allude at the present
moment, to unite themselves to the burghers, and to sit with them
in the House of Commons, which thus possessed a strength far
superior to that enjoyed by the continental boroughs, a strength
capable of really influencing the government of the country. Now,
in the fourteenth century, the state of the British parliament
was as follows:--The House of Lords was the king's great council,
and effectively associated with the exercise of power; the House
of Commons, composed of the deputies of the possessors of small
fiefs, and the burgesses, took scarcely any part in the
government, properly so called, but it conduced to the
establishment of rights, and energetically defended private and
local interests. The parliament, considered as a whole, did not
yet govern, but it was already a regular institution, adopted in
principle as a means of government, and in fact often
indispensable. Thus the attempt to reconcile and ally together
the different elements of society, in order to form a single
political body and veritable state, succeeded in England, whilst
it miscarried on the continent.

I will say but one word upon Germany, merely to point out the
predominant character of its history. There the attempts to
promote a general fusion, unity, and a common political
organisation, were followed up with little ardour. The various
social elements remained much more distinct and independent than
in the rest of Europe. If any proof of this were required, it
will be found even in modern times. Germany is the only country
of Europe in which the feudal election long prevailed in the
creation of royalty. I do not include Poland or the Slavonian
nations, which entered at so late a period into the system of
European civilisation. Germany is likewise the only country in
Europe in which ecclesiastical sovereignties remained, and which
preserved free towns having a political and really independent
existence. It is therefore clear that the attempt to mould into a
single society the elements of the primitive European world, was
there much less active and effective than elsewhere.

{181}

I have now brought forward the great essays at political
organisation attempted in Europe up to the end of the fourteenth
and the beginning of the fifteenth century, and have exhibited
their failures. In my progress, I have endeavoured to indicate
the causes of that bad success, but in truth they are summed up
in one. Society was not sufficiently advanced for unity and
amalgamation; everything was still too local, special, and
straitened in existences and minds. There were neither general
interests nor general opinions capable of controlling particular
interests and opinions. The most enlightened and vigorous minds
had no idea of a truly public administration or of public
justice. It was clearly requisite that a very active and powerful
civilisation must first come to mingle, assimilate, and bray
together, if I may be so allowed to speak, all these disjointed
elements; that an energetic centralisation of interests, laws,
manners, and ideas, must be effected; in a word, it was essential
that a public power and a public opinion should be created. We
have arrived at an epoch in which this great work was finally
achieved. Its first symptoms, the state of minds and manners
during the course of the fifteenth century, and their tendency
towards the formation of a central government, and towards
identity of tone in public feeling, will be treated of in the
next lecture.

{182}

                    Lecture XI.

         Rise Of Nations And Governments.

We are approaching the threshold of modern history, properly so
called, the threshold of that society which is our own, the
institutions, opinions, and manners of which were forty years ago
those of France, are still those of Europe, and yet exercise upon
us, in spite of the metamorphosis our revolution has made us
undergo, a very powerful influence. It was in the sixteenth
century, as I have previously mentioned, that modern society
truly commenced. Before entering upon it, I shall give a backward
glance at the space we have traversed.

Amidst the ruins of the Roman Empire, we discerned all the
essential elements of our Europe; we saw them come out and grow
into prominence, each on its own account, and independently.
During the first epoch of our history, we became aware of the
constant tendency of those elements to separation and isolation,
to a local and special existence. Then, when this object appeared
attained, when feudalism, the boroughs, and the church, had each
taken its distinct form and place, we found them immediately bent
upon a reconcilement and union, upon forming themselves into a
general society, a national body and government. To obtain that
result, all the different systems which co-existed in the various
countries of Europe were successively applied to; the principle
of social unity, the political and moral nucleus, was sought from
theocracy, aristocracy, democracy, and royalty. We have seen that
so far these attempts failed, and that no one system or influence
was enabled to monopolise society, and by its sway to secure it a
really public organisation. We discovered the cause of the
failure to consist in the absence of general interests and ideas,
in everything being still too special, individual, and local; and
it was evident that a prolonged and energetic effort at
centralisation was required, to enable society simultaneously to
extend and cement itself--in other words, to become at once both
great and regular--a goal for which it naturally longs. It was in
this state that we left Europe at the end of the fourteenth
century.

Europe was not able rightly to understand her position, such as I
have endeavoured to display it. She did not know distinctly what
were her deficiencies, or what remedies were needful. Yet she
applied herself to seek out those remedies as if she had been
perfectly aware of them. The miscarriage of all the grand
attempts at political organisation having been made apparent,
Europe fell naturally, and as if by instinct, into the ways of
centralisation.
{183}
The fifteenth century is characterised by having constantly
tended to this result, by having laboured to create general
interests and general ideas, to extirpate the spirit of
speciality and locality, to unite and rear together existences
and minds; in fine, to call into being what had never previously
existed on a large scale--nations and governments.

The outbreak of this fact belongs to the sixteenth and
seventeenth centuries; the fifteenth served to prepare it. The
object of our immediate inquiry is that preparation, that
imperceptible working towards centralisation, both in social
relations and in ideas, which was afterwards accomplished by the
natural course of events, without foresight or design.

It is after this manner that man advances in the execution of a
plan which he has not himself conceived, of which he is even
quite ignorant. He is the intelligent and free labourer in a work
which is not his own, and which he only recognises and
understands at a later date, when it manifests itself outwardly
and in realities; and even then, his comprehension is imperfect.
And yet it is by him, by the development of his intelligence and
liberty, that the work is accomplished. Conceive a great machine,
the purpose of which is known to only one mind, but its different
pieces are confided to separate workmen, kept apart and strangers
to each other. Not one of them is acquainted with the entirety of
the work, nor the definitive and general result towards which he
is co-operating; nevertheless each executes with intelligence and
liberty, by rational and voluntary acts, that with which he has
been intrusted. Thus is the plan of Providence as to the world
executed by the hands of mortals, and thus co-exist those two
facts which break out in the history of civilisation: the one,
what it has of fatalism, that which is unaffected by human
knowledge and will; and the other, what it is indebted to the
liberty and intelligence of man, what he has therein infused of
himself, from the operations of his thought and inclination.

In order perfectly to understand the fifteenth century, to obtain
a clear and exact knowledge of that precursor of modern society,
it will be proper to distinguish the different classes of facts.
We will first examine the political facts and changes which have
tended to form both nations and governments. We will then pass to
the moral facts, and investigate the changes produced in ideas
and manners, thence deducing what general opinions were in
process of formation.

With regard to political facts, to simplify and expedite our
progress, I will take all the great countries of Europe, and show
what the fifteenth century made of them, in what state it found
and left them.

{184}

I will commence with France. The last half of the fourteenth and
the first half of the fifteenth century, were the times, as is
well known, of the great national wars against the English. It
was the epoch in which the struggle for the independence of the
territories and name of France against a foreign sway was
maintained. It is sufficient to take a glance at history, to
perceive with what ardour all classes of society in France, in
spite of numberless dissensions and acts of treachery,
co-operated in that struggle, and what patriotism was displayed
by the feudal nobility, the burghers, and even the peasants. If
there were nothing but the history of Jeanne d'Arc to show the
popular character of the era, it would be in itself a convincing
proof. The Maid of Orleans sprang from the people, and she drew
her inspiration and support from the feelings, convictions, and
passions prevailing amongst the people. She was viewed with
doubt, scorn, and even enmity by the gentry of the court and the
chiefs of the army, but the soldiers and the people were her
constant adherents. It was the peasants of Lorraine who sent her
to the citizens of Orleans. No event could more strikingly evince
the popular character of that war, and the feeling which the
whole country bore regarding it.

Thus the French nationality commenced to be formed. Up to the
reign of the Valois, the feudal character predominated in France,
and the French nation, French spirit or patriotism, had no
existence. It may be said that France began with the Valois, for
it was in the course of their wars, and through the hazards of
their fortunes, that the nobility, burgesses, and peasants were
for the first time united by a moral tie, by the tie of a common
name, a common honour, and an identical desire to subdue the
enemy. Still there was no true political spirit, no great
principle of unity in the government and the institutions, such
as we conceive those terms to mean at the present day. The unity
laboured for by France at that epoch was restricted to the glory
of its name, to its national honour, and to the existence of a
national royalty, whatever it might be, so that the foreigner was
excluded from it. But even in this sense the contest with the
English greatly promoted the formation of the French nation and
its tendency towards concentration.

At the same time that France was thus morally forming itself, and
the national spirit taking development, it was also constituting
itself materially, so to speak--that is to say, its territory was
arranged, extended, and consolidated. The incorporation of the
greater number of the provinces which became France occurred at
that period. Under Charles VII., after the expulsion of the
English, almost all the provinces which they had occupied,
Normandy, Angoumais, Touraine, Poitou, Saintonge, &c. became
definitively French. Under Louis XI, ten provinces, of which
three were subsequently lost and regained, were united to France;
namely, Roussillon and Cerdagne, Burgundy, Franche-Comté,
Picardy, Artois, Provence, Maine, Anjou, and Perche. Under
Charles VIII. and Louis XII., the successive marriages of Anne
with those two kings gave us Brittany. Thus, at the same epoch,
and in the course of the same events, the national territory and
spirit were conjointly formed; both moral France and physical
France acquired together force and unity.

{185}

Passing from the nation to the government, we see facts of the
same nature accomplished, an advancement to the same result. The
French government was never more powerless, or more stripped of
unity and connecting ties, than under the reign of Charles VI.,
and in the first part of that of Charles VII. At the end of that
reign, things assumed a very different aspect. There was then
evidently a consolidated, extended, and organised power; whilst
all the great instruments of government--taxation, military
force, and the administration of justice--were arranged upon a
great scale, and with an appearance of forming parts of one
whole. It was at this time that a standing soldiery was formed,
composed of regular companies of cavalry, and archers as
infantry. With these forces Charles VII. re-established some
order in the provinces desolated by the debaucheries and rapine
of the troops, even after the war had ceased. All contemporary
historians expatiate upon the wonderful effects of the regular
companies. It was at the same epoch that the poll-tax, one of the
principal sources of the royal revenue, became perpetual;
certainly a heavy blow aimed at the liberty of the people, but
which powerfully contributed to the regularity and force of
government. At the same time that great instrument of power, the
administration of justice, was extended and organised. The number
of parliaments was increased. Five new parliaments [Footnote 15]
were instituted in a very short space of time; under Louis XI.
the parliaments of Grenoble (in 1451), of Bordeaux (in 1462), and
of Dijon (in 1477); under Louis XII. the parliaments of Rouen (in
1499), and of Aix (in 1501). The parliament of Paris then also
assumed much more importance and stability, both with regard to
the administration of justice, and as charged with the police of
its jurisdiction.

    [Footnote 15: From the very different meaning implied by the
    word parliament in Britain, it will be proper to remind the
    English reader that the parliaments of France were mere local
    tribunals, invested with scarcely any political or
    legislative character.]

Therefore under the heads of military force, taxation, and
judicature--that is to say, in what forms its essence--the
government acquired in France, during the fifteenth century, a
character of unity, regularity, and stability which was
previously unknown. The public power then definitively supplanted
the feudal or local powers.

{186}

Identical with this fact was the accomplishment of another
change, one less visible and less noticed by historians, but
perhaps of still greater importance; namely, that which Louis XI.
effected in the manner of governing.

Much has been said of the contest waged by Louis XI. against the
nobles of the realm, of their reduction, and of his favour for
the burghers and weaker individuals. There is some truth in all
that, though much exaggeration has been made use of in describing
it; and it is also true that the conduct of Louis XI., with the
different classes of society, far oftener disturbed than served
the state. But he did something much more important. Before his
time, the government had scarcely ever proceeded except by force,
by physical means. Persuasion, address, the art of managing men,
and enticing them into the purposed vein--in a word, policy,
properly so called, the policy of falsehood and of deceit
doubtless, but also of skill and prudence, had previously been
little used. Louis XI. substituted in his government intellectual
for material means, trickery for force, the Italian system of
policy for the feudal. Take the two men whoso rivalship fills
that epoch of French history, Charles the Bold, [Footnote 16] and
Louis XI.

    [Footnote 16: Charles the Bold was the last Duke of Burgundy.
    The general reader cannot do better than take a glance at Sir
    Walter Scott's 'Quentin Durward' for an admirable picture of
    these two men.]

Charles was the representative of the ancient mode of governing;
he proceeded by violence alone, and his appeal was incessantly to
war. He was a person incapable of calm or patient reflection, or
of addressing himself to the minds of men to mould them into
instruments of success. It was, on the contrary, the delight of
Louis XI. to avoid the employment of force, and to win men
individually, by personal persuasion, or by apt appeals to their
interests and understandings. He changed not the institutions or
the outward system, but the hidden courses, the tactics of power.
It was reserved for modern times to attempt a yet greater
revolution, by tending to the substitution of justice in lieu of
grasping selfishness, of candid and open dealing for falsehood
and secrecy, as well as in the means adopted to gain political
ends as in the ends themselves. Yet it was a great step to make,
to cease the continual employment of force, to appeal to an
intellectual superiority, to govern through the understandings of
men, and not by inflicting injuries upon all existences. This
Louis XI. commenced, in the midst of his crimes and errors, and
in spite of his own perverse nature, at the instigation of his
strong intellect alone.

{187}

From France I pass into Spain, where I find events of the same
nature. It was likewise in the fifteenth century that the
national unity of Spain was formed; and in that era was finished,
by the conquest of the kingdom of Grenada, the long strife
between the Christians and the Arabs. Then also the territory was
consolidated: by the marriage of Ferdinand the Catholic with
Isabella, the two principal kingdoms, Castile and Arragon, were
united under the same power. As in France, the royal power was
extended and strengthened; institutions of a harsher order, and
bearing names more pregnant with wo, served as its props; instead
of parliaments, it was the Inquisition which was established in
Spain. It contained the seeds of what it afterwards became: but
at the commencement it was very different: it was at first more
political than religious, intended rather for the maintenance of
order than for the defence of the faith. The analogy between the
two countries is carried beyond the institutions to the very
persons of the sovereigns. With less subtlety, with less of the
mental movement, and with a smaller portion of restlessness and
trickery, the character and government of Ferdinand the Catholic
greatly resembled those of Louis XI. I attach little importance
to arbitrary comparisons, to fantastic parallels, but here the
analogy is really profound, and imprinted on general facts as
well as on details.

The same result is exhibited in the state of Germany. It was in
the middle of the fifteenth century, in 1438, that the house of
Austria returned to the empire, and with it the imperial power
acquired a stability which it had never possessed before: the
form of election became almost a mere consecration of hereditary
right. At the end of the fifteenth century, Maximilian I.
definitively fixed the preponderance of his house, and the
regular exercise of the central power. Charles VII. had been the
first in France to create a standing force for the maintenance of
order, so also Maximilian in his hereditary states adopted the
same means for the same object. Louis XI. had established the
post-office in France, and Maximilian introduced it into Germany.
In every quarter similar advancements in civilisation universally
conduced to the advantage of the central power.

The history of England in the fifteenth century consists of two
great events--the war with France outwardly, and that of the
Roses inwardly, a foreign and a civil war. These two wars, so
different in appearance, tended to the same result. The contest
with France was maintained by the English people with a zeal
which turned almost exclusively to the profit of the royal power.
This nation, even then more skilful and firm than any other in
sparing its troops and its money, abandoned them to its kings at
that epoch without foresight or calculation. In the reign of
Henry V., a considerable revenue, the rights of customs, was
granted to the king for life from his accession to the throne.
The foreign war being finished, or nearly so, the civil war,
which had been at first connected with it, continued alone, and
the houses of York and Lancaster maintained their respective
claims with the sword.
{188}
When a final term was put to their bloody contests, the high
English aristocracy was ruined, thinned, and utterly unable to
preserve the power which it had exercised in former times. A
coalition of the great barons could no longer awe the crown. When
the Tudors mounted the throne in the person of Henry VII., in
1485, the era of political centralisation and the triumph of
royalty commenced.

In Italy, royalty was not established, at least not under that
name; but it is of little moment with regard to the result. The
republics fell in the fifteenth century; or where the name still
lingered, power was concentrated in the hands of one or a few
families; the republican life was burnt to the socket In the
north of Italy, almost all the Lombardian republics merged in the
duchy of Milan. In 1434, Florence fell under the dominion of the
Medicis. In 1464, Genoa became subject to the Milanese. The
majority of the republics, great and small, gave place to
sovereign houses. Shortly afterwards, the pretensions of foreign
sovereigns to the north and south of Italy--to the Milanese on
the one hand, and to the kingdom of Naples on the other--began to
be advanced.

Upon whatever country of Europe our eyes fall, whatever portion
of its history we contemplate--whether it have reference to the
nations themselves, or to the governments, to institutions, or
territories--we everywhere perceive the ancient elements and
forms of society decaying, and ready to disappear. Old
traditional liberties are swamped and perish, whilst new powers
arise, more regular and concentrated. There is something
infinitely mournful in this spectacle of the fall of the old
European liberties; and at the period of its occurrence, it
inspired the bitterest sorrow. In France, in Germany, and
especially in Italy, the patriots of the fifteenth century
fiercely, and with the energy of despair, opposed and deplored a
revolution, which on all sides was working up to what they had a
right to call despotism. We cannot but admire their courage and
compassionate their grief, but at the same time we must allow
that the revolution in question was not only inevitable, but also
useful. The primitive system of Europe, the old feudal and
borough liberties, had utterly failed in organising society.
Security and progressiveness are the main ingredients in the
social state. Any system which does not effect order for the
present, and advancement for the future, is vicious, and soon
abandoned. This was the fate of the old political forms and
liberties in the fifteenth century. They were unable to impart to
society either security or advancement. These consequences were
to be sought for elsewhere, and from other principles, other
means of action. This is the purport of all the facts I have just
dilated upon.

{189}

Another fact dates from the same epoch, one which has held a
great place in the history of Europe. In the fifteenth century,
the relation of governments amongst themselves commenced to
become frequent, regular, and permanent. Then were formed for the
first time those great combinations and alliances, either for
peace or war, which ultimately produced the system of the balance
of power. Diplomacy in Europe dates from the fifteenth century.
In fact, towards the end of that century, we see the principal
powers of the continent, the popes, the dukes of Milan, the
Venetians, the emperors of Germany, the kings of Spain, and the
kings of France, form connections, negotiate, come to
understandings, and unite amongst themselves, and balance their
respective states. Thus at the time that Charles VIII. made his
expedition for the conquest of Naples, a grand league was formed
against him between Spain, the pope, and the Venetians. The
league of Cambray was arranged some years later (in 1508) against
the Venetians. The holy league, directed against Louis XII.,
succeeded, in 1511, the league of Cambray. All these combinations
sprang from Italian politics, from the desire entertained by the
different sovereigns to possess its territory, and from the fear
that one of them, by seizing upon it exclusively, should gain too
great a preponderance. This new order of facts was highly
favourable to the development of the royal power. In the first
place, from the very nature of the external relations of states,
they can only be managed by one person, or by a small number of
persons, and they require a certain degree of secrecy. In the
next, the people possessed so little foresight that the
consequences of a combination of this description were not
appreciated by them; such things had for them no direct, home
interest, and therefore they concerned themselves very little
respecting them, and left them to the discretion of the central
power. Thus diplomacy, as it arose, fell into the hands of the
kings; and the idea that it belonged to them exclusively, that
the country, even when free, and monopolising the right of
levying its own taxes, and interfering in its own affairs, was
not permitted to meddle with foreign concerns, was established in
almost all minds as a settled principle, as a maxim of common
right. Look at the history of England in the sixteenth and
seventeenth centuries; we there perceive what power this idea
possessed, and what obstacles it opposed to English liberties, in
the reigns of Elizabeth, James I., and Charles I. It was always
under plea of this principle that peace and war, commercial
relations, in a word, all external affairs, belonged to the royal
prerogative, that absolute power defended itself against the
rights of the country. Nations have been excessively timid in
confessing this portion of prerogative, and this shyness has been
the more prejudicial to them, since, dating from the epoch upon
which we are shortly to enter--that is, from the sixteenth
century--the history of Europe is essentially diplomatic.
{190}
Exterior relations form, for nearly three centuries, the
important part of history. Within, the countries were organised,
and the settlement of the internal government, on the continent
at least, produced no more shocks, and no longer absorbed the
whole public activity. Hence the external relations, wars,
negotiations, and alliances, are the matters which draw
attention, and fill the pages of history. Thus it appears that
the greater portion of the destinies of nations have been
abandoned to the royal prerogative, to the central power.

It was indeed scarcely possible that it should be otherwise. It
requires a great advancement in civilisation, a prodigious
development of political comprehension and studies, to enable the
public to interfere with credit in affairs of this nature. From
the sixteenth to the eighteenth century, the people were very far
from possessing any such capability. Take, as an instance, a
scene from the history of England at the commencement of the
seventeenth century, under James I. His son-in-law, the
elector-palatine, having been elected king of Bohemia, had lost
his crown, and had even been despoiled of his hereditary states,
the palatinate. The whole of Protestantism was interested in his
cause, and on that account England was affected with a strong
sympathy for his success. There was a powerful ebullition of
public opinion to force James to take the part of his son-in-law,
and to procure his restoration to the palatinate. The parliament
furiously demanded war, promising ample means to sustain it.
James was not very eager for it; he eluded the question, made
some attempts at negotiation, sent a few troops into Germany, and
then came to inform parliament that he would need £900,000
sterling to carry on the war with any chance of success. It was
not said, and in fact it does not appear, that his calculation
was exaggerated. But the parliament recoiled with surprise and
affright at the prospect of such an expense, and it voted, with
much reluctance, a sum of £70,000 sterling to re-establish a
prince, and reconquer a country some hundreds of miles from
England. Such was the ignorance and political incapacity of the
public in such matters. It acted without knowledge of facts, and
without burdening itself with any responsibility: therefore it
was not enabled to interfere with regularity or efficiency. This
was the principal reason that caused the external relations to
fall into the hands of the central power, for it alone was in a
condition to direct them, I will not say for the public good, as
that necessarily was not always consulted, but with any
continuity and sound sense.

{191}

Thus we see that under whatever point of view the political
history of Europe of that epoch presents itself to us--whether
our attention is directed to the internal state of the countries,
or to their mutual relations with each other--whether we look to
the administration of war, justice, or taxation--the same general
character is in all distinguishable; we perceive everywhere the
same tendency to centralisation and unity, to the formation and
predominance of general interests and public powers. This was the
hidden labour at work in the fifteenth century--a labour which
did not then produce any very apparent result, any revolution,
properly so called, in society, but which prepared the way for
all. I now proceed to facts of another nature, to moral facts, or
those which have reference to the development of the human
understanding and of general ideas. We shall there also discern
the same phenomenon, and be carried to the same conclusion.

I will commence with an order of facts which has very often been
the subject of our inquiry, and which, under various forms, has
always occupied an important station in the history of Europe: I
mean the facts relative to the church. In our views of affairs in
Europe up till the fifteenth century, we have been made aware
that the only general and potential ideas operating veritably on
the masses were religious ideas. We have seen that the church
alone was invested with authority to regulate, promulgate, and
prescribe these ideas. Often, it is true, attempts at
independence and separation were made, and the church was called
upon for its most strenuous exertions to put them down. Those
exertions had hitherto been successful; the dogmas anathematised
by the church had not taken general and permanent possession of
the minds of the people; even the Albigenses had been crushed.
Dissent and strife were continual in the bosom of the church, but
without any decisive or striking result. At the opening of the
fifteenth century, a very different state of things appeared; new
ideas, and a public, avowed desire for alteration and reform,
agitated the church itself. The close of the fourteenth, and the
dawn of the fifteenth century, were illustrated by the great
western schism, arising from the translation of the Holy See to
Avignon, and the creation of two popes, the one at Avignon, and
the other at Rome. The contest between these two papacies is what
is called the great schism of the west. It commenced in 1378. In
1409, the Council of Pisa, wishing to bring it to an end, named a
third, Alexander V. This proceeding, so far from moderating the
violence of the schism, fanned it into additional fury, and
instead of two opposition popes, there were three. The disorder
and abuses caused by this lamentable dissension went on
increasing. In 1414, the Council of Constance assembled at the
instance of the Emperor Sigismond. It entered upon a very
different matter than naming a new pope; it undertook the reform
of the church. It first of all proclaimed the indissolubility of
the general council, and its superiority over the papal power. It
endeavoured to make these principles recognised as fundamental in
the church, and then set about the task of reforming the abuses
which had crept into it, especially the exactions by which the
court of Rome drew money from the faithful.
{192}
The better to attain its object, the council named what we would
call a committee of inquiry--that is to say, a _reforming
college_, composed of deputies taken from the different
nations represented in it. This college was charged to
investigate the abuses which tarnished the church, and the means
of remedying them, and to make a report to the council, which
would deliberate on the modes of execution. But whilst the
council was engaged upon the labour, a question was submitted to
it--Whether it could proceed to the reform of abuses without the
participation of the head of the Church, without the sanction of
the pope? It was decided in the negative, by the influence of the
Romanist party, supported by honest but timid men; so the council
elected a new pope, Martin V ., in 1417. This pope was instructed
to present a plan of reform for the church, which was not
acceptable, and the council separated. In 1431,  a fresh council
assembled at Basle, with the same design. It took up and
continued the reforming labour of the Council of Constance, but
had no better success. The schism which divided Christianity
broke out in the assembly likewise. The pope removed the Council
of Basle to Ferrara, and afterwards to Florence. A portion of the
prelates refused to obey the pope, and remained at Basle; so as
there were formerly two popes, there were then also two councils.
That of Basle stuck to its projects of reform, and named its own
pope, Felix V. After a certain period it migrated to Lausanne,
and finally broke up in 1449, without having effected a single
object.

Thus the papacy ultimately prevailed, and remained in possession
of the field of battle and of the government of the church. The
councils had been unable to accomplish what they had undertaken,
but the consequences of their acts survived their failure. At the
time the Council of Basle miscarried in its essays at reform,
certain sovereigns availed themselves of the ideas which it had
promulgated, and of the institutions it had recommended. In
France, Charles VII. issued the pragmatic sanction, founded on
the decrees of the Council of Basle, which he proclaimed at
Bourges in 1438. It maintained the election of bishops, the
suppression of first fruits, and the reform of the principal
abuses prevalent in the church. The pragmatic sanction was
declared the law of the state in France. In Germany, the diet of
Mayence adopted it in 1439, and likewise made it a law of the
German empire. Thus what the spiritual power had attempted
without success, the temporal power seemed determined upon
accomplishing.

{193}

The reforming projects were destined to encounter fresh reverses.
As the councils had failed, so also did the pragmatic sanction.
In Germany, it perished with great abruptness; the diet formally
abandoned it in 1448, in consequence of a negotiation with
Nicholas V. In France, Francis I. likewise gave it up in 1516,
and substituted in its stead his concordat with Leo X. Thus the
princely reform was not more successful than the clerical. But we
are not to conclude that it completely died away. As the councils
had done things which left consequences behind, so also had the
pragmatic sanction effects which survived it, and were destined
to play an important part in modern history. The principles
asserted by the Council of Basle were vigorous and fruitful. Some
superior and determined men adopted and maintained them. John of
Paris, D'Ailly, Gerson, and a great number of distinguished men
of the fifteenth century, devoted themselves to their defence.
Although the council was dissolved, and the pragmatic sanction
abandoned, their general doctrines upon the government of the
church, and upon the reforms necessary to be worked out, had
taken root in France, and were there perpetuated. They passed
into the parliaments, gradually grew into a powerful opinion, and
gave birth first to the Jansenists, then to the Gallicans. All
that series of maxims and efforts tending to reform the church,
which commenced with the Council of Constance and terminated in
the four propositions of Bossuet, emanated from the same source,
and proceeded to the same goal. It was an identical fact
successively transformed. In spite of the failure of the legal
and regular attempts at reform in the fifteenth century, they had
taken their station in the course of civilisation, and exercised
indirectly a prodigious influence.

The councils showed wisdom in pursuing their legal reform, for it
alone could avert a revolution. Almost at the same moment that
the Council of Pisa endeavoured to bring the great schism of the
west to a cessation, and the Council of Constance to reform the
church, the first efforts of a popular religious reform broke out
with violence in Bohemia. The preachings and progress of John
Huss date from 1404, the period that he commenced to teach at
Prague. Thus there were two reforms marching side by side; the
one in the very bosom of the church, experimented by the
aristocratical ecclesiastics themselves, a prudent, timid, and
thwarted reform; the other a reform outside the church, opposed
to it, violent and fierce. War soon raged between these two
powers or designs. The council summoned John Huss and Jerome of
Prague to Constance, and condemned them to the stake as heretics
and revolutionists. These events are perfectly intelligible to us
at the present day. We can very readily understand the
simultaneousness of separate reforms, the one undertaken by
governments, the other by the people, enemies of each other, and
yet emanating from the same source, and conducting to the same
end; reforms which, although making war upon each other, actually
and definitively agreed in a common object. Such was the
occurrence in the fifteenth century.
{194}
The popular reform of John Huss was momentarily stifled; the war
of the Hussites did not break out for three or four years after
the death of their master. It continued for a long time with
great violence, but the Empire finally triumphed. But as the
reform attempted by the councils was unattended with effect, as
the object they had pursued was not attained, the popular reform
ceased not to ferment; it waited only for an opportunity, and it
found one at the beginning of the sixteenth century. Had the
reform undertaken by the councils been carried to a beneficial
length, the popular reform perhaps would have been prevented. But
the success of the one or the other was unavoidable, for their
coincidence proves a necessity.

Therefore the state in which the fifteenth century left Europe,
as to religious matters, was this: an aristocratical reform had
been attempted without success, and a popular reform had been
broached and stifled, but was ever ready to explode. But the
fermentation of the human mind was not confined at that epoch to
the sphere of religious dogmas. It was in the course of the
fourteenth century, as is well known, that the Greek and Roman
antiquity was restored, so to speak, to Europe. The ardour with
which Dante, Petrarch, Boccaccio, and all their contemporaries,
sought out Greek and Latin manuscripts, and gave them to the
world, is matter of notoriety. The least discovery of that sort
excited an amazing bustle and transport of joy. In the midst of
this excitement, a school commenced to be formed, which has
played a much more important part in the development of the human
understanding than is ordinarily attributed to it; I mean the
classical school. I do not attach to this word the meaning in
which it is used at present; it was then concerned with anything
but a literary system or contest. The classical school of that
epoch was inflamed with admiration not only for the writings of
the ancients, for Virgil and for Homer, but also for the whole
ancient society--its institutions, opinions, and philosophy, as
well as literature. It must be confessed that antiquity, under
the heads of politics, philosophy, and literature, was far
superior to the Europe of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries.
It is not, therefore, at all surprising that it exercised so
great an influence, or that the majority of enlightened, active,
refined, and fastidious minds conceived an utter disgust for the
coarse manners, confused ideas, and barbarous forms of their own
times, and gave themselves up with rapture to the study, and
almost to the worship, of a society so much more regular, and at
the same time so much more developed. Thus was originated that
school of freethinkers which appeared at the commencement of the
fifteenth century, and in which prelates, jurisconsults, and
scholars were united together.

{195}

In the midst of this movement occurred the taking of
Constantinople by the Turks, the fall of the Eastern Empire, and
the settling of the fugitive Greeks in Italy. They brought with
them an increased knowledge of antiquity, numerous manuscripts,
and a multitude of fresh means by which the ancient civilisation
might be more thoroughly studied. The classical school became
animated with redoubled admiration and ardour. This was the
period of the most brilliant development of the aristocratic
church, especially in Italy, not in point of political power, so
much as in luxuriousness and wealth. It abandoned itself with
lordly pride to all the pleasures of a voluptuous, effeminate,
elegant, and licentious civilisation, to a taste for letters and
arts, for social and material enjoyments. See the sort of life
led by men who bore an important part in politics and literature
at that epoch--by Cardinal Bembo, for example. We are astonished
at so singular a medley of refined sensuality and intellectual
development, of enervated manners and hardihood of mind. We might
imagine, in fact, when we survey that era, and behold its ideas
and social relations, that we are in the middle of the French
eighteenth century. We perceive the same zeal for intellectual
movement and for new ideas, the same taste for a soft and
agreeable life; in a word, the same effeminacy and libertinism,
the same deficiency in political energy and in moral doctrines,
accompanied by a remarkable candour and activity of mind. The
literati of the fifteenth century were, in regard to the prelates
of the church, in the same relation as the men of letters and the
philosophers of the eighteenth with respect to the great
aristocrats; they were all imbued with the same opinions, all
pursued the same course of life, mingled harmoniously together,
and looked with indifference on the agitation that was brewing
around them. The prelates of the fifteenth century, commencing
with Cardinal Bembo, assuredly no more foresaw the rising of
Luther and Calvin, than the courtiers had any preconception of
the French Revolution. The situation was analogous.

Three great facts, therefore, of the moral order present
themselves at this epoch. First, an ecclesiastical reform
attempted by the church itself; secondly, a popular movement for
religious reform; and lastly, an intellectual revolution, which
formed the school of freethinkers. And all these changes were
progressing amid the greatest political alteration which had
previously occurred in Europe, amid the working towards
centralisation in nations and governments.

Nor was this all. It was also the period of the greatest outward
activity of mankind--the period of voyages, enterprises,
discoveries, and inventions of all sorts. This was the era of the
great expeditions of the Portuguese along the coasts of Africa,
of the discovery of the passage by the Cape of Good Hope, of the
discovery of America by Columbus, and of the wonderful extension
of European commerce.
{196}
A multitude of new inventions came forth, whilst others,
previously known in a confined sphere, became popular, and passed
into general use. Gunpowder changed the system of war, and the
compass changed the system of navigation. The art of oil-painting
was developed, and covered Europe with masterpieces. Engraving on
copper, invented in 1460, multiplied and disseminated them. The
use of linen paper became common. Finally, between 1436 and 1452,
printing was invented, the theme of so much declamation, and of
so many commonplaces, but the merit and effects of which will
never be obscured by either vapid declamation or nauseous
small-talk.

Such was the greatness and activity of this century; a greatness
still scarcely apparent, an activity which had not yet brought
its results under the disposition of mankind. Violent reforms had
been suppressed; governments were consolidated, and the people
hushed. It might be imagined that society was preparing merely to
enjoy a better order of things, accompanied by a quickened
impulse. But the revolutions of the sixteenth century were
impending, which the fifteenth had only been preparing. They will
be the object of my next lecture.

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                   Lecture XII.

            Effects Of The Reformation.

In the course of our inquiry, we have had frequent occasion to
lament the disorder and anarchy of European society, and to
complain of the difficulty of analysing and depicting a society
so scattered, incohesive, and discordant. We have longed for, and
impatiently invoked, the era of general interests, of order, and
of social unity. We have now reached it, and are entering upon
the epoch in which everything is summed into general facts and
general ideas, upon the very epoch of order and unity. We there,
however, encounter a difficulty of another kind. It has hitherto
required great pains to link facts together, to place them in
their proper stations, to seize what they possessed in common,
and unfold some appearance of a whole. In modern Europe, things
are in an opposite vein. All the elements and incidents of the
social state are modified by, and act and react upon, each other;
the mutual relations of men are far more numerous and
complicated; and the same multiplicity and entanglement occur in
their relations with the government of the state, in the
relations of states amongst themselves, and in the ideas and in
all the workings of the human mind. In the periods we have passed
through, a great number of facts appeared isolated, alien to each
other, and without reciprocal influence. Now, we have no more
isolation; all things meet, commingle, and vary as they meet. Can
anything be conceived more difficult than to distinguish the
veritable unity amid such a diversity, to determine the bent of a
movement so extended and complex, to present so prodigious a
throng of different elements, all closely linked together, in a
general summary; in a word, to predicate the general predominant
fact which sums up and expresses a long series of facts, which is
the characteristic of an epoch, and the faithful expression of
its influence and its action in the history of civilisation?

We shall quickly perceive the extent of this difficulty in the
great event which has now to occupy our attention.

We encountered in the twelfth century an event, religious in its
origin, if rather the reverse in its nature--I mean the Crusades.
Notwithstanding the vastness of the event, its long duration, and
the variety of circumstances it produced, it was an easy task to
unravel its general character, and to determine with some
precision its unity and influence. We have at present to consider
the religious revolution of the sixteenth century, that which is
commonly called the Reformation.
{198}
Allow me here to premise, that I shall make use of the word
_reformation_, as of a simple and settled term, synonymous
with _religious revolution_, and without implying a judgment
of its nature. Thus on the threshold we perceive how difficult it
is to assign the veritable character of that great crisis--to
state in a general form what it was, and what it effected.

We must seek for the Reformation between the beginning of the
sixteenth and the middle of the seventeenth century, for it was
within this interval that the life, so to speak, of the event was
comprised, that it took birth and ended. All historical events
have in some sort a limited career. Their consequences are
prolonged to infinity, they are connected with all the past and
all the future, but at the same time they have a peculiar and
restricted existence, in which they arise, expand, and fill with
their development a certain portion of space, then shrink and
retire from the stage to give place to some new occurrence.

