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Buckle Henry Thomas
History of Civilization in England, Vol. 2 of 3

Only two years after the publication of the Spirit of Laws, Turgot delivered those celebrated lectures, of which it has been said, that in them he created the philosophy of history.⁹⁴⁹ This praise is somewhat exaggerated; for in the most important matters relating to the philosophy of his subject, he takes the same view as Montesquieu; and Montesquieu, besides preceding him in point of time, was his superior certainly in learning, perhaps in genius. Still, the merit of Turgot is immense; and he belongs to that extremely small class of men who have looked at history comprehensively, and have recognized the almost boundless knowledge needed for its investigation. In this respect, his method is identical with that of Montesquieu, since both of these great men excluded from their scheme the personal details which ordinary historians accumulate, and concentrated their attention upon those large general causes, by the operation of which the destinies of nations are permanently affected. Turgot clearly perceived, that, notwithstanding the variety of events produced by the play of human passions, there is amid this apparent confusion a principle of order, and a regularity of march, not to be mistaken by those whose grasp is firm enough to seize the history of man as a complete and single whole.⁹⁵⁰ It is true that Turgot, subsequently engaged in political life, never possessed sufficient leisure to fill up the splendid outline of what he so successfully sketched: but though in the execution of his plan he fell short of Montesquieu, still the analogy between the two men is obvious, as also is their relation to the age in which they lived. They, as well as Voltaire, were the unconscious advocates of the democratic movement, inasmuch as they discountenanced the homage which historians had formerly paid to individuals, and rescued history from being a mere recital of the deeds of political and ecclesiastical rulers. At the same time, Turgot, by the captivating prospects which he held out of future progress,⁹⁵¹ and by the picture which he drew of the capacity of society to improve itself, increased the impatience which his countrymen were beginning to feel against that despotic government, in whose presence amelioration seemed to be hopeless. These, and similar speculations, which now for the first time appeared in French literature, stimulated the activity of the intellectual classes, cheered them under the persecutions to which they were exposed, and emboldened them to the arduous enterprise of leading on the people to attack the institutions of their native land. Thus it was, that in France every thing tended to the same result. Every thing indicated the approach of some sharp and terrible struggle, in which the spirit of the present should war with the spirit of the past; and in which it should be finally settled, whether the people of France could free themselves from the chains in which they had long been held, or whether, missing their aim, they were doomed to sink still lower in that ignominious vassalage, which makes even the most splendid periods of their political history a warning and a lesson to the civilized world.

CHAPTER VII
PROXIMATE CAUSES OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION AFTER THE MIDDLE OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY

In the last chapter but one, I have attempted to ascertain what those circumstances were which, almost immediately after the death of Louis XIV., prepared the way for the French Revolution. The result of the inquiry has been, that the French intellect was stimulated into activity by the examples and teachings of England; and that this stimulus caused, or at all events encouraged, a great breach between the government of France and its literature; – a breach the more remarkable, because during the reign of Louis XIV. the literature, notwithstanding its temporary brilliancy, had been invariably submissive, and had intimately allied itself with the government, which was always ready to reward its services. We have also seen that, this rupture having arisen between the governing classes and the intellectual classes, it followed, that the former, true to their ancient instincts, began to chastise that spirit of inquiry to which they were unaccustomed: hence those persecutions which, with hardly a single exception, were directed against every man of letters, and hence too those systematic attempts to reduce literature to a subserviency similar to that in which it had been held under Louis XIV. It has, moreover, appeared, that the great Frenchmen of the eighteenth century, though smarting from the injuries constantly inflicted on them by the government and the church, abstained from attacking the government, but directed all their hostility against the church. This apparent anomaly, of the religious institutions being assailed, and the political institutions being spared, has been shown to be a perfectly natural circumstance, arising out of the antecedents of the French nation; and an attempt has been made to explain what those antecedents were, and how they acted. In the present chapter, I purpose to complete this inquiry by examining the next great stage in the history of the French mind. It was needful that, before both church and state could fall, men should change the ground of their hostility, and should attack political abuses with the zeal they had hitherto reserved for religious ones. The question, therefore, now arises, as to the circumstances under which this change took place, and the period when it actually occurred.

The circumstances which accompanied this great change are, as we shall presently see, very complicated; and, as they have never yet been studied in connexion with each other, I shall, in the remaining part of this volume, examine them at considerable length. On this point it will, I think, be practicable to arrive at some precise and well-defined results respecting the history of the French Revolution. But the other point, namely, the time at which the change took place, is not only much more obscure, but by its nature will never admit of complete precision. This, however, is a deficiency it possesses in common with every other change in the history of man. The circumstances of each change may always be known, provided the evidence is ample and authentic. But no amount of evidence can enable us to fix the date of the change itself. That to which attention is usually drawn by the compilers of history is, not the change, but is merely the external result which follows the change. The real history of the human race is the history of tendencies which are perceived by the mind, and not of events which are discerned by the senses. It is on this account that no historical epoch will ever admit of that chronological precision familiar to antiquaries and genealogists. The death of a prince, the loss of a battle, and the change of a dynasty, are matters which fall entirely within the province of the senses; and the moment in which they happen can be recorded by the most ordinary observers. But those great intellectual revolutions upon which all other revolutions are based, cannot be measured by so simple a standard. To trace the movements of the human mind, it is necessary to contemplate it under several aspects, and then coördinate the results of what we have separately studied. By this means we arrive at certain general conclusions, which, like the ordinary estimate of averages, increase in value in proportion as we increase the number of instances from which they are collected. That this is a safe and available method, appears not only from the history of physical knowledge,⁹⁵² but also from the fact, that it is the basis of the empirical maxims by which all men of sound understanding are guided in those ordinary transactions of life to which the generalizations of science have not yet been applied. Indeed such maxims, which are highly valuable, and which in their aggregate form what is called common sense, are never collected with any thing like the precautions that the philosophic historian ought to feel himself bound to employ.

The real objection, therefore, to generalizations respecting the development of the intellect of a nation is, not that they want certainty, but that they lack precision. This is just the point at which the historian diverges from the annalist. That the English intellect, for example, is gradually becoming more democratic, or, as it is termed, more liberal, is as certain as that the crown of this country is worn by Queen Victoria. But though both these statements are equally certain, the latter statement is more precise. We can tell the very day on which the Queen ascended the throne; the moment of her death will be known with equal precision; and there can be no doubt that many other particulars respecting her will be minutely and accurately preserved. In tracing, however, the growth of English liberalism, all such exactness deserts us. We can point out the year in which the Reform Bill was passed; but who can point out the year in which the Reform Bill first became necessary? In the same way, that the Jews will be admitted into parliament, is as certain as that the Catholics have been admitted. Both these measures are the inevitable result of that increasing indifference to theological disputes, which must now be obvious to every man who does not wilfully shut his eyes. But while we know the hour in which the bill for Catholic emancipation received the assent of the crown, there is no one now living who can tell even the year in which similar justice will be granted to the Jews. Both events are equally certain, but both events are not equally precise.

This distinction between certainty and precision I have stated at some length, because it seems to be little understood,⁹⁵³ and because it is intimately connected with the subject now before us. The fact of the French intellect having, during the eighteenth century, passed through two totally distinct epochs, can be proved by every description of evidence; but it is impossible to ascertain the precise time when one epoch succeeded the other. All that we can do is, to compare the different indications which the history of that age presents, and arrive at an approximation which may guide future inquirers. It would perhaps be more prudent to avoid making any particular statement; but as the employment of dates seems necessary to bring such matters clearly before the mind, I will, by way of provisional hypothesis, fix on the year 1750, as the period when those agitations of society which caused the French Revolution entered into their second and political stage.

That this was about the period when the great movement, hitherto directed against the church, began to be turned against the state, is an inference which many circumstances seem to warrant. We know on the best authority, that towards the year 1750, the French began their celebrated inquiries respecting political economy,⁹⁵⁴ and that, in their attempt to raise it to a science, they were led to perceive the immense injury which the interference of government had produced on the material interests of the country.⁹⁵⁵ Hence a conviction arose that, even in regard to the accumulation of wealth, the authority possessed by the rulers of France was mischievous, since it enabled them, under the notion of protecting commerce, to trouble the freedom of individual action, and to prevent trade from running into those profitable channels which traders are best able to select for themselves. Scarcely had a knowledge of this important truth been diffused, when its consequences were quickly seen in the national literature, and in the habits of national thought. The sudden increase in France of works relating to finance and to other questions of government, is, indeed, one of the most remarkable features of that age. With such rapidity did the movement spread, that we are told that, soon after 1755, the economists effected a schism between the nation and the government;⁹⁵⁶ and Voltaire, writing in 1759, complains that the charms of lighter literature were entirely neglected amidst the general zeal for these new studies.⁹⁵⁷ It is not necessary to follow the subsequent history of this great change; nor need I trace the influence exercised shortly before the Revolution by the later economists, and particularly by Turgot, the most eminent of their leaders.⁹⁵⁸ It is enough to say, that within about twenty years after the movement was first clearly seen, the taste for economical and financial inquiries became so common, that it penetrated those parts of society where habits of thought are not very frequent; since we find that, even in fashionable life, the conversation no longer turned upon new poems and new plays, but upon political questions, and subjects immediately connected with them.⁹⁵⁹ Indeed, when Necker, in 1781, published his celebrated Report on the Finances of France, the eagerness to obtain it was beyond all bounds; six thousand copies were sold the first day; and the demand still increasing, two presses were kept constantly at work in order to satisfy the universal curiosity.⁹⁶⁰ And what makes the democratic tendency of all this the more obvious is, that Necker was at that time one of the servants of the crown; so that his work, looking at its general spirit, has been truly called an appeal to the people against the king by one of the ministers of the king himself.⁹⁶¹