The precise date that we assign to the origin of the Reformation
is of little importance. We may take the year 1520, in which
Luther burnt publicly at Wittemburg the bull of Leo X. which
condemned him, and thus severed himself officially from the Roman
church. It is between this year and the middle of the seventeenth
century, the year 1648, the date of the treaty of Westphalia,
that the life of the Reformation is comprised. Here is the proof
of it. The first and greatest effect of the religious revolution
was to create two classes of states in Europe--the Catholic and
the Protestant--to bring them in front of each other, and engage
them in war. With a variety of vicissitudes, that war lasted from
the commencement of the sixteenth to the middle of the
seventeenth century. It was not until the treaty of Westphalia,
in 1648, that the Catholic and Protestant states came finally to
a reciprocal recognition, agreed upon a mutual existence, and
undertook to live in society and in peace, in spite of the
diversity in religion. Dating from 1648, diversity in religion
ceased to be the predominant principle in the classification of
states, or in their external policy, relations, and alliances. Up
till that epoch, Europe, with certain modifications, was
essentially divided into a Catholic league and a Protestant
league. After the treaty of Westphalia, this distinction
disappeared, and states became allied or divided from very
different considerations than religious dogmas. At that point,
therefore, the preponderance, or rather the career, of the
Reformation was stopped, although its consequences did not cease
their course of development.

Let us now go hastily over this career, and, without doing more
than naming events and men, let us touch upon what it contains.
By this mere indication, by this dry and partial nomenclature, we
shall see what must be the difficulty of summing up a series of
facts, so varied and complex, into one general fact, and of
determining the veritable character of the religious revolution
of the sixteenth century, and assigning its station in the
history of our civilisation.

{199}

The Reformation broke out during the prevalence of a great
political crisis--namely, the contest between Francis I. and
Charles V., between France and Spain. This contest commenced for
the possession of Italy, was continued for that of the German
empire, and finally raged for preponderance in Europe. It was the
period in which the House of Austria rose to predominance. It was
likewise at the time that England, under Henry VIII., interfered
in continental politics with more regularity, consistency, and
effect, than it had previously done.

Viewing the course of events in the sixteenth century in France,
we find it a prey to the great religious wars between the
Protestants and Catholics, which became the means and the
occasion of a new attempt on the part of the great lords to
regain the power which was slipping from them, and to control
royalty. This was the political meaning of our religious wars, of
the league, of the struggle of the Guises against the Valois,
which was terminated by the accession of Henry IV.

In Spain, during the reign of Philip II., the rebellion of the
United Provinces exploded. The Inquisition, under the name of the
Duke of Alva, waged war against civil and religious liberty,
under that of the Prince of Orange. Whilst liberty triumphed in
Holland, through the perseverance and prudent measures of the
Netherlander, it utterly perished in Spain itself, where absolute
power, both lay and ecclesiastical, reigned supreme.

In England occurred the reigns of Mary and Elizabeth; the war
between Elizabeth, the head of Protestantism, and Philip II.; the
advent of James Stuart to the throne of England; and the
beginning of the great quarrel of royalty and the people.

About the same period, new powers arose in the north. Sweden was
reintegrated by Gustavus Vasa in 1523. Prussia was created by the
secularising of the Teutonic order. [Footnote 17] The northern
powers then took a place in European politics which they had not
previously occupied, the importance of which was shortly to be
evinced in the thirty years' war.

    [Footnote 17: Perhaps M. Guizot would have been a little more
    accurate if he had stated that the House of Brandenburg
    gained a large accession of territory, as Prussia was not, in
    fact, created until the second year of the eighteenth
    century, nor was that designation used in history until that
    period.]

I return to France. There we have the reign of Louis XIII.;
Cardinal Richelieu changing the internal administration of the
country, entering into relations with Germany, and affording
support to the Protestant party. In Germany occurred the struggle
against the Turks during the latter part of the sixteenth
century, and at the commencement of the seventeenth the thirty
years' war, the greatest event in modern eastern Europe: then
flourished Gustavus Adolphus, Wallenstein, Tilly, the Duke of
Brunswick, and the Duke of Weimar, the greatest names that
Germany has yet to boast of.

{200}

At the same epoch, Louis XIV. ascended the throne of France, and
the Fronde commenced. In England, the revolution which dethroned
Charles I. exploded.

Thus I take only the greatest events in history, events which
every one knows by name, and we see how great are their number,
variety, and importance. If we inquire into events of another
nature, events less palpable, and which are less indicated by
general allusions or names, we shall find the era in question
equally replete with them. It was at this time that the greatest
changes in the political institutions of almost all nations took
place, that pure monarchy prevailed in the majority of the great
states, whilst in Holland the most powerful republic in Europe
was formed, and in England the constitutional monarchy
definitively, or nearly so, triumphed. In the church, it was the
era in which the ancient monastic orders lost almost all
political power, and were replaced by a new order of another
character, whose importance, wrongly perhaps, is held as far
superior to theirs--the Jesuits. In the same epoch, the Council
of Trent eradicated what might yet remain of the influence of the
Councils of Constance and Basle, and secured the final triumph of
the court of Rome in ecclesiastical affairs. If we leave the
church, and cast an eye upon philosophy, upon the unshackled
career of the human mind, we see two men arise, Bacon and
Descartes, the authors of the greatest philosophical revolution
which the modern world has undergone, and the chiefs of two
schools disputing with each other for mastery. It was also the
brilliant period of the Italian literature, and the era in which
French and English literature commenced. Finally, it was the time
during which the great colonies were planted, and the most active
developments of the commercial system were stimulated.

Thus, whether we regard the political, ecclesiastical,
philosophical, or literary events of that epoch, we find them
more numerous, varied, and important, than in all the ages that
had preceded it. The activity of the human mind was manifested in
all directions, in the relations of men amongst themselves, in
their relations with the public power, in the relationships of
states, and in purely intellectual operations; in a word, it was
an era of great men and great things. And during this very age,
the religious revolution which engages our attention was the
greatest of all its events, its predominant fact, that which
gives to it its name, and determines its character. Amongst so
many operative causes playing so important a part, the
Reformation was the most powerfully operative, that to which all
the others tended, and which modified them all, or was by them
itself modified.
{201}
So much so, that our present task is to characterise with
truthfulness, to sum up with precision, the event which
controlled all the others in an age of the most important events,
the cause which effected more than all the others in an age of
the most weighty causes.

It will be evident how extremely difficult it is to gather facts
so various, so extensive, and so closely interwoven, into one
clear historical conclusion. It is, however, necessary. When
events are once consummated, when they have become history, the
great and essential object with men is to find out the general
facts, the connection of causes and effects. This is, so to
speak, the immortal portion of history, that to which all
generations have need of referring, in order to comprehend the
past, and to comprehend themselves. This necessity for
generalisation, for arriving at a rational deduction, is the most
potent and the most glorious of all the intellectual wants; but
in satisfying it, great care must be taken to guard against
imperfect and precipitate generalisations. Nothing is more
enticing than to yield to the pleasure of fixing immediately, and
at first sight, upon the general character and permanent results
of such an era or such an event. The human mind is like the human
will, ever eager to come to the point, impatient of obstacles and
fetters, and urgent for conclusions, willingly overlooking the
facts which tease and embarrass it; but whilst disregarding them,
it cannot destroy them, and they still subsist to convict it some
day of error, and to condemn its precipitancy. There is but one
means by which the human mind can escape this danger, and that
is, by courageously and patiently devoting itself to the study of
facts, before generalising and forming conclusions. Facts are to
the thought what the rules of morality are to the inclination. It
is bound to ascertain them, and bear their weight; and it is only
when it has fulfilled this duty, and when it has formed an
accurate idea of its extent, that it is permitted to expand its
wings, and take flight to the lofty region whence it may behold
all things in their entirety and their results. If it insists
upon mounting too quickly, and without having gained a knowledge
of all the territory which it has thence to contemplate, the
chances of error and failure are beyond calculation. It happens
as in the solution of an arithmetical question, where a
preliminary mistake leads to others, _ad infinitum_. Thus in
history, if in the first labour all the facts have not been
properly investigated, if the taste for precipitate
generalisation has been indiscreetly indulged, it is impossible
to assign limits to the consequent absurdities.

{202}

By so emphatically dilating on this point, I am in some degree
prejudicing myself. I have been necessarily restricted in this
inquiry to attempts at generalising, to giving general summaries
of facts which we have not had leisure to study closely. Having
now arrived at an epoch in which this task is much more difficult
than at any other time, and when the chances of error are far
greater, I have judged it my duty to be explicit in laying down
these positions, so that my own deductions may be exposed to
their test. Having done this, I shall now proceed to attempt upon
the Reformation what I have done upon other events--namely, to
endeavour to distinguish its predominant fact, to describe its
general character; in a word, to assign the station and the part
of this great occurrence in the progress of European
civilisation.

It will be recollected in what state we left Europe at the end of
the fifteenth century. We witnessed in its course two great
experiments at religious revolution or reform; an experiment at
legal reform by the councils, and one at revolutionary reform by
the Hussites in Bohemia: both of them we saw stifled and failing
in effect; and yet we were made aware that it was impossible to
extinguish the spirit, and that it was sure to reproduce itself
under one form or another--that, in fact, what the fifteenth
century had essayed, the sixteenth would inevitably accomplish.
It is not my intention to recount the details of the religious
revolution of the sixteenth century; I suppose them to be almost
universally known. I am concerned merely with its general
influence upon the destinies of the human race.

When investigations have been made into the causes which
originated this great event, the adversaries of the Reformation
have imputed it to accidents, to evils in the course of
civilisation--for example, to the sale of indulgences being
intrusted to the Dominicans, which rendered the Augustines
jealous; and as Luther was an Augustine, that this, therefore,
was the determining motive of the Reformation. Others have
attributed it to the ambition of the sovereigns, to their
rivalship with the ecclesiastical power, and to the greediness of
the lay nobles, who were anxious to get possession of the
property of the church. It has been thus wished to explain the
religious revolution solely by the worst features in mankind and
in human affairs--by private interests and personal passions.

On the other hand, the friends and partisans of the Reformation
have attempted to account for it by the mere necessity for
effective reform in the abuses of the church; they have
represented it as a redressing of religious grievances, as an
undertaking conceived and executed with the sole design of
reconstituting the primitive and pure church. Neither the one nor
the other of these explanations appears to me well founded. The
second has more truth than the first; at least it is more noble,
more in accordance with the extent and importance of the event,
but yet I do not conceive it at all more exact.
{203}
In my opinion, the Reformation was neither an accident, the
consequence of some great chance, or of some personal interest,
nor a simple exhibition of religious improvement, the fruit of an
imaginary perfection of humanity and truth. There was a cause
more powerful than all these would imply, and which rises
superior to all the particular causes. It was a great explosion
for the liberty of the human understanding, an uncontrollable
demand for its free exercise of thought and judgment, by its own
powers alone, upon facts and ideas which Europe previously
received, or was held bound to receive, from the hands of
authority. It was a grand undertaking for the enfranchisement of
human thought, and, to call things by their proper names, a
rebellion of the human understanding against power in spiritual
matters. Such is, as far as I can judge, the veritable character,
the general and predominant character, of the Reformation.

When we inquire into the state, at this epoch, of the human mind,
on the one hand, and into that of the spiritual power of the
church, which had the government of the human mind, on the other,
we are struck with a twofold fact.

With regard to the human understanding, we perceive a much
greater activity, a much greater craving for development, than it
had ever felt. This increased activity was the result of various
causes, which had been accumulating for ages. For example, there
had been times in which heresies sprang up, occupied some space,
and fell to be replaced by others; and there had been times in
which philosophical opinions held the same course as heresies.
The labours of the human mind, both in the religious and
philosophical sphere, had been accumulating from the eleventh to
the sixteenth century; and the moment was at last come in which
they were destined to have a result. Furthermore, all those means
of instruction, instituted or authorised in the bosom of the
church itself, were far from being fruitless. Schools had been
founded, and from these schools issued men not barren in
knowledge, whose number increased daily. These men at length
insisted upon thinking for themselves, and for their own
guidance, for they felt themselves more fortified than they had
ever previously been. Finally came that revival and youthful
vigorousness imparted to the human intellect by the restoration
of antiquity, of which I have before described the progress and
effects.

All these united causes communicated a highly energetic movement,
an imperative necessity for advancement, to the mind of man in
the sixteenth century.

{204}

The situation of the spiritual power, which exercised government
over the human understanding, was very different; it had fallen,
on the contrary, into a state of inertness and stagnation. The
political influence of the church, or of the court of Rome, was
much attenuated; the European society was no longer in its
exclusive possession, but had passed under the dominion of lay
governments. Nevertheless, the spiritual power preserved all its
pretensions, all its prominence, and all its external importance.
There happened to it what has more than once occurred to old
governments. The majority of the complaints that were alleged
against it were scarcely better founded than in many such
outcries. It is not true that the court of Rome was highly
tyrannical in the sixteenth century, or that the abuses, properly
so called, were more numerous or glaring than they had been at
other times. On the contrary, the ecclesiastical government had
never perhaps been more easy, more tolerant, or more disposed to
let things take their course, provided the rights it had hitherto
enjoyed were so far recognised as not to render them inoperative,
provided it were assured its previous existence, and were paid
its accustomed dues. It would willingly have left the human mind
undisturbed, if the human mind would have been equally complacent
with it. But it is precisely when governments have least vigour,
when they do least mischief, that they are attacked, because men
can then do so, whereas formerly they could not.

It is therefore evident, from the mere examination of the state
of the human mind at this era, and of that of its government,
that the character of the Reformation must have been a new burst
of liberty, a grand rebellion of human intellect. This was
undoubtedly the predominant cause, that which rose above all the
others; a cause more influential than all the interests either of
nations or of sovereigns, than the demand for reform, properly so
called, than the desire for the redress of those grievances which
were complained of at that period.

I will suppose that after the Reformation had broken out for some
years, when it had paraded all its pretensions, and inventoried
all alleged grievances, the spiritual power had suddenly fallen
into agreement with it, and had said, 'Well, so be it, I will
reform all; I will revert to an order of things more just and
religious. I will suppress all annoyances, arbitrary
interferences, and tributes; even in matters of faith I will
modify, re-interpret, and return to the primitive meanings. But
the grievances being thus redressed, I will preserve my position;
I will be, as formerly, the government of the human mind, with
the same power and the same rights.' Would the religious
revolution have been satisfied with these terms, and stopped in
its course! I think not; I believe firmly that it would have
continued its career, and that, after demanding reform, it would
have claimed liberty. The crisis of the sixteenth century was not
simply a reforming one; it was essentially revolutionary. It was
impossible to remove from it that character in any instance, or
its inherent merits and defaults; it had all the consequent
effects of such a character.

{205}

Let us cast a glance at the consequences of the Reformation; let
us see what it mainly, and above all things, effected in the
different countries in which it was developed. It is to be
observed that it was developed in very various and distinct
situations, in the midst of very unequal chances. Now, if we find
that, if in spite of the diversity of situations and the
inequality of chances, it everywhere followed an identical bent,
achieved an identical result, and preserved an identical
character, it will be clear that this character, which thus
surmounted all the diversities of situation, and all the
inequalities of chance, must be the fundamental character of the
event, and that the result thus obtained must be that which it
essentially aimed at.

Now, wherever the religious revolution of the sixteenth century
prevailed, if it did not work out the complete enfranchisement of
the human mind, it procured it a new and considerable increase of
liberty. It undoubtedly left thought subject to all the risks of
liberty or servitude as to political institutions, but it
abolished or disarmed the spiritual power, the systematic and
formidable government of the thought. This result the Reformation
attained amid the most opposite combinations. In Germany there
was no political liberty, nor did the Reformation introduce it;
indeed it rather strengthened than weakened the power of princes,
and was more adverse to the free institutions of the middle ages
than favourable to their development. Nevertheless, it aroused
and sustained a liberty of thought in Germany greater perhaps
than anywhere else. In Denmark, a country where absolute power
prevailed, where it penetrated even into the municipal
institutions, as well as into the general ones of the state, the
influence of the Reformation wrought the enfranchisement and free
exercise of thought in all its directions. In Holland, amidst a
republic, and in England, under a constitutional monarchy, and in
spite of a religious tyranny long of a very harsh order, the
emancipation of the human intellect was likewise accomplished.
Finally, in France, in a situation which seemed the least
favourable to the effects of the religious revolution, in a
country where it had been subdued, there even it was a principle
of intellectual independence and freedom. Up till 1685--that is
to say, until the revocation of the Edict of Nantes--the
Reformation held a legal existence in France. During that long
space of time it wrote and discussed, and provoked its
adversaries to write and discuss also. This fact alone, this war
of pamphlets and conferences between the old and the new
opinions, disseminated in France a liberty much more real and
active than is generally imagined; a liberty which conduced to
the prosperity of science and morality, and to the improvement of
the French clergy, as well as to the advantage of thought in
general. Let us look at the discussions of Bossuet with Claude,
and at the whole of the religious polemics at that period, and
then ask ourselves whether Louis XIV. would have sanctioned a
similar display of liberty upon any other topic.
{206}
Thus the Reformation and the opposite party enjoyed more liberty
in France in the seventeenth century than was allowed to any
person or thing besides. The religious spirit was then much
bolder, and treated its questions with far less reserve, than the
political spirit, even of Fenelon in his Telemachus. This state
of things did not cease until the revocation of the Edict of
Nantes. Now, from 1685 to the outburst of the human intellect in
the eighteenth century, there were not forty years; and the
influence of the religious revolution in furtherance of
intellectual liberty had scarcely ceased, when that of the
philosophical revolution commenced.

Thus we see that wherever the Reformation penetrated, wherever it
played an important part, whether victorious or vanquished, it
had, as a general, predominant, and invariable result, a
prodigious advancement to the activity and liberty of thought, a
grand tendency to the emancipation of the human understanding
from thraldom.

And not only had the Reformation this constant result, but it
aspired to none other; wherever that was obtained, it was
contented, and very rarely sought for anything further, so much
was it the groundwork of the event, its primitive and fundamental
character! Thus in Germany, so far from demanding political
liberty, it accepted, I will not say political servitude, but the
absence of freedom. In England, it consented to the hierarchical
constitution of the clergy, and the existence of a church as full
of abuses as ever the Roman church was, and much more servile to
power. How came it to pass that the Reformation, so fierce and
stubborn in many respects, thus showed itself so accommodating
and supple? Because it had achieved the general fact to which it
tended--the abolition of the spiritual power, and the
enfranchisement of human thought. I repeat, wherever it attained
that object, it easily reconciled itself to all systems and
situations.

Now let us take the reverse side of this examination, and let us
see what happened in those countries where the religious
revolution did not penetrate, or was early stifled, or was unable
to gain any development. History shows that the human mind was
not enfranchised: two great countries, Spain and Italy,
distinctly attest the fact. Whilst in those portions of Europe
where the Reformation has held an important station, the human
intellect has taken, in the three last centuries, an activity and
freedom previously unknown, in those where it has not penetrated
it has fallen in the same epoch into weakness and inertness;
insomuch, that the trial and the counter-trial have been made, as
it were, simultaneously, and produced analogous results.

{207}

Therefore the essential character of the Reformation, the most
general consequence of its influence, the predominant fact of its
destiny, was the outburst of thought and the abolition of
absolute power in spiritual matters.

I call it a _fact_, and I say so designedly. The
emancipation of the human intellect was in reality, in the course
of the Reformation, a fact rather than a principle, a result
rather than an intention. The Reformation in this respect, I
think, performed more than it had undertaken, more perhaps than
it even wished. Unlike many other revolutions which have remained
greatly in arrear of what they intended, in which the event has
fallen far short of the design, the consequences of the
Reformation surpassed its views. It is greater as an event than
as a system; what it effected it did not fully foresee, nor would
have fully avowed.

What were the reproaches which its adversaries constantly
fulminated against the Reformation? Which of its results did they
cast, so to speak, in its teeth to reduce it to silence?

Two principal ones: 1_st_, the multiplicity of sects, the
boundless license of the understanding, the destruction of all
spiritual authority, and the dissolution of the religious society
as a whole; 2_nd_, tyranny and persecution. 'You provoke
license,' said they to the reformers; 'you produce it; and when
it appears, you wish to restrain and repress it. And how do you
repress it? By the harshest and most violent measures. You also
persecute heresy, and by virtue of an illegitimate authority.'

Survey and sum up all the great attacks directed against the
Reformation, severing the purely dogmatical questions, and these
are the two fundamental upbraidings to which it will be found
they always reduce themselves.

The reformed party was greatly embarrassed at these accusations.
When the multiplicity of sects was objected to it, instead of
avowing the fact, and asserting the legitimacy of their free
development, it anathematised sectarians, deplored their
appearance, and denied them. Was it taxed with persecution? It
defended itself with some perplexity; it alleged necessity; and
had, as it said, the right to repress and punish error, for it
was in possession of the truth. Its dogmas and institutions were
alone legitimate; and if the Roman church had no authority to
punish the reformers, it was because it was in the wrong as
against them.

And when it was not its enemies, but its own offspring, that
upbraided the dominant party in the Reformation with its
persecutions, when the sectarians, whom it anathematised, said to
it, 'We only do what you have done; we only separate ourselves as
you have separated yourselves,' it was still more puzzled to find
an answer, and very frequently only replied by additional rigour.

{208}

Thus, in fact, whilst labouring for the destruction of absolute
power in spiritual matters, the religious revolution of the
sixteenth century was ignorant of the true principles of
intellectual liberty. It was busy enfranchising the human mind,
and still pretending to govern it by the law; in practice it was
giving prevalence to free examination, whilst in theory it was
merely purposing to substitute a legitimate for an illegitimate
power. It did not rise to the first cause, nor descend to the
last consequences, of its own work. Hence it fell into a twofold
fault. On the one hand, it neither knew nor respected all the
rights of the human thought; at the moment that it clamoured for
them, for its own behoof, it violated them with others. On the
other hand, it was unable rightly to estimate the rights of
authority in the intellectual order of things: I do not speak of
coercive authority, which could possess no rights in such
matters, but of the purely moral authority, acting upon the
understanding alone, and merely by way of influence. The greater
part of the reformed countries were deficient in a good
organisation of the intellectual society, and in regulating the
action of old and general opinions. They could not reconcile the
rights and demands of past times or tradition with those of
liberty; and the cause was undoubtedly owing to this
circumstance, that the Reformation never fully comprehended and
accepted either its own principles or its own consequences.

Thence, also, it was invested with a certain aspect of
inconsistency and narrow-mindedness which frequently gave a hold
and advantage over it to its adversaries. These latter knew
perfectly well both what they were doing and what they desired;
they traced their conduct to certain principles, and avowed all
their consequences. There has never been a government more
consistent and systematic than that of the Roman church. In
practice, the court of Rome has greatly vacillated and yielded,
much more than the Reformation; but in principle, it has far more
completely followed out its own system, and held a conduct
infinitely more coherent in all its parts. This perfect knowledge
of what is done, and what is wished to be done, this complete and
thoughtful adoption of a doctrine and a design, give considerable
strength to a party. The religious revolution of the sixteenth
century presented in its progress a striking example of it. It is
well known that the principal power instituted to contest with it
was the order of Jesuits. Take a glance at their history: they
everywhere failed; and wherever they interfered to any extent,
they brought misfortune upon the cause they meddled with. In
England, a race of kings was their victims; in Spain, the people.
The eternal nature of things, the development of modern
civilisation, and the liberty of the human understanding, all
those powers against which the Jesuits were called upon to
struggle, rose up against them, and vanquished them. And not only
did they miscarry, but what were the means they were constrained
to employ?
{209}
No lustre or grandeur marked their actions; they performed no
brilliant events, nor did they put in movement imposing masses of
men; they transacted matters by under-hand, obscure, and
subordinate modes--ways which were not at all calculated to
strike the imagination, or to secure for them that public
sympathy which is attracted by great circumstances, whatever may
be their principle and design. The party against which they
strove, on the contrary, was not only victorious, but conquered
with renown, effecting great things by great means; it aroused
the people, strewed Europe with illustrious men, and changed in
the face of day the fate and constitution of states. In fact,
every thing was against the Jesuits, both fortune and
appearances; neither the good sense which decides success, nor
the imagination which has need of pomp, were consulted in their
career. And yet nothing is more certain than that they had
greatness; a great idea is attached to their name, their
influence, and their history. It is because they knew what they
were doing, and what they wished to do; because they had a full
and clear conception of the principles upon which they acted, and
of the object to which they conduced--that is to say, they had
grandeur of thought and of intention, which saved them from the
ridicule which is always attached to repeated reverses and
despicable means. Where, on the contrary, the event was greater
than the design, where a knowledge of the first principles and
final results of the action seemed to be wanting, there remained
something imperfect, inconsistent, and contracted, which placed
the very conquerors in a sort of rational and philosophical
inferiority that has sometimes made its influence be felt in
events. This was, I conceive, the weak side of the Reformation in
the contest between the two spiritual systems, the old and the
new, which frequently embarrassed its situation, and prevented it
from defending itself as efficiently as it ought to have done.

I might consider the religious revolution of the sixteenth
century under several other aspects. I have said nothing, nor
intend to say anything, upon its purely dogmatical phase, upon
what it effected in religion, properly so called, or as to the
relations of the human soul with God and eternity; but I might
exhibit it in the variety of its relations with the social order,
deducing throughout results of immense importance. For example,
it recalled religion to the bulk of the laymen, to the world of
the faithful; previously, religion was, so to speak, the
exclusive domain of the clergy, of the ecclesiastical order, who
distributed its consolations, but alone disposed of the
groundwork, and almost solely possessed the right to speak of it.
The Reformation caused religious doctrines to re-enter into
general circulation, and it reopened the field of faith to
believers, into which they had lost their right to penetrate. It
had, at the same time, a second result: it banished, or nearly
so, religion from politics; it restored independence to the
temporal power.
{210}
At the very same moment that religion re-entered, so to speak,
into the possession of the faithful, it parted from the
government of society. In the reformed countries, notwithstanding
the diversity of ecclesiastical constitutions--in England even,
where that constitution is more akin to the ancient order of
things--the spiritual power has no longer any serious idea of
directing the temporal.

I might enumerate many other consequences of the Reformation, but
I must restrain myself, and be satisfied with having brought out
its principal character--the emancipation of the human
understanding, and the abolition of absolute power in the
spiritual order of things; an abolition which undoubtedly was not
complete, but nevertheless the greatest advance in that direction
which had been made up to our own time.

Before concluding, I shall say a few words upon the striking
similarity of destiny that is observable between the civil and
the religious societies, in the revolutions to which they have
been subjected in the history of modern Europe.

The Christian society commenced, as I before explained when
speaking of the church, by being a perfectly free society, formed
solely by virtue of a common creed, without institutions, without
government, properly so called, regulated merely by moral and
fluctuating powers, according to the wants of the moment. Civil
society also commenced in Europe, partially at least, by bands of
barbarians; a society perfectly free, in which each remained
because he wished it, without laws or instituted powers. Upon the
termination of that state, which could not be reconciled with any
great social development, the religious society placed itself
under a government essentially aristocratical; it was governed by
the clergy, the bishops, councils, and ecclesiastical
aristocracy. A fact of the same nature occurred in the civil
society, upon issuing out of barbarism, it falling equally under
the domination of an aristocracy or lay-feudalism. The religious
society left the aristocratic form to enter that of pure
monarchy; for such was the purport of the triumph of the court of
Rome over the councils and over the European ecclesiastical
aristocracy. The same revolution was accomplished in civil
society; it was also by the destruction of the aristocratical
power that royalty prevailed and took possession of the European
world. In the sixteenth century, an insurrection broke out in the
bosom of the religious society against the system of pure
monarchy, against absolute power in spiritual things. This
revolution drew in its train, established and consecrated, the
spirit of free inquiry in Europe. In our own days, we have
witnessed a similar event in the civil order. The temporal
absolute power has been equally attacked and vanquished. Thus we
see that the two societies have gone through the same
vicissitudes, and suffered the same revolutions; but the
religious society has always been in the van in this career.

{211}

We are now in possession of one of the great facts of modern
society--the spirit of free inquiry, or the liberty of the human
understanding. We have also seen that, at the same time,
political centralisation prevailed almost everywhere. In my next
lecture I shall treat of the English Revolution--that is to say,
of the event in which the spirit of free examination and pure
monarchy, both the results of the progress of civilisation, found
themselves for the first time in array.

{212}

              Lecture XIII.

      Effects Of The English Revolution.

We have seen that, in the course of the sixteenth century, all
the elements and facts of the ancient European society had
gathered into two essential facts--the spirit of free inquiry,
and the centralisation of power. The one prevailed in the
religious society, and the other in the civil. Thus the
emancipation of the human mind and pure monarchy achieved their
triumphs at the same time.

A struggle between these two facts was pretty sure at some period
to take place, for there was something contradictory between
them; the one was the defeat of absolute power in spiritual
affairs, and the other its victory in temporal affairs; the one
promoted the decay of the old ecclesiastical monarchy, and the
other perfected the ruin of the old liberties of feudal and
borough times. Their simultaneousness continued, as we have seen,
until the revolutions of the religious society marched quicker
than those of the civil; the first came forth at the period of
the enfranchisement of individual thought, whilst the last only
declared itself at the instant of the concentration of all the
powers into one general power. The coincidence in time of the two
facts, therefore, far from accruing from their similarity, did
not even moderate their contradictory natures. They were each an
advance in the course of civilisation, but advances linked to
different situations, and of distinct moral dates, so to speak,
although coincident in time. That they should clash with each
other before they succeeded in blending harmoniously, was
inevitable.

Their first battle-field was England. The principle of the
English Revolution was the struggle of free inquiry, the fruit of
the Reformation, against the ruin of all political liberty, the
fruit of the success of pure monarchy; an attempt to abolish
absolute power in temporal as well as in spiritual affairs. Such
is the character of that revolution in the course of our
civilisation.

Why did this contest occur in England rather than elsewhere? Why
were the revolutions of a political character more nearly
simultaneous with those of a moral character in that country than
on the continent?

The English royalty had undergone the same vicissitudes as the
continental; in the reign of the Tudors, it reached a pitch of
concentration and energy which it had never before known. I do
not mean to say that the practical despotism of the Tudors was
more violent, or more hurtful to England, than that of their
predecessors had been.
{213}
There were, I have no doubt, quite as many acts of tyranny,
exactions, and violations of right under the Plantagenets as
under the Tudors, and perhaps more. I am also of opinion that at
this epoch the government of monarchy on the continent was more
rough and arbitrary than in England. The new fact under the
Tudors consisted in absolute power becoming systematic; royalty
pretended to a primitive, indefeasible sovereignty, and assumed a
tone and held a language which it had not previously ventured
upon. The theoretical pretensions of Henry VIII., Elizabeth,
James I., and Charles I., were far different from those put forth
by Edward I. or Edward III., although practically the power of
these last-named kings was neither less arbitrary nor extensive.
I repeat, it was the principle or rational system of the monarchy
which changed in England, during the sixteenth century, rather
than its practical power; royalty claimed to be absolute and
superior to all laws, even to those which it declared itself
willing to respect.

On the other hand, the religious revolution was not accomplished
in England as upon the continent; it was the work of the kings
themselves. Not that the seeds of a popular reform had not long
existed there also, and even put forth some shoots, which in all
probability would have grown rapidly to maturity, but Henry VIII.
took the initiative, and royalty led the way to revolution. It
thence resulted, at least in the beginning, that as a reform of
ecclesiastical abuses and tyranny, as a liberation of the human
mind, the English reformation was much less complete than on the
continent. It was made, as a matter of course, in the interests
of its authors. The king and the retained episcopacy divided the
spoils, both of wealth and of power, of the preceding government,
the papacy. The consequence was not long in being felt. It was
said that the reformation was made, whilst the greater part of
the motives which had rendered it desirable still subsisted. It
reappeared, therefore, under the popular form, clamouring against
the bishops as it had exclaimed against the court of Rome, and
accusing them of being so many popes. Whenever the general fate
of the religious revolution was jeopardised, whenever it was a
question of war against the ancient church, all portions of the
reformed party rallied together, and confronted the common enemy;
but the danger being over, the internal struggle recommenced, the
popular reformation renewed its attack on the royal and
aristocratical reformation, denounced its abuses, complained of
its tyranny, and called upon it to keep its promises, and not to
reproduce the power which it had so recently subverted.

{214}

About the same epoch, a movement for liberation, a craving for
political liberty formerly unfelt, or at least not strongly,
arose in the civil society. In the course of the sixteenth
century, the commercial prosperity of England increased with
extreme rapidity, and at the same time territorial wealth or
landed property changed hands to a great extent. Sufficient
attention has not been paid to the fact contained in the
increased division of landed estates in the sixteenth century, in
consequence of the ruin of the feudal aristocracy, and from many
other causes which it would be too tedious to enumerate here. All
authorities show us the number of landed proprietors prodigiously
augmenting, and estates passing in a great measure into the
possession of the _gentry_ or small nobility, and the
burgesses. The high nobility, or House of Lords, was at the
commencement of the seventeenth century not nearly so rich as the
House of Commons. There was therefore a great development of
industrial resources and a great mutation in landed property at
one and the same time. Contemporary with these two facts came up
a third, the new movement of mind. The reign of Elizabeth is
perhaps the era of the greatest literary and philosophical
activity in England, the epoch of fertile and bold thoughts. The
Puritans pushed unhesitatingly to all the consequences of a
narrow but strong doctrine; other spirits, less moral and more
liberal, careless of principle or system, welcomed with eagerness
all ideas which promised satisfaction to their curiosity or
aliment to their zeal for knowledge. Wherever the intellectual
movement is hailed with delight, liberty soon becomes a
necessity, and it promptly passes from the public mind into the
government.

In some of the continental countries where the Reformation had
broken out, a desire of the same nature, a certain longing for
political liberty, had indeed manifested itself also, but the
means of success were wanting to this new spirit; it knew not
where to fix itself, finding no basis either in institutions or
manners, but remaining vague and uncertain, seeking in vain how
to set about satisfying itself. In England, it happened quite
otherwise: there the spirit of political liberty, which
reappeared in the sixteenth century, consequent upon the
Reformation, had a basis and means of action in the ancient
institutions, and in the whole social state.

There is no person who is ignorant of the first origin of the
free institutions of England, or how the coalition of the great
barons, in 1215, wrested from King John _Magna Charta_. It
is not so generally known that the great charter was renewal and
confirmed at repeated intervals by the majority of the kings.
There were more than thirty confirmations of it between the
thirteenth and sixteenth centuries. And not only was the charter
confirmed, but new statutes were made in order to strengthen and
develop it. It continued to subsist, therefore, without break or
interval. At the same time the House of Commons was formed, and
had taken its place in the supreme institutions of the country.
{215}
It was under the race of the Plantagenets that it veritably took
root; not that it played any great part in the state at that
epoch, for the government, properly so called, did not come
within the scope of its functions, even as a mere influence; it
interfered only when it was called upon by the king, and almost
always did so with reluctance and hesitation, as if fearing to
engage and compromise itself, and displaying no eagerness to
augment its power. But when it concerned the defence of private
rights, the fortunes or dwellings of the citizens, individual
liberty, in a word, the House of Commons upon such occasions
performed its mission with great energy and constancy, and
established all the principles which have become the basis of the
English constitution.

After the Plantagenets, and especially under the Tudors, the
House of Commons, or rather the whole parliament, presents itself
under another aspect. It ceased to defend individual liberty so
strenuously as under the Plantagenets. Arbitrary arrests, and
violations of private rights, became much more frequent, and were
oftener passed over in silence. As a counterpoise, the parliament
held a greater place in the general government of the state.
Henry VIII., for instance, needing a public support or instrument
in order to change the religion of the country, and to regulate
the succession to the throne, made use of the parliament, and
especially of the House of Commons. Under the Plantagenets it had
been an instrument of resistance, an assertor of private rights;
under the Tudors it became an instrument of government, a
participator in general politics; so that, at the end of the
sixteenth century, although it had served or suffered almost all
descriptions of tyranny, its importance had nevertheless greatly
increased; its power was founded--that power upon which, in
truth, representative government is based.

Therefore, when we refer to the state in which the free
institutions of England stood at the end of the sixteenth
century, we find the following facts:--First, certain maxims and
principles of liberty, which had been constantly recorded, and of
which the country and the legislature had never lost sight;
secondly, certain precedents or examples of liberty, greatly
mingled, it is true, with contrary precedents and examples, but
sufficing to legitimate and give efficacy to remonstrances, and
to support the advocates of liberty in the struggle commenced
against arbitrary power or tyranny; thirdly, certain special and
local institutions, fruitful as seeds of liberty, as juries, the
right of assembly, and of being armed, and the independence of
the municipal administrations and jurisdictions; fourthly, and
finally, the parliament and its power, of which royalty had more
need than ever, as it had alienated the greater part of its
independent revenues, its domains, feudal rights, &c. and was
obliged to have recourse, for its own sustenance, to the vote of
the country.

{216}

The political state of England in the sixteenth century was thus
quite different from that of the continent. In spite of the
tyranny of the Tudors, and in spite of the systematic
predominance of pure monarchy, there was nevertheless a
substantial basis and assured means of action for the new spirit
of liberty.

Two national demands were therefore coincident at this epoch in
England. On the one hand, a demand for religious revolution and
liberty amidst the reformation already introduced; and on the
other, a demand for political liberty amidst the pure monarchy
then in progress. These two spirits were also enabled to adduce,
for their own advancement, what had previously occurred in either
the one or the other direction. As was natural, they formed an
alliance. The party bent on the pursuit of religious reform,
invoked political liberty to the succour of its faith and its
conscience against the king and the bishops; and the friends of
political liberty courted the aid of the popular reformation. The
two parties united to struggle against absolute power in temporal
and in spiritual affairs--a power altogether concentrated in the
hands of the king. Such was the origin and meaning of the English
revolution.

It was essentially consecrated to the defence or the conquest of
liberty. To the religious party it was a means, to the political
party an object; but with both, the question at issue was one of
liberty, and they were obliged to pursue it in common. There was
not any real religious quarrel between the Episcopal and the
Puritanical parties; the contest was not joined upon dogmas, upon
objects of faith, properly so called; not that there were not
between them substantial differences of opinion upon important
and grand points, but that was not the principal and capital
matter in dispute between them. Practical liberty was what the
Puritan party wished to wrest from the Episcopal party, and it
was for that it struggled. There was, undoubtedly, also a
religious party, which had a system to found, and peculiar
dogmas, an ecclesiastical discipline and constitution of its own,
to make prevalent--namely, the Presbyterian party; but although
it laboured to attain its objects with all its might, it was not
in a condition to put forward all its claims in these respects.
Placed upon the defensive, oppressed by the bishops, and unable
to effect anything without the sanction of the political
reformers--its necessary allies and chiefs--liberty was for it
the predominant interest; it was, indeed, the general interest
and common object of all the parties which co-operated in the
movement, however great their diversity. Taking everything,
therefore, into consideration, the English revolution was
essentially political. It was accomplished amidst a religious
people, and in a religious age, and religious ideas and passions
served it as instruments; but its fundamental purpose and
definitive end were political--the establishment of liberty, and
the abolition of absolute power.

{217}

I shall go through the different phases of this revolution, and
decompose it into the great parties which followed each other in
it. I will afterwards connect it with the general course of
European civilisation, and denote its place and influence
therein. It will be seen by the detail of facts, as it appeared
at first sight, that it was really the earliest shock of the free
spirit of inquiry with pure monarchy, the earliest explosion of
the antagonistic principles of those two great powers.

Three principal parties came forward in this influential crisis;
three revolutions were in some sort continued and successively
produced upon the stage. In each party, in each revolution, two
several parties were allied and marched in conjunction--the one
of a political, and the other of a religious cast. The first took
the lead, and the second followed, but each was necessary to the
other; insomuch that the twofold character of the event is
distinctly marked in all its phases.

The first party which appeared--that under whose banner all the
others at first ranged themselves--was the party aiming at legal
reform. When the English revolution commenced, when the Long
Parliament assembled in 1640, everyone said, and many sincerely
believed, that a legal reform would meet all difficulties, and
that there was sufficient in the ancient laws and usages of the
country to afford a remedy for all abuses, and to establish a
system of government in perfect conformity with the public
desire. This party loudly blamed, and was sincerely anxious to
prevent illegal taxation, arbitrary imprisonments, and all acts,
in fact, condemned by the recognised laws of the land. At the
base of its ideas was the belief in the sovereignty of the
king--that is to say, in absolute power. A secret instinct
forewarned it that there was in that dogma something false and
dangerous, so it would willingly have avoided allusion to it; but
urged to extremity, and forced to explain itself, it admitted
that there resided in royalty a power superior to all human
origin and all control, and defended it when needful. It held, at
the same time, that this sovereignty, absolute in principle, was
bound to respect in its exercise certain rules and forms, and
that there were certain limits beyond which it could not go; and
furthermore, that these rules, forms, and limits were
sufficiently established and guaranteed in _Magna Charta_,
in the confirmative statutes, and in the old common law of the
country. Such was its political creed.

In religious matters, the legal party thought that episcopacy had
greatly encroached, that the bishops had too much power, that
their jurisdiction was too extensive, and that it was necessary
to restrict it, and keep guard over its exercise. Nevertheless,
it strongly adhered to episcopacy, not only as an ecclesiastical
institution, and as a system of church government, but also as a
necessary support to the royal prerogative, and as a means for
defending and sustaining the supremacy of the king in religious
affairs.
{218}
The doctrines of the sovereignty of the king, in the political
order of things, to be exercised according to legal recognised
forms and within the like limits, and of the supremacy of the
king in religious matters, administered and supported by
episcopacy, were maintained in the twofold system of the legal
party. Its chief men were Clarendon, Colepepper, Lord Capel, and
even Lord Falkland, although a warmer advocate for popular
liberties, and it reckoned in its ranks almost all the great
lords who were not servilely devoted to the court.

Behind them advanced a second party, which I will call that of
political revolution. This held that the ancient guarantees, the
ancient legal barriers, had been, and were, insufficient; that a
great change, a veritable revolution, was required, not in the
forms, but in the real essence, of the government; that it was
necessary to deprive the king and his council of their
independent power, and place political preponderance in the House
of Commons; and that the government, properly so called, belonged
to that assembly and its chiefs. This party did not investigate
its own ideas or intentions so clearly or systematically as I
have done, but these were the main features of its political
doctrines and tendencies. Instead of the absolute sovereignty of
the king, or of pure monarchy, it rested its belief in the
sovereignty of the House of Commons as representing the country.
Under this idea was concealed that of the sovereignty of the
people, an idea of which the party was far from estimating all
the bearings, or from intending all the consequences, but which
suggested itself to it, and was embraced under the form of the
sovereignty of the House of Commons.

The religious party of the Presbyterians was closely united with
the party of political revolution. The Presbyterians wished to
effect a revolution in the church analogous to that which their
allies meditated in the state. They wished to have the church
governed by assemblies (presbyteries), and to lodge religious
power in a hierarchy of assemblies working into each other, as
their allies wished to lodge political power in the House of
Commons. But the Presbyterian revolution was more bold and
complete, for it aimed at changing the form, as well as the
groundwork, of church government, whilst the political party
aspired only to displace influences and preponderance, and did
not contemplate any overthrow in the form of the institutions.

Thus the chiefs of the political party were not all favourable to
the Presbyterian organisation of the church. Several of them--
Hampden and Holles, for example--would have preferred a moderate
episcopacy, restricted to functions purely ecclesiastical, and
permitting increased liberty of conscience. However, they gave in
to it, for they could not spare their fanatical allies.

{219}

A third party demanded still more. This alleged that it was
necessary to change at once the groundwork and the form of the
government, that the whole political constitution was vicious and
disastrous. This party threw aside the past history of England,
and rejected all national institutions and traditions, in order
to found a new government upon pure theory, in as far at least as
it conceived a theory. It was not only a revolution in the
government that it designed to accomplish, but also a social
revolution. The party of which I have just spoken, the party of
political revolution, was anxious to introduce great changes into
the relations of the parliament with the crown, and wished to
extend the power of the houses, especially of the Commons, to
invest them with the right of nomination to great public offices,
and with the supreme direction of general affairs; but its
schemes of reform went not beyond these points. It had no idea of
changing, for instance, the electoral, the judicial, the
administrative, or the municipal system of the country. The
republican party meditated all these changes, publicly asserted
their necessity, and designed, in a word, to remodel not only the
public powers, but the social relations, and the distribution of
private rights.

Like the preceding, this party also was composed of a religious
and of a political portion. In the latter class were the real
theoretical republicans, Ludlow, Harrington, Milton, &c. By their
side were ranged the republicans from circumstances and interest,
the principal chiefs of the army--Ireton, Cromwell, and Lambert--
all more or less sincere in their first impulse, but soon
controlled and led by personal views and the necessities of their
situation. Around them was rallied the religious republican
party, composed of all the enthusiastic sects which recognised no
power as legitimate but that of Jesus Christ, and, whilst waiting
for His coming, desired the government of His elect. At the tail
of the party was a rather considerable number of libertines and
fantastical dreamers, the former promising themselves a career of
licentiousness, the latter equality of goods and universal
suffrage.

In 1653, after twelve years of contest, all these parties had
successively appeared and failed in their designs. They ought at
least to have been convinced of this result, and it is certain
that the public was so. The legal party, quickly thrust aside,
had seen the ancient constitution and laws spurned and trampled
under foot, and innovations penetrating on all sides. The party
of political revolution witnessed parliamentary forms perish in
the novel use to which it was wished to apply them; after twelve
years of domination, it saw the House of Commons reduced, by the
successive expulsion of the Royalists and the Presbyterians, to a
very small number of members, despised and detested by the
public, and utterly incapable of governing. The republican party
seemed to have succeeded best; it had, in appearance, remained
master of the field of battle; the House of Commons counted
scarcely more than fifty or sixty members, all republicans.
{220}
They might believe and call themselves masters of the country;
but the country resolutely refused to allow itself to be governed
by them, and they were incapable of giving effect to their will
in any quarter; they had no means of action either on the army or
the people. No social bond or safety any longer subsisted;
justice was not rendered, or, if it were, it was not justice; its
administration was directed by party-spirit, chance, or malice.
And not only was there an absence of all safety in the relations
of society, but there was none even on the high roads; they were
covered with robbers and brigands. Thus physical as well as moral
anarchy prevailed, and the House of Commons and the republican
council of state were utterly inefficient to preserve order.

The three great parties of the Revolution, then, had been
successively called upon to conduct it, to govern the country
according to their ability and theories; and they had been found
incapable of doing so; they had all three completely failed, and
were writhing powerless. 'It was then,' says Bossuet, 'that a man
was found who left nothing to fortune that he could place beyond
its reach by counsel and foresight;' an expression quite
erroneous, and which all history belies. No man ever left more to
fortune than Cromwell; none ever exposed more to hazard, or
proceeded with more temerity, without design or object, but the
determination to go as far as fate would permit him. Cromwell is
characterised by a boundless ambition and an admirable skill in
converting each day and each circumstance into a means of
progression, the art of turning fortune to account, without
presuming to direct it. He displayed qualities such as perhaps no
man who has pursued a career at all analogous ever evinced; he
was suited for all the phases, the most distinct and varied, of
the revolution. He was equally a man for the first as for the
last of its periods: in the beginning, the instigator of
insurrection, the promoter of anarchy, and the most fierce
revolutionist in England; subsequently, the man of reaction, the
re-establisher of order and of social organisation; thus playing
by himself alone all the parts which, in the usual course of
revolutions, are divided amongst the greatest actors. We cannot
say that Cromwell was a Mirabeau; he wanted eloquence, and in the
first years of the Long Parliament, although highly active, he
made no figure. But he was successively Danton and Bonaparte. He
had more than any other contributed to prostrate power, and he
raised it up because none other could assume and wield it. Some
government was requisite, and all aspirants to the conduct of one
miserably failed; but he succeeded. Once master of the
government, this man, whose ambition had shown itself so daring
and insatiable, who had always advanced, pushing fortune before
him, and stayed by no barrier, exhibited a good sense, prudence,
and perception of the practicable, sufficient to control his most
violent desires.
{221}
There is no doubt he had a keen relish for absolute power, and
felt a strong inclination to place the crown upon his head, and
bequeath it to his family. This latter purpose he abandoned, when
he became timeously aware of the peril it would expose him to;
and with regard to absolute power, although he practically
exercised it, he was of too sound an intellect not to comprehend
that the feeling of his age was utterly repugnant to it, that the
revolution in which he had co-operated, and which he had followed
in all its phases, had been directed against despotism, and that
the irrepressible desire of England was to be governed by a
parliament, and according to parliamentary forms. Therefore he,
the despot, by taste and in fact, endeavoured to have a
parliament, and to govern after a parliamentary fashion. He
addressed himself successively to all parties; he attempted to
form a parliament with the religious enthusiasts, with the
republicans, with the Presbyterians, and with the officers of the
army. He tried all possible means to constitute a parliament
which could and would act with him. He sought in vain: all
parties, when once seated in Westminster, wished to wrest from
him the power he exercised, and to govern in their turn. I will
not affirm that Cromwell's principal motive was not his personal
interest and gratification, but there is not the least doubt that
if he had thrown up his power, he must necessarily have resumed
it the next day; for Puritans or royalists, republicans or
officers, none others than Cromwell himself were conditioned to
govern with any order or justice. The experiment, in fact, had
been made. It was impossible to permit the parliament--that is,
the parties sitting in parliament--to assume an empire which
they could not preserve. Such, then, was the situation of
Cromwell; he governed by a system which he knew perfectly well
was hateful to the country, and he exercised a power acknowledged
to be necessary, but which was acceptable to no one. His sway was
not considered by any party as a definitive, established
government. The royalists, the Presbyterians, and the
republicans, the army itself, the party which was the most
devoted to him, were all convinced that he was only a transitory
master. At bottom, he never reigned over the minds of men; he was
never anything in their eyes but a make-shift, a necessity of the
moment. The Protector, absolute master of England, was obliged
all his life to make use of force to retain power. No party could
govern as he was able to do, yet none looked upon him with a
kindly or favourable eye; on the contrary, he was constantly
attacked by all.

{222}

At his death, the republicans alone were in so compact an order
as to lay hands on power. They did so, and succeeded no better
than they had formerly done. It was not from any want of
confidence in themselves, at least so far as the fanatics of the
party were concerned. A pamphlet of Milton, published at that
epoch, remarkable for talent and enthusiasm, is entitled, 'An
Easy and Prompt Method for Establishing the Republic' The
self-conceit of these men was as great as ever. They shortly
relapsed into that impossibility of governing which they had
previously evinced. Monk assumed the conduct of the event which
all England was breathlessly expecting. The Restoration was
effected.

The restoration of the Stuarts was a truly national occurrence.
It presented itself with the advantages of an ancient government,
reposing on the traditions and cherished remembrances of the
country, and at the same time with the favourable auspices of a
new government, exposed to no recent trial, and the faults and
weight of which had not been lately experienced. The ancient
monarchy was the only system of government, which for twenty
years had not been condemned for its incapacity and its bad
success in the administration of the country. These two causes
rendered the Restoration popular: it was opposed only by the
dregs of the violent parties; the public rallied around it with
great good-will. In the opinion of the country at large, it was
the only chance and means of forming a legal government, the fact
which was most ardently desired by the community. This was also
what the Restoration undertook to effect, the promise of a legal
government was precisely what it held out.

The first royalist party which took the management of affairs,
after the return of Charles II., was in fact the legal party,
represented by its ablest chief, the high chancellor Clarendon.
From 1660 to 1667, Clarendon was prime minister, and possessed of
the greatest influence in England. Clarendon and his friends
reappeared with their ancient system, the absolute sovereignty of
the king, restrained within legal limits, controlled in matters
of taxation by the parliament, and in matters of private right
and individual liberty by the tribunals of justice; but
possessing, in the practice of government, properly so called, an
almost entire independence, and the most decisive preponderance,
to the exclusion, or even in spite of, the wishes of the majority
in parliament, and especially of those of the House of Commons.
On other points, they evinced a proper respect for legal order, a
solicitude for the interests of the country, a noble sentiment of
its dignity, and a moral tone highly grave and honourable. Such
was the character of Clarendon's administration for seven years.

But the fundamental ideas upon which this administration rested,
the absolute sovereignty of the king, and the government raised
beyond the sphere of the influence of parliament, were antiquated
and dead in the public mind. Notwithstanding the reaction of the
first moments of the Restoration, twenty years of parliamentary
dominion had placed them beyond resuscitation.
{223}
A new element shortly burst out in the heart of the royalist
party, personified in the Deists, rakes, or libertines, who
participated in the ideas of the time, partook the belief that
power was vested in the Commons, and caring little for legal
order, or the absolute sovereignty of the king, were anxious only
for their own success, and sought it wherever they perceived any
means of influence or power to exist. They formed a party which
allied itself with the discontented national party, and Clarendon
was overthrown.

Then came a new system of government, carried on by that portion
of the royalist party that I have just described. The rakes or
libertines formed the ministry that is styled the ministry of the
Cabal, and several of the administrations that succeeded it. Let
us see what were their characteristics. No solicitude as to
principles, laws, or rights; no regard for justice or truth; the
adoption of such means of success as each occasion presented; if
success depended on the influence of the Commons, everything was
prostituted to gain it; if it were necessary to disregard the
Commons, it was done without scruple, asking their pardon the
next moment. Corruption was tried one day, cajolery with the
nation the next: no care was evinced for the general interests of
the country, for its dignity or its honour; in a word, it was a
government essentially selfish and immoral, scorning all
doctrines and views of public advantage; but at bottom, and in
the practice of affairs, sufficiently intelligent and liberal.
Such was the character of the Cabal, of the ministry of the Earl
of Danby, and of the whole English government from 1667 to 1679.
In spite of its immorality, and its disdain for principles and
the true interests of the country, this government was less
odious and unpopular than the ministry of Clarendon had been. And
why? Because it was more in the spirit of the age, and understood
better the sentiments of the people, even whilst it mocked them.
It was not antiquated and foreign to the feelings of the country
like that of Clarendon; and though it did the nation much greater
injury, it was less distasteful to it.

At last there came a moment when corruption, servility, and
disregard for the public rights and honour were pushed to such a
point, as to render farther sufferance impossible. There was a
general outcry against the government of the libertines. A
national and patriotic party was formed in the House of Commons.
The king was induced to call its chiefs to the council. Then came
into the direction of affairs Lord Essex, the son of him who had
commanded the first parliamentary armies during the civil war,
Lord Russell, and a man who, without having any of their virtues,
was far superior to them in political ability, Lord Shaftesbury.
Thus placed at the head of affairs, the national party gave
tokens of its incapacity; it knew not how to gain the moral force
of the country; it was unable to conciliate the interests,
habits, and prejudices either of the king, of the court, or of
the persons with whom it had to transact business.
{224}
It conveyed to no one, either to king or people, any great idea
of its talents or energy. After remaining a short time in power,
it sank. The virtues of its chiefs, their generous courage, the
nobleness of their deaths, have exalted them in history, and
justly placed them in the highest rank; but their political
capacity did not equal their virtue, and they knew not how to
exercise the power which had been unable to corrupt them, or make
the cause triumphant for which they could lay their heads on the
block.

Let us see in what state the English Restoration was after the
failure of this attempt. It had, like the Revolution, in some
sort tried all parties and administrations--the legal, the
corrupt, and the national--and none had succeeded. The country
and the court found themselves in a situation almost analogous to
that in which England was in 1653 at the close of the
revolutionary storm. Recourse was had to the same expedient: what
Cromwell had done for lessening the evils of the Revolution,
Charles II. did for the advantage of his crown--he plunged into
the career of absolute power.

James II. succeeded his brother. Then a second question was added
to that of absolute power--the question of religion. James wished
to make papistry dominant as well as despotism. Thus we see, as
at the commencement of the Revolution, a religious rising and a
political rising, both directed against the government. It has
been often asked what would have happened if William III. had not
been in existence, or if he had not come with his Hollanders to
put an end to the quarrel between James II. and the English
people? I am decidedly of opinion that the same event would have
been accomplished. The whole of England, excepting a very small
party, was aroused at that epoch against James, and most
assuredly the Revolution of 1688 would have been effected under
one form or another. But that crisis was hastened by causes more
influential than the internal state of England. It was a European
event as well as an English. It is at this point that the English
Revolution is connected by facts themselves, independently of the
influence which its example has exercised, to the general course
of European civilisation.

Whilst the struggle was breaking out in England which I have just
alluded to--the war of absolute power against civil and religious
liberty--one of the same kind was proceeding on the continent,
very different as to the actors, the forms it assumed, and the
theatre of action, but at bottom the same, and for the same
cause. The pure unmixed monarchy of Louis XIV. was striving to
become a universal monarchy; at least it gave occasion for the
apprehension, and in fact Europe was impressed with that fear. A
league amongst certain status in Europe was formed to oppose this
attempt, and the chief of that league was the head of the party
for securing religious and civil liberty in Europe--William,
Prince of Orange.
{225}
The Protestant republic of Holland, with William as its leader,
undertook to resist the pure monarchy represented and led on by
Louis XIV. The apparent question at issue was not as to civil and
religious liberty in the interior of states, but of the
independence of those states. Louis XIV. and his opponents had no
idea that they were contesting between them the same question
that was at stake in England. Their struggle was maintained, not
as between parties, but as between states; it was carried on by
war and diplomacy, and not by political party movements and
revolutions. But at bottom it was the same question that was
agitated.

When, therefore, James II. recommenced in England the contest
between absolute power and liberty, it occurred in the midst of
the general war which was going forward in Europe between Louis
XIV. and the Prince of Orange, the representatives of two great
systems fighting on the Scheldt as well as on the Thames. The
league against Louis XIV. was so strong, that several sovereigns
entered it, either publicly, or in a concealed but effective
manner, who were assuredly greatly averse to the flourishing of
civil and religious liberty. The Emperor of Germany and Pope
Innocent XI. supported William against Louis XIV. And William
passed into England, less to serve the internal interests of that
country, than to draw it fully into the league against Louis. He
took this new kingdom as an additional force which he needed, and
which his adversary had previously made use of against him. So
long as Charles II. and James II. had reigned, England had
belonged to Louis XIV.; it was he who had disposed of its force,
and had invariably directed it against Holland. England was
therefore drawn from the party of pure and universal monarchy, to
become the main instrument and support of religious liberty. This
is the European side of the Revolution of 1688, and it is by this
connection that it took a station in the events of Europe
considered as a whole, independently of the part it played by its
example, and the influence it exercised over the minds of men in
the following century.

Thus we see, as I stated at the commencement, that the true
meaning and essential character of this revolution was the
attempt to abolish absolute power in temporal as well as in
spiritual matters. This fact is to be found in all the phases of
the Revolution, in its first period up to the Restoration, and in
the second up to the crisis of 1688, whether we consider it in
its interior development as to England, or in its relations with
Europe in general.

It remains for us to study the same great event--the struggle
between pure monarchy and free inquiry on the continent, or at
least its causes and approaches. This will be the object of my
next and last lecture.

{226}

                   Lecture XIV.

     Cause And Effects Of The French Revolution.

I endeavoured in my last lecture to determine the veritable
character and political purport of the English Revolution. We
have seen that it was the first encounter of the two great facts,
into which the whole civilisation of primitive Europe had
gathered in the course of the sixteenth century--namely, pure
monarchy on the one hand, and the spirit of free inquiry on the
other. These two powers came to blows for the first time in
England. It has been thence attempted to deduce a radical
difference between the social state of England and that of the
continent; it has been alleged that no comparison was possible
between regions of so distinct a destiny, and that the English
people had lived in a moral atmosphere of their own, in a moral
isolation as complete as their geographical.

There has been, it is true, an important difference between the
English and the continental civilisations, which it behoves us to
investigate. We have already had a glimpse of it in the course of
our inquiry. The different principles and elements of society
have been developed in England in some degree simultaneously and
abreast, much more so at least than on the continent. When I
endeavoured to determine the peculiar character of the European
civilisation, as compared with the ancient and Asiatic
civilisations, I made it appear that the first was varied,
copious, and complex; that it had never fallen under the dominion
of any exclusive principle; and that the different elements of
the social state had been there brought into juxtaposition,
conflict, and mutual modifications, and had been constantly
obliged to act and exist in common. This fact--the general
characteristic of European civilisation--has been especially the
feature of English civilisation; it has been there elicited with
most coherency and palpability. In that country the civil and
religious orders--aristocracy, democracy, royalty, local and
central institutions, moral and political development--have
progressed and expanded in conjunction and pell-mell, so to
speak; if not with parallel rapidity, always, at least, at a
short distance from each other. Under the sway of the Tudors, for
example, in the most brilliant career of pure monarchy, we see
the democratic principle, the popular power, break through and
intrench itself almost at the same time. The revolution of the
seventeenth century exploded, at once a political and religious
movement. The feudal aristocracy appeared in it but in a very
enfeebled state, and betraying various symptoms of decay; yet it
was still enabled to preserve a station in it, to play an
important part, and secure itself a share in its results.
{227}
There are the same features in the whole course of English
history; no ancient element ever completely perishes, nor does
any new element ever exclusively triumph; no special principle
ever gains absolute dominion. There is always a simultaneous
development of the different powers, and arrangement between
their pretensions and respective interests.

Upon the continent, the march of civilisation has been much less
complex and less complete. The various elements of society--the
religious order, the civil order, monarchy, aristocracy, and
democracy--have not been developed conjointly, and side by side,
but successively. Each principle or system has had in some sort
its day. Such an age, for instance, belongs, I shall not say
exclusively, for that would be going too far, but with a marked
preponderance, to the feudal aristocracy, another to the
monarchical principle, and another to the democratic principle.
Compare the French with the English middle ages, the eleventh,
twelfth, and thirteenth centuries of French history with the
corresponding centuries of English. It will be found that, in the
epoch in question, feudalism was almost absolutely paramount in
France, and royalty and democracy nearly nullified. In England,
on the contrary, although the feudal aristocracy held the chief
sway, royalty and democracy evinced themselves both vigorous and
important. Royalty triumphed in England under Elizabeth, as in
France under Louis XIV.; but how many measures was she compelled
to keep!--how many restrictions, sometimes from the aristocracy,
sometimes from the democracy, had she to endure! Thus in England
each system or principle has had its era of strength and
prosperity; but never so completely or so exclusively as on the
continent. The conqueror, for the time being, has always been
constrained to tolerate the presence of its rivals, and to allow
each its portion.

To this difference in the march of the two civilisations, are
attached advantages and inconveniences which have, in fact,
manifested themselves in the history of the two countries. There
is no doubt, for instance, but that this simultaneous development
of the various social elements has greatly contributed to
accelerate the arrival of England at the object of all
society--that is to say, at the establishment of a government at
once regular and free, with a despatch unknown to any continental
state. It is precisely of the essence of government to respect
all interests and all powers, to reconcile them, and make them
exist and prosper in community. Now, such was, by the concurrence
of a multitude of causes, the early disposition and relation of
the different elements of English society; therefore a general
and somewhat regular government had there less difficulty in
being constituted.
{228}
In the same manner, liberty is in its essence the simultaneous
manifestation and action of all interests, rights, powers, and
social elements. England was therefore much nearer to its
attainment than the majority of other states. From the same
causes, the formation of a national sound sense, and of a general
comprehension of public affairs, was necessarily more quickly
effected there. Sound sense in political affairs consists in
knowing how to grasp all facts in the mind, rightly appreciate
them, and apportion to each its due influence; in the English
social state it became a necessity, a result natural from the
course of civilisation.

As a set-off, each principle or system having had its turn,
having triumphed in a more complete and exclusive manner in the
continental states, the development has been made on a greater
scale, and with more grandeur and display. Royalty and the feudal
aristocracy, for example, have appeared upon the continental
stage with much more hardihood, extension, and freedom. All the
political experiments, so to speak, have had a broader basis, and
been more complete. It has thence resulted that political ideas,
I mean general ideas, and not the application of practical sense
to the conduct of affairs, but political ideas and doctrines,
have been raised much higher, and deployed with far more rational
vigour. Each system having in some sort presented itself alone
and prominently, and having remained for a length of time on the
stage, has enabled men to contemplate it in its entirety, to
trace it back to its first principles, to follow it to its
remotest consequences, and to fully unfold its theory. Whoever
observes, with any degree of attention, the English genius, is
struck with a double fact. On the one hand, he perceives a
soundness of practical sense and ability, and on the other, an
absence of general ideas and of elevation of mind on theoretical
questions. Whether it is an English work on history, or
jurisprudence, or any other matter, that we open, we very rarely
find the great and fundamental reasons of things at all treated
of. In all things, and especially in political sciences, pure
doctrine, philosophy, science, properly so called, have
flourished more luxuriantly on the continent than in England;
their flights, at all events, have been much more bold and
vigorous. And we cannot doubt that the different character of the
development of civilisation in the two regions has mainly
conduced to this result.

Thus, whatever may be thought of the inconveniences or the
advantages which this difference has drawn in its train, it in
itself is a real and incontestable fact, and the very
circumstance which most profoundly distinguishes England from the
continent. But although the various social principles or elements
have been developed in that country more simultaneously, and on
the continent more successively, it does not follow that at
bottom the route and the object have not been the same.
{229}
Considered in their whole extent, the continent and England have
gone through the same great phases of civilisation, events have
in each pursued the same course, and the same causes have led to
the same effects. This, indeed, convincingly appeared in the
picture I presented of civilisation up to the sixteenth century,
and it will be equally perceptible in the portraiture of the
seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The development of the
spirit of free inquiry and of pure monarchy, almost simultaneous
in England, were accomplished on the continent at pretty long
intervals; but they have been accomplished, and the two powers,
after having successively enjoyed a marked predominance, have in
the same manner joined battle. Therefore, upon the whole, the
general march of the societies has been the same; and although
there may be some substantial differences, the resemblance is
deeply-seated. A rapid glance at modern times will remove all
doubt upon the subject.

On a survey of the history of Europe during the seventeenth and
eighteenth centuries, the mind is irresistibly driven to
acknowledge that France led the van of European civilisation. On
commencing this inquiry, I asserted the fact, and attempted to
assign its cause. We shall find it more prominent at this period
than before.

The principle of pure monarchy, or absolute royalty, had
prevailed in Spain under Charles V. and Philip II., before being
developed in France under Louis XIV. In the same manner the
principle of free inquiry had reigned in England in the
seventeenth century, before its development in France in the
eighteenth. Nevertheless, the principle of monarchy did not
proceed from Spain, nor that of free inquiry from England, when
each pervaded Europe. The two systems remained, as it were,
confined to the countries where they had appeared. They must
first pass through France, to extend their conquests; in a word,
it was necessary that pure monarchy and freedom of inquiry should
become French, in order to become European. This communicative
character of the French civilisation, this social genius of
France, which have been evinced at all eras, shone especially in
that upon which we are now engaged. As this fact has been brought
out with equal truth and brilliancy upon other occasions more
distinctly devoted to an investigation into the influence of
French literature and philosophy in the eighteenth century, I
need not linger upon it. It has been demonstrated that
philosophical France had more authority over Europe, on the point
of liberty itself, than free England, and that the French
civilisation has shown itself much more active and contagious
than that of any other country. It is not necessary for me to
enlarge upon the details establishing the fact, and I have only
alluded to it to defend the propriety of my restricting the
picture of modern European civilisation to France.
{230}
There are doubtless many differences between the civilisation of
France at that epoch, and that of the other states of Europe,
which it would be essential to inquire into, if I had pretended
to give a full history; but I am obliged to omit many things,
even nations and ages, so to speak, in the course I have chalked
out for myself. So I shall proceed to concentrate my attention
upon the progress of French civilisation--the image, although an
imperfect one, of the general progress of things in Europe.

The influence of France in Europe presented itself, during the
seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, under very different
aspects. During the first, it was the French government which
acted upon Europe, and which marched at the head of general
civilisation. During the second, the preponderance was owing no
longer to the government, but to French society, to France
herself. At first it was Louis XIV. and his court, afterwards
France and its opinions, which governed the minds of men, and
drew their attention. In the seventeenth century, there were
certainly nations who, as nations, appeared more prominently on
the scene, and took a greater part in events, than the French
nation. Thus, during the thirty years' war, the German nation,
and during the Revolution, the English nation, exercised, on
their respective destinies, a greater influence than the French
did, at the same period, on theirs. Likewise, in the eighteenth
century, there were governments stronger, enjoying greater
consideration, and more feared than the French government. There
can be little question that Frederic II., Catherine II., and
Maria-Theresa, had more weight in Europe than Louis XV. Yet at
both epochs it was France which was at the head of European
civilisation--first through its government, and afterwards
through itself; now through the political action of its masters;
and again through its own intellectual development.

Therefore, in order fully to comprehend the prevailing influence
on the course of civilisation in France, and consequently in
Europe, we must study the French government in the seventeenth
century, and French society in the eighteenth. It is necessary to
shift the ground and the representation, as time works its
changes on the stage and the actors.

Generally speaking, when the subject of discussion is the
government of Louis XIV., and the causes of his power and
influence in Europe, his renown, his conquests, his magnificence,
and the literary glory of his time alone are spoken of. To
external causes alone is the attention directed, and to them is
ascribed the European preponderance of the French government.

{231}

I am of opinion that this preponderance had a deeper groundwork
and graver causes. We can scarcely believe that it was solely
through victories, or pompous ceremonies, or even through the
master-works of genius, that Louis XIV. and his government played
at that epoch the prominent part which it would be absurd to deny
them.

Every one is aware of the effect produced in France by the
consular government thirty years ago, and of the state in which
it found the country. Without, an impending foreign invasion, and
continual reverses suffered by the French armies; within, the
almost complete dissolution of power, and of the nation; no
revenues, no public order, in a word, a society prostrated and
disorganised--such was France at the accession of the consular
government. The prodigious and skilful activity of that
government soon assured the safety of the territory, restored the
national honour, reorganised the administration of affairs,
remodelled legislation, and, in a word, gave fresh birth to
society under the aegis of power.

Now, the government of Louis XIV., when it commenced, effected
something analogous. With great differences in time, proceedings,
and forms, it pursued and attained almost the same results.

Recall the state into which France had fallen after the
administration of Cardinal de Richelieu, and during the minority
of Louis XIV. The Spanish armies always on the frontiers,
sometimes in the interior; a continual danger of invasion,
internal dissensions pushed to extremity, civil war, and the
government weak and despised both within and without. No policy
was ever more wretched and contemned in Europe, or more powerless
in France, than that of Cardinal Mazarin. Society was perhaps in
a less violent state at that period, but still greatly analogous
to what it was before the _eighteenth brumaire_. It was out
of such a state that the government of Louis XIV. drew France.
His first victories had the effect of the battle of Marengo; they
secured the territory, and elevated the national honour. I am
about to consider this government under its principal points of
view--in its wars, external relations, administration, and
legislation; and I believe that the analogy of which I speak, and
to which I would not attach any puerile importance, for I hold
historical comparisons generally of little moment, will be seen
to have a real foundation, sufficient to justify me in adducing
it.

Let us, in the first place, speak of the wars of Louis XIV. The
wars of Europe were originally, as I have had frequent occasion
to observe, great popular movements; entire populations urged by
want, whim, or some other cause, sometimes in large hordes,
sometimes in smaller bands, transported themselves from one
territory to another. This was the general character of the
European wars, until after the Crusades at the end of the
thirteenth century.

{232}

Then commenced another kind of wars almost equally different from
the modern. They were distant expeditions, no longer undertaken
by the people, but by princes who went at the head of their
armies in search of territories and adventures in remote parts.
They quitted their countries, abandoned their own territories,
and dived, some into Germany, others into Italy, others into
Africa, without any motive but their personal caprice. Almost all
the wars of the fifteenth, and even of the sixteenth century,
were of this character. What interest, I do not mean a legitimate
interest, but what conceivable motive had France, that Charles
VIII. should possess the kingdom of Naples? It was evidently a
war dictated by no political consideration; the king thought he
had personal claims to the kingdom of Naples, and with a personal
object, the gratification of his individual desire, he went forth
to attempt the conquest of a distant country, which was not at
all adapted as a suitable territorial acquisition to his own
kingdom, but which, on the contrary, could have no effect but to
compromise his strength externally and his repose internally. It
was the same with the expedition of Charles V. into Africa. The
last war of this sort was the enterprise of Charles XII. against
Russia. The wars of Louis XIV. had not that character; they were
the wars of a regular government, fixed in the centre of its
states, labouring to conquer all around it, to extend and
consolidate its territory; in a word, political wars. They might
be just or unjust, and might have cost France too dear; there are
numerous considerations to allege against their morality and
their profusion--but they bear a character incomparably more
rational than antecedent wars: they were no longer capricious, or
merely adventurous, but were dictated by serious motives--such as
some natural boundary to be gained, some population speaking the
same language to be incorporated, or some point of defence or
barrier to acquire against a neighbouring power. Doubtless
personal ambition was mixed up with them; but if we examine the
wars of Louis XIV., one after the other, those especially in the
first part of his reign, we shall find them to have had truly
political motives, and to have been undertaken for French
interests, for the acquisition of power, and for promoting the
safety of the country.

Results have proved the fact. The France of the present day is
still in many respects such as the wars of Louis XIV. made it.
The provinces which he acquired--Franche-Comté, Flanders, and
Alsace--have remained incorporated in France. There are sensible
conquests as well as absurd conquests. Louis XIV.'s were
sensible; his enterprises have not that character of stupidity
and caprice previously so general; on the contrary, an able
policy, if not always a just and prudent one, presided in them.

{233}

Passing from the wars of Louis XIV. to his relations with foreign
states, to his diplomacy, properly so called, an analogous result
is perceptible. I have asserted the birth of diplomacy in Europe
to have occurred at the end of the fifteenth century. I then
endeavoured to show that the relations of governments and states
amongst themselves, which had been previously accidental, rare,
and temporary, became at that epoch more regular and permanent,
that they took a character of great public interest, and that at
the end of the fifteenth, and in the first half of the sixteenth
century, diplomacy assumed an immense importance over events.
Nevertheless, up to the seventeenth century, it had not been in
reality systematic, nor had it led to long alliances, or grand
combinations--above all, to durable combinations, actuated by
fixed principles, directed to one constant object, or evincing
that continuous spirit which is the veritable characteristic of
established governments. During the religious revolution, the
external relations of states had been almost exclusively swayed
by the interests of religion; the Protestant and Catholic leagues
had divided Europe. It was in the seventeenth century, after the
treaty of Westphalia, under the influence of Louis XIV.'s
government, that diplomacy changed its character. It then threw
off the exclusive influence of the religious principle; alliances
and political combinations were made from other considerations.
At the same time, it became much more systematic and regular, and
always directed to a certain precise object, and according to
invariable principles. The regular introduction of the system of
balance of power belongs to that era. It was under the government
of Louis XIV. that this system, with all the considerations
connected with it, took real possession of European politics.
When we inquire what was the general idea, or predominant
principle in the policy of Louis XIV. on this subject, I think we
shall discover the following facts.