This evidence of the remarkable change which, in or about 1750, the French mind underwent, and which formed what I term the second epoch of the eighteenth century, might be easily strengthened by a wider survey of the literature of that time. Immediately after the middle of the century, Rousseau published those eloquent works, which exercised immense influence, and in which the rise of the new epoch is very observable; for this most powerful writer abstained from those attacks on Christianity,⁹⁶² which unhappily had been too frequent, and exerted himself almost exclusively against the civil and political abuses of the existing society.⁹⁶³ To trace the effects which this wonderful, but in some instances misguided, man produced on the mind of his own and of the succeeding generation, would occupy too large a share of this Introduction; though the inquiry is full of interest, and is one which it were to be wished some competent historian would undertake.⁹⁶⁴ Inasmuch, however, as the philosophy of Rousseau was itself only a single phase of a far larger movement, I shall at present pass over the individual, in order to consider the general spirit of an age in which he played a vast, but still a subsidiary part.

The formation of a new epoch in France, about the year 1750, may be further illustrated by three circumstances of considerable interest, all pointing in the same direction. The first circumstance is, that not a single great French writer attacked the political institutions of the country before the middle of the century; while, after that period, the attacks of the ablest men were incessant. The second circumstance is, that the only eminent Frenchmen who continued to assail the clergy, and yet refused to interfere in politics, were those who, like Voltaire, had already reached an advanced age, and had, therefore, drawn their ideas from the preceding generation, in which the church had been the sole object of hostility. The third circumstance, which is even more striking than the other two, is, that almost at the same moment there was seen a change in the policy of the government; since, singularly enough, the ministers of the crown displayed for the first time an open enmity against the church, just as the intellect of the country was preparing for its decisive onslaught on the government itself. Of these three propositions, the first two will probably be admitted by every student of French literature: at all events, if they are false, they are so exact and peremptory, that it will be easy to refute them by giving examples to the contrary. But the third proposition, being more general, is less susceptible of a negative, and will therefore require the support of that special evidence which I will now adduce.

The great French writers having by the middle of the eighteenth century succeeded in sapping the foundations of the church, it was natural that the government should step in and plunder an establishment which the course of events had weakened. This, which took place in France under Louis XV., was similar to what occurred in England under Henry VIII.; for in both cases a remarkable intellectual movement, directed against the clergy, preceded and facilitated the attacks made on them by the crown. It was in 1749 that the French government took the first decisive step against the church. And what proves the hitherto backward state of the country in such matters is, that this consisted of an edict against mortmain, a simple contrivance for weakening the ecclesiastical power, which we in England had adopted long before. Machault, who had recently been raised to the office of controller-general, has the glory of being the originator of this new policy. In August 1749,⁹⁶⁵ he issued that celebrated edict which forbade the formation of any religious establishment without the consent of the crown, duly expressed in letters-patent, and registered in parliament; effective precautions, which, says the great historian of France, show that Machault ‘considered not only the increase, but even the existence of these ecclesiastical properties, as a mischief to the kingdom.’⁹⁶⁶

This was an extraordinary step on the part of the French government; but what followed showed that it was only the beginning of a much larger design.⁹⁶⁷ Machault, so far from being discountenanced, was, the year after he had issued this edict, intrusted with the seals in addition to the controllership;⁹⁶⁸ for, as Lacretelle observes, the court ‘thought the time had now come to tax the property of the clergy.’⁹⁶⁹ During the forty years which elapsed between this period and the beginning of the Revolution, the same anti-ecclesiastical policy prevailed. Among the successors of Machault, the only three of much ability were Choiseul, Necker, and Turgot, all of whom were strenuous opponents of that spiritual body, which no minister would have assailed in the preceding generation. Not only these eminent statesmen, but even such inferior men as Calonne, Malesherbes, and Terray, looked on it as a stroke of policy to attack privileges which superstition had consecrated, and which the clergy had hitherto reserved, partly to extend their own influence, and partly to minister to those luxurious and profligate habits, which in the eighteenth century were a scandal to the ecclesiastical order.