I have spoken of the great conflict which arose in Europe between
the pure monarchy of Louis XIV., endeavouring to become a
universal monarchy, and civil and religious liberty, and the
independence of states, under the leadership of the Prince of
Orange, William III. We have seen that the great event in Europe
at that epoch was the division of the powers under these two
banners. But this fact was not understood at that time as it is
now; it was hidden, and unknown even by those who accomplished
it; the result of the resistance of Holland and its allies to
Louis XIV. was necessarily and fundamentally the repression of
the system of pure monarchy, and the establishment of civil and
religious liberty, but the question was not thus openly stated
between absolute power and freedom. It has been repeatedly
asserted that the propagation of absolute power was the paramount
principle in the diplomacy of Louis XIV. I am of opinion,
however, that this consideration only actuated, to any great
extent, his policy in later years, in his old age.
{234}
The objects at which he constantly aimed, whether fighting with
Spain, the Emperor of Germany, or England, were making France the
preponderating power in Europe, and the humbling of his
rivals--in a word, the promotion of the political interest, and
the strength of the state; he laboured much less with a view to
the propagation of absolute power, than with a desire for the
power and aggrandisement of France and its government. Amongst
many proofs of this, we have one furnished by Louis XIV. himself.
There is found in his _Memoirs_ under the year 1666, if I
recollect aright, a note couched pretty nearly in these terms:

  'I have had this morning a conversation with Mr Sidney, an
  English gentleman, who explained to me the possibility of
  reanimating the republican party in England. Mr Sidney asked
  from me for that purpose 400,000 livres. I told him I could
  only advance 200,000. He urged me to summon from Switzerland
  another English gentleman who is called Ludlow, and to learn
  his opinions touching the same design.'

In the memoirs of Ludlow, a paragraph occurs about the same date
in corroboration of this, to the following purport:--

  'I have received from the French government an invitation to
  come to Paris, to speak concerning the affairs of my country;
  but I am suspicious of that government.'

And Ludlow, in fact, remained in Switzerland.

Thus it is plain that the weakening of the royal power in England
was at that epoch the design of Louis XIV. He fomented internal
dissensions, in order to prevent Charles II. from becoming too
powerful in his own country. In the course of Barillon's embassy
in England, the same fact is unceasingly exhibited. Whenever the
authority of Charles II. appeared to gain the upper hand, and the
national party to be on the point of being crushed, the French
ambassador threw his influence into that scale, gave money to the
leaders of the opposition, and, in short, strove against absolute
power when it was needful as a means of crippling a rival power
of France. By attentively considering the manner of conducting
the external relations under Louis XIV., this feature will be
found strikingly exemplified.

The French diplomacy of that epoch was also strongly marked by
skill and ability. The names of Messieurs de Torey, d'Avaux, and
Bonrepaus, are known to all well-informed persons. When we
compare the despatches and memoirs, the capacity and conduct of
these counsellors of Louis XIV. with the capabilities evinced by
the Spanish, Portuguese, and German negotiators, we are struck
with the superiority of the French ministers, not only as regards
their thoughtful activity and application to business, but also
in liberality of mind. These courtiers of an absolute king
understood external circumstances and parties, the wants of
liberty and popular movements, much better than the majority of
the English themselves at that period.
{235}
There was no diplomacy in Europe in the seventeenth century which
appears at all equal to the French but the Dutch. The ministers
employed by De Witt and William of Orange, those illustrious
chiefs of the party of civil and religious liberty, were the only
diplomatists who proved themselves fitting to enter the lists
with the servants of the great monarch.

Thus, whether we consider the wars or diplomatic relations of
Louis XIV., we come to the same conclusion. It is easy to be
conceived how a government conducting its wars and negotiations
in this manner, must have taken a high standing in Europe, and
appeared not only very formidable as to power, but imposing for
its ability and astuteness.

Let us now take the interior of France, and inquire into the
administration and legislation of Louis XIV., in which we shall
find additional explanatory causes of the strength and splendour
of his government.

It is difficult to determine with precision what we ought to
understand by administration in the government of a state. But I
think, after fully investigating the matter, we may conclude that
administration, in the most general point of view, consists in a
concentration of means calculated to carry the will of the
central power with the greatest promptitude and certainty into
all parts of society, and to invest the central power in the same
manner with the sinews of society, either in men or money. Such
is, if I mistake not, the true object and prevailing character of
administration. We consequently find that in those times when it
is especially necessary to establish unity and order in society,
administration is the great instrument of succeeding in that
design, of drawing together, cementing, and uniting scattered and
incohesive elements. Such was, in fact, the operation of Louis
XIV.'s administration. Before his time, nothing had been more
difficult, in France and in the rest of Europe, than to make the
action of the central power felt in all the portions of society,
and to gather into the hands of the central power the means of
force possessed by the society. Louis XIV. laboured to effect
these points, and succeeded to a certain extent infinitely
better, at all events, than preceding governments. I cannot enter
into details, but taking the public services of every kind, the
finances, the departments of roads and public works, the military
administration, and all the establishments which belong to every
branch of administration, there is not one that will not be found
to have had its origin, its development, or its greatest
perfection, under the reign of Louis XIV. The greatest men of his
time--Colbert and Louvois--displayed their genius, and exercised
their ministries as administrators. It was by these means that
his government acquired a generality, decisiveness, and
consistence, in which all the European governments around him
were wofully deficient.

{236}

Under the legislative phase, this reign presents the same
character. I will return to the comparison of which I spoke at
the commencement--to the legislative activity of the consular
government, and its prodigious labour in a general revision and
recasting of the laws. A work of the same sort took place under
Louis XIV. The great ordinances which he promulgated regarding
criminal affairs, law proceedings, commerce, the marine, woods,
and waters, are veritable codes, which were digested in the same
manner as our later codes, and discussed in the council of state
sometimes under the presidency of Lamoignon. There are some men
whose glory consists in having taken part in these labours and
discussions--M. Pussort, for example. If we were to consider it
merely in itself, we should pronounce very unfavourably of the
legislation of Louis XIV., for it is full of errors very
discernible at the present day, and which no one can fail to
allow; it is not actuated by a sense of what true justice and
liberty demanded, but directed to the preservation of public
order, and to give the laws more regularity and certitude. But
that alone was a great step, and it is not to be doubted that the
ordinances of Louis XIV., being superior to anything exhibited at
an antecedent period, very powerfully contributed to stimulate
French society to advancement in the career of civilisation.

We thus speedily perceive the sources of its strength and
influence, under whatever point of view we regard this
government. It was the first government which presented itself to
the eyes of Europe as a power acting upon sure grounds, which had
not to dispute its existence with inward enemies, but at ease as
to its territory and its people, and solely occupied with the
task of administering government, properly so called. All the
European governments had been previously thrown into incessant
wars, which deprived them of all security as well as of all
leisure, or so pestered by internal parties or antagonists, that
their time was passed in fighting for existence. The government
of Louis XIV. was the first to appear as a busy thriving
administration of affairs, as a power at once definitive and
progressive, which was not afraid to innovate, because it could
reckon securely on the future. There have been, in fact, very few
governments equally innovating. Compare it with a government of
the same nature--the unmixed monarchy of Philip II. in Spain; it
was more absolute than that of Louis XIV., and yet it was far
less regular and tranquil. How did Philip II. succeed in
establishing absolute power in Spain? By stifling all activity in
the country, opposing himself to every species of amelioration,
and rendering the state of Spain completely stagnant. The
government of Louis XIV., on the contrary, exhibited alacrity for
all sorts of innovations, and showed itself favourable to the
progress of letters, arts, wealth--in short, of civilisation.
{237}
This was the veritable cause of its preponderance in Europe,
which arose to such a pitch, that it became the type of a
government not only to sovereigns, but also to nations, during
the seventeenth century.

And now we ask ourselves, for it is impossible we should do
otherwise, how a power so brilliant and so well established as I
have represented it, should have so quickly fallen into decay,
and how, after having played such a part in Europe, it became in
the following century so vacillating, so weak, and so despised?
The fact itself is incontestable. In the seventeenth century, the
French government was at the head of European civilisation; in
the eighteenth, this preponderance disappeared, and it was the
French society, separated from its government, often even arrayed
against it, that preceded and guided the European world in its
advancements.

We here discover the incorrigible evil and the inevitable effect
of absolute power. I will not enter into any detail as to the
faults of Louis XIV.'s government, which committed many and great
ones; I will not speak of the war of the Spanish succession, of
the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, of profligate
expenditures, or of various other fatal actions which compromised
his fortune. I will take the merits of his government to be such
as I have just described them, granting that there was never
perhaps an absolute government more grateful to its age and
subjects, or that rendered more real services to the civilisation
of its country, and of Europe in general. But simply because this
government had no other principle than absolute power, and rested
upon no other base, its decay was sudden and deserved. The
essential deficiency of France under Louis XIV. was the want of
institutions, of independent political bodies, subsisting by
themselves, and capable of spontaneous action, and of offering
resistance. The ancient French institutions, so far as they
merited that appellation, no longer subsisted: Louis had
succeeded in destroying them. He had no idea of endeavouring to
replace them by modern institutions, for they would have annoyed
him, and he was not at all disposed to court annoyance. The will
and the action of central power are what appear in fullest force
at that epoch. The government of Louis XIV. was great, brilliant,
and most potent, but without roots. Free institutions are not
only the guarantees of wisdom and justice, but also of the
durability of governments. There is no system which can have a
prolonged existence otherwise than by means of institutions.
Wherever absolute power has stood the shocks of time, it has
rested upon veritable institutions, sometimes upon the division
of society into casts distinctly separated, and at other times
upon a system of religious institutions.
{238}
Under the reign of Louis XIV., power as well as liberty lacked
the essential safeguard of institutions. There was nothing in
France at that epoch to guarantee either the country against the
illegitimate action of the government, or the government itself
against the inevitable action of time. Thus did the government
promote its own decay. It was not Louis XIV. alone that grew old
and feeble at the end of his reign, but the whole principle of
absolute power. Pure monarchy was as emasculated in 1712 as the
monarch himself. And the evil was the more serious, in
consequence of Louis XIV. having abolished political habits as
well as institutions. Political habits cannot exist without
independence. He alone who feels his own strength is capable
either of serving power or of resisting it. Energetic
characteristics disappear with the loss of independence, and
dignity of mind can be sustained only by the assuredness of
rights.

The real state in which Louis XIV. left France was, therefore, a
society in full intellectual vigour and activity, and by its side
a government essentially stationary, and without any means of
reanimating itself, or taking part in the movement of its
subjects; but after half a century of splendour, doomed to
stagnation and feebleness, and whilst its founder was still
alive, sank into a decay which nearly resembled dissolution. This
was the situation in which France was placed at the close of the
seventeenth century, and which gave to the following age so
different a direction and character.

It is scarcely necessary for me to say that the burst of the
human mind, the spirit of free inquiry, was the paramount feature
of the eighteenth century. This influential epoch has been
treated of, and so ably handled by others who have gone before
me, that I am relieved from the necessity of following minutely
all the phases of the wondrous moral revolution which was then
accomplished. I am, however, anxious to note certain points which
have been somewhat overlooked.

The first which strikes my mind is one I have already alluded
to--namely, the almost complete disappearance, so to speak, of
the government in the course of the eighteenth century, and the
prominence of the human mind as the principal and almost only
actor. Excepting the external relations attended to by the
ministry of the Duke de Choiseul, and some concessions made to
public opinion--for example, the American war--there never,
perhaps, was a government so inactive, so apathetic and inert, as
the French government of that time. In place of the stirring and
ambitious government of Louis XIV., which interfered with
everything, and placed itself at the head of all, we see a power
anxious only to keep in the background, so weak and shattered did
it feel itself. The activity and the ambition had passed to the
nation, which, by its opinions and its intellectual movement,
mixed and interfered with all things, and, in short, alone
possessed that moral authority which confers a veritable sway.

{239}

The second characteristic which strikes me in the state of the
human understanding in the eighteenth century, is the
universality which marked the spirit of free inquiry. Previously,
and particularly in the sixteenth century, inquiry had been
exercised in a limited and defined field, having for its objects
religious questions, or political and religious questions mixed
up together, but never extending its pretensions to all subjects.
On the contrary, the characteristic of the free inquiry of the
eighteenth century is its universality: religion, politics, pure
philosophy, man and society, moral and material nature, all
became at once the subjects of investigation, doubt, and system;
ancient ideas were cast away, and new ones arose in their stead.
It was a movement which penetrated to all quarters, though
springing from one and the same impulse.

This movement had, furthermore, a peculiar characteristic, which
has not, perhaps, been twice exhibited in the history of the
world--namely, that it was purely speculative. In former times,
action had promptly participated with speculation in all human
revolutions. Thus, in the sixteenth century, the religious
revolution had commenced by ideas and discussions purely
intellectual, but it had speedily gathered into events. The
leaders of intellectual parties had rapidly grown into the
leaders of political parties, and the realities of life had
mingled with the operations of intellect. It had thus happened in
the English revolution of the seventeenth century. In France, in
the eighteenth century, we perceive the human mind exercising
itself on all things, on ideas which, being closely interwoven
with the real interests of existence, ought to have had the most
prompt and potential influence. And yet the leaders and actors in
those great debates remained apart from every sort of practical
activity, appearing as mere speculators, who observed, judged,
and delivered their opinions, without ever interfering in events.
At no epoch has the government over facts or external realities
been so completely distinct from that over mind. The separation
of the mental and physical orders of things was not real in
Europe before the eighteenth century. For the first time,
perhaps, the mental order was developed, utterly apart from the
material. This was an important fact, and it is one which has
exercised a prodigious influence over the course of events. It
gave to the ideas of the time a singular character of
ambitiousness and inexperience; for never was philosophy more
eager to rule the world, or at the same time less conversant with
it. A day was sure to come when a conflict would arise, when the
intellectual movement would pass into external facts; and as they
had been so totally separated, the shock was violent, the
amalgamation more difficult.

{240}

The astonishing boldness of the human mind at that epoch is
another characteristic which deserves our consideration.
Previously, its greatest activity had always been repressed
within certain limits; men had lived in the midst of facts, some
of which awed their minds, and kept their movement barred to a
certain extent. In the eighteenth century, it would be extremely
difficult to say what were the external facts which the human
mind respected, or which exercised any empire over it. It held
the whole social state in contempt and hatred. It thence
concluded that it was called upon to reform all things, and came
to look upon itself as a species of creator; institutions,
opinions, manners, society, and man himself, all appeared to
require remodelling, and human reason imposed upon itself the
undertaking. Never had a similar audacity been dreamt of!

Such, then, was the force at work against what remained of the
government of Louis XIV., in the course of the eighteenth
century. We can easily understand that a shock between them was
impossible to be avoided. That which had been the predominant
fact in the English revolution--the struggle between the spirit
of free inquiry and unmixed monarchy--was likewise certain to
commence in France. Undoubtedly there were various points of
difference in the two conflicts which pervaded also their
results, but fundamentally, the general positions were similar,
and the definitive event taught the same lesson.

As I have no intention of following out the multitudinous
consequences of that crisis, I shall confine myself to the
mention of the gravest, and in my opinion the most instructive
fact, which was prominently displayed in that great conjuncture.
I allude to the proof of the danger, the evil, the inveterate
vice of absolute power, whatever that power may be, whatever name
it may bear, or to whatever end directed. We have already seen
the government of Louis XIV. perish from this single cause. The
power which succeeded it--the human understanding, which was the
veritable ruler of the eighteenth century--underwent the same
fate; it possessed an almost absolute power in its turn, and
thence derived an overweening confidence in itself. Its outbreak
was glorious and useful; and if I were called upon to give an
opinion upon the general operation, I should not hesitate to
declare that the eighteenth century is to me one of the greatest
eras of history, that perhaps which has rendered the most
important services to humanity, which has given to it its
greatest stimulus, resulting in the most universal
advancement--so that, pronouncing upon it as a public
administration, if I may be allowed to use that expression, my
judgment should certainly be given in its favour. Still, it is
not the less true that the absolute power possessed at that epoch
by the human mind, corrupted it and led it to hold contemporary
facts and opinions different from those that were in chief
respect, in an illegitimate disdain and aversion, which brought
it into error and tyranny.
{241}
So much of error and tyranny, in fact, as mingled with the
triumph of human reason towards the end of the century, which we
cannot conceal from ourselves, nor ought to deny, was very
considerable, mainly resulted from the extravagance into which
the human mind was thrown by the extent of its power. It is the
province, and will form, I believe, the peculiar merit of our
times, to proclaim that all human power, be it intellectual or
material, vested in governments or people, in philosophers or
ministers of state, and exerted in any cause whatsoever, bears
inherently a natural viciousness, and a principle of weakness and
abuse, which call imperatively for the prescribing fixed limits
to its exercise. Thus it is only a system of general freedom for
all rights, interests, and opinions, their unfettered
manifestation and legalised co-existence, that can restrain each
individual power or influence within its proper limits, prevent
it infringing upon others, and make the spirit of free inquiry an
actual and general enjoyment. The conflict between material
absolute power and intellectual, which occurred at the close of
the eighteenth century, has impressed upon our minds this great
truth.

I have now reached the point which I originally proposed to
myself. It will be recollected that I set out with the design of
giving a general picture of the development of European
civilisation from the fall of the Roman Empire to the present
time. I have gone very rapidly through this task, not permitting
myself time to bring out everything that was important, or to
adduce proofs for what I alleged. I have been obliged to omit
much, and also frequently to rely upon my own unsupported
assertions. However, I am not altogether without hope that I have
attained my object; which was to mark the great crises in the
development of modern society. At the beginning, I endeavoured to
define civilisation, and to describe the fact to which that word
is applied. Civilisation appeared to me to consist of two
principal facts--the development of human society, and that of
man himself: on the one hand, the political and social
development; and on the other, the internal and moral
development. I have confined myself upon this occasion to the
history of society; I have presented civilisation only in its
social point of view, and have said nothing upon the development
of man himself. My task did not lead me to an exposition of the
history of the opinions and of the moral progress of humanity;
upon another occasion I may enter more into detail, and embrace
this branch of the subject in the inquiry.

{242}

         Concluding Note By The Editors.

M. Guizot, it will be perceived, by bringing the history of
European civilisation no farther down than the latter years of
the eighteenth century, and adhering throughout rather too
closely to France, has left untouched a series of movements in
the social progress, which promise to effect, at no distant day,
a prodigious change in the destinies of both individuals and
nations. It may only be necessary to allude in a general way to
the termination of a protracted warfare between France and
Britain, followed by a universal peace, which has permitted the
cultivation of the sciences, the useful arts, commerce, and,
generally speaking, all the attributes of moral, religious, and
intellectual advancement; the political elevation of the great
middle class in Britain and France, and the co-ordinate
improvement in the condition of the more humble classes in
society; the abolition of numberless monopolies in trade and
otherwise, leaving greater freedom for legitimate action; signal
meliorations in the habits and manners of all ranks of people,
particularly as regards fashions of dress, temperance, and
decorum, the natural result of which is an increase in the value
of human life; important modifications of civil laws and
municipal institutions in most European countries; and lastly,
and chiefly, the wonderful advances made in practical science and
in the arts. Among these advances may be only noted the use of
gas in artificial lighting, and the application of steam power to
navigation, road-travelling, and all kinds of industrial
operations. Steam navigation alone, by opening up new channels
for commerce, and, in effect, bringing countries remote from each
other into immediate neighbourhood, forms by far the grandest
engine of civilisation which the world has seen since the
invention of printing, and must speedily work the most surprising
improvement in human affairs not only in Europe, but in every
region of the earth. To these various facts, as M. Guizot would
term them, in the history of modern times, may be added that of
the extensive diffusion of newspapers and an instructive
literature at a low cost among the less affluent classes of the
people, a blessing which is ascribable to the recent invention of
machinery for the manufacture of paper and for printing, and of
which past generations of mankind had no idea. It is further of
importance to include in this catalogue of facts the opening up
of new fields for human industry and subsistence in the colonies
of Britain, and other fruitful regions in a foreign hemisphere,
by which Europe is now regularly drained of a portion of its
exuberant population; also the permanent establishment of a
republican constitution in the United States of America, which,
from its earliest dawn, has exerted a considerable reaction on
the elder political institutions of European nations.

{243}

By these, and some other facts, European civilisation has been
latterly advancing in a daily accelerating ratio, and has
already, to appearance, thrown back the state of civilisation of
the eighteenth century, with all its luxurious refinements, to
that of the primeval ages. The civilisation which has been thus
attained by distinct advances during the last forty, or, more
properly, the last twenty-five years, may be described as at
present in a pausing or transitive state, in which, by the
conflict of parties and opinions, it may be arrested for a length
of time in any particular country, but cannot well be prevented
from passing onwards in the aggregate to a higher condition. The
concurring effects of a universal and friendly intercourse among
nations, improved and extended means of education, missionary
enterprise in planting Christianity in hitherto heathen regions,
and the diffusion of the produce of the press, cannot but be
beneficial to society, and must sooner or later carry
civilisation to limits considerably beyond those which are now
assigned to it. The history of this latter progress, which
remains to be written, will form a deeply interesting chapter in
the annals of human civilisation.

{244}

{245}

          On The Punishment Of Death.

{246}

{247}

                  Contents.

Preface, -- 249

Chapter I. -- Limits Of The Question,--255

Chapter II -- Physical Efficacy Of Capital Punishment,--258

Chapter III. -- Moral Efficacy Of Capital Punishment,--268

Chapter IV. -- The Same Subject Continued,--280

Chapter V. -- Double Character Of The Government,--285

Chapter VI. -- Justice,--291

Chapter VII. -- Necessity,--300

Chapter VIII. -- Means,--306

Chapter IX. -- Prosecution And Qualification Of Political Crimes,--308

Chapter X. -- The Privilege Of Mercy,--318

Chapter XI. -- Conclusion,--325

{248}

{249}

                         Preface.

It may be asked, perhaps, what I hope from this work? I do not
hope, I admit, that governments will be convinced of the
inutility of capital punishment, still less that they will
abandon its employment. Truth glides slowly into the mind of
power, and even when it does fairly enter, it is not immediately
acknowledged as master. The mind long refuses to believe, and
even when forced to believe, it still refuses to obey. There is
no occasion to tell why.

It is precisely for this reason, that when power is in error, it
is necessary to set the public right--to establish in opinion
that which will be so long of resolving into fact. If the road is
long, it is the more necessary to set out early; for in that
case, even before reaching the goal, we may obtain some results.
It is vain to prolong error, for when known to be such, it is
powerless. Society in the present day is so formed, that power is
half vanquished when the public pronounces it to be in the wrong.
In vain it persists, for even in persisting, it hesitates,
feeling itself to be before a superior strength. Opinion at
length gradually comes to invade, where before it only sustained
attack; but even then power does not yield, though its hesitation
increases. First fear, and then doubt, weakens its action: then
it becomes timid, and falls into the mistake of employing a means
which society reprobates, and in the efficacy of which it does
not itself believe. To this point it must be forced, and its
errors clearly exhibited; and at last, as the daylight shines
upon them, the strength in which it trusted will be more
difficult to use, and be more and more weakened by the increasing
blunders of its strategy.

I think the present time favourable for thus attacking the use of
capital punishment in the light of a political question. When
action is directed by truth, it is slow and feeble; but it
proceeds vigorously when truth works in the way of reaction. Amid
the gentle manners of the eighteenth century, cruel laws,
political severities, and the punishment of death, were
vigorously striven against: everything seemed tending to
restrain, if not suppress them, and many honest men supposed the
victory gained. But the Revolution broke out, and cruel laws,
political severity, and the punishment of death, were resorted to
with a violence unheard of before. So many perished hopes
engendered a fear that the ideas which had given them birth were
an illusion; but this was a great error. On the contrary, it is
at this time that these ideas may claim and exercise the greatest
dominion; they are able to avail themselves of a recent and
frightful experience; and it is easy for them, in improving it,
to rid themselves of the dreams of their infancy, to strengthen
themselves by instances instead of theories, and to come down to
the simplest rules of common sense.
{250}
Notwithstanding the scepticism of our time, the public mind is
disposed to receive them. The Revolution made more enemies by
employing capital punishment politically, than were stirred up by
all the books and speeches philanthropic, philosophical, and
literary. It has left on this subject an impression much more
efficacious than that of ideas, and which overcomes opinions even
the most apparently hostile. With many men it would provoke
indignation to try to make them admit even the partial
suppression of capital punishment as a general necessity, the
consequences of a right or a theory: perhaps they would say that
it is such chimeras which brought on the Revolution. But place
these same men in the presence of facts: let them award, in the
capacity of judges or juries, the terrible sentence, or even let
them see it brought into effect by others, and experience will
resume all its power over their minds. They will mistrust its
necessity and its justice; melancholy presentiments will arise
from melancholy recollections; they will feel at once doubt and
fear; they will recall what they have seen, and what they have
suffered; they will distrust a policy which has occasion to take
such a course, and engenders such a necessity; and they will have
no more faith in results than in reasons. And thus in spite of
theoretical opinions, often in spite even of the tendency of
circumstances, the common instinct, the public good sense--fruit
of bitter experience--will resist the employment of capital
punishment politically with much more efficacy than all the
arguments and precepts of philosophy.

I would justify this instinct, and produce all the proofs of its
legitimacy. Is the case urgent? Does power show itself so eager
for, and so prodigal of, capital punishment? Are we so assailed
by penalties that it is necessary to sound the alarm, and to
treat the policy of our days as if it resembled that disastrous
policy the severe judgments of which were formerly its great and
habitual instruments? I detest exaggeration, for it is falsehood.
I do not seek to excite or maintain blind fears of what I cannot
prove; I draw no comparison between our own and those deplorable
times. But let me not be told that it is necessary to wait in a
case like this for the right to speak. If the punishment of death
is politically useless, inefficacious, and even dangerous,
wherefore not say so at once? Why should truth be silent till it
is proclaimed by facts so terrible? These facts, it may be said,
will not come: well, if they are not to come, a book cannot bring
them; and if they are, who could pardon himself if he had delayed
the warning? Besides, I observe the odd anomaly, that some
people, when afraid, are at once credulous and difficult of
belief. Sometimes they see frightful symptoms everywhere; and
sometimes they will not believe in the possibility of the evil
till its arrival. One would say that they made a choice in their
recollections; always accessible to some, and repulsing others as
importunate and inadmissible.
{251}
The least idea, the slightest agitation, recalls the terrors of
the Revolution to their minds; but with other terrors before
them, likewise revolutionary, they are blind and bold. They are
seized with affright if some errors of the Constituent Assembly
reappear, and yet exclaim against any inquietude that may be
manifested on the restoration of capital punishment as a
political engine. I ask more impartiality of memory, more extent
in foresight, and more justice in fear. We are not descended so
low that an evil must be horrible to be felt. I am sure that
iniquity without modesty and without restraint has not taken
possession of either the laws or tribunals; I know that if it
aspired too far, it would meet with powerful obstacles in its
course; and I am aware that danger does not lurk at every door,
or the punishment of death hover over all the adversaries of
power. But still, in my opinion, capital punishment is too often
called for, and too often inflicted. In the use we make of it
there is neither wisdom, nor equity, nor necessity; it fails in
its object, and aggravates the evil of our position by engaging
power in a course full of peril for society and for itself; it
causes of itself gratuitous misfortunes, which, if they spread no
farther, are still neither lighter nor more reparable; it
attaches itself to a false and fatal policy, and sinks day by day
into an instrument more melancholy and more useless. Let others
imagine that there are not here sufficient motives for opposing
its use, and wait for more evils and more severity: for my part I
think I have reckoned enough.

Another consideration determines me. One side has triumphed, and
expecting still to triumph, it in the meantime does all it can.
It will attempt, I think, more than it has yet attempted;
although it cannot do all it would. This is evident even to
itself. The situation is a new one. In the course of the
Revolution, the party which succeeded always did more than it
intended, and more than at the commencement of the enterprise it
was in a condition even to conceive. The success surpassed not
only hopes, but pretensions. Blind instruments of a giant power,
the men of the Revolution were hurried away by events more rapid
than their thoughts, and carried facts into accomplishment much
more extensive and terrible than their designs.

Now, on the contrary, we see a party in authority whose desires
surpass their designs, and whose designs surpass their power.
They would advance, and they do so; but at each step their hope
lessens of attaining their end. Instead of being, like the
Revolutionists, carried onwards by their momentum rather than
their will, they are held back against their will by a force
contrary to their momentum. With nothing, or almost nothing
active and visible to oppose them, everything around is
resistance; everything troubles and delays them--the instruments
they employ, the air which surrounds them, the ground which they
tread beneath their feet.

Whence arises this anomaly, and what does it reveal to us of the
fate of the party? I do not care to busy myself with this
question. I merely remark the general fact, and I do so because
it has consequences of which I wish to avail myself.

{252}

It is in such moments that the truth is good to be told, although
it will not be the better received by men to whom it is
displeasing, or exercise more power over great events. No party
disavows its origin, none acquires that high wisdom which, in
changing its nature, would change its whole destiny; even if the
progress it is able to make in skill or prudence is not
sufficiently extended, or prompt to save them from that
definitive fate to which Providence has devoted them. These
parties are no more independent than other things of the action
of time. Their internal dispositions become modified as well as
their situation, and these modifications render them more or less
accessible to the influence of truth. When a party is carried
away by the general movement of the age, when it becomes the
engine of a great social crisis, neither truth nor wisdom has any
effect upon its career. It crushes all who oppose it, abandons
all who counsel it, and hurries blindly onwards to a goal of
which it is ignorant; and it is then that, in the midst of their
greatest activity, we see most clearly the weakness of men--the
mere tools in working out decrees alike beyond their
understanding and their will. But when the social tempest is
calmed, and Providence seems to have given up the management of
human affairs to ordinary laws, and the contending parties have
time to look around them, to study their course, and to measure
their strength, we see them resume some reason with their
freedom. Instead of the fever which devoured them, a new malady
gains upon them, a slow and heavy dissolution, which, without
destroying the predominant character or general intentions of the
party, gives more independence to individuals, and more authority
to wisdom. In the course of the Revolution, the partisans of
monarchy detached themselves from the Constituents, the
Constituents from the Girondins, and the Girondins from the
Jacobins; but the Revolution, far from being stopped or
slackened, pursued with even more violence its terrible career;
and in proportion as these factions became wiser, they became
less powerful.

Who would think now-a-days that any one of the parties into which
we are divided could thus deliver itself up to the madness of its
wishes and passions, denouncing and trampling whoever refused to
cooperate, and that yet it would gain strength every day, and
march rapidly towards success? Nothing like this can now be seen.
If in these parties there be any one who still hopes to the
contrary, he is a dreamer blind to passing events, and who has
neither forgotten nor learnt. Whether conquerors or beaten, outs
or ins, all parties are constrained to act with wisdom and
prudence: the energy of fever will not now suffice for strength;
they must rally around their banner all shades of interests or
opinions; for they cannot suffer one to fall away without feeling
instantly its loss in their own weakness. They must even bend in
some measure before their more obstinate adversaries; and this is
not a counsel I give, but a fact I observe, and one which in
every day more apparent in their conduct.

{253}

It is seen clearly in the party now in power, and under two
characters: there is a division in the party, and in a contrary
direction to that which took place twenty-nine years ago. It is
not the most violent, but the most moderate and prudent, who now
take the management of its affairs--those who have the best
chance of enlisting general interests and floating opinions.

Even these moderates are evidently driven farther than they
desire, and perhaps may end in being overturned. But in their
case they will not be replaced by the more violent; the party
will drag itself from impotence to impotence, just as revolution
is precipitated from fury to fury. And after the evil they have
caused--the greatest evil in their power--dissolved by their
success, as well as weakened by their old reverses, they will be
forced to feel that they have undertaken an impossibility, and
that no one in the present day is able to bring about a
revolution in society.

Things being in this position, it may be advantageous to throw
into the midst of parties what appears to me to be the truth. No
one is more aware than myself that they will not make it their
rule, but it will operate as a dissolvent, insinuating itself
into their disorganised constitution. It will not be met by those
proud convictions, that blind confidence, that idea of an ardent
and insurmountable force, which prevented its access to the
revolutionary parties. The party which predominates at the
present day is full of doubt and fear; it has faith neither in
its own doctrines nor its own destiny. In assuming to be the
protector of order, it sometimes tries to appropriate the
principles of liberty. Whether it courts them because it feels
its own to be decayed, or merely as a mask, is of little
consequence; what is certain is, that it is surrounded by
obstacles, obliged to adopt the means of government it distrusts,
to speak in a language which scandalises a portion of its
adherents, to temporise, and to hesitate--and all these things
open a way for truth, and give it opportunity as it advances to
second the uncertainty, internal feebleness, and moral
dissolution by which the party is beset. A simple fact will
demonstrate this: in 1791 and 1792 the opposition in its
harangues only served to irritate and accelerate the party which
accomplished the Revolution. Now the opposition is not less
displeasing to the governing party; but it startles it by a word,
calms, obliges it to dissemble, and carries confusion into its
proceedings and hesitation into its projects. It even enlightens
the whole changing mass, insinuates ideas into its bosom, and
necessitates a prudence before unthought of, and at which it
grumbles and submits. Opposition, then, is not vain; it may have
at the present moment few visible or direct effects, but it is at
least able to sow, and the future will reap the fruits.

Such are the motives which impel me to write, and I believe them
to be sufficient and well-founded.

{254}

{255}

              On The Punishment Of Death.


                    Chapter I.

              Limits Of The Question.

It is not a philosophical question of which I wish to treat,
neither do I solicit a change in legislation. This is not a time
at once calm and active enough for the principles and reformation
of the laws to be discussed: but prudence is necessary at all
times; and at all times, whatever may be its perils, government
may commit useless faults, and cause superfluous evils to
society. It is in this point of view that I wish to consider
capital punishment as a political question. I would know whether
the government, which has the power of prosecuting and pardoning,
acts wisely when it has recourse to it, whether it consults its
own interest in doing so, and whether it is constrained thereto
by necessity.

It will be admitted that this is still worth the trouble of
examination. Conspiracies crowd upon us. One has just been
brought under judgment at Tours, another at Marseilles, and
another at Nantes; the same thing is to be done at Colmar,
Rochelle, and Saumur; and if we may believe the authorities which
have discovered them, there are many others ready for the law.
Sirejean and Vallé have been executed. New condemnations, perhaps
new executions, are preparing. If they should prove useless, nay,
fatal to the power which commands them!--a mistake here would
surely be a melancholy one: if we take life, we should at least
be convinced of the necessity for doing so.

Let those who think there is no mistake, be not too hasty in
saying so. I affirm that they do themselves doubt, and that
without ceasing to think they must continue to doubt. The time
has been when, in a struggle among factions, or between them and
the governing power, the punishment of death was not only the
habitual arm, but a recognised necessity of the conqueror. It is
not from seeing this punishment written in the old laws that we
know the impression it made upon men, for it is also written in
ours; but it had then more foundation in the manners of the time.
{256}
The justice of its application was sometimes questioned, but
never its utility. Power made use of it with confidence, and none
were shocked by the fact. Condemnations and executions might
agonize the friends of the vanquished; but the iniquity of such
steps not being evident to the public, they considered them as
only natural; and power in taking them, firmly believed that it
was merely exercising its right, and obeying the necessity of its
situation. It was thought by all that government and established
order could not be maintained but by the physical destruction of
its enemies.

If we now examine the government and the public when capital
punishment has been pronounced, or when an execution has just
taken place, or is about to do so--if we listen to words, examine
thoughts, and interrogate countenances, we shall find everywhere
doubt and anxiety. Power has prosecuted: was it right in
provoking this judgment? It has struck: has it proved its
strength or increased its peril? It does not know itself what to
think: it hesitates, and almost apologises for what has been
done. And this is not from the fear of appearing cruel, but
because it is not sure of having been, I will not say just, but
wise. It sought security, and found fear. Thus all its
proceedings on such occasions are full of irresolution and
inconsistency. A political prosecution pressed forward to-day is
held back tomorrow; now it will try to extend its meshes, and
anon to contract them; the smallest respite, an application for
pardon from the meanest prisoner who has been condemned, becomes
an important affair, which calls for long deliberations, the
responsibility of which is thought to be of fearful importance;
and neither the ill success of the conspiracy, nor the firmest
credit in the Chambers, can reassure power from feeling the
inquietude which besets it when obliged to accomplish an act it
declares to be necessary.

The same impression is made upon the public, which, however, is
less moved, since it has nothing to decide. I do not speak of
those men who, without conspiring or acting against the
government, bear ill-will against it, or even of those whose
habits of constitutional opposition render them suspicious of the
acts and intentions of power. I address myself to that immense
public who have neither political passions nor prejudices, but
who desire the establishment of legal order and liberty, because
these are necessary for their own wellbeing, for their business,
and their daily interests. Are they inclined to imagine it
justice which condemns a man to death for a political offence? Do
they promise themselves more order and repose after such a
consummation! Do they suppose this rigour wholesome, and does it
appear necessary to their common sense?
{257}
No: it startles them like a disorder, and they do not admit its
urgency, or perhaps even its equity. It is difficult to persuade
them that power is under any necessity of killing a man; and if
there is a necessity, they will perhaps infer that the power
itself must be evil. This proceeds neither from a bad feeling
against authority, nor from effeminacy of manners, but solely
from an unconscious but deep-rooted doubt of the usefulness as
well as justice of the punishment. There is scarcely any person
in our day out of the pale of faction who, after a political
execution, believes the public peace more secure, or the
government itself more firmly established; everybody, on the
contrary, has less confidence in the strength of power, and in
the future of society; and this is not by reason of the
conspiracies, but of their punishment. This feeling does not
surprise me, for I think it well-founded, and I shall proceed to
state why. The government strikes, and the people behold the
stroke, but neither the one nor the other is assured after the
blow of having gained anything by it.

I have said enough, I think, to prove that there is here matter
for debate. I do not suppose that government wishes to make a
habit of killing only because this was done formerly, or that it
acts solely to please its own passions, and satisfy its own
vengeance. The use of the scaffold cannot become a mere routine;
and as to the passions which it is pretended have something to
say in it, I leave them out of the question, not only because
they are not just, but because they are not true. It is not true
that they are so strong, so persevering, and so imperious as they
are made to appear. If, after having long suffered, they had
sacrificed much; if they had refused themselves the consolations
of life and the pleasures of the world; if they had shown
themselves inflexible and incurable, nourishing in solitude their
melancholy and their hope, I could comprehend, perhaps even
excuse, their exigence. But they can be easily turned aside, or
made to smile; and their violence has not been able to resist
either the continuation of danger or the hope of security. As
they do not, then, demand a satisfaction they are so well able to
dispense with, they have not the right to appear ardent and
severe. Such energy comes too late; and since they have no
pretensions to depth, they may at least leave us the advantage of
their frivolity.

Neither have I anything to question with the laws. They pronounce
the punishment of death against political crime, yet I repeat
that I do not blame them, that I do not invoke their abolition. I
am convinced that the reforms solicited by the sentiments and
manners of the time must pass into the conduct of the government,
in the routine of its affairs, before being introduced into
legislation. So it may be in this matter.
{258}
Government influences the prosecution of political crimes; it can
often stifle them before they grow of sufficient importance to
come before the tribunals; it may invest them with more or less
gravity; and finally, it has the right of suspending or
mitigating the punishments which the law decrees. Is it necessary
for it to provoke the application of capital punishment, or to
allow it to be inflicted? That is my whole question. The doubt
exists in every mind, even in that of the government itself; and
for my part I think the doubt is in the right.



                   Chapter II.

     Physical Efficacy Of Capital Punishment.

The necessity of punishments depends upon their efficacy. If a
punishment does not attain the end proposed in inflicting it,
there can be no question that it is unnecessary.

The efficacy of punishments is either physical, or moral, or
both. It is physical by the impotence to which it reduces the
guilty, and moral by the example it offers. The physical efficacy
of the punishment of death was at first its most powerful
recommendation. In killing an enemy, it did away with danger; and
what could be more natural than to gratify vengeance while
insuring safety?

In the present day, however, there is no longer any question of
revenge. No legislation, no government, wishes to have imputed to
it such barbarity. But every society and every government still
desires security; and capital punishment seems to offer it.

But the efficacy of punishments is not the same in all places or
at all times. It varies according to the different stages of
society, the degrees of civilisation, the sentiments of the
people, and the circumstances of government. Capital punishment,
in spite of appearances, has not, even in a physical sense, the
advantage of an immutable efficacy; for in suppressing a known
enemy, it does not always suppress danger.

What was formerly the composition of society? A small
aristocracy, rich and powerful; and the multitude poor, obscure,
and weak, notwithstanding numerical strength. When a conspiracy
was hatched by the great, it had its known and important chiefs,
invested with immense power: it was the fruit of the ambition of
some men, perhaps only of one, and the work of a few personal
influences. On seizing two or three of the conspirators,
therefore, the danger was over.
{259}
The Percy family, after having placed Henry Lancaster on the
throne of England, becoming discontented, conspired and made war
against him; but they were defeated and proscribed, and Henry had
nothing more to dread. Where are now those eminent and avowed
chiefs, whom to destroy was to destroy a party? Under what proper
names are peril and influence thus concentrated! Few men
now-a-days have a name, and these few are of little consequence.
Power has departed from individuals and families; it has left the
hearths where it formerly dwelt, to spread itself abroad in
society. There it circulates rapidly, and though scarcely seen in
any particular spot, it is present everywhere. It is attached to
the public interests, ideas, and sentiments, which no single
person directs, which no one represents in such a manner as to
make their fate depend in the slightest degree upon his. But if
these forces are hostile to power, let it search and inquire in
what hands they are deposited. Upon what head will it let fall
its vengeance? There are still reformers and leaguers, but no
longer a Coligny or a Mayenne. The death of an enemy is now but
that of a man, and neither troubles nor weakens the party he
served. If power is reassured when the life is taken, it deceives
itself: its danger remains the same, for it was not the man who
created it. The causes of its perils are widely-scattered and
deeply-seated; and the absence of a nominal chief does not lessen
their energy, or even modify their action. They do not need
interpreters, instruments, or councils. The interests and
opinions now exist on their own account, and are directed by
their own prudence, and make their way by their own strength. No
one has a monopoly of them, and no one can either lose them by
mischance or sell them by treachery.

Capital punishment, in this at least, has lost its efficacy: it
has no longer the prompt and sure result of taking off the head
to which all eyes are directed, or of silencing the voice which
speaks to all. It may search among these higher classes, in which
it is said are the chiefs of parties; but whatever individual it
may fix upon, in destroying him, it by no means neutralises the
impending danger.

Have governments any instinctive knowledge of this fact? Does it
exercise even unconsciously an influence over their conduct? One
is tempted to believe so. During the last seven years, many
conspiracies in France have been prosecuted and punished; but no
man of consideration or of known name had a part in them. Was
this because power did not fear such men, or because it thought
it could gain little by ridding itself of them? Yet it affirms
constantly that every faction has its chiefs, wealthy and
important men, who direct its motions and defray its expenses.
How is it that these chiefs always escape detection, or that they
are reserved for the parade of the tribune, but omitted in the
actions before the tribunals?

{260}

The true cause is this, and it is of importance to remark it,
because it proves my assertion--that the Revolution has struck
down in a special manner the upper classes. I use this word the
rather because it was the class, not the individual, it was the
object of the Revolution to strike. Destined to change society,
it was not against men, but against interests and positions, that
it directed its blows. The horrible spectacle of judicial death
has made so deep an impression, that great hesitation is felt in
reviving its use in these more elevated regions. Desires have
been expressed, intentions half revealed, even attempts begun;
but as soon as any point has been reached from which, if entered,
there would be no return, the courage, the will, and the capacity
to do have been at an end. At this point the counsels of power
are divided; its agents are timid, and its partisans refuse their
support. They feel instinctively--and not less wisely--that they
are entering on a frightful path, without reason to guide or
profit to reward them. To treat the classes that have made the
Revolution in the same manner as the Revolution has treated those
it has vanquished--to act against it as it has acted against its
enemies--is impossible; the very thought is madness. Why, then,
direct such fury against individuals whose death would be
attended with more noise than benefit? Why recommence in the
bosom of the higher class that bloody struggle which will serve
to excite hatred against power without really weakening its
enemies? Is it necessary again to let the people see that neither
consideration, fortune, nor elevated station, is any protection
against the violence of political passions? They have begun to
forget this, and become accustomed to believe that there are
social conditions which, from their nature, are strangers to
tumult and its consequences, and where the punishment of death
almost never penetrates. Should this salutary belief be broken
down? Should the multitude be taught that there are conspiracies
in those ranks which are the most interested in maintaining
order, and the exhibition presented to them of a man well-known,
influential, and highly esteemed, dragged to the scaffold like
the vilest malefactor? Might not more danger accrue from this
spectacle than from the most powerful adversary of government? Is
it not by such spectacles that the Revolution overturned not only
society, but habits and ideas? Besides, when such a war takes
place among men of the same position, education, and rank, it
wears a much more serious aspect than elsewhere: the combatants
have known, seen, and spoken to each other; those who are
defeated know by whom they are so, by whom their destruction has
been sought; and their friends will remember it to-morrow: thus
enmities become personal, and dangers direct. Is it prudent or is
it unavoidable to allow the strife to assume this character?
{261}
Will men compromise themselves in person, when even success
cannot avert danger, for the simple reason that danger lies in
many more things than the life or hostility of individuals? Thus
in proportion as the chiefs of a party become less important, the
more hesitation is felt in destroying them; and the fear of
incurring such responsibility is not surmounted by any feeling of
its imperious necessity. That spontaneous good sense which
directs men almost unconsciously, informs the friends and even
depositaries of power that they would have to hunt after the life
of their principal adversaries with less profit to their cause
than peril to themselves. Three centuries ago, the destruction of
a known enemy was our grand object; now such a consummation is
dreaded and shunned: and notwithstanding the fierce declarations
and blind fury of certain agents, notwithstanding even its own
passions, when government is able and ready to strike the enemies
it professes to fear, it surrounds itself with a coil of
circumstances to prevent the blow, which compromises without
serving.

It is said that men are cowardly, each seeking his own safety,
and unwilling to put himself forward on behalf of the government.
All that may be true; but if there was any necessity in the case,
if the strength or safety of power centered in the destruction of
certain men, there would not be wanting friends or agents to hire
out their courage to their ambition or their servility. But even
the vices of human nature change their mode of action with the
time: egotism, covetousness, and fear, do not always follow the
same course. No one is a stranger to the new stage of society in
which we live, no one is ignorant of the real chiefs of party;
the men dangerous in themselves have disappeared, and no one
believes that the suppression of such and such an adversary could
dissipate, or even sensibly diminish, the dangers of power. The
physical inefficacy of capital punishment in the higher ranks is
deep in the minds of all. In vain would government refuse its
belief, for it is no longer in a condition to act as if it did
not believe, and neither fear nor passion has the power of
recalling a necessity which no longer exists.

Is the punishment of death more efficacious, and therefore more
necessary, against the dangers which spring up lower in society?
While the high aristocracy is extinct, and conspiracies are no
longer the offspring of a few eminent men, the mass of the free
and active population has increased in volume, and exercises an
influence it did not formerly possess. Perhaps capital
punishment, useless against the fallen great, may be more
necessary against the intrigues which ferment in the bosom of the
multitude.

I request that it be not forgotten that the necessity of
punishment depends upon its efficacy, and likewise that I am now
treating of capital punishment only in its physical effects.

{262}

And first, I object to the very word _multitude_; that is to
say, in the extensive meaning which some persons would give it.
To see the insolence with which such persons treat a great
population, one would think that we are still in the thirteenth
century; that the feudal aristocracy is now in its pride of
place; and that it looks down haughtily from the height of its
towers on bands of serfs scattered over its domains, or trembling
bourgeois coming humbly to solicit permission to rebuild the
walls of their poor town, as a defence against robbers. These
persons are mistaken: society is not thus formed; there is no
longer an abyss separating the higher classes from the mass of
the people. The descent from the summit of the social order to
its base is by means of close steps, covered with men only
slightly different from those above and beneath them. This is
true as regards property, industry, education, knowledge, and
influence; and although some momentary confusion may be
occasioned by the ruins of the old regime, the new form of
society is fixed for ever in France. It is necessary to keep this
in view, in order to comprehend the effects of legislation and
the acts of power, since it is not for the age of
Philip-Augustus, but for our own, that we have a government and
laws. But let us see how things were managed formerly in the
event of political crimes occurring out of the upper region of
society, and in what way the governing power proceeded.

On the part of the people plots were rare--the aristocracy had
that privilege. This is easily conceivable; for the latter alone
could gain by or succeed in them. How could the citizens or
peasants conceive the idea of changing the government and seizing
the authority? When plots were on foot, they marched in the train
of the great, either compelled or seduced. Neither the
initiative, nor the direction, nor the fortunate chances of such
enterprises, belonged to them.

However, they sometimes troubled the established order. This was
by seditions, and general or local revolts, according to the
causes which created them--whether oppression, famine, or
occasionally new religious creeds. Then the insurrections were
frightful: a frenzied multitude quitted their wretched homes, and
wandered about in bands, killing, pillaging, and
devastating--brutalised in their passions, blind and implacable
in their vengeance, ferocious and licentious in their freedom.
Such was the war of the peasants of Suabia in Germany, the
insurrection of Wat Tyler in England, the Jacquerie in France,
and everywhere, from age to age, a crowd of similar risings, less
important, but not less hideous.

When such disorders could be repressed before they were converted
into wars, it was done without much art. Almost all those who had
exerted or seconded them were condemned and executed. All that
was to be done was simply to hunt a population from its soil,
setting fire to a score of villages, and covering the roads with
bodies or limbs hanging from gibbets.
{263}
When the war had broken out, it became a ferocious chase, which
terminated only with the death of the insurgents; or if it was
thought prudent to treat with and disperse them by promises, the
promises disappeared with the bands which had received them. Thus
the peril over, even the British parliament supplicated Richard
II. not to pay any attention to such pretended concessions, but
to give to all his sheriffs and judges full powers to proceed
against the rebels on their return to their provinces. It was not
alone during the feudal servitude, in the midst of the darkness
and barbarism of the middle ages, that popular movements were
thus repressed. When order commenced, when the police, military
force, and all the rights of sovereignty, were concentrated in
the hands of government, the same means were used, but with more
regularity. The number of executions which took place in the
reign of Henry VIII. was above 70,000, and under Elizabeth still
upwards of 19,000, and insurrections and riots did not furnish
the smallest part of them. Madame Sévigné informs us in her
letters how Louis XIV. punished the trifling seditions of
Brittany. 'The whole of the inhabitants of a large street,' she
says, 'have been hunted out and banished, and everybody forbidden
on pain of death to harbour them; so that all these wretches,
women newly delivered, old men and infants, are wandering away
weeping from the town, without knowing whither to go, without
food, and without a place to lay their heads. ... Sixty citizens
have been taken, and are to be hung to-morrow. ... We are no
longer so extravagant: one in eight days is now sufficient to
keep justice going; and the gallows appears quite a refreshment.'
Society did not see all this blood flow, and the king was not
aware of all the executions which took place; but that the
punishment of death was efficacious in a time in which such
things could pass without the knowledge of society or of the
king--in a time in which wholesale banishment, the gallows, and
the wheel, were not merely punishments, but the ordinary arms of
police--surely one must be hard of belief to doubt it. Whether
in the thirteenth century, or even later, these means might have
been necessary, I will not inquire. What I know is, that they
were possible, and, moreover, that they were physically
efficacious, since they really banished in a great measure the
danger against which they were directed, positively reducing the
number and strength of their enemies; falling upon the popular
masses like hail upon a field of corn, cutting off all the petty
chiefs, decimating the fighting-men, and, in fact, not only
operating by fear, but by real enervation.

{264}

Could this be done in our day? Would the punishment of death thus
employed have the same efficacy? To those who think so, and at
the same time understand what they think, I have nothing to say,
except that I do not fear them. The system they call for will not
have even the shame of a useless trial. But how many people still
believe in the efficacy of capital punishment, even in its
physical point of view, without taking account of its effects or
the tendency of their own opinion! The remembrance of past times
governs their ideas. Some minds can accommodate themselves at
once to the changes of social order, or even anticipate them; but
the greater number remain blind and motionless long after the
consummation has taken place. The world is full of habits without
foundation, and beliefs without motive. This is an instance of
the fact.

What government would now dare to use the punishment of death
against the people in a manner which would render it physically
efficacious? and what laws, what ministers, would prescribe or
permit the gallows to be raised along the roads, or shoot men by
hundreds, or dispossess and chase away the inhabitants of a
canton? We are told of the softness of our manners, and the
humanity of our laws; but there are many other obstacles, or
rather those sentiments which protect among us the life of a man
are themselves protected by the powerful facts which gave them
birth. If human life is now more respected, it is that it has
more force to make itself respected. Of what consequence was one
of the people, a peasant or a petty bourgeois, in the times when
such classes were treated in the manner we have seen? A miserable
being, totally unknown, weaker and more isolated than the meanest
shrub languishing in a forest of oaks. His views extended no
farther than his subsistence; his death was of as little
importance as his life; and the evils of his lot were as unknown
as himself. His fate was allied to nothing; and no one who held
any place in society thought himself compromised by the
misfortunes and hardships of the multitude. For that multitude
there were distinct laws and particular punishments, from which
the higher classes had nothing to fear; and the condemnation and
execution of a hundred seditious peasants might take place in the
district, without the details being known at a distance of thirty
leagues, and without the really influential and active part of
the nation feeling the least fear for themselves.

There is not a single man now in this condition in society, not a
single being whoso life is of so little moment, and whose
execution would make so little noise. It might have been a
tempting idea to destroy one's enemies while thus isolated,
silent, and obscure; at the slightest insurrection or danger the
punishment of death might easily descend upon this humble race,
and make havoc among them at its leisure. But now there are fewer
great lords and many more men, and these all hold together.
{265}
None is so high that the lowest voice cannot reach him; none so
strong that the dangers of the weakest may not also threaten him;
none so obscure that misfortune may not give importance to his
fate; and none so isolated, whether by greatness or
insignificance, that he has nothing to hope or fear from what
passes around him. The condition of men in society bears now some
analogy with the laws of their destiny in the world; there are no
invincible inequalities and no privileges; the trials or
blessings of Providence are for all; no one is sheltered more
than another from misfortune, sickness, or grief; and each sees
in the fate of his neighbour the image or presentiment of his
own. This community of position, this parity of chances, this
equality in the hand of God, is not the least powerful bond of
union among men. It attracts them to each other, intermingles
them in the same sentiments, hinders them from being kept aloof
by the clashing of their interests and the diversity of their
conditions; and, in fine, gathers them together under equal laws,
and makes them feel that they have one nature and one country.
This is the terrestrial destiny of man; and the present state of
society begins to shape in the same fashion its political
destiny. The same laws and the same chances are given to all;
great diversities grow weaker, and community of interest stronger
and more extended. Everything tends to teach men that they are
accessible to the same evils, and exposed to the same perils, and
that therefore they cannot remain indifferent to the fate of each
other; while everything furnishes them with the means of
communicating with, and sustaining each other. Thus, on the one
hand, individual existence has more importance and power; and, on
the other, the totality of existence is so closely interlaced and
dovetailed, that a wound or a threat is felt simultaneously, and
the means of protection simultaneously adopted.

If we would form an idea of the prodigious changes which, in the
point of view I have taken, this new state of things has
introduced into the relations between society and the government,
let us consider what would become of power if it had now to
repress in the people one of those insurrections which formerly
it was so easy to manage by means of the gallows or the wheel.
When we see a crowd in movement, when here and there some cries
are heard, and some cudgels raised, we fancy the state in danger,
call out the troops, and display the public force in its gravest
aspect. I do not say that this is wrong; but what if a province
rose, if armed bands traversed the country, sometimes victorious,
and sometimes difficult to vanquish? This, however, is just what
happened under Louis XIV. in Brittany, Languedoc, and twenty
other places: here on account of a tax, there for a creed,
elsewhere against an edict. Troops were sent out, punishments
multiplied, the population hunted; but the confusion had no
effect upon the fêtes at Versailles, and the ordinary course of
affairs at Paris was undisturbed; for the state did not feel
itself compromised, or power really attacked.
{266}
And wherefore, it will be asked, should these violent resistances
and partial disorders now inspire so much more alarm than
formerly? Is it that they have a more serious effect? It is that
they are no longer a mere effervescence of the multitude; that
instead of popular seditions, there would now be public
movements. Such is the composition of society, that the rabble,
reduced in number and force, can no longer act alone in the
brutality of their wants or passions. Between them and power is
placed a great, wealthy, and yet working population, who, though
still too little educated, are able to see far beyond mere
material necessities or the fancies of the moment. This
population is not given to tumults, for its members do not live
upon daily wages, but work upon whatever they possess, land or
capital. Thus it is very difficult to draw them away from their
business; even when discontented, they would long hesitate before
acting, for no one has the power to command them; and however bad
a government might be, it could scarcely drive them to do worse
than grumble. But if an insurrection were really to take place,
it could not be without their concurrence and consent. And thus
those who, in the seventeenth century, scarcely attracted the
attention of Louis XIV. at all, would now set the whole
government astir, and cause it to feel that this was no question
of a riot among the populace, but that a more formidable enemy
and a greater danger were before it. If force was not at once
successful, the authorities would despair of force, and have
recourse to promises, concessions, changes of systems, to all
that compulsory policy which proclaims that power has been
mistaken, and has found it out. And thus, while formerly a
government, opposing nothing but troops or punishments to the
seditious, might be for some years at war with a portion of the
country, society, in its quiet, but strong construction, animated
by one common spirit, would hardly have advanced a step in real
resistance before its tottering government would begin to think
rather of reforms than punishments.

Is it then, I ask, is it in the midst of society thus constituted
that the physical efficacy of capital punishment against the
political crimes of the masses can still subsist? It is no longer
a poor weak multitude, separated from the influential classes,
whom it is now the question to reduce to impotence. Who would now
treat the multitude, composed of students, merchants,
master-workmen, and farmers, as it was treated formerly? It is
there, however, that the evil would be if it burst forth; it is
there that the remedy must be applied; and in order to give that
remedy the direct utility which the government of Louis XIV.
obtained, by hanging or chasing from the town of Rennes all the
inhabitants of a turbulent street--in order to suppress the
danger in the persons of its authors--what intensity, what
extent would it not require to possess!
{267}
But what would be the consequences? Shall we say what disgust,
what horror of government, would run through this electrical
society, where everything is known, everything propagated, and
where millions of men in the same condition, of the same
sentiments, without having ever seen or spoken to each other, yet
know reciprocally their fate, and in spite of the calm around
them, feel themselves menaced by a storm growling at the distance
of a hundred leagues from their canton. In such circumstances two
conditions are attached to the physical efficacy of capital
punishment--the first is, that it weighs heavily upon the place
where the danger appears; and the other, that it does not carry
desolation and confusion into the whole country. Formerly, these
two conditions were united; but now this is impossible, and the
authority which would fulfil the first would soon feel itself
more compromised by the horror and agitation spread throughout
the country, than reassured by the solitude it might have made in
one corner of the state.

We cannot struggle against social facts: they have roots which
the hand of man cannot reach, and when they have once taken
possession of the soil, it is necessary to learn to live under
their shadow. There are no longer great nobles to destroy, or a
rabble to decimate. Physically useless against individuals, since
there are none whose life is dangerous to government, capital
punishment is equally so against the masses, who are too strong
and too watchful to allow it to be exercised with efficacy. In
this first point of view, then, capital punishment, as a direct
means of suppressing danger, is vain: it is but a custom, a
prejudice, a routine, derived from a time when, indeed, it did
attain the end intended by really delivering power from its
enemies. And power, which still retains this worn-out weapon, is
itself aware of its vanity; for when it has to do with men of any
consideration, it wisely hesitates to employ it; and when, on the
other hand, it is a portion of the population which it fears, the
impossibility is so evident, that it never dreams of employing so
terrible an instrument.

The efficacy, then, of the punishment of death must be moral,
since it is not physical. This is the strong point in which its
friends confide: let us examine it.

{268}

                     Chapter III.

         Moral Efficacy Of Capital Punishment.

Considered generally, and in its moral efficacy, capital
punishment, like all other punishments, has a double
effect--inspiring aversion to crime, and fear of chastisement.
The two ideas--crime and chastisement--are associated in the
mind of man. When crime is seen, punishment is expected; when
punishment is seen, crime is presumed. Founded upon this natural
fact, legislation proposes in punishing not only to terrify, but
also to maintain and fortify in all minds the conviction of the
perversity of the acts it punishes; and it is thus it would
dissuade the people from crime, and make that punishment an
example.

I even think that punishments are still more exemplary by the
moral impression they make, than by the terror they inspire. The
laws have more force in the consciences of men than in their
fears. The public reprobation and shame attached to certain acts
have more power in deterring, than the chastisement which may
follow. Those who are acquainted with human nature will agree
with me in this; and let those who doubt only suppose the moral
stigma removed from actions reckoned criminal by our code, and
then inquire whether all the skill of the police, and all the
rigour of power, could suffice for their prevention. Fear, no
doubt, has its part in the moral efficacy of punishments; but we
should not exaggerate the power of this agent, or forget the more
energetic one which works to the same result.

It has been said that the moral antipathy inspired by crime is
not increased by the severity of the punishment. It is true that
if the punishment appears excessive, if it revolts more than
conciliates the moral sentiments, if it changes the horror of the
crime into pity for the criminal, it loses its desired effect. It
is not true, however, that fear alone arises from severe
punishments, and that they do not move the conscience still more
strongly: all this varies according to the times, ideas, and
manners: the punishment which formerly spoke loudly against the
crime might now speak only in favour of the criminal. Moreover,
even in the midst of the mildest manners, pity never so
exclusively possesses the heart of man that, while beholding a
great punishment merited by a great crime, he suddenly forgets
the crime, to think only of the sufferings of the criminal. Pity
has its sentiment of justice; and when this justice is not
offended, the gravity of the punishment exercises its power alike
over the conscience and the fear. I do not dispute that capital
punishment has this double virtue.
{269}
Neither do I believe that it now acts only by fear, or that it
is, besides, so contrary to our manners that it fails as entirely
in its end as would do the punishment of the wheel. I think even
that, become rarer, its effect upon the imagination may have
increased with the importance which a man's life takes in the
public mind. But even as simple capital punishment preserves its
moral efficacy, and as slow and cruel punishments have lost
theirs, in like manner are introduced or developed such
differences in crimes, that the same punishment does not possess
the same efficacy in all.

Why does capital punishment, when applied to private crimes, such
as murder, robbery, incendiarism, &c. never fail to produce this
chief effect, the end of all punishments, which consists in
increasing the aversion these crimes inspire? It is because it
finds this aversion in all hearts, or at least because there is
no dispute as to the natural criminality of the acts which it
punishes. Two facts are certain--that the action made criminal by
law has really taken place, and that it is really criminal. The
public, power, even the accused, agree upon this. There is no
question but to discover the author of an act of which no one
contests the reality or the wickedness. Thus the first condition
of the moral efficacy of punishment is in some sort fulfilled
beforehand; it is a proved fact, which calls for chastisement,
and the chastisement addresses itself to men who think in unison
with the law.

In political crimes, on the contrary, these two circumstances are
uncertain: it is not certain that the acts of the accused are
really these which the law incriminates, nor that the acts
incriminated by the law arc naturally and invariably criminal.
The first uncertainty is evident: no one in the present day is
ignorant that in the case of private offences it is the criminal
alone who is sought out, the offence being certain; while in a
political matter, such as conspiracies, offences of the press,
&c. it is almost always necessary to discover in a series of
actions more or less significant both the offence and the
offender. As to the second uncertainty, let it not be said that
in affirming that, it also exists, I wish to enervate the laws,
and leave public order without a safeguard. I affirm only that
the immorality of political crimes is neither so clear nor so
immutable as that of private crimes; it is constantly
metamorphosed or obscured by the vicissitudes of human affairs;
it varies according to times, events, and the rights and merits
of power; it totters every moment under the blows of a force
which pretends to fashion it according to its caprices or its
necessities. It would be difficult to find in the political world
a meritorious and innocent act which has not received, in some
corner of the world or of time, a legal incrimination. Who shall
say that all these laws were in the right? Who affirm that they
have always carried into the minds of the people the conviction
of their justice, and inspired, together with fear of the
punishment, horror of the crime?
{270}
Who will now become the absolute defender of passive obedience,
and construe the rights of society as subordinate to the written
law, whatever be the character of power? Such an attempt would be
vain. In things so changeable and complicated, true morality does
not allow itself to be thus absolutely fixed and imprisoned for
ever in the text of the laws; and Providence, which so often
delivers up to force the destiny of men, does not permit it thus
to make and unmake crime and virtue at its pleasure. 'Do you not
know,' said the president of the revolutionary tribunal to M.
Engrand d'Alleray, 'the law which forbids the sending of money to
emigrants?' 'Yes,' replied the old man, 'but I know of an older
law which commands me to support my children.' This, which was
true in 1793, will be so always, in spite of all codes, and in
the face of all kinds of power. Doubtless there are real and
odious political crimes; but those that are made by the laws are
not always so, whatever the laws or times may be. Force exercises
an immense empire over the weak mind of man; but it is not given
to it to deprave it to this degree, that crimes of its own
fashioning excite the instinctive antipathy attached to crimes
declared as such by the true law. Tyranny apart, and even in
tolerably regular times, there frequently rests upon actions of
this kind a great moral uncertainty. When they raise in the
public a violent animosity, it is perhaps because the public is
passionate, and itself inclined to injustice; and when it is
always incredulous, and secretly given to excuse them, it is
because power displeases the public. Which is right, and which
wrong? Force may prevent people from knowing, or at least from
speaking, but in almost every case capital punishment in
political crimes fails to produce, either surely or generally,
the really moral impression which accompanies it in private
crimes.

An analogous difference exists between these two classes of
crimes as to the effect of the fear sought to be inspired by
capital punishment. The robber and the murderer are isolated in
society, or at least their friends, protectors, or accomplices
are only robbers or murderers like themselves. This they know;
and when punishment overtakes them, it is not power alone, but
the whole of society, which arms itself against them. With
society they were at war, and it has conquered. This victory
gives the idea of an immense force directed against individuals,
who can only oppose to it their courage or address. They will
never have better fortune; never will a portion of the public
embrace their cause; never will a day of triumph or vengeance
dawn for them. They live in the midst of society like wild beasts
in a country crowded by man, finding everywhere snares or
enemies; without support, without shelter, and without other
force than their personal strength, which every one attacks, and
living in a fear which every one increases; and every
condemnation, every execution of their brethren which takes
place, is to them a solemn proof of the weakness of their
position, and a warning of the fate which awaits them.
{271}
But the enemies of a government, men inclined to conspire, or who
do actually conspire, are in a very different position: they do
not cease to belong to society, and they are attached to some
party, to whose assistance and protection they look. This party
may not wish what they wish, and may not believe what they
believe; but what of that? They merely exaggerate its power, and
misapprehend its intentions. In the meantime they live surrounded
by men whose desires assimilate with their own, and whose
illusions respond to their confidence. Who does not know what
prodigious blindness possesses political factions, and with what
mad certainty each reckons upon its strength and success? In each
passer-by, under each roof from which the smoke rises, the robber
sees an enemy; while the conspirator dreams everywhere of allies,
and is confident of obtaining everywhere at least a temporary
protection. And besides, if the latter is in danger, defenders
will not fail him; his offence will be considered doubtful, and
power unjust and violent; a thousand kind sentiments, a thousand
wise reasons, will lend their support to designs which are
disapproved of, and to conduct which is blamed, but which men
cannot, and will not, allow to be suppressed by iniquity.
Finally, if the man falls, it will not be in this isolation, in
the midst of this universal animadversion, which freezes the most
audacious courage. Perhaps in a future day he will be avenged;
and in this expectation his friends regard his ruin as a blow
from which the strength they possess, with the aid of a little
more good fortune or prudence, may henceforth preserve them.

It is not possible to intimidate a faction like a band of
robbers: in order to give in such cases the moral efficacy to
capital punishment which it derives from fear, and which in a
matter of private crime a single execution suffices to obtain, it
would be necessary to go almost so far as to render its efficacy
likewise physical; and we have seen that this has obstacles still
more formidable, and dangers still more serious. There is, then,
no analogy of this kind between private and political crimes,
which are separated by profound differences. The question is not
to examine the moral efficacy of capital punishment in general;
because, whether it addresses itself to the conscience or fear,
it will not produce the same effect in conspiracies as in
robberies. It is necessary to confine ourselves exclusively to
the former class of offences, in order to appreciate its
influence. There, as in other cases, it proposes for itself the
double end which every punishment aims at: it would prevent the
evil, in making the crime detestable and the chastisement
terrible.

{272}

I have just said that political crimes are of such a description
that their moral perversity is more doubtful, more variable, and
less generally recognised than that of private crimes; the
punishment, therefore, whatever it may be, has a work here to
perform which is spared it elsewhere. When some act of the kind
is proclaimed to be criminal, men are not found, as in the case
of murder or robbery, decided upon its character. Convictions
must be changed, and a struggle entered into not only against
passions, but against ideas; and as the question is to act upon
those very men who would be inclined to commit what is thus
proscribed, the difficulty becomes immense. In the present state
of manners, the destitute, the vagabond, or the depraved,
whatever be the unhappiness of their situation, or the vice of
their inclinations, never believe that they are morally permitted
to rob. Everything inculcates the interdict, and recalls it to
them when they forget it; and the law finds very rarely, even in
them, a belief directly opposed to right. Men carried to
political offences, on the contrary, are enemies alike to the
convictions and commands of the law; for the law affirms the
established order to be good, while they think it bad; its
continuance necessary, while they desire its fall; its existence
sacred, while they demand its overthrow. No point of contact
exists between these men and the law which addresses them; no
common principle unites them; and to obtain obedience otherwise
than through fear, the law must begin by making them believe it.
Before obtaining this chief and powerful efficacy, which consists
in fortifying the natural antipathy to crime, punishments are
here encountered by an unaccustomed obstacle. They have not, in
general, to do with beliefs; they are themselves a sanction to
public belief, acting upon men who have transgressed while
believing. How can the sanction of a principle produce its effect
in a case where the principle does not exist! It may prove the
strength of an enemy, but not the justice of its cause. Great
questions recur everywhere. If Providence had imposed on human
actions no other curb than fear of consequences--if men entirely
abandoned to the counsel of their interest or the voice of their
desires, were without those convictions which introduce order
into the tumult of passion, and light into the uncertainties of
life--chaos would soon invade the world, and the only means of
maintaining order would be the sudden abasement of our nature by
the absolute loss of its liberty. But man, by his moral
convictions, binds and adapts himself to the will of Providence:
he is in direct communication with it, comprehends the language
of its laws, admits its principles, and submits himself to them
freely; and notwithstanding the struggles which agitate him,
notwithstanding his constant errors, there is no need of force to
substitute slavery for obedience.

{273}

What man would be in his relations with Providence if his moral
principles were to fail him, men inclined to political offences
pretty nearly are in their relations with power. They do not
believe what it believes; they have no wish for what it wishes;
they contest with it even the legitimacy of its existence. How
must power act upon them? It has sense enough to understand that
force alone will not suffice, that it has never had enough of
this to exterminate or imprison any considerable portion of the
society it governs. It must change its dispositions, and
re-establish between it and them this community, if not of
intentions, at least of beliefs, which gives law its true empire,
arming it with the power to prevent a hundred crimes by punishing
a single one, and raising its administrators to the rank of
teachers of the people, whereas formerly they tried in vain to
remain their jailers.

Of all the means which power employs for attaining this end,
punishments assuredly are the least efficacious. Punishment
supposes crime, and if the supposition is not admitted, the moral
efficacy of the former disappears. When the man on whom the
punishment is inflicted, and those who think with him, judge that
he is unjustly smitten, in this case punishment has the effect of
injustice: it irritates, confirms the hostile opinion, widens the
breach between the law and its transgressors, and thus goes
directly against a part of its own purpose. But if, on the
contrary, the enemies of power admit that it is right in
punishing them, if they see that it employs its force against
them with reason, they can only have taken the part of
considering themselves in a state of war. From that moment every
social tie is broken; the question is no longer of laws or
chastisements; plots are ambuscades, and punishments defeats.
Government has lost its moral position: it has descended to an
equality of force; everything is equal between it and its
enemies: as it has the right of self-defence, they have the right
of attack: the claim of obedience on one side, and justice on the
other, are equally false. All this belongs to society, but
society is dissolved: there is nothing now but war, with the
liberty of its arms, the continuity of its dangers, and the
uncertainty of its results.

Of all punishments, capital punishment is that whose employment
precipitates parties and power most rapidly into this last
situation: it brings war to mind by rousing violent animosities,
and provoking vengeance. It is therefore the punishment which
possesses least of all the kind of efficacy we are now in quest
of. This efficacy, I repeat, has for its condition the reform of
certain ideas: it will not bear its fruit till the men it
addresses consent to consider those acts culpable from which it
would dissuade them; at least they must have conceived doubts on
the subject, and the notion of the legitimacy of power must have
entered their minds.
{274}
It has often been attempted to introduce moral convictions by
means of punishments, but when these have not succeeded in
exterminating, they have always failed. It is said that moral
convictions are not aimed at--that the struggle is only against
vicious desires, inordinate wants, and criminal interests. But
this is a mistake: for when the morality or immorality of an
action is not evident, when there is room for the least
uncertainty, then passions, interests, everything, hide
themselves under opinions, and all resolve or metamorphose
themselves into ideas. The most perverse and headstrong of men
are disinclined to dispense with reason, and content themselves
with brute force. They have ever a wish to legitimise in their
own eyes even the least disinterested conduct; they carefully
collect every motive, every pretext, and seize upon the slightest
pretence; and what is more easy, after an unexpected overthrow,
to form thus for themselves a creed which lends its support to
hostility against power? Was there ever a true faction that was
anything else than a union of banditti forced on by their own
base interests, and accessible only to fear? The weakest
government of our day might hold such a danger cheap; but
punishments are desired to act in a very different sphere: to
teach the citizens that it is culpable to conspire against
established order, and deliver their country to the terrible
chances of revolution. Be it known, however, that punishments
have no power to propagate such ideas; they must already exist in
the mind. It is weakness to suppose that they can be reaped when
other causes have not yet sown them: this is attributing to
punishments a power which they do not possess: they cannot make
things be detested as criminal which are regarded as meritorious,
nor can they demonstrate the moral legitimacy of power: they have
no effect upon the established convictions of the people; and
when these are hostile to authority, it is by other means than
punishments that government can succeed in changing them, and
when they will not change, punishments, instead of reforming,
only strengthen their empire. Let us talk no more, then, of
capital punishment preventing political crimes by inspiring a
hatred of them: this really moral efficacy, however powerful
against ordinary crimes, is here without reality; and the more
vigorous parties become, and the more the perils of power
increase, the less pretence can capital punishment make to such
salutary influence. It is, then, both for government and the
factious, only another step in antagonism, and for the public
only another blow of destiny, fatal to the vanquished to-day, and
perhaps to the conqueror to-morrow. Does it act more powerfully
through fear? I have already shown that in this point of view,
and by the sole difference of social position existing between
conspirators and robbers, political crimes offer to the laws much
less hold than private offences. But this is not the only cause
which renders the terror of punishment less efficacious in
political matters than is commonly supposed.

{275}

Men are influenced by different motives; and there must be an
agreement between them and the means used for control. Who does
not know that he cannot speak to a man whom interest governs in
the same manner as he would speak to him who is ruled by passion,
or to a man who is possessed by passion as to him who is directed
by an opinion or a duty? We study carefully, in the private
relations of life, those various dispositions of mankind, and
never think of addressing ourselves to feelings which have no
existence. The legislator who acts upon the masses cannot arrive
at this nice justice, this special fitness of things; but he need
not commit the profound absurdity of directing the same means
indifferently against dispositions the most different; and since
he can avoid this, it is imperative upon him to do so, not only
for the sake of justice, but for the sake of success.

Fear, for example, has more efficacy against interests than
passions, and against passions than ideas: it is easier to
prevent a poor man from stealing than an irritated man from
seeking vengeance; and the angry man, in his turn, is more easily
restrained than the fanatic who believes himself commanded to
assassinate. Generally, when a man's governing principle is of a
nature in some sort material, such as a purely personal interest,
fear has much power: it opposes interest to interest, and all
happens thus in the same sphere; for there is similitude and
fitness in the impelling and opposing motive. As we approach the
moral order, fear loses its virtue: it ceases to be in natural
and direct relation with the impulses it would repress; it
addresses them in a language not their own, gives them reasons
they cannot admit, and thus falls short of the mark it aims at.
But when we arrive at the purest and rarest of all motives, at
the full and dominating convictions of our moral nature, fear
remains without action upon the man thus placed above that world
to which its power is confined.

And this is not a theory: it is a series of facts, regulated by
Providence, which has willed that material and moral order shall
remain distinct and profoundly different even in their union.

To which category do these causes of action belong which
generally urge men to political offences? Here, also, the
diversity is great; for I am far from believing that everything
happens within the moral order, or even upon its confines. Among
the causes which excite hostility to power are ideas, passions,
and interests: here honourable sentiments or sincere beliefs,
there frenzied desires or the most brutal selfishness. All these
principles of action join, are confounded together, and form in
their admixture a heterogeneous force, whose different elements
cannot be combated by the same arms, nor be repressed by the same
means.

{276}

I do not say that the fear inspired by the spectacle, or the
chance of capital punishment, is without efficacy to prevent the
explosions of this confused force: but I do say that its efficacy
is not of a simple nature; and that even if it finds in the
adversary it combats points where it can strike with success,
there will be others which it cannot reach, and where its rebound
will produce a contrary effect to that contemplated by the penal
law.

When Charles II., urged on by the Catholics, and by his own taste
for absolute power, resorted to condemnations and punishments,
the opposition included, as always happens, the most
heterogeneous elements. The followers of the republic joined
those of Cromwell; and the fanaticism of the Puritans did not
refuse an alliance with men whose disgust of
frequently-ridiculous controversies had rendered them indifferent
to every religious belief. To men revolted by the license of the
court were joined others influenced by the love of disorder, the
melancholy fruit of revolutions; and the ambitious who sought
after popularity, for the sake of wealth or power, stood side by
side with sincere patriots, disinterested friends of their
country's liberty: thus Lord Shaftesbury voted with Lord Russell.
In the same party, in fine, met together the most noble
sentiments and the most culpable passions, the most sincere
beliefs and the most worldly interests, the highest virtue and
the most shameful desires.

What must have been, what really was, the effect of political
rigour upon a party thus composed? The court triumphed at first:
for those who had joined the party from interest withdrew from
it; the venal sold themselves; the timid sunk into silence; old
republicans, in thus losing their illusions, believed liberty
lost without retrieve; Monk corrupted or abandoned his former
companions; and Shaftesbury fled to Holland. Fear reigned in all
its glory. But at the same time that it struck the vulnerable
portion of the party, it deeply and irreconcilably offended
forces which it was not its business to attack. If cowards were
afraid, brave men became indignant; and if fear brought over to
the court some deserters from the popular party, it likewise
confirmed the people in their aversion; causing the former to
think themselves in error in having attacked power, and proving
to the latter their right to do so. The reformers were alienated
past return; the passions, kept in check perhaps among the great,
grew furious in the rabble; the public mistrust became incurable;
and all the friends of national liberty judged themselves in
peril. As to the more ambitious of the party, Lord Russell and
Sidney were the most unfortunate of the conspirators: they became
martyrs for the people; and time soon showed that if fear had
borne fruits favourable for power, it had likewise sowed some
that were very bitter.
{277}
Such is, in a political matter, the inevitable condition of the
indirect efficacy of punishment. It is not confined to the limits
in which it can be of service; it does not restrict its operation
to perils which it can combat with success; but in some cases
causes the desired effect, and in others one which would rather
have been avoided: its influence can neither be diverted nor even
foreseen. It is a weapon of unknown power, which, thrown at
random, may strike one required point, and at the same time in a
hundred others excite new enemies and new dangers.

The want of reflection in men explains everything: but that power
which, in order to destroy political factions, calls to its aid
the fear of death, commits a strange mistake; for in employing
this means, it knows not what it does. It should at least, before
having recourse to it, consider what is the nature of the danger
it fears, what the interior composition of the factions it
combats, and what will be the effects, so variable and
complicated, of the punishment of death. If the question was now
of such enemies as in the thirteenth century were those of
established governments; if political struggles carried physical
disorder suddenly into society, and the gatherings of
conspirators threatened always to turn into bands of robbers,
then fear would be the true weapon. If even, in our day, we dealt
with seditions engendered among the multitude, provoked by some
brutal passion or some physical interest--by the most pressing,
for instance, the most excusable of interests, famine--there,
again, I could conceive the employment of the punishment of
death. It might, indeed, be needlessly and odiously abused; but
it would at least be used with a knowledge of its effects against
an evil to which its fear might be properly applied. Parties now,
however, are very differently constituted: they unite men of all
conditions, rich and poor, idle and industrious, peaceable and
disorderly, bound together by numerous and systematic relations.
If conspiracies do not obtain entire success, and change the face
of empires, they seldom advance so far as they attempt. We live
in a society recently overturned, where legitimate and
illegitimate interests, honourable and blameable sentiments, just
and false ideas, are so mingled, that it is very difficult to
strike hard without striking wrong. We are an ancient people
entering into a new social order; the errors of inexperience are
seen amidst the security of civilisation; all is obscure and
confused, without being entirely disorderly or violent. In such a
state of men and things, to believe in the efficacy of capital
punishment against political danger, and to rely on the fear it
inspires as a great means of government, is to mistake both the
evil and the remedy, and to employ arms at once old and
poisonous, which are no longer of use, and cannot be handled
without danger.

{278}

I find everywhere the same mistake; and it is by confounding
times that means are misunderstood. In the former constitution of
society, the moral efficacy of capital punishment was powerfully
seconded by its direct and physical efficacy. When it fell upon
the chief of an eminent party, known to all its members, and
invested with immense power, his personal fall not only
dissipated a great danger, but struck terror into the whole
faction, and it was said on all hands--How has this man fallen?
What! were not all his riches, his credit, his numerous
followers, and his strong places, able to defend him? His
adversaries are then much to be dreaded! How is it possible to
escape their power? How strive against that which has destroyed
such a man? Beyond the circle of political conflicts the same
phenomenon is visible. The death of Cartouche or Mandrin will be
a much greater example, and act much more powerfully upon
robbers, than that of an obscure pickpocket. If you descend into
the rabble, you will find the same relation between the moral and
physical efficacy of punishments; for there the number of the
victims makes up for their want of celebrity. Is it surprising
that the population of a district should be paralysed with fear
when they see their ranks thinned by chastisements, and encounter
at every step the instruments or the ruins of this devastating
power? Sepulture itself is refused to their remains, and the dead
remain above ground to terrify the living.

At such a price is obtained that fear which in former times
derived its terrible influence from capital punishment. If you
try now to restore the vanished régime, you will not be able to
fulfil the conditions; you will not be able to multiply political
punishments so as to terrify by their number. A government aiming
at such effects would find danger moving against it at the same
pace as fear among the people. Society no longer furnishes those
victims whose illustrious fall spread terror everywhere. You must
act here and there against some obscure wretches, whose names are
unheard, and who are known only by their misfortune. And how can
you destroy such men? Not by the force of power: the conflict is
too unequal. By its justice? Have a care: when interest is
personal, and the superiority so immense, justice is very open to
suspicion: if doubt is possible, you may count upon its becoming
in many minds equivalent to a certainty. And what fear have you
then inspired? Not the fear of force, but of iniquity; and a
government, in my opinion, can gain nothing from the one without
the other.

That, however, is the error which possesses those who, in our
day, rely upon the punishment of death: they mistake the nature
of the fear they spread, and believe themselves to have proved
their strength when they have but made their justice or their
wisdom doubtful. Strength is not so easily proved, nor always in
the same manner.
{279}
Two governments have ruled France despotically--the Convention,
which reigned by political punishments; and Bonaparte, who made
little use of them, and even took pains to avoid them. Both, by
different means, were powerful, and dreaded. But was the scaffold
the only strength of the Convention? No rational man can believe
it: it played its part, just like conflagrations, or falling
houses, or ravaging banditti; but in all these the efforts are
greater than the energy, and the Convention, consuming itself
almost as quickly as its enemies, fell into the abyss from which
it issued; for in vain is power great--the crime by which it
triumphs destroys it in our day more rapidly than ever. Bonaparte
was strong in his turn; but it was not by punishments that he
proved his strength, and made it to be feared. He punished some
conspiracies, suppressed others, and passed over many more; he
even specially passed over those which proceeded from the party
opposed to the Revolution. Invested with power by the need of
order and justice, and in opposition to the anarchical tyranny of
the Jacobins, already worn out, he comprehended well that he must
invoke power from the same interests and sentiments which had
just procured him the Empire. The need of order within and of
victory without the Empire had made the 18th Brumaire, and
Bonaparte reigned as he had risen--by order and victory; and when
by his faults he had lost or compromised victory in Europe, and
security in France, he fell, still full of life, but having
ceased to be strong.

If I may use the figure, there is a star which bestows their
strength upon governments, and which they are not at liberty to
choose or renounce without danger. They are born and live with a
nature of their own, but in a situation they have not made, and
under conditions they cannot direct; and their skill consists in
becoming acquainted with these, and adapting themselves to them.
Thus are they powerful--one by war, another by peace; this by
severity, and that by gentleness--according as the different
means of government have affinity with the especial laws of their
destiny. And if they misunderstand these laws, and mistake the
means of the government which correspond with them; if they
imagine they can attempt indifferently any path they choose, and
set in motion such or such a spring according to their fancy; if
they consider power as an arsenal of all sorts of arms, equally
useful to all comers--then their star abandons them: they
hesitate, waver, try in vain a thousand resources, which fail
them successively, and feeling themselves growing weaker day by
day, are foolishly astonished that a course of conduct which has
succeeded so well with others does nothing but increase their
embarrassments and perils.

{280}

What was the star of the Restoration? Under what native laws was
the present government placed? Where were its elements of power,
and what means of action were fitted to its position and its
nature? I would know this, in order to discover if capital
punishment in political matters is really an arm for its use, and
which preserves in its hands, both as regards its own interest
and that of the people, a salutary efficacy. I cannot help the
question becoming so extensive. I shall endeavour to keep within
its bounds; but it is very necessary that I follow wherever it
conducts me.


                    Chapter IV.

          The Same Subject Continued.


I shall say but one word of external matters. The Restoration
found war in France, and France, like Europe, weary of war. This
was both for France and Europe a pledge of peace. Peace was then
the general law of our destiny; and in it should France have
sought its power, and likewise its dignity, for the one is not
separated from the other, at least for long.

Within, the Restoration found neither anarchy, impiety, contempt
for the laws, struggles between classes, nor any of those
revolutionary scourges of which they now speak, as if they had
possessed France for twenty-five years without interruption. This
is not true. The old nobility lived at peace with the new, and
both with the nation. Vanity had its folly as well as its
pleasures, and the country thought little about the matter.
Unluckily for our prospects and our rights--I thought so then,
and do so still--power was at least strongly constituted, and in
such a manner that disorder was not to be feared either for us or
itself. Moral disorder, that internal shamelessness which
incredulity produces, that domestic license, contempt for all
existing forms of things, and aversion to every rule and
restraint, had disappeared. Order, an imperious and blind
necessity in 1799, was in 1814 a habit and a general taste, and
the Restoration found it so.

It is true that order, not only politically, but morally, was
without guarantees. In political respects, no real and
independent institutions subsisted by their own strength, capable
of protecting either the general interests against individual
pretensions, or individual interests against the tyranny of
general interests and the natural vices or errors of power. One
man had sufficed for many, and had pretended to suffice for all.
In falling, he left power entirely naked and defenceless: for it
had rights, and no means of exercising them; strength, and no
means of displaying it; wants, and no means of providing for them
by its own efforts.

{281}

In moral respects the evil was less apparent, but still real and
profound. Order reigned in social facts, and even in manners; but
the principles of order were not in the soul. These principles I
may sum up in two words: the firm sentiment of right and true
belief. These were almost alike wanting. I will not say that in
the respect for religion and morals which replaced the
revolutionary cynicism there was hypocrisy, but still there was
not sincerity: it was an external respect, founded upon
necessities and conveniences, not upon convictions and
sentiments. People considered it good, and observed it, but
without having in themselves that which occasions it, and without
troubling themselves as to its legitimate nature. The head of the
government set the example; but if he desired its habits, he
feared its principles; for while ridiculing ideas, he
acknowledged their empire. Discipline without moral rule,
obedience with indifference, this is all he sought, and society
gradually took the character under his hand. Never had order been
at once so exact, and yet so foreign, to the inner life of man;
and never had there been so much regularity united with so little
faith.

As for the idea of right, it was raised little above civil
relations; beyond which force reigned so supreme, that it seemed
as if right belonged to it alone. When there exists in a nation a
will before which everything disappears, or is reduced to
silence, the sentiment of right perishes; and if this will is at
the same time very active, and is possessed with the passion for
displaying itself on every side, in war, in peace, manifesting
itself everywhere, and considering every obstacle as
illegitimate, it exercises over men the most formidable
corruption they can be subject to, for it deprives them of the
power and even thought of resisting--that is to say, takes from
them their moral existence. Right is the right of resistance:
there is no other; for take that away, and every other
disappears. Bonaparte struck them all to the heart, at least in
their relations with his power; and thus repulsing beliefs on the
one hand, and rights on the other, he carried away from the order
which he maintained, without having founded it, every guarantee
but habit and his own will.

What Bonaparte did not give, the Restoration could give us: this
was at once its mission and its nature. It was its mission, for a
government has no other than that of satisfying the wants of the
society in which it is established; not only the permanent and
universal wants of society, but likewise, and above all perhaps,
the special wants of its epoch. But even as Bonaparte had had to
bring back external order, and to cause the cessation, by the
despotism of a single will, of the anarchy of individual wills,
so the Restoration, taking things where Bonaparte left them, had
to infuse into external order the belief which constitutes moral
order, and to replace the empire of will by the empire of right.
Though less visible, these wants are not the less real; they are
found at the bottom of every legitimate aspiration of every
party.

{282}

It was also in the nature of the Restoration to respond to them.
And from the first it was constrained to the institutions of
liberty. I make use of this word, for it appears to me the only
one by which the imperious necessity for the Charter can be
expressed. Such constraints are not offensive to the power to
which they apply, for it is Providence which directs them. The
mistrust which the Restoration could not fail to excite exacted
guarantees which liberty alone could offer. Thus liberty was
perhaps still more necessary to the Restoration than power to the
Consulate: but it is in the bosom of liberty that public beliefs
are developed; it is under its shadow that general ideas
germinate and grow, ideas adapted to the time and to the instinct
of minds, and called forth and gathered by the secret wants of an
entire people. Despotism never produces them; and the great
convictions which have governed the world are never formed but
against power or in a free state. The idea and the sentiment of
right spring of necessity from liberty. This does not need proof,
especially in modern times, when the bloody combats of the little
Greek or Italian factions would not be, in the eyes of any one,
liberty.

And this is not all: that which was a necessity to the
Restoration was likewise analogous to its nature: it drew its
force not from force itself, but from an idea. The word
legitimacy has been, and will still be, much abused. One loses
much by this abuse; for in trying to make it mean what it does
not, we run the risk of depriving it of what it really contains
of truth and strength. It expresses a right, real and obvious,
though limited as rights always are, when existing simultaneously
with other rights. This right has made the strength of the
Restoration, and even the Restoration itself. The Restoration was
the result of the influence which recollections of long
possession and certain moral principles and sentiments
accompanying them exercise upon the minds of men. Whatever we may
think of right--its origin, conditions, limits--we should know
that it is a fact, a powerful fact, and one which was felt as
such by Cromwell and William III., as well as in the reign of
Charles II.

It is the consequence of this fact that, founded as it is upon a
moral idea, and sustained by those which are joined to or derived
from it, the development of its force must be sought especially
in the moral order where its principle resides. Elicited by
convictions effected in virtue of a right, convictions and rights
were at the Restoration the natural means of government. Subject
to necessity even in the moment of triumph, obliged to yield in
returning to the Revolution, it dreaded what the Revolution
desired--it had to conciliate antagonistic principles and rights;
but even that was a moral work foreign to its direct action, and
which new sentiments and new ideas could alone accomplish.
{283}
Bonaparte had rebuilt the altars, and restored its solemnities to
public worship; and notwithstanding revolutionary clamours, the
non-Catholics felt no alarm. After the Restoration, Catholicism
came to demand, and liberty of conscience to fear much more. What
had the Restoration to do to defend society and itself from this
peril? Could it, like the Revolution, or even like Bonaparte,
treat different communions now with severity, now with
complacency, and arbitrarily restrain or permit their action? No:
that would have been opposed to the general nature of its
institutions, and have shocked the respect it owed to faith as
well as to liberty. Another path was open to it: and that was, to
lay vigorous hold upon the principles of religious liberty, to
proclaim it in all its acts, to inculcate it in every mind, and
to make it, in fine, one of its doctrines of government, one of
its public creeds which, really adopted, are found everywhere
acting by their own virtue, and maintaining order almost of
themselves. All the wants of the new order prescribed to the
Restoration such a course; and it had, partly in the necessities
of its situation, and partly in its nature, what sufficed for
this noble task. The protection accorded to religious and moral
ideas was not, on its part, the confession of an error, for all
these ideas rallied spontaneously around it. The respect in which
rights were held was of great importance to it, for it drew its
own title from a right; and the maintenance of the public
liberties was not less its policy than their establishment, for
it could not, like Bonaparte, pretend to despotism by victory. It
was, in fine, its condition and its destiny to rule especially by
the moral influences, to aid in their development, to base on
their empire the order which it found restored, and to have
recourse to force but rarely, and then with regret, as a means
foreign to its nature, and the necessity of which rendered its
employment grievous.

If we consider the occasions when the present government has
tried this means, we shall be convinced, without difficulty, that
the natural laws which rule it have had little to do with its
use. Sometimes, as in the slightest popular agitations, we have
seen it used with a precipitation and to an extent which
exhibited less skill than inquietude; sometimes, as in the
proceedings of the Cour des Pairs, indications of severity were
observable sufficient to inspire much alarm, but which ended
merely in correctional punishments. The movement has almost
always appeared above the cause, and the effect beneath the
movement. I do not know if a neutral observer is in the right to
judge thus; but assuredly the employment of force, and the public
threats of severity, have failed both in motive and address; and
many believe that power has made use of them either wrongfully or
unskilfully. Either of these faults would prove that the means of
governing are improper.
{284}
It is not merit to succeed by force even at the moment when it is
invoked; but what government does not come to the end of its
means? It is still necessary that, after having set it at work,
it leaves it public, convinced that this was necessary; and that
it has used the means so well as to render this need more rare.
If the first of its convictions fail, power is suspected of
timidity and malevolence; if the second, it is taxed with want of
skill, and its employment of force has weakened instead of
strengthening it.

I will not go farther; I have said enough to show in what system
of government the Restoration seemed to me born, and how, in
trying to leave it, it would lose its advantages without
acquiring those of a different system. It cannot strengthen
itself more by judicial rigour than by conquests. If fear ever
became the machinery of its power--if, in order to maintain
itself, it was necessary to terrify the interests, opinions, and
sentiments it suspected--the more pressing would be the need, the
more useless would be the weapon, and the danger would increase
with the necessity. Our government, then, can still less than
other governments rely upon the indirect efficacy of capital
punishment. Rarely simple, and often in the complication of its
effects more hurtful than profitable, this means would carry into
the present régime more trouble than security. No one in France
or in Europe will ever think that the Restoration is called upon
to crush all it may fear. It has not been able to give such
proofs of its physical force, that the minds of men submit as a
matter of course to its frequent use. When it strikes, many
people are tempted to believe it more severe than just, or more
in danger than it is in reality, and its strokes awaken less the
idea of its energy than of its danger. More than one government,
after great severities, has been considered still weak; and in
such case it finds itself in the worst of conditions--that of a
power whose weakness provokes conspiracy, and which tries
afterwards to fill up, by means of punishments, the abysses which
that weakness has opened. The reason is, that force must exist
before it pretends to inspire fear; and in the case of the
Restoration, the sources of force must be sought for elsewhere
than in the means of terror. I repeat that power itself has now
an instinct of this; for it has not, while administering
death-punishment, that confidence, that certainty of success,
which is almost its only guarantee. It causes, yet fears the
sentiments this melancholy spectacle may excite, without feeling
assured of the terror it wishes to inspire; and this instinct is
not a mistake, but the voice of nature. It is bound to moderation
in punishment, just as in its exterior relations it is bound to
peace. The Charter has abolished confiscation, and the
Restoration justly honours the Charter. I do not demand the
abolition of capital punishment; but I am convinced that, against
its enemies, government gains nothing by this agent, and would
gain much by showing itself very niggardly in its use.
{285}
It can no longer have a physical and direct efficacy. Its moral
efficacy is not so great in political as in private offences; it
is powerless in inspiring aversion to crime; it is equivocal and
mixed with the most various results when tending to the
propagation of fear; and it is more feeble, more uncertain, and
more perilous to the present government than to powers of a
different origin and position. Is this enough? It would be well
were this all. But many other reasons, and many more dangers,
suggest themselves; and these I shall proceed to indicate.



                   Chapter V.

      Double Character Of The Government.


What power seeks in the employment of capital punishment is
security. I have shown that this it does not find; but that it
often finds what it does not seek, and what it should and always
does wish to avoid.

There are some simple truths which no one disputes, which good
sense immediately admits, and yet which are no sooner admitted
than forgotten. The reason is, perhaps, that being adopted
without debate, we are not led to think of their consequences.

Here is a truth of this kind. Every government has a double
character. Charged with maintaining public order and justice, and
conducting the affairs of the state, it represents the social
interest. Formed of men, and thus liable to the passions and
vices of our nature, it has, besides, a personal interest, which
is, to execute its will, and preserve at any price its existence.

That these two characters are united in power, that the one is
legitimate, and the other illegitimate, and that institutions
have for their object the constraining of the government to act
by the former, and to fortify the people from the perils of the
latter, who will deny? Who would even insinuate a doubt? Power
itself would not dare to do so. But in this instance power
forgets what it would not for a moment deny.

From the fact, that it is only called upon to act in the social
interest, while it still preserves a distinct personal interest,
proceeds this consequence, that all it does in virtue of the
former character fortifies it, and all it does in that of the
latter weakens it.

{286}

However frequently misunderstood, this is evident. I do not speak
of legitimacy, nor of justice, nor of any moral obligation.
Independently of every motive of this kind, it is clear that if
power acts only for its own sake, in the sole interest of its
will or durability, it separates itself from society, courts a
risk of detection, and if detected, exposes itself to being
forsaken or even attacked by that general force from which its
own has sprung.

That prudence prescribes to power to show itself ever in its
social, and dissemble its individual aspect, and that it is of
importance to its existence to appear on every occasion the
representative of the public interest, and not the minister of
its own, would serve to show, if it were necessary to show, its
continual efforts to appear what it is not, and to pass for the
organ of society even when it acts against its wants or wishes.

To abjure its personal, in order to retain its social character,
would be, on the part of power, an act of the highest virtue. To
convince the people that it acts only in the general interest,
and binds up its destiny in theirs, would be its greatest art. To
keep itself apart, preoccupied with its own affairs, and in all
the nakedness of its distinct existence, would be foolish and
perilous in the extreme.

There was a time when governments could so act with less danger.
When they drew their revenues from their own domains, when they
possessed their places of war like an estate, when they formed
armies of adventurers, attracted by the pay alone, and pledged to
serve everywhere, then power had a separate existence, and a
distinct form from that of society. If skilful, it still tried to
identify itself with the country, and so received from it a much
greater strength; but if incapable or passionate, it could
isolate itself at least for a time, to live on its own funds, and
preserve some reality whilst losing its public character, and
allowing its personal sentiments and interests to predominate in
its acts and language.

But this time is past: power, which cannot live of itself, can no
longer live by itself. Everything draws it towards society. Does
it want money!--society must give it: laws?--society must approve
of them. If it acts, its acts arc judged; if it speaks, its words
are commented on: the public weighs constantly upon it by the
rule of necessity. As the representative of society, its strength
may be great, greater than ever; but if special and isolated, it
is a cipher. Alone to-day, it will be nothing tomorrow.

It has, then, the greatest interest in avoiding every appearance
of egotism, and in making its public character obviously
predominate over its individual one.

{287}

But there are traits which belong to one more than the other of
these characters, symptoms which reveal the latter, but not the
former. The employment of capital punishment politically is of
this kind. It announces the predominance of the personal
existence of power over its social existence, and shows it to be
occupied with itself, and combating a peril which perhaps
threatens only itself. And what is more natural? When we look at
history, and ask why so much blood has been shed on the political
scaffold, it is seldom that the spirit of past society rises to
reply, 'That blood was shed for me.' Governments almost always
present themselves alone to give account of these punishments:
their own passions, faults, interests, commanded them; and next
to the victims themselves, society suffered most. I know that the
prospect of this future responsibility troubles power but little,
and less because it is perverse, than because, like men, it is
reckless; but we have at least gathered from it this knowledge,
that the necessities of a power which kills, often false with
regard to itself, are almost always so with regard to society;
and that if it must kill in its own defence, that defence is
necessary merely because it willed those things which suited no
interest but its own.

This knowledge, little disseminated formerly, and almost confined
to moralists, is now popular; it has become a sort of instinct,
which reveals to us, in all their extent, the position and the
illusions of power. When it is said that the illusions of what we
call monarchy are dissipated, and its prestiges vanished, we know
not how much to believe. It is not, however, in reality, a
question of illusions and prestiges; it is that things themselves
are changed: every sphere of existence or of action is enlarged;
and that which was particular has become general, not only for
society and its guarantees, but for the government and its
profit. The citizen whose affairs took him little from his
corporation, whose thoughts rarely wandered beyond the walls of
his town, now knows himself to be engaged and compromised in
affairs of the highest importance, and in the most complicated
deliberations. The words _judgment of the state, political
necessity_, which formerly struck upon his ear without his
comprehending their sense, although he admitted their dominion,
awaken ideas within him which trouble, and sentiments which
agitate him. He has indeed reason to be moved more than formerly;
for this government, which then had its sphere apart, higher and
greater, but also more special and restricted, has itself become
much more general, more directly, more universally associated
with the interests and life of every citizen. Does it require
money?--It demands it from all. Does it make laws?--They are for
all. Has it fear?--All maybe its object. The distinctions in the
nature of great and small exist no longer for power: its
relations are with the magistrates of a village, as well as with
the chiefs of the state; it has to produce an effect everywhere,
and everywhere receives some motive of action.
{288}
And what is astonishing in the fact of the condition of
government and the disposition of the people having changed?
These changes are reciprocal, and correspond with each other. If
power is no longer a mystery to society, the reason is, that
society has ceased to be so to power: if authority meets
everywhere with minds that pretend to judge it, it is because it
comes into daily contact with these minds: if they demand that
its conduct shall be on every occasion legitimate, it is because
it has the disposal of all the strength of the country: if the
public busies itself more with the government, government
likewise acts over a very different public, and power is enhanced
as well as liberty.

Of what, then, do you complain? Have you so little ambition that
this displeases you! It is true you have lost the independence
which belongs to a private life: your passions, and your personal
interests, can no more have a place in the new order which
surrounds you; you may not listen to their voice without its
being known, nor obey their dictates without the reproach of
failing in your mission. But what a mission is yours! If you are
in harmony with society, the whole of society is concentrated and
reflected in you. It is whilst offering itself entirely to you,
that it asks you to live only for it. Formerly, you could confide
only in a factitious policy, emanating from the ideas or desires
of a single man, and tormenting nations to adapt them to designs
they knew nothing about. But now policy must be true--that is to
say, national--and that restrains the capricious actions or
arbitrary conceptions of individuals. But what strength, what
lustre, what energy belongs to a true national policy! What power
is the best--that which represents the interests and the will of
a people, or that which accomplishes only the thoughts, and
responds only to the interest, of a man! I own I have no
hesitation in deciding.

Hesitation, however, is of little consequence. I only insist at
present upon this new state of society, to prove that power is
not free to choose; and that if its conduct were to appear
dictated by the necessities of its personal situation, rather
than those of the social, which should be manifested in it, it
would soon fall into a profound weakness; for society would soon
be aware that it was separated from the fate as well as interest
of the public, and acted only for itself. And how can it be
supposed that capital punishment, employed politically, will not
awaken this idea in society! There are fearful times, I know,
when the people themselves call for and excuse it. I do not
believe nations to be secure from those frightful maladies which
engender human passions and errors. But a crisis of this kind is
rare, and not of long duration; and it is precisely when it does
take place that capital punishment becomes most odious. Remember
the burst of kindly feeling with which France turned towards the
emigrants in spite of all mistrust, past animosities, and every
possible prejudice, the revolutionary policy was overturned,
because it could neither become just nor remain cruel.
{289}
Since that period, capital punishment has been in political hands
a weapon which compromises power more than serves it, and to
which power has scarcely ever recourse but when in peril on its
own account and from its own errors. It might be said that
society, terrified by what it has seen, will no longer accept the
responsibility of any political punishment, but is determined to
believe that if it must be employed, government alone has need of
an instrument which its own faults have rendered necessary. And
that is especially true of a government which is not of
yesterday, but has already held out, and is able to take its true
position. If it were now only struggling into life, we might
think with regret that it had not had time to become known, or to
dissipate by its wisdom the perils surrounding it, and that
examples were still necessary, and the severities of to-day only
the forerunners of peace tomorrow. But if the government has been
long enough established, if legal means and leisure have not
faded in their influence, if it has been able to show itself
wise, and become strong by its harmony with the public, then
conspiracies cannot spring up again, nor punishments recommence,
without society immediately repelling from itself both the
necessity and the blame. Then power is again invested with this
personal and isolated character which destroys it: it is no
longer social power; and society, instead of seeing its own
reflection, beholds only an interest which is not its own, wants
which it disavows, and intentions in which it has no share. The
justice of such a government is not true justice, and its
necessities are not real necessities.

There is, in fact, in political chastisements, as in other
things, a true justice and necessity, often distinct from legal
justice and the necessities of power. Governments have long given
up troubling themselves on the subject. In barbarous times--and
their duration was long--legal justice did not seem to have been
required at all; the personal necessities of power being
sufficient. When attacked, it had every right to defend itself,
and the execution of a conspirator called for little more delay
or formality than the death of an enemy. By degrees, however,
legal justice was introduced into public policy, the people began
to think, and power was forced to admit that there were other
things besides war, and that against crimes of this nature, as of
every other, laws, forms, proofs, and judgments were necessary.
This was an immense progress, and it is now approaching its
consummation. But the career of progress is not yet stayed--the
public cry is still, Go on! The laws which regulate the
chastisement of political crimes may be insufficient or even bad;
and the necessities which deliver up culprits to the laws may be
false.
{290}
Society goes the length of supposing this more especially when
the question is of capital punishment. Suspecting that power is
isolated from it, and looks to its own interest alone, it is at
the same time convinced that that interest does not suffice to
legitimise punishments, and that power has not the right of
defending itself at all risks. Sufficiently enlightened to know
that infallible justice does not belong to any law, and that were
laws even without fault in themselves, the faults of men would
corrupt them in their administration, society now neither relies
upon the personal wants of power nor upon the legality of its
processes. It would have these wants founded on reason, and these
processes in equity. Whether it obtains this or not, its demands
continue; for it is aware of the justice of the debt, and though
refused, it is not forgotten. Moreover, has not one political
condemnation, legally pronounced, succeeded better in our days in
convincing the people of its necessity and justice, than the most
arbitrary executions of former times? Let not power mistake this
new exaction of the public; for it is a powerful and irrevocable
one, and is allied to all the progress, and all the moral wants
of civilisation and of the human mind. Let it not flatter itself
in thinking to escape by taking refuge behind the laws: it has
long rejected their yoke, and now it would make them a shield
when beaten on an open field, and would possess itself of the
citadels armed against it, and then think itself inviolate. But
it will be pursued to this asylum, which will be shown to have
been profaned more than once by deceit and iniquity. It may plead
that the punishment was legal; but it will be asked if it was
just or necessary. Is it, indeed, so politically? And in what
case, and under what conditions? We must descend to these
questions, for the public thought itself descends to them, and
will have an answer. A government which would give itself no
concern in such questions, but say with Pilate--'I wash my hands
of the blood of this man: see ye to it,' such governments would
soon learn that they do not escape; that no deceit, no laws, can
save from impending danger a power at once egotistical and
hypocritical, which, in separating itself from society and truth,
makes for itself a justice which is not true justice, and a
necessity which is not the necessity of the country.

{291}


                    Chapter VI.

                     Justice.


Need I say that if there were a justice anterior and superior to
legal justice, there would be no legal justice. Montesquieu has
made this principal truth the principal idea of his book: 'To say
that there is nothing just or unjust but what positive laws order
or forbid, is to say that rays were not regular before the circle
had been traced.' It would be strange if natural justice, in
virtue of which legal justice exists, should cease to be from the
moment the latter was written. But it does not cease to be, or
even to speak; it has in principle its general conditions, and on
each occasion its particular will, which legal justice is bound
to carry out.

I shall mention presently the progress of a struggle between the
two; but we must first inquire what true justice is, before
supposing it to fail in obtaining what it desires. Morally
speaking, there are two parts in every action--the morality of
the act itself, and the morality of the agent. The morality of
the act depends on its conformity with the eternal laws of truth,
reason, and morality, which no man knows fully, but only aspires
to know, judging according to the degree of that knowledge of the
merits or demerits of human actions. The morality of the agent
resides in the intention--that is to say, in the idea which he
has himself conceived of the morality of the action--and in the
purity of the motives which carry him on to its accomplishment.
When these two are at variance, the fact is shown in the daily
conduct and common language of men. 'He has done ill,' they say,
'but he intended to do well;' that is, the action may be
absolutely culpable, and yet the agent personally innocent.

But will Divine justice consider only the intention? or will it
punish error? I dare not decide. Error is often caused by vanity,
passion, the preoccupations of personal interest, or of
pride--that is to say, by what is wrong. How does this wrong
affect individual unconsciousness of error? It is seldom given to
men to decide the point; God alone can see clearly into the
depths of the conscience. But this is certain, that the judgment
of man can neither absolve the guilt of the action because of the
intention of the agent, nor condemn the agent without taking the
intention into account. Thus our nature wills it.

{292}

Unable to solve such a problem, legal justice is obliged to act
as if it did not exist. It declares certain actions to be
culpable, and punishes those who commit them, without troubling
itself to inquire whether they are guilty in intention or not.
And in this there is no reproach to be cast on legal justice; for
the effects of bad actions are in themselves so fatal to society,
that it cannot give up to individual opinion the right of
deciding upon them: it declares their nature, and takes care that
its laws are observed.

But there are here two remarks to be made. First, that society
thus absolutely incriminating certain actions, is bound to be in
the right in its condemnations; and second, that although the
laws cannot be rendered subordinate to the intention of
individuals, they cannot abolish this element of man's judgment;
and when, therefore, in their application they have the
misfortune to punish an intention evidently pure, the natural
sentiment of justice is offended. Legal justice, then, runs a
double risk--that of erring in its general incriminations; and
that of encountering, in the application of its rules, particular
facts in which a circumstance occurs it has not taken into
account, and which, nevertheless, will act powerfully upon the
mind of man--honesty of intention. If there is a species of
action in which this double obstacle in the way of legal justice
is most real and apparent, certainly it is political crime. I
have already said that the character of such an offence is
variable and even conditional, and that, moreover, it is
difficult to decide upon and appreciate it justly. Who does not
know, too, that error is nowhere more easy, and that the purest
intentions are here often associated with the most immoral acts!
Some persons, struck with these facts, have gone so far as to
think that, morally speaking, there are no political offences;
that force alone creates them; and that good or bad fortune is
the test of their culpability. I do not share in this idea in any
degree. It germinates in those unfortunate times when the duties
and rights of citizens disappear, or become obscured, so to
speak, under the mantle of despotism, or in the storm of
revolutions; but the light has not ceased to be because an
eclipse has hidden it. The endeavour to change the established
government, even if it did not involve any private crime, may
unite in the highest degree the two general characters of
crime--the immorality of the act, and the wickedness of the
intention. It matters little, then, that its end is political; it
does not less constitute a true crime, which ought to be
punished, and perhaps with justice. Neither insurrections nor
conspiracies have the privilege of innocence; and if virtue has
often succumbed in its resistance to tyranny, history has no want
of criminal conspirators.

What is certain is, that on no occasion is legal justice more
exposed to deviate from natural justice, or has more difficulty
in identifying itself with it. I leave out of question, as may be
seen, everything that corrupts legal justice itself; I do not
avail myself of the passions either of power, or of the judges,
nor of the facility offered of twisting the laws, nor of the
obstacles which the defence of the accused may meet with,
notwithstanding the strict observation of forms.
{293}
Suppose impartiality and liberty everywhere, and yet I say, or
rather see, that even then, and through the nature of things,
true justice is in danger. The moral merit or demerit of such an
action has not that degree of certainty which belongs to private
crime: it depends upon an infinity of circumstances, which the
foresight of the law cannot reach. The consideration of intention
has more power here than anywhere else; for doubt is more easy,
motives less directly personal, the causes of illusion more
pressing, and the passions perhaps less impure. What will prevent
these facts, for they are facts, from acting upon the public
mind? Who will hinder it from seeing and taking account of them?
The more difficulty the judges have in adapting the laws, the
more the citizens, who judge also, will be shocked to see the
laws indifferent to reasons which influence their own judgment.
The imperfection of legal justice will declare itself in all its
extent; and, in fact, what is the imperfection of justice but
injustice?

This is felt: power has not been slow in comprehending that, in
placing itself thus upon moral ground, in considering actions in
their communication with the laws of eternal morality and the
intentions of their authors, it would often have great difficulty
in defending and proving the legitimacy of its decisions. The
attempt has been made to cheat the instinct of men, to elude
their disposition, to compare legal with natural justice, and in
order to succeed in this, the question has been carried
elsewhere. Power has taken up its ground in the social interests
and the maintenance of order; it has represented crimes as
hurtful rather than culpable; and shunning the absolute justice
of punishments, it occupies itself with their utility.

I might say much upon this transposition of the question, but I
must hasten towards my end, and shall do nothing more than
indicate the error. It is not true that crimes are punished
especially as hurtful, nor that the ruling consideration of
punishment is its utility. Attempt to condemn and punish as
hurtful an act which every one considers innocent, and you will
see how much you will revolt the minds of men. Men often believe
acts culpable, and punish them as such, when they are not so; but
they cannot endure the sight of chastisements descending from a
human hand upon actions which they think innocent. Providence
alone has the right of treating innocence severely without
accounting for its motives. This astonishes and troubles the
human mind, which, knowing that it cannot fathom the mystery
here, seeks beyond our world for an explanation. But on the
earth, and where human beings are the actors, chastisement has no
right but over crime. No public or private interest can induce a
society, however disorderly, to believe that where there is no
crime, the law may still punish to prevent a danger.
{294}
Moral offence is, then, the fundamental condition of
chastisement. Human justice exacts this imperiously before it
admits the legitimacy of punishment; and legal justice deceives,
when, to free itself from the exigencies of natural justice, it
attributes to itself another principle, and another end, and
pretends to find them in utility. But it cannot thus escape from
its name, which is justice, and become merely a combination, more
or less skilful, of means of defence for the profit of such or
such an interest. They confine the madman who has taken life, but
do not punish him; because, being incapable of reason and
responsibility, he is incapable of crime. Let the penal laws,
then, not hope to escape, under the pretext of social interest,
from being obliged to conform to the rules of natural justice:
they will always have to submit to this criterion, whether in
their generality or application; and when power judges and
punishes, it can neither change the conditions with which the
judgments of moral justice are formed, nor deviate from them
without causing a universal feeling of the iniquity. That being
understood, and legal justice thus brought back to the empire of
natural justice, I will admit that social interest is also one of
the motives which enter into the discrimination of offences and
their punishment. It is not the first, for it would be without
value were it not preceded by the moral reality of the offence;
but it is the second, for society has the right of condemning and
punishing whatever is at once culpable, hurtful, and of a nature
to be repressed by the laws. Moral criminality, social dangers,
and penal efficacy, are the three conditions of criminal justice,
the three characters which ought to be met with in the actions it
condemns and the punishments it inflicts.

That is the true ground on which legal justice is established. It
participates in our greatness and our misery. It is in relation
at once with the sublime nature of man and the infirmity of his
condition. It cannot be pure moral justice; but it is obliged to
retain its principal characteristic of punishing those only who
morally deserve punishment. On this condition it undertakes to
repress everything that is hurtful to society; and in this design
of which an interest, or, if you please, a terrestrial necessity,
is the principle, it meets with another limit, and submits to
another condition--that of the efficacy of the means it uses to
prevent the evils it fears--or, in other words, the efficacy of
written laws and external chastisements.

I arrive now at the question, thus reduced to its true elements,
and examine what is, with regard to political crimes, true legal
justice, and more especially with regard to capital punishment.

{295}

Let me remark, in the first place, that of the two constituent
characters of every offence--the immorality of the act, and the
social danger--the more the latter predominates over the former,
the more the legitimacy of capital punishment becomes doubtful,
and its application cruel. There are some crimes so evident, and
so odious, that the instinctive feeling of men calls for the
death of the culprits as the only chastisement proportioned to
the deed. But a single glance will show that these are not the
crimes which can put society in great danger. They outrage
natural feelings and moral laws, and show in the criminal a
degree of perversity or ferocity which our nature hates to look
upon, as if it were insupportable to find to what a point of
depravity and dishonour it could attain. Social danger is a
complex idea, the fruit of reflection and knowledge, which does
not awaken in mankind this spontaneous and violent antipathy. If,
in all offences, the two principles of criminality were equally
and exactly balanced, the penal laws would have but little
trouble. But this is not the case; for offences are, so to speak,
diversely composed: in one it is immorality which predominates,
in another danger; and according to the relations of these two
elements of crime, the punishment must vary, not only for the
sake of justice, but because the public feeling expects it, and
will not see justice in the punishment on any other condition.
But capital punishment being the gravest of all punishments, and
much the more so now when human life is more generally respected,
it is naturally adapted only to crimes of such wickedness as
would perhaps provoke its infliction even if it were banished
from the laws. Wherever social peril is the principal element of
the offence, capital punishment is no longer founded upon our
moral nature; it is excessive both in justice and in public
opinion.

Every one admits that, generally speaking, political crimes are
in this position. They may be detestable, but, in general, they
are dangerous; and it is in this latter character that the law
punishes them with severity. Let me inquire if capital punishment
is a necessary, or even useful severity. It is with justice I
occupy myself at this moment. But it is not in the power of any
law to contrive that, in the opinion of men, the justice of a
punishment should be estimated chiefly according to the moral
gravity of the offence; and this measure of justice is the more
natural, that the punishment strikes most severely in the person
of the culprit who submits to it. The justice which deals death
because of social peril, when the moral criminality is feeble or
doubtful, carries injustice in the face of it; and if it
happened, as it sometimes does happen in political affairs, that
the intention of the accused was pure, or at least
excusable--that he was mistaken in the moral character of his
action, and that his error proceeded from disinterested
illusions--then capital punishment would assume at once the
appearance of iniquity. It would be no longer a chastisement, but
the sacrifice of a human victim to terrestrial and mortal gods.

{296}

Formerly it had its excuse, I will not say in the violence of
political passions, for this violence is, and will be still
greater, but in their personality. Political struggles, like war,
were formerly struggles, man to man, between rivals pretty nearly
equal, and life was bound to the fate of power. Capital
punishment, then, appeared as a species of law of retaliation,
analogous not only to the state of ideas, but of realities.
Danger was as near and personal as in battle. This is so true,
that the greater part of the laws of barbarism--so minute in
matters of private crime, so attentive in regulating the
retribution according to the nature and amount of the
offence--make no mention of capital punishment for a political
cause. Justice had no pretence for entering here: it was of war
the question was, and the danger was so visible and pressing,
that the right of retaliation was too obvious to require to be
written in the laws. Later, it was written, and even subjected to
certain forms; but it was still retaliation, for political crimes
never menaced power without first menacing the lives of men, and
political perils were always preceded by personal ones. Power had
thus all the rights of personal defence; but at present, the
conditions of peril, as of power, are changed. The king of France
has no longer enemies in the neighbouring chateaux waiting in
ambush to seize his person, imprison, and perhaps kill him, and
that even without the hope of reigning in his place, but merely
from avarice, from vengeance, for the recovery of a domain, or
for a right which he disputed, or had ravished from them. The
greater number of conspiracies are vague, and a thousand barriers
rise up between a government and its enemies. Instead of an
individual and certain danger, the question is commonly of a
complicated and social danger, formed of confused projects and
means of action frequently ridiculous. How can it be thought that
crimes of this kind call for capital punishment as clearly or
loudly as they formerly did? Such culprits, when preparing the
crime, placed themselves, as it were, at the foot of the scaffold
erected by their own hands. Now this scaffold is raised
laboriously, and the culprits must almost always be dragged to it
from a distance, and made to mount before the eyes of a public
who have seen neither distantly nor at hand either the crime or
the danger. I do not believe that the condition of power is worse
than it was; but if it is better, it is not power alone that
should profit by the favourable change, but likewise justice.
Now, justice very rarely authorises the employment of capital
punishment against those crimes in which there is more appearance
of social danger than moral wickedness. What will be the case if
we sound the peril itself deeply? This is the motive of the
punishment, the fundamental element of the criminality; and this
element should at least be powerful, and the motive have the
extent and reality which are attributed to it.

{297}

I will presently enter in a direct manner into this question; and
I will therefore remark upon it here only in passing, and with
regard to its effect on the justice of capital punishment.
Observe, the question is of a social danger. I myself think with
the laws. When public order is menaced, and the general forms of
government or the persons who represent them are attacked, it is
society which is in danger. A government must be bad, indeed, and
no one can say _how_ bad, before society prefers the
terrible chance of distraction to even the slightest hope of
reform. There are doings and secrets hidden by Providence under a
veil which it alone can raise.

This admitted, I still insist and repeat that the question is of
social danger. In order that society may suppose the peril to
justify capital punishment, that peril must be its own, and in
the danger of power it must see its own danger. However wearisome
the words may have become, it is still necessary to repeat, that
power exists only for society, and that all its rights correspond
with its mission.

But is it quite certain that society is really so often in danger
as power believes it to be? Is it quite certain that the dangers
which power dreads are indeed those which it is the object of the
penal laws to prevent? Is it not possible that they are neither
so great, nor perhaps at all the same, as those which have
appeared serious and frequent enough between power and society to
render death a legitimate punishment?

I affirm nothing, for nothing can here be affirmed generally and
beforehand; but I consider that danger in its special nature is
the principal element of criminality, and I recognise in it a
double character. It is not certain that it does exist, nor that
it is really the social danger against which the laws are
directed.

The same differences which separate political from private crimes
in their relations with morality, distinguish them still in their
relations with the public interest. That assassination and theft
are always equally hurtful to society, and morally culpable, is
never doubted, and remains true whatever may be the faults or
merits of the government. There is no relation between the
conduct of power and the danger occurring to society from crimes
of this kind. Under a tyranny, as under the most liberal regime,
the same danger exists in all its extent and intensity.

In the case of political crimes, on the contrary, danger--I mean
social danger--varies according to the conduct of power, and the
advantages derived from it by society. Certainly, in 1802, France
was in more danger from the fall of Bonaparte than in 1814; for
in 1802 Bonaparte served France faithfully, both at home and
abroad, while in 1814 he compromised and oppressed her. I attach
no value to a permanent and blind hostility to power; but power
in its turn has no right to pretend that it will be always found
equally good and equally necessary, and that its dangers are
always alike dangerous to society.

{298}

Thus in the very nature of that social danger, in the name of
which they would take life, there is one cause of uncertainty.
Here is a second cause. In private crimes, as I have already
said, at the same time that the wicked and hurtful character of
the offence is indubitable, its reality is certain. A murder or
robbery has been committed, and a search is made for the
criminal. It is certain that an offence has been committed
against morality, and society put in danger, and upon whom will
the punishment fall? In a political matter, the reality even of
the crime is, as we have seen, often called in question; and the
social danger is likewise a matter of dispute. There are men
accused of conspiracy, and in order to their conviction, it must
be proved that there has been a conspiracy, or, in other words,
that society has been put in danger; and if the conspiracy is not
proved, neither will the danger be so, at least in the eyes of
the law. While in other cases the wickedness, danger, and reality
of the crime are positive data, from which the accusation sets
out, here the accusation goes first, and may be proceeded upon
without there being a legal crime, a social peril, or a wicked
act at all.

I proceed always, and it is impossible to do otherwise, upon the
hypothesis, that the danger of society and that of power is one
and the same. It is the only legitimate and the only legal
hypothesis. It is fully established when the power is good; and
it is long before it can become so bad that society may
reasonably desire its fall; and in the immense interval which
separates these two terms of its career, it is not to be doubted
that power has a right to make use, for its own preservation, of
the laws instituted for preserving the public order in its own
person. But if power forfeits this right only through greater
crimes, or more absurd errors, its faults before this fatal epoch
do not cease to have an influence; they have the infallible
effect of weakening the feeling of society as to the danger of
power and its own, and thus they introduce into legal justice,
especially when severe, a measure, or at least an appearance, of
iniquity. When governments separate themselves from society, and
feel society retiring from them, they flatter themselves they can
bring it back by severity against its enemies. They are mistaken.
Society judges of the severity by the opinion it has of its own
danger, not by that which it forms of theirs. If only moderate
punishments wore employed, it would perhaps consider them
equitable; for, though discontented with power, society does not
desire its destruction, or think that it has lost every right of
using the laws in its defence. But if government makes use of the
laws, as if society were in full harmony with it, it awakens and
fortifies the feeling of disagreement, deepens the abyss which
already separates them, and allows the time to pass for filling
it up by other means.

{299}

Such are the conditions to which legal justice is subjected in
political affairs; such are the facts in the midst of which it
works, without power to escape from their bondage. It has to do
with crimes whose moral perversity is sometimes equivocal, in
which the intention may be excusable, and which cause more danger
than aversion. It must rather consider, therefore, the danger
than the immorality, and desire the prevention of perils which
are not always equal or certain, nor perhaps menace alike power
and society--thus causing society to doubt the equity of
punishments, and giving power an air of egotism and isolation
fatal, especially in our days, to its strength. When legal
justice is called upon to pronounce judgment on such offences, it
finds itself before a natural justice which takes account of
every thought, weighs every fact, and speaks so loudly, that it
must be faithfully obeyed. What is in such circumstances the
character of capital punishment? Everything that could otherwise
confer upon it a certain degree of legitimacy fails to do so
here, not only in the eyes of attentive reason, but of the
spontaneous instinct of men; and at the same time it meets with
everything that can make it unjust, suspected, and odious; it is
directed against danger and crime, but without the assurance of
striking at a legitimate danger or the true criminal; and in
order to arrive at justice, it runs a thousand chances of
committing iniquity. And let not power aver that these chances
are but little apparent; let it not flatter itself that the
public is not aware of them, and show itself, in dealing justice,
less exigent than truth demands. The public knows much of its own
rights, and of the rights of true justice; and what it is still
ignorant of, it will be taught. All such questions will be
brought forward and debated over and over again. Men will learn
to understand them, and they will insist upon the rights they
discover themselves to possess. Truth will be aided in its
entrance into their minds by their interests, sentiments, and
even passions; and in proportion as it gains ground, capital
punishment, flying before justice, will be driven for refuge to
the last asylum where it can defend itself--the necessities, if
not of society, at least of power--and thither we must follow it.

{300}


                   Chapter VII.

                    Necessity.

I might dispense with this part of the question. If capital
punishment is of little efficacy, and I think I have proved the
fact, how can it be necessary? However, I will glance at the
question, even at the risk of meeting by the way the indirect
paths which have conducted me to it.

Let it not be forgotten that I do not propose the legal abolition
of capital punishment. Were I to demand this, it would be
properly answered, that the existence of such punishments is
necessary, though their application may seldom be so; and I would
then have to demonstrate that not only is there no need of the
punishment of death, but that it is absolutely useless to have it
written in the laws. I admit that these are two distinct
propositions which have no dependence on each other, and with the
latter I do not meddle. I do not break this arm of capital
punishment in the hands of power, I merely maintain that, in
general, it is wrong to use it. I examine, then, very freely what
is called its necessity; for if, in general, this does not exist,
it is well to know it; and if ever real, we shall do no harm.

I have shown that the efficacy of punishments varies according to
times, manners, and different states of civilisation. The case is
the same with their necessity, not only because they are only
necessary when efficacious, but for more direct reasons. Formerly
the public strength was small, and individual strength great and
licentious; and the severity of punishment made up for the
insufficiency of the means of power. The wisest kings of the old
ages directed frightful laws against the slightest disturbances.
Were they wrong in so doing? I think not. Physical order was
everywhere met by enemies capable of destroying it, and always
ready to attempt its destruction. Central power, without
administration, without police, stripped even of the chief rights
of sovereignty, and reduced to the personal resources of the
sovereign, could not defend society, or even itself, without
constantly opposing physical force to physical force; and very
frequently the cruelty of the laws, and the number of
punishments, proved only its wisdom and desire to protect the
public. The chronicles of these times, too, especially praise as
just and popular those princes who punished severely and
frequently. They were, like the first heroes of Greece, occupied
in purging society of its bandits and monsters.

{301}

But what would society of the present day think of a power which,
to maintain order, had recourse to such means? It would consider
such a power as odious and insane; and this because the means of
order have changed with the social constitution. On the one hand,
order is maintained, as it were, of itself by the general
regularity of manners, the universality of labour, and the public
knowledge of the true social interests; on the other, society is
concentrated: the public strength is immense, and individual
strength small and little aggressive. Every physical resource and
every moral influence are placed in the hands of power: it
disposes of the riches of the country, of its magistrates, and of
its soldiers: no one is too great or too obscure not to fear it.
It is everywhere, and everywhere ready to prevent crime or
danger. What is the great merit of this new condition?--The
maintenance of order at the expense of little blood. When
disorder has been great and general, it was not the effusion of
blood which could stop it: it was by good administration, not by
punishments, that Bonaparte established order in France. Five
hundred years earlier, and after crises much less important than
revolution, they bordered the roads with gibbets, and often
without success.

That which is true of the necessities of social order is also
true, and even more so, of the necessities of political order.
Power can now defend itself at the cost of much less blood than
society.

But let us take a nearer view of the varied characters of the old
and present perils of power. Whence formerly proceeded the
dangers of a sovereign, or even of a minister? From his rivals
and competitors. The House of York disputes the crown with the
House of Lancaster, and if one of the two exterminate the other,
it will reign in safety. Charles VII. had a favourite, Giac, whom
the Constable of Richmond carries oft', judges summarily, and
puts to death; and then the constable returns to exercise a
dominion over the king, which he has assured to himself by the
assassination. Cardinal Richelieu struggles against dangers of
the same kind, and defends himself by analogous means. Those who
menace men in the possession of power are those who desire its
possession. Political questions almost always occur between
individuals; and death, which has power to decide either way, is
called a necessity.

Where, now, are these enmities, and this personal ambition, which
power thus disputed? Who flatters himself with seizing or
preserving supremacy by the mere destruction of an enemy? No one.
I do not speak of ministers: factions are not always mad; but
none is so much so as to think that their chiefs may be invested
with the ministry, by killing those of the opposite faction. As
for sovereigns, more than one in Europe believes himself menaced;
but is it by a rival or a pretender? Have the revolutions of
Spain, Portugal, Naples, Piedmont, been the fruit of a litigation
for the throne, the work of an ambitious subject?

{302}

It is evidently not so. The nature of political dangers is
changed. The struggle is no longer between men, but between
systems of government. The fate of ministers, or even that of
dynasties, is not regulated by the fate of their adversaries, but
by that of the system they adopt or represent. Formerly
communities had masters, between whom the battle was fought; but
now they are really free, for it is from them alone, or the great
parties which divide them, that power can draw not merely its
strength, but its pretensions. From them, also, can its dangers
alone arise. The question is no longer who governs, but how he
governs? Individuals are no longer, I repeat, but the instruments
and interpreters of the general interest. Is it not clear that
against such dangers, and against such adversaries, capital
punishment is neither powerful nor necessary?

It has, however, one effect; and it is this: at the same time
that it cannot destroy those whom power wishes to destroy, it
alarms those whom it does not wish to alarm. Its blows have at
once less force and more extent than is necessary. The man it
reaches is nothing in himself; he is feared and destroyed only on
account of his connection with certain interests and general
sentiments wherein the danger really resides. They desired to
dissipate the danger, and have crushed only a man; and yet the
stroke is felt throughout the whole sphere of interests of which
his was the organ. These interests do not die with his death, nor
are they even sensibly weakened; but the survivors estimate the
intention which has killed him; and say that if it were possible
they also would be killed--which, however, they know is not
possible. And this persuasion is not only spread throughout the
interests which exactly correspond with the conduct and language
of the victim, but also throughout those connected with him by
more distant relations, little felt, perhaps, during his life,
but now compromised and menaced by his death. Thus power, by
being mistaken in the nature of its dangers and enemies, brings
upon itself an immense evil without obtaining the good it sought.
It is doubly deceived in the importance it attaches to a man;
considering him both greater and more insignificant than he
really is. It has forgotten that, in ceasing to be the strength
of his party, he has become its symbol; and that what he
represents can no more be abolished in his person, than his
person can be touched without its being felt throughout the vast
circle of which he forms a part.

In this, again, the employment of capital punishment is a
perilous anachronism. It is addressed to other times, other
force, other dangers. It does not obtain what it promises, and it
produces what is not wanted. It troubles or irritates the mass of
society, to prevent the irritation and trouble occasioned by the
voice or presence of an individual.

{303}

And is it now necessary against this mass itself? That would be a
pity; for it would be all the more difficult to direct, and I
have shown how doubtful its moral efficacy is, and that its
physical efficacy is impossible. Nevertheless, if the necessity
spoken of has any reality, it must be there, for the danger is
there as well as the question. The possession of power is no
longer the object of private struggles, once sustained by such
bloody means; but the system and conduct of power are debated
between it and society; and the former has indeed great need of
defence, for it is vigorously attacked.

Why is it so, or rather with what intention is it so? This is the
grand question. The rivals who formerly disputed the empire could
not all possess it; and they were therefore obliged to kill each
other. Is it a combat of the same nature which now takes place
between power and society, or those great portions of society
which it considers enemies? Is there that radical
incompatibility, that impossibility of co-existing, which there
is between two individuals who both pretend to the same place or
the same property!

This is not, and cannot be. What its adversaries demand of power,
is not the position it occupies, but a course of conduct which
suits their views. General interests never govern in person, but
desire to be governed according to their own feelings and desire.
And this desire, morally speaking, the established government can
always accomplish. If it will not do so, or does not know that
such is in its power, the incapability may arise, though it is
not in the things themselves: it is power which has created it,
and the vexatious necessities thus created are its own fault.

Once set out in the way where it meets with such difficulties,
can it turn back? Or if it persists, and proceeds in employing
the means which those necessities command, will it succeed in its
design? I affirm boldly that it will fail. In our day, every
government which, through its misdeeds, draws a line of
distinction between its own necessities and the social
necessities is lost. The most terrible use of capital punishment
cannot save it, for it can never take lives enough. We have seen
situations of this kind: Bonaparte imposed upon himself the
indefinite necessity for war, just as the Convention did the
indefinite necessity for death: the Convention killed many, and
Bonaparte vanquished many; but the time came when both the
scaffold and victory refused to serve their former masters.
Social necessities, repressed for a time, regained their
dominion; and the power which had disowned them saw itself
incapable of supporting the factitious necessities which it had
put in the place of truth.

{304}

I do not admit the natural necessity of capital punishment. Or if
I do, for the sake of argument, it will be only to show that the
admission would avail nothing. I do not suppose that any power
ever existed which took no trouble to insure its definitive
success, and aspired no higher than the postponement of its ruin.
In fact such power does not exist; for if a government found its
ruin certain at the end of the course it followed, it would
immediately leave that course: what it hoped from it was really
safety. But if it were so egotistical and careless as to look no
farther than the present, I would again counsel it to beware. It
might formerly indulge in this indifference, and count upon a
long sufferance; but now everything goes quickly, the more so
that society is calm, and exhibits few tokens by its agitations
of the immense strength it can wield when necessary. The approach
of the Revolution did not escape the inert foresight of Louis XV.
If new revolutions were still nearer, perhaps they would be still
less felt under the steps of power. It would do wrong, then, to
be satisfied with precautions when the time would be so short and
the means so uncertain.

When we inquire on all sides into the necessities and dangers of
power, from not one quarter comes the answer that capital
punishment is called for by necessity, or can lessen or dissipate
danger. I have considered it in all its bearings and effects; and
I have almost always found it without legitimate motives; without
virtue when it has, if not legitimate, at least real motives;
seldom efficacious; and still seldomer just. What remains, then,
but the memory of its old services! Revolutions make successful
use of it, it is said, and will do so still. I know it; but
revolutions are not permanent; and do governments think
themselves of a like transitory nature? Prodigious error!
Governments would imitate them in displaying the same strength
and attaining the same results. But they forget that it is their
business to lay at least the foundations of that permanence which
it is the fate of revolutions to destroy, and to perish in
destroying. But after all, the mistake is not surprising; for it
is in our day, and perhaps for the first time, that this
difference has clearly appeared. Up to the middle of the
seventeenth century, revolution was, if not the permanent, at
least the habitual state of European society. Delivered up to
force and to rival forces, and to rivalries which were really
wars, society knew neither the conditions nor the means of
stability and order. The same ignorance in this respect possessed
government, factions, and people. They all in their respective
fortunes made use of the same arms, fell into the same practices,
and produced the same results. Society has now more ambition. In
tyranny or disorder it demands of government quite another thing
than mere change of name. It knows what it ought to have, and
what it can to do.
{305}
When the physical world came out of chaos, it still had its
crises; but it also had its regularity, its repose, and its
preserving laws. Though slower in emerging from disorder, the
social world, the world of man, has begun to comprehend the
profound difference between a state of peace and a state of war,
between order and disorder, between revolutionary and regular
governments. Forces differ as well as ideas, the means as well as
the end. I admit that capital punishment is of use in
revolutionary policy; but it is so in no other. A regular
government making it a necessity, and employing its aid in laying
the foundations of its repose and duration, would place itself in
the path of revolution. If it proceeded only half-way, that which
made the strength of revolutions would be its weakness; and if it
entered fully, while changing its character it would change its
destiny, and devote itself to the destruction which is the fate
even of successful revolutions. Politically, capital punishment
must in the present day be either a rapid succession of bloody
oblations to the insatiable divinities, or a useless sacrifice to
impotent idols.

Power itself, I repeat, feels this; its confidence in such means
is rather a prejudice than a belief, and, like all prejudices,
occasions disquiet and hesitation even at the moment of action.
It, however, persists in this means; and we must state the true
cause, stripping it of its pretexts and delusions, and show to
which divinity the oblation belongs. This cause is neither
justice nor necessity--it is fear; and not that legitimate and
prudent fear which looks danger in the face, and takes means to
avert it, but the blind cowardice which desires rather to be
saved from itself than from the peril, and which, without
rational intention or preconcerted design, adopts by chance
whatever presents a hope of escape. Prudence desires safety; but
fear dreads the aspect of the danger, the reality of which may
perhaps be greater to-morrow. But this matters little; power will
have shaken off in a moment the anxieties of its situation, and
will be persuaded that it has no fear. This intractable passion
never changes its nature; what it is in the obscure incidents of
private life, it is still in the bosom of greatness, always more
occupied with the torment than the danger; always giving itself
up to vain and unreasonable expedients, if they only offer a
little shelter or a little respite. And when the fears of faction
are joined to the fears of power, when this blind sentiment,
penetrating the mass of a party, becomes a collective passion,
and pushes forward one upon another individuals who fancy
themselves without personal responsibility, then reason is at an
end, every calculation disappears, and there is no longer a
question of necessity, utility, or justice. Fear becomes its own
necessity; one of those fatal necessities the empire of which
endures the more it fails in success, and into which men fling
themselves both mechanically and passionately, without being in a
state to reflect. A terrible example of this was given by the
Convention and the Jacobins.

{306}

But fear itself is deceived, and this new and last advocate of
capital punishment sees itself every moment cajoled by the hopes
which attach it to the cause. Such is the power of facts, even
when misunderstood and violated, that in our day political
severities can no more dissipate fear than danger. Their
inutility is seen even by the blindest fear; they can neither
procure for power, nor for the terrified factions which make use
of them, more than a momentary lull, itself a source of new
anxieties. Let parties especially take heed that their condition
is not less changed than that of governments. Formerly many
individuals retained their strength and importance after the
defeat of their party; they preserved in their original force the
guarantees against reaction, and still negotiated on their own
account on fair conditions. But now what are ministers when their
power has left them? What becomes of the most considerable men of
a party when that party is overcome! They are lost in the mass of
citizens, which the public laws and true justice alone protect;
they may no longer act for themselves, and have no other
defenders than those principles which are obstacles to every
useless severity, and every pretended necessity, and which, in
the matter of punishments, interdicts to power everything with
which society can dispense. It is then now more than ever the
interest of all, of parties as well as of power, of individuals
as well as of parties, that these principles should be recognised
and introduced into the practice of government. I will try to
point out the means.



                   Chapter VIII.

                      Means.


Is there any one who does not demand the legal abolition of
capital punishment as a political engine? I think there is, and I
have contracted the obligation of proving the fact. I might, as
is often done, have raised my voice against the severities of our
penal code; I might especially have said that, drawn up on the
issue of a violent crisis, it must bear the impress of the
necessities of the day, real perhaps at that epoch, but now false
and tyrannical. Revolutions have this deplorable effect in common
with barbarism, that they bequeath to living generations the
terrible laws which were
made to put a stop to their fury.
{307}
Almost everywhere in Europe the nineteenth century bears the
punishment of the disorders of the fifteenth. Revolutionary
France weighs in the same manner on constitutional France; and it
will be long before the Charter is free from the inheritance of
the Empire. But I will not pause upon this ground; ground from
which power is not easily forced, and upon which it is not always
wrong in fortifying itself. It is too often attacked by vague
declamations and inconsiderate hopes; and declamations now-a-days
are but little respected even when their subject-matter is true.
Our epoch has a predilection for good sense; but it mistakes
oddly sometimes what it honours with this name; degrading it, and
becoming itself degraded, by conferring it upon aimless practices
or dangerous inactivity. But even then this error may be managed;
and for my part I do not ask of power that it will give us all
the good laws it can, but merely that it will employ the existing
laws agreeably to our interest and its own. This it can do, and
sometimes does. I could easily point to laws which, though not
abolished, are not, and cannot be acted upon without both shame
and danger. The statutes of Great Britain are full of penal laws
fallen into disuse. When their formal repeal is called for, the
friends of power exclaim against it; but they would exclaim quite
as much were they brought into operation.

I do not ask for repeal, which would be to forget or violate
indirectly recent and positive laws. The latitude which judges
enjoy in England does not belong to our tribunals; and neither is
it to the tribunals that I address myself. The application of the
laws is their right and duty; but the government moves in a
larger and freer sphere; it has great influence in political
processes, both before they come before the tribunals and after
they leave them. The means I seek belong to this influence, which
has them completely in its power.

The prosecution and qualification of political crimes on the one
hand, and the right of pardon on the other, are the means by
which government can, without changing or infringing on the laws,
preserve the legal domain from capital punishment, in rendering
its application more rare, and thus placing its conduct in
harmony with true justice, true social necessities, true prudence
and its own duty.

This liberty of action should involve reason in decision; and
since the arbitrary preserves a place in the attributes of power,
it should be considered to create a void that must always be
filled by justice and the public good.


{308}


                        Chapter IX.

    Prosecution And Qualification Of Political Crimes.


I know that the prejudiced will here rouse themselves to repel
me, and I know what they will say. They pretend that everything
is foreseen and absolute in the execution of criminal justice;
that the administration has no more latitude than the judges, and
that in the prosecution of crime it merely executes positive
laws, which command and regulate its acts as well as the
judgments of the tribunals. According to such reasoners,
authority knows nothing of crime before the moment of
prosecution; and from that moment there is no longer either will
or freedom. It is bound to prosecute, for no criminal must remain
unpunished; and bound to interpret the crime according to the
interpretation of the law, for the legal punishment annexed to
the offence must be inflicted.

Strange contradiction! Those very men who maintain such doctrines
are the same who preach respect for facts and contempt for
theories; and here they twist the most evident facts, in order to
adapt them to the most factitious and arbitrary theory that can
be conceived.

I confine myself to political crimes, of which alone I have to
treat. It is not true that authority has no knowledge of these
crimes, and possesses no means for their repression before the
moment they come within the ken of the law. It is untrue that
even then it has not the option to prosecute or not, or that,
when undertaking to prosecute, it is restrained by legal texts to
a single and precise interpretation.

The greater number of political crimes are conspiracies, which is
proved by the numerous accusations now brought forward. But what
is a conspiracy! An attempt at crime, often nothing more than the
project of an attempt. The law sees crime in the project, for it
requires merely the criminal intention without waiting for the
commencement of the deed. In order to stay the execution of a
project which has not commenced, but exists only in the common
thought of its authors, authority must know what it is; it must
have tracked this thought so far in the course of its formation
as to be able to seize it at the moment when it is perfected in
the moral course, without having made the smallest progress in
the physical course. Authority, then, is not generally here, as
in the case of private crimes, surprised by an unforeseen and
unexpected offence, which becomes apparent only at its
consummation, and leaves nothing to be thought of but the capture
of its perpetrators.
{309}
On the contrary, it assists at the birth of crime, and watches it
in the cradle. Why not stifle it there? What hinders it? What
compels it to allow crime to grow, that it may afterwards have to
prosecute it? It is surely no uncommon thing to crush a design in
the bud. All wise governments have done so; they have preferred
dissipating conspiracies to punishing them; and frequently, when
very near their execution, they have averted the peril, and
prevented the necessity of punishment, by merely showing
themselves to be on their guard. Henry IV., and even Cromwell and
Bonaparte, afford more than one example of this prudence.
Unskilful power, and governing factions, have alone need to wait
till they can arm themselves with the rigour of the laws; they
alone are under the necessity of allowing crime to ripen before
their eyes ere they crush it. To some the fear, and to others the
passions of a party, render this perilous and culpable conduct
necessary; and in our day it is of less use than ever. Two
instruments now in the hands of power, and almost unknown
formerly, absolve it from the necessity of having recourse to it:
these are the police and publicity. By means of the police, it is
enabled to penetrate into the most secret conspiracies; by
publicity, conspiracies denounce and thwart themselves. Formerly
authority had not so many means of obtaining information and
warning; but now, besides the secret police, it has another still
more efficacious agent, which, established everywhere, unveils
the mysteries of society, and deprives conspirators of the
resources and haunts which the general disorder offered them
before. But the effect of publicity is still greater; and
governments, blind as they are, lament the fact. They do not see
that it works for them as well as for us; since, if publicity
exposes them to the gaze of the public, it likewise exposes the
public to theirs. Conspirators can no longer live in courts side
by side with sovereigns, meditating on their plans by favour of
the universal darkness and silence. Hypocrisy is of no more avail
either for the enemies of power or for power itself. Men are
formed into classes, where each takes his place according to his
own sentiments or desires; treason fades before the light; every
thought, every intention, is unveiled; and conspiracies, formerly
the monopoly of men powerful and remarkable on the political
stage, seem now reserved for the weak and obscure. The first
would still conspire, if they could do so with success; but they
walk in broad day; every word, every step, draws attention;
whatever be their reserve and ability, they never can obtain
concealment, for publicity is the condition of their importance.
If they were silent, and hid themselves in secrecy, they would
cease to be what they are in their party; and how can they plot
successfully without silence and concealment?
{310}
Everything, in one way or other, delivers up conspiracies to
power: against those of the higher class there is publicity;
against those of the lower, the police; when they would be
powerful, they arc difficult to form; when they would grow in the
shade, they are feeble; and everywhere authority, warned in time,
has a thousand means of thwarting them before they arrive at the
smallest prospect of success.

How, then, can it be asserted that authority has but the severity
of the law for its defence, and is therefore obliged to allow
conspirators to go on towards the scaffold, tracking them quietly
along that path it could so easily close! Is it imagined that
punishments alone will prevent conspiracies? This is another
mistake; the prospect of failure acts much more powerfully than
that of chastisement in the prevention of crime. Why do so many
men, in the hope of fortune or glory, face so heedlessly the
cannon of battle? It is because they flatter themselves that the
shot will not hit _them_. The same confidence makes in a
great measure the courage of conspirators: they know very well
that the law likewise deals death, but they hope to escape its
cannon--that they will be under cover from the marksman--and this
is the idea which accompanies and sustains them in their
enterprises. But let this idea be contradicted by facts, let them
see their plots penetrated and thwarted; and here will be
discouragement and fear much more efficacious than the punishment
of death, which they would escape if undiscovered. I do not
hesitate to say that a plot baffled by the vigilance of
government, even when not punished, has more effect in
intimidating than the severest chastisements inflicted upon
conspirators who have failed by their own fault at the moment of
the outbreak.

Who will now assert that it is the legal duty of authority to
allow crime to come to a head, and wait till it is before the
judges, whose office it is to condemn? Who will say that it
abuses its option when it stops crime and punishment in their
progress towards each other? Who, on the contrary, will deny that
such is its bounden duty, and a duty the more incumbent, that it
has now more means of discharging, and less interest in
neglecting it?

But the partisans of condemnations have yet a refuge: they say
that central authority, or the higher administration, does not
institute prosecutions; that the great law officers and judges of
instruction have the duty as well as right of commencing of their
own accord in political as in other matters; and hence they
conclude that we cannot exact from a minister that which does not
depend upon him, but upon numerous and independent magistrates.

If I may be permitted to say so, I entertain a profound disgust
of those hypocritical arguments which, knowing their own
nothingness, lie without the hope of deceiving. In my opinion
this one is of the number; but yet it must receive our attention,
since it is used in the controversy.
{311}
In fact I do not fear to say that, in our day, and excepting two
cases within my own knowledge, no prosecutions for pure political
crimes, such as conspiracies and offences of the press, have
taken place but when authorised by the minister. I know well
enough how these things are managed, and I do not believe that
any _procureur du roi_ is permitted to engage government in
such processes against its will, or without its knowledge. Has
this officer the right to do so, and would the ministers allow
it? Is the action of the public ministry in matters of political
crimes spontaneous and independent in principle? The question
becomes important, and although forced to content myself with a
glance, I will not elude it.

Under a constitutional regime, there are only two kinds of
magistracies, responsible and irresponsible; and wherever power
is established, justice and liberty demand absolutely one or
other of these guarantees. It is the custom to believe that
independence results either from popular election, or permanence
of office; but though I believe that one of the two conditions
may be necessary, I do not think it is always sufficient of
itself. Independence is not so easily formed; for besides its
legal, it has moral conditions, which are not obtained by an act,
or in a day. It does not less depend upon the personal steadiness
of the magistrate, his social position, and the idea he has
himself conceived of his rights, than on the origin or duration
of his functions. They might render the prefects unremovable
to-morrow, but they would not be as independent as the sheriffs
of England, nominated by the king, and for a single year.

I do not say this in order to deny the independence of our
unremovable magistrates; for I believe that, for eight years
past, and especially in the higher courts, it has made a real
progress. Liberty cannot begin to dawn in a country where its
spirit is not everywhere diffused, even among the depositaries of
power. I do not think that this independence is yet all it should
be; and it is important not to allow ourselves to be deceived by
words, or to see in mere exterior signs the certainty and reality
of the guarantees. However this may be, it will be admitted that
if permanence of office does not secure the independence of the
magistrate, his want of permanence must imply that he is
responsible.

Unfortunately, responsibility is not easier to create than
independence; for it likewise has more important moral conditions
than those written in the laws. It has been affirmed that it
flows fully and sufficiently from permanence of office. But this
is not the case; for just as the world has seen perpetual
magistrates very little independent, so it may see removable
magistrates with a very illusive responsibility. Removableness is
not in itself an efficacious guarantee, or a principle of real
responsibility, but for the profit of the higher authority.
{312}
It is true that the power which can displace at its pleasure the
magistrates it employs, is by that circumstance alone assured of
their responsibility, so far as itself is concerned. But will
that suffice? And when we speak of the responsibility which must
supply the place of independence, is the question of that alone?

There is here a snare, perhaps placed without design, but into
which we must not fall. Do we ask of ministers to make the
responsibility of the ministry they undertake a reality? They
reply that the public ministry is independent. Does it desire
then to act as if it were so? They deprive it of this
independence in alleging its responsibility to themselves. Thus
they destroy the responsibility in alleging its independence, and
the independence in the name of its responsibility.

So, when all the responsibility of a class of magistrates lies in
their removableness, the higher power, to whom alone they are
responsible, can alone profit by it. Surely it is not
responsibility of this kind we seek, but responsibility to
society itself, to justice, and the public interest; without
which removableness is but a falsehood and a new danger.

How to escape this danger? How to realise the social
responsibility of removable magistrates? There are but two means:
the dependence which results from removableness must be combated
by the elements of independence, which, giving magistrates a
proper power, restricts the higher power in the exercise of its
right, and imposes upon it the obligation of using it but seldom,
with caution, and only in a case of absolute necessity; or the
dependence must be complete, and the responsibility of
magistrates concentrated entirely upon the high administration,
which alone offers any hold to political responsibility, since it
alone is called upon to the public discussion of its acts and
their constitutional justification.

If I had to choose between these two means, the first would
appear to me to be greatly preferable. I own that I hold that
responsibility to be of little value which leaves the place where
it originated to seek afar off for that where it will become
real, and travels from agent to agent, growing weaker from each
transition, until it has found the individual with whom it must
rest. It has, in my opinion, a great chance, after so many
changes, of becoming in the end illusive, perhaps even unjust.
And I think besides that, without giving to the public ministry
the same degree of independence which belongs to the judges, we
may regret that it has none at all. Magistrates reduced to the
condition of simple agents are no longer magistrates. They are
wanting both in authority and dignity, for dignity goes with
independence. Moreover it happens, in the nature of things, that
in many cases, in matters of private crimes, for instance, the
action of the public ministry is truly spontaneous and free.
{313}
Hence it follows that its position becomes a false one in those
cases where it has no longer spontaneousness and liberty; and the
falseness of its position proves a means of deceiving the public,
who are still told of the independence of these magistrates,
when, in fact, as in political affairs, there is no such thing.
There results from all this for the public ministry a false and
bastard position, which compromises it in the ideas of the
people, but which would cease if it were indeed a magistracy
invested with some personal consistence, with a proper degree of
strength, with independence enough to feel itself under the
weight of a direct responsibility, and summoned for the service
of power, though without holding from it every element of its
importance, and every law of its action. I repeat, I would much
prefer, and for the sake of liberty as well as of the
magistrates, a public ministry thus constituted to the
hierarchical subordination of the purely administrative regime;
but such things are not the work of one generation nor of a
legislative will. Shall we obtain them one day, and on what
conditions can such a magistracy have a place in our
constitutional system? I have nothing to do with this question
here; but assuredly, when the guarantees of the social
responsibility of the public ministry are not found to have a
degree of independence accordant with its mission, we are in the
right to seek them elsewhere. They may, it is true, be of a
partial and haphazard nature; but no matter, it is all that
remains to us. There is here a great power, a power whose action
is in a great measure arbitrary; and we need a visible and real
responsibility, at least for discussion. This is nothing more
than a right. I again affirm that in political matters the
subordination of the public ministry is complete; that here it
possesses no spontaneousness; that in almost every case it is the
higher administration that orders or holds back the prosecutions,
and decides upon their propriety and direction. Since it does
exercise this power, it is bound to make use of it reasonably,
according to the public interest: it is bound to prove that it
does use it thus; and it stands responsible for using it in
excess, or without necessity.

Here, then, is the first road opened to the economy of capital
punishment, the first means of sparing the tribunals the
necessity of a frequent application of the rigours of the law. It
rests with power to smother many political offences without
prosecuting them. In the present state of society it will find
this easy; and in the present state of the magistracy it has the
absolute right, for the prosecutions are in its hand.

Let us see the cases where it is obliged, or thinks it
indispensable to prosecute. It has not been able to arrest the
offence before the complete development of its legal character,
or at least till it supposes chastisement to be necessary. Is it
from that moment so bound by the laws, as to have no influence in
the direction of prosecutions--but is obliged to force the
criminal on towards the scaffold whenever the crime appears
susceptible of a capital qualification?

{314}

Whoever has watched for some years past the course of political
processes, must have remarked two circumstances. Sometimes the
judgment has not accorded with the indictment; the court of
assizes has believed it a duty, in the position of the question,
to lessen the severity of the public ministry, and substitute for
a capital crime one of less gravity; or the public ministry
itself has reduced its first pretensions, and combated even the
first finding which had admitted them. This is what M.
Courvoisier at Lyons did in the affair of Maillard. More
frequently the public ministry is obstinate in rigorously
characterising the offence, and exacting death as its punishment;
and in such cases we have seen the judges and jurors acquit the
accused, rather than lend themselves to such excessive severity;
so that men who would have been subjected to some punishment, had
the sentence demanded been moderate, are fully acquitted because
it was desired to drive them to the scaffold. I could cite many
instances of this kind, but I abstain from doing so, in
tenderness to the innocence thus legally proclaimed.

What do these facts prove, if not the uncertainty which often
accompanies the characterisation of political crimes? And in this
uncertainty, what obliges power to class them under the gravest
heads, and to show itself eager for capital punishment at the
risk of obtaining none at all! If I am not mistaken here, and if,
in political matters, justice, necessity, and efficacy are
generally wanting in capital punishment, must not power be too
happy in not having to grapple with so terrible an anomaly, and
the perils which spring from it, but to find, in the very nature
of such crimes, sufficient flexibility to make it easy to
characterise them more moderately! Reason commands it, the reason
of interest as well as of equity; for nothing can more compromise
power than failing totally in a capital accusation; and
experience has proved that, notwithstanding the weakness of our
judiciary institutions, it could very well do without the blood
it had refrained from demanding.

I am aware that it complains of the insufficiency of our laws,
and imputes to them both the severity and the ill-success of its
issues. They admit, it says, of no alternative: conspirators must
either be arraigned as such, and the punishment of death invoked,
or the prosecution must be abandoned; for there is nothing under
this classification and punishment commensurate with the offence.

{315}

I do not admit the excuse. The penal code, in inflicting on the
unsuccessful proposal to conspire the punishment of a long
banishment, has opened wide a door for the classification of
offences of a similar kind. Few attempts characterised as
conspiracy correspond fully with the definition of the law; and
since some features are wanting, the accusation must be indeed
absurd, and the crime imaginary, if it could not be found an
unsuccessful proposal of conspiracy. Why not reduce it, from the
first, to this character? Because exile is considered too mild;
because we are still under the dominion of those prejudices, and
this false confidence in capital punishment which I have
combated. The government thinks there is no safety but in
bloodshed; and at the risk of not obtaining this blood, they seek
capital condemnation, because ten years of exile are supposed to
be nothing.

Ten years of exile nothing! Good God! with what enemies then do
you deal? Are these men so powerful, so European, that they will
carry wherever they go their fortune and their influence, that
they will everywhere find a _point d'appui_ from which to
shake your power, and stretch forth at any distance arms long
enough to reach you? That Henry III. still feared the Duke de
Guise in refuge at Brussels--that Elizabeth was inquieted by Mary
Stuart in France--that even in St Helena Bonaparte made his
enemies tremble--may be conceived; but almost all the
conspirators you prosecute are men without fame, without wealth,
unknown beyond their canton, and who are unable to find in
foreign countries anything but misery and oblivion. You then arm
yourself even with their wretchedness; you say that it will drive
them to any hazard, and that they will attempt to return and rear
against you new dangers. There are indeed persons who have been
sufficiently daring, who have maintained some correspondence, who
have published proclamations, and who have even come to the
frontiers of the country. But what risk did you run? Did M.
Cuquet de Montarlot give you serious cause of alarm? Were the
administration, the police, the gendarmes, the custom-houses, the
passports, found to be useless against such paltry designs? And
if there is really danger in any part of our frontiers, do you
believe it to be caused by the presence of a few obscure and
impoverished exiles?

I cannot pause upon such an idea. No, assuredly, it is not true
that the punishment of exile is illusory; and if it were so, it
would be from very different causes than the personal importance
of the convicts. Few French men are anything in France: out of
France they are nothing.

If power were in the right; if it were true that there does exist
a hiatus in the penal code, and that, in desiring to inflict the
severest punishments upon political crimes, our law has forgotten
to define those that are susceptible of the lighter
chastisements, would it be very difficult to find a remedy? It is
not a rare thing to see the administration coming to the
legislative power to complain of the insufficiency of the penal
laws, and to ask new punishments for new offences.
{316}
In general, I know, the question in such cases is of aggravation;
but if it were desired to soften the laws on account of the
severity of their pretensions involving a vexatious impunity, are
not the same paths open! What obliges power to remain under the
necessity of requiring capital punishment for crimes which really
do not merit it? What condemns it to put the judges and juries so
often to the alternative of pardon or injustice? Is it not
permitted to bring less violent indictments involving lighter
punishments? Would it not be welcome thus to show itself at once
moderate and prudent, caring alike for order and equity! It is
possible that our laws in regard of political matters require
some reforms of this kind, and that power, in calling for more
merciful punishments, would obtain them more easily. I see
nothing to prevent this new means from being adopted, of
restricting the circle of capital punishment.

Thereby would be gained the important advantage of no longer
offering to the country and to Europe the spectacle of such
continual accusations of great political crimes brought against
obscure and powerless men, and which exhibit authority always
ready to arm itself with all its strength against those who are
obviously incapable of putting the fate of the state in jeopardy.
I do not think that power can have any profit in thus revealing
all its maladies, or, if we must call them so, the maladies of
the society it governs. The moral effect of such a spectacle is
deplorable. It is impossible not to conclude from it, either that
the revolutionary fever possesses the people, or that power is
unfit to govern. That party men, delivered up to the egotism of
frantic passions, delight in repeating that France is full of
lepers and brigands; that general disorder is ever on the point
of raging; and that the parliamentary opposition is itself but
the organ of the most unsocial interests and the blindest
fury--all this may be conceived: but the national honour has not
been committed to the keeping of these men; they are not held in
respect by their country, nor do they watch over its
consideration and tranquillity in Europe. But a government must
think of these duties; it belongs to the state, and it is
commanded to conceal, if such exist, the moral wounds of the
country, expecting meanwhile that its good conduct will succeed
in curing them. Surely it is not its part to disclose such
deformities, that it may avail itself of them for legitimising
such or such a system of administration! I wish, however, for
neither illusion nor falsehood; for I do not believe that power
is bound to flatter society, or to appear ignorant of the vices
or danger fermenting in its bosom.

{317}

What good can it expect from exhibiting the country so often
troubled and itself so often menaced with such agitations! It is
always a melancholy and dangerous situation for a government to
live upon the faults and errors of its people, and to seek its
strength in the manifestation of the weaknesses past or present
of the country. Besides, is not power aware that disorder is
contagious, especially after a great crisis, and that it is of
the utmost importance to stifle its symptoms in order to remove
its temptation? Much is expected from example; but it is
forgotten that although there is example in punishment, there is
the same in crime, and often more efficacious. Who will doubt
that in a country where theft is rare, the very rarity would more
powerfully contend with the temptation than would elsewhere the
severest chastisements of the thieves? How can so evident an
analogy be mistaken? A thousand times has it been observed: we
have seen murder call forth murder, incendiaries produce
incendiaries: the perverse dispositions of men reveal themselves
when called upon; and when once set forth on their course, the
rigour of the law must long be exercised against them before they
stop. This peril is greater in political crimes than in any
other; for there the guilty are more liable to self-deception,
and excite in the public, by whom they are surrounded, much less
contempt and aversion. What madness, then, in power to hold up
those continual provocations to such crimes, which spring from
the parade of political prosecutions! Truly one cannot admire too
much its inconsistency. The publicity of judicial debates not
only incommodes, but terrifies it; and it tries to get rid of the
inconvenience by concealing its incomparable advantages. Such
publicity, it tells us, reveals the temptations as well as the
terrors of crime; yet it takes no care to make this spectacle
rare, to refrain till the last extremity from opening a school
the lessons of which it holds in such dread. How does it not see
that, if these were less frequent and less solemn, they would
have less power? Their solemnity depends much upon the gravity of
the punishments in perspective: the public cannot feel the same
interest in a process which gives but a few years of
imprisonment, as if the question were of a life. If power knew
how to read the souls of the audience in such a debate; if every
thought, every emotion which it raises were developed before its
eyes, it would itself be troubled, and would assuredly doubt
whether its expected profit were not an illusion. But, blind and
unsteady, it is ignorant of this: it is not aware that every
proceeding, every word of the politically accused whom it urges
on to the scaffold, becomes the subject of the most animated
conversations and the boldest commentaries, and that the
slightest particular of his fate occasions the most lively and
most enduring reflections, even in men who would not themselves
have committed his imputed crime, and who would have felt but
little interested, if the terrible destiny which weighs upon him
had not stirred up from the bottom of their hearts every element
of pity and sympathy. Such is the effect of political
prosecutions which lead to the punishment of death: an effect
mysterious in its extent, but infallible, and which baffles in
this case the hopes of power, although power knows not how much
what its supposed gains have cost.

{318}

I might go much farther: consequences present themselves in
crowds, and all proclaim that the commonest prudence, the merest
personal interest of power, counsels it to lower the rate of its
political accusations, to diminish their number, and to make use
of every means at its disposal to frustrate conspiracies without
prosecuting them; in fine, to employ very rarely the punishment
of death--as rarely as it is attended by true justice and true
necessity. Observe what an employment a wise and skilful
administration might make of its influence; observe how, without
disarming itself, and without interference with the laws, it
might introduce into government practical reforms conformable to
the actual state of society, to the instinct of morals, and to
the real interests of power. It is for such purposes that it is
allowed, even here, that measure of the arbitrary always
inseparable from the course of human affairs. In vain it would
deny that it possesses and is able to use such a faculty. Power
is full of contradictions. When incommoded by the laws, it claims
arbitrary authority; when responsibility weighs upon it, it
pretends to be merely the executive agent. But these sophisms
deceive no one; truth easily compasses them; and when political
processes multiply beyond measure, and capital punishment is
continually invoked, it will be power, and not the laws, that
will suffer. I have shown how, either before the prosecutions or
by their direction, the legal domain of punishment might be
restricted. Let us now see what influence might be exercised
after judgment has been passed.



                    Chapter X.

              The Privilege Of Mercy.

I meet here with prejudices of another kind, as unreasonable in
my opinion, but more respectable, inasmuch as they are probably
more disinterested and sincere. Some persons suppose that the
privilege of mercy is a right purely royal, with the exercise of
which the ministry has nothing to do, and of which the king alone
disposes, with reference to nothing more than personal clemency
or equity, and without any ministerial responsibility being
attached to it, or making it a part of the enginery of
government. This was likewise the opinion of the Constituent
Assembly; and what resulted from it? That, in the constitution of
1791, the privilege of mercy was suppressed.

{319}

That this was a great error, none is more convinced than I; but
the error was consequent on the idea which still dominated in the
minds of men. Under the constitutional regime, where the
inviolability of the monarch is founded upon the responsibility
of ministers, no power of action would belong to him, and no act
could emanate from him unaccompanied by this responsibility.
Whence, otherwise, could the royal inviolability derive its
meaning, or, in other words, its guarantee?

The Constituent Assembly was aware of this necessity; and yet,
from the influence of old habits, the privilege of mercy was
still considered as a right purely personal and irresponsible in
its nature. And they came to the conclusion that it should not
continue.

It is now re-established, and very properly so, like many other
rights of which the sudden revolution had stripped the royal
power; but at the same time, like all these rights, it has
reentered the dominion of the principle which is the permanent
and tutelary condition of this power. The king, acting by advice,
and inviolable in everything, rules under the countersign of a
responsible minister. Let those who still doubt on this point at
least examine it. They have already abandoned two similar
opinions: they said that the right of dissolving the Chamber of
Deputies, and that of creating peers, were in like manner
personal to the king, free from all ministerial responsibility.
But in 1816 and 1819, the king openly exercised both by the
advice of his ministers. Such was the power of facts, that it
became necessary to pay homage to the truth of principles, and
recognise a responsibility which appeared to flow from these acts
of government. The most violent, as well as the most enlightened
members of the party now in power, have exclaimed against the
ministry to which they imputed them; and which, I think, would no
more hesitate now than it did then. The privilege of mercy is not
of another nature, for it is not placed out of the constitutional
pale, and perhaps occupies a position not less important. It is
forming too mean an idea of it to regard it as merely intended to
illustrate the goodness of the prince, and to call down blessings
upon his name. It may produce this effect, and that is one of its
advantages; but it is founded upon more extended causes and more
general interests. In fact it is a portion of the right of
justice, a remnant of the times when princes, exercising judgment
themselves, could, according to circumstances, either condemn or
absolve. In the progress of social order, the right of judging
has departed from the prince, but he has retained the right of
pardoning. What a great example of that mysterious Wisdom which
presides over the development of civilisation, and which,
unconsciously to man, calls forth from the bosom of facts
institutions and customs conformable to those eternal truths, the
laws of which human wisdom alone could never have discovered!
{320}
Balanced between the need of justice and the impossibility of
giving up to the capricious or perverse will of man the right of
ruling, society felt first the perils of arbitrary power; and in
order to free itself, established fixed laws and independent
judges, strove against the influence of individual will upon
judgments, and tried to write justice beforehand, and to connect
with it beforehand the judges. A great amelioration has been the
result of these efforts. But truth has not allowed itself to be
seized all at once; and the inevitable nature of things has not
always consented to be seen in the texts of the laws. After
having struggled against the arbitrary principle, it has been
necessary to recur to it; and in the same way that the precision
of legal judgments has been invoked against the imperfections of
men, so the conscience of man has been invoked against the
imperfections of the judgments. Thus the necessity of the
arbitrary principle, indomitable in our weakness, makes itself
felt after its danger; and in default of that infallible judge
who is wanting upon earth, the freedom which the law wished to
subdue in order to rule has now in its turn come to the succour
of the law itself.

Such is the inevitably vicious circle of human affairs. The great
error of the Constituent Assembly, both in its theories and
institutions, was to mistake this fundamental element of our
condition, and suppose that truth, reason, and justice could
belong, fully and perfectly, to certain forms and certain powers,
and that it was thus possible to banish completely the arbitrary
principle: an arrogant attempt, which could only lead to tyranny.
Such an attempt can never succeed, for it is in direct opposition
to the present system of government which the people favour, and
which it was the object of the Constituent Assembly to found. It
is the grand characteristic of the representative government to
accept freely, in many cases, the imperious necessity of the
arbitrary principle, and at once to remedy its defects in
associating it with responsibility. The greater progress we make
in this system, the more shall we be convinced that
responsibility in all its forms, and by the most diverse means,
moral or legal, direct or indirect, is its most essential
character and most powerful spring. A complete and admirable
system, then, it must be, since it recognises at once the
weakness of our nature and respects its dignity. In this system
it is impossible to prevent arbitrary power, however needful its
presence may be, from being suddenly seized upon by
responsibility. If it were otherwise, the entire system would be
falsified. The privilege of mercy would be no privilege at all.
Has the nature of this right been well examined?
{321}
It is the right of suspending, or annihilating the law; it is
that 'dispensing power' which was one of the causes of the
terrible struggle of the English nation and the Stuarts. The
kings of England maintained that it was their privilege to
recognise in particular cases the injustice or imperfection of
certain laws, and so to exempt such or such citizens from them.
The country would never agree to this, and the country was right.
All the laws and all the public rights would have been enervated
by such a privilege. The ministerial responsibility alone could,
in exercising the privilege of mercy, preserve society from that
peril; for if it remains ignorant of one function of power, it
will soon be so of others. The dispensing power of the Stuarts
desired likewise to have the right of exempting the Catholics
from certain penal clauses; but the parliament knew well that, in
policy as in morals, bad principles must be put down, and it
would neither allow itself to be over-ridden nor neutralised.

Where could falsehood elsewhere hide itself? Who does not know
that in the exercise of the privilege of mercy, as in every other
step, the king commonly decides according to the advice of his
ministers, whose duty it is to study the case, and submit to him
the reasons for decision? Who is ignorant that, on every
occasion, the petitions for pardon are addressed to the minister
of justice, and become in his office the object of an
examination, which produces a report to the king, who thereupon
grants or refuses his clemency? This clemency is free, absolutely
free, yet it desires to be enlightened; and if I am not mistaken,
when such petitions are addressed directly to the sovereign, he
himself orders them to be referred to his minister, to the end
that the regular course of administration should be
uninterrupted. In political matters this regularity is still more
scrupulous, for there the severity or clemency may affect the
entire conduct of the ministry, and the general state of the
country. Such affairs are always a subject of serious
deliberation in the council. It matters not whether the
determination which ensues be conformable or not with the advice
of ministers, for if they neither disavow nor fail in carrying it
into execution, it is their own; it belongs to their
responsibility, like all other royal decisions, the secret of
which none knows better than they. They have, then, no right to
declare themselves absolved from the consequences; they have
given their advice, fulfilled their task, and must be answerable.
The mantle of royal inviolability is itself inviolable, and no
one can pretend to cover himself with it.

Is the privilege of mercy thus brought under the common law of
constitutional principles, and fixed in the province of the upper
administration, an engine of government which might be used to
advantage to-day, and if so, what use should be made of it as
regards political crimes?

{322}

To those who would persist in seeing in it merely a means of
extending mercy to individuals, and not a political instrument of
general government, Montesquieu has replied for me:--'Letters of
pardon,' says he, 'are a great instrument of moderate
governments; the power by which a prince may pardon, when
exercised with wisdom, may have admirable effects.'

And can it be otherwise? It is especially for political crimes
that the privilege of mercy seems to be reserved--crimes
frequently of an equivocal nature, to which sincere errors may be
allied, and sentiments worthy of respect; by which society may
not always appear to be threatened; in which the peril--the
principal element of the crime--is wanting; and, in short, in
which want of success acts more efficaciously than chastisement.
In private crimes, pardon supposes error, or at least excessive
severity of judgment: and it may thus have the inconvenience of
shaking the authority of legal justice, or the confidence in the
wisdom of the laws. Too widely used, it would point out vices to
reform in the tribunals or the codes; it would make the royal
clemency a new jurisdiction, a tribunal of equity called upon to
revise all criminal judgments; and offering, neither in the
administrative instruction which preceded the sentences, nor in
their forms, any of the prudent warrants of ordinary tribunals.
In political crimes, none of these inconveniences are to be
dreaded: here pardon implies neither the error of the chief
judges, nor even, in a legal point of view, the immoderate rigour
of their decree. It neither compromises nor shakes their
authority in any way: it simply reveals the intention of the
sovereign of treating with gentleness even those of his subjects
of whom he has to complain: a moral and politic intention, that
has no dispute with the laws, and does not alter their credit,
but addresses itself to a circle of sentiments or ideas
completely foreign to that in which legal justice moves. One may
even presume that, in such a sphere, the habit of clemency, far
from discouraging the severity of jurors or judges, would make
them less timid and more free. The idea is so natural, that the
public has sometimes seemed to believe that a particular
political condemnation had been pronounced only in the prospect
of a pardon to neutralise its rigour. Thus, by an economy of
blood, we might perhaps gain the facility of example; power would
have all the merit of the moderation, and the citizens who, in
the courts of assize, often hesitate, and with good reason, when
it is necessary to condemn a man to the scaffold, would manifest
with less pain their disapprobation of his attempts or his
designs.

{323}

We fear the effects of impunity; we fear that confidence of
courage which supposes moderation to result from weakness or
cowardice. But I have never known any governments taxed with
weakness but those that were really weak; and with regard to
them, I know of none to whom rigour can supply the wanting
strength. It is the most obstinate error of power to take on
every occasion the effect for the cause. Thus, if discontent is
general, it imputes it to the symptoms by which it is manifested.
Since strong governments have been rigorous, it concludes that
every rigorous government must be strong. I have already exposed
this absurd mistake, and I find it here in all its grossness.
Doubtless it is possible that mildness may be allied to weakness,
and malevolence encouraged by it; but it is not from the mildness
the evil comes, but from the weakness--that real weakness which
betrays itself in severity the same as in mercy. I am ashamed to
insist upon these commonplaces of common sense; but what is to be
done? When the error is a vulgar one, it is by vulgar truths it
must be subdued. Besides, what do you call impunity? Is it
banishment, imprisonment, transportation? These are the next
punishments to death, and you may substitute them for it. Amusing
impunity! Do you not see that similar commutations are in
absolute harmony with the present state of morals and the nature
of political dangers? We are no longer in the time of strong and
indomitable passions, which survived suffering and irons, and
were found, after twenty years of impotence and captivity, in all
their energy. Such sentiments belong to those epochs when even
liberty is morose, when life offers few distractions and few
pleasures, when the ideas which occupy the mind of man are few
and simple, and are not of that conflicting nature which confuses
and agitates the soul, drifting at random in the midst of an
advanced civilisation. In our day the prison or banishment takes
men away from a commodious and pleasant existence; and they
regret a thousand enjoyments they knew not in former times, and
receive from punishment much more efficacious warning. Yet they
do not experience in exile or prison those ferocious violences
which formerly irritated them so deeply, rendering them as much
more untractable as they were more miserable. In the present day,
even without liberty, a prisoner's physical sufferings are not
such as to disable him from reflecting on the causes of his
misfortune, recognising his imprudences or errors, calming
perhaps, or at least terrifying himself, and returning one day
into society more softened than enraged. A power, however wanting
in skill, would find, I am sure, in these features of our social
state a thousand means of working upon the condemned enemies
whose lives it had spared. Besides, whose is the necessity for
the blow? Political perils are not immutable; though substantial
now, perhaps in two years they will have disappeared; and the man
who is to-day their instrument, will then have neither the power
nor even the idea of hurting the consolidated government.
{324}
A bandit or an assassin robs or kills on his own account, from
motives purely personal, and without troubling himself as to
whether the disposition of society is favourable, or whether he
will receive from it protection or support. But political crimes
are not so isolated: right or wrong, they are in correspondence
with the condition of the public, from whom they promise
themselves indulgence or even succour; they are to a certain
extent crimes of circumstances, and would not have been
committed, or perhaps conceived, if circumstances had been
different. And wherefore be in such a hurry to kill when the
circumstances may change! The present peril is foreseen; the
condemned is in the hands of power, which, in sparing his life,
may yet retain him in impotence while the danger continues. The
danger past, of what use is severity? Is it so difficult to keep
some mercy in reserve for days of security? If you have not this
foresight, but hasten to irrecoverable steps, know you what will
happen? That the trouble and danger will go on increasing, and
you will be demanded an account of your needless severity. But if
fortune is more favourable, and danger departs, and the storm
subsides--then, when safety has returned, and society sees no
more in a pressing peril the motive of your rigour, it will
forget peril and motive together: it will remember only your
bloodthirstyness; and governed by that instinct of truth which
does not permit us to attribute to the death of a few men the
return of peace and order, it will say that you have sacrificed
to your fear or your vengeance those whom you might have spared
without danger.

It would be right to think thus; and the fact which is revealed
in this sentiment is the political uselessness of capital
punishment. It must be seen from a distance, in order to be
judged properly as to its effects; and more than once,
governments have had to regret having lost the opportunity
offered to them by the privilege of mercy. Hurried away by the
passions or perils of the moment to give it full sweep, they have
afterwards found themselves weighed down by obligations and
recollections, the burden of which they deplored. In the midst of
the mobility of human affairs, it is a great fault in power to
bind itself by irrecoverable acts. A day may come when the blood
which it shed, apparently forgotten, will bubble up between it
and the men it has most need of. Formerly, the brutality of
manners and power of personal interests were such, that obstacles
like this gave way easily before new circumstances; but in the
present day, notwithstanding the unchangeable levity of our
nature, they are more real and more difficult to surmount, for
public opinion lends them a force which they could not always
derive from the constancy of individual sentiments. The prudent
use of the privilege of mercy disperses them, as it were,
beforehand, and leaves power a freedom of movement, which it is
of great importance for it to preserve. In what consists wisdom,
if not in foresight! Let governments be possessed of that, and I
doubt if they will frequently make use of capital punishment.

{325}

Here is the last consideration. I have hesitated to present it,
for I would not be accused of advising cowardice; and yet I will
set it down--for it is true. Formerly the depositaries of power,
ministers or others, risked in political struggles their life as
well as position. It was the necessity of the time that such
combats should always have a revolutionary character, and that no
one could retire from them vanquished to find security in repose.
The constitutional system and public manners have changed this
gloomy condition of public men; they may now fall without danger,
and even re-enter the lists for the recovery of their power. The
people are better governed, and the governors more safe. May
nothing alter this new aspect of political life! Ministers would
deceive themselves did they think to shake off the responsibility
which rests upon them by disputing its limits. When facts become
serious, and the gravest interests are compromised, then
subtilties lose their empire; everything is decided with
simplicity, and they answer in their whole conduct for all the
counsels they have given or omitted. I know that such a prospect,
presenting itself to the eyes of a public man, should not induce
him to relax in his duties: it should rather teach him the
obligation to look well about him; not to believe lightly in
pretended necessities, or to satisfy himself in the days of his
power with such frivolous excuses as have no value when those
days are past; to reduce as far as in him lies that circle of
political death-punishment already so happily contracted; and, in
short, to employ to this end, in his function of counsellor to
the throne, the whole force which his responsibility lends him.



                   Chapter XI.

                   Conclusion.


Before concluding, I have read again that treatise in which it is
said we may discover the deepest and most odious secrets of
tyranny--the treatise of _The Prince_; and I have found a
passage which I wish to quote. In its expressions, and even
ideas, it belongs rather to the manners and policy of the
sixteenth century than to our own; it speaks more especially of
personal enmities and treasons, of assassinations and political
perils which belong more to the ferocious struggles of personal
ambition than to the clashing of general interests or contending
systems of government.
{326}
However, it is good to know what was thought of conspiracies and
their importance by a great man, who, living in the midst of
punishments and factions, an unmoved observer of facts and their
results, undertook to teach governments by what prudence they
might surmount such casualties.

  'One of the most powerful safeguards,' says Machiavel, 'that a
  prince can have against conspiracies, is to be neither hated
  nor despised by the mass. The man who conspires believes always
  that, by the death of the prince, he will satisfy the people;
  but if, on the contrary, he thinks it would offend them, he
  will not have the courage to go forward, for the difficulties
  which surround conspirators are infinite. We know by experience
  that there have been many conspiracies, but few that have
  succeeded. He who conspires cannot do so alone, nor choose his
  companions but among those whom he supposes to be discontented.
  But when you have intrusted your secret to a malcontent, you
  have furnished him with the means of throwing off this
  character, for, by revealing the design, he may hope for every
  kind of profit. Seeing, on the one hand, the profit certain,
  and on the other nothing but doubts and perils, he must be a
  rare friend indeed, or else a very obstinate enemy of the
  prince, to keep faith with you. Reducing the thing to the most
  simple terms, I say that, on the side of the conspirators, all
  is fear, mistrust, and dread of chastisement; while on that of
  the prince are the majesty of power and of the laws, and the
  strength of his friends and of the state. When to all this is
  joined the good-will of the public, it is impossible for any
  one to have the temerity to conspire. In ordinary cases, a
  conspirator has much to fear before the perpetration of the
  crime; but here he has to fear even after it; for, the crime
  accomplished, he will have the people for enemies, and so can
  hope for no refuge. A number of examples on this point might be
  given, but I will content myself with one which occurred in the
  time of our fathers. Annibal Bentivoglio, who governed Bologna,
  having been assassinated by the Canneschi in a conspiracy, and
  leaving no heir but John, who was still an infant, the people
  rose after the murder and massacred all the Canneschi, an
  effect of the popular good-will enjoyed at that time by the
  family of Bentivoglio. ... From this I conclude that a prince
  has little to fear from conspiracies, if he enjoys the
  good-will of the people; but that, if the people are his
  enemies, he has to fear everything and every citizen.'
  [Footnote 18]

    [Footnote 18: _Il Principe_, c. xix.; Opere di Nic,
    Macchiavelli, t. vi. pp. 316-318.]

{327}

I would not be so confident as Machiavel, nor go so far as to say
that the popularity of power is enough to discourage the audacity
of conspirators. But if, in the sixteenth century, the most
profound adept in Italian policy thought that the strength of
power against conspiracies resided not in its punishments, but in
the satisfaction of general interests, and the relation borne to
them by the system of government, how will it be in our own day?
Machiavel found conspiracies very difficult to deal with, and
capital punishments very insufficient when power was not popular;
and now, when the question is to stir up the masses to a struggle
against the powerful organisation of great governments, would
conspirators have fewer obstacles to contend with? Would capital
punishments have more virtue? I have already answered the
question. The tasks of justice and policy are distinct, more so
than they ever were, and the one cannot supply the place of the
other. If policy is not equal to its own, or if it is ignorant
of, or offends the public will, in vain would it summon to its
assistance punishments against individuals. Punishments may
destroy men, but they can neither change the interests nor
sentiments of the people. But what do I wish? Neither effeminacy
nor impunity. To combat a useless rigour, I have merely gathered
these facts together, and have shown that against moral dangers
and general forces such rigour is without efficacy. The character
of generality which the dangers of power now bear will be also
found in these means. It may kill one or several individuals, and
severely chastise one or several conspiracies; but if it can do
no more than this, it will find the same perils and the same
enemies always before it. If it is able to do more, let it
dispense with killing, for it has no more need of it: less
terrible remedies will suffice. It will see, as Machiavel says,
that a government protected by public approbation stands on a
vantage-ground, where conspiracies are as impotent against power
as capital punishment is impotent against conspiracies.



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{328}

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