While these measures were being adopted against the clergy, another important step was taken in precisely the same direction. Now it was that the government began to favour that great doctrine of religious liberty, the mere defence of which it had hitherto punished as a dangerous speculation. The connexion between the attacks on the clergy and the subsequent progress of toleration, may be illustrated, not only by the rapidity with which one event succeeded the other, but also by the fact, that both of them emanated from the same quarter. Machault, who was the author of the edict of mortmain, was also the first minister who showed a wish to protect the Protestants against the persecutions of the Catholic priesthood.⁹⁷⁰ In this he only partly succeeded; but the impetus thus given soon became irresistible. In 1760, that is only nine years later, there was seen a marked change in the administration of the laws; and the edicts against heresy, though not yet repealed, were enforced with unprecedented mildness.⁹⁷¹ The movement quickly spread from the capital to the remoter parts of the kingdom; and we are assured that, after the year 1762, the reaction was felt even in those provinces, which, from their backward condition, had always been most remarkable for religious bigotry.⁹⁷² At the same time, as we shall presently see, a great schism arose in the church itself, which lessened the power of the clergy, by dividing them into two hostile parties. Of these factions, one made common cause with the state, still further aiding the overthrow of the ecclesiastical hierarchy. Indeed, the dissensions became so violent, that the last great blow dealt to spiritual ascendency by the government of Louis XVI. proceeded not from the hands of a layman, but from one of the leaders of the church; a man who, from his standing, would, under ordinary circumstances, have protected the interests which he now eagerly attacked. In 1787, only two years before the Revolution, Brienne, archbishop of Toulouse,⁹⁷³ who was then minister, laid before the parliament of Paris a royal edict, by which the discouragement hitherto thrown upon heresy was suddenly removed. By this law, the Protestants were invested with all those civil rights which the Catholic clergy had long held out as the reward of adherence to their own opinions.⁹⁷⁴ It was, therefore, natural that the more orthodox party should condemn, as an impious innovation,⁹⁷⁵ a measure which, by placing the two sects, in some degree, on the same footing, seemed to sanction the progress of error; and which certainly deprived the French church of one of the chief attractions by which men had hitherto been induced to join her communion. Now, however, all these considerations were set at nought. Such was the prevailing temper, that the parliament, though then in a mood very refractory to the royal authority, did not hesitate to register the edict of the king; and this great measure became law; the dominant party being astonished, we are told, how any doubt could be entertained as to the wisdom of the principles on which it was based.⁹⁷⁶

These were omens of the coming storm; signs of the time, which those who run may read. Nor are there wanting other marks, by which the true complexion of that age may be clearly seen. In addition to what has been just related, the government, soon after the middle of the eighteenth century, inflicted a direct and fatal injury upon the spiritual authority. This consisted in the expulsion of the Jesuits; which is an event, important not only for its ultimate effects, but also as an evidence of the feelings of men, and of what could be peaceably accomplished by the government of him who was called ‘the most Christian king.’⁹⁷⁷

The Jesuits, for at least fifty years after their institution, rendered immense services to civilization, partly by tempering with a secular element the more superstitious views of their great predecessors, the Dominicans and Franciscans, and partly by organizing a system of education far superior to any yet seen in Europe. In no university could there be found a scheme of instruction so comprehensive as theirs; and certainly no where was displayed such skill in the management of youth, or such insight into the general operations of the human mind. It must, in justice, be added, that this illustrious society, notwithstanding its eager, and often unprincipled, ambition, was, during a considerable period, the steady friend of science, as well as of literature; and that it allowed to its members a freedom and a boldness of speculation which had never been permitted by any other monastic order.

As, however, civilization advanced, the Jesuits, like every spiritual hierarchy the world has yet seen, began to lose ground; and this not so much from their own decay, as from a change in the spirit of those who surrounded them. An institution admirably adapted to an early form of society, was ill suited to the same society in its maturer state. In the sixteenth century, the Jesuits were before their age; in the eighteenth century, they were behind it. In the sixteenth century, they were the great missionaries of knowledge; because they believed that, by its aid, they could subjugate the consciences of men. But, in the eighteenth century, their materials were more refractory; they had to deal with a perverse and stiff-necked generation; they saw in every country the ecclesiastical authority rapidly declining; and they clearly perceived that their only chance of retaining their old dominion was, by checking that knowledge, the progress of which they had formerly done much to accelerate.⁹⁷⁸

Under these circumstances, the statesmen of France, almost immediately after the middle of the eighteenth century, determined to ruin an order which had long ruled the world, and which was still the greatest bulwark of the church. In this design they were aided by a curious movement which had taken place in the church itself, and which, being connected with views of much wider import, deserves the attention even of those for whom theological controversies have no interest.

Among the many points on which metaphysicians have wasted their strength, that of free-will has provoked the hottest disputes. And what has increased the acerbity of their language, is, that this, which is eminently a metaphysical question, has been taken up by theologians, who have treated it with that warmth for which they are remarkable.⁹⁷⁹ From the time of Pelagius, if not earlier,⁹⁸⁰ Christianity has been divided into two great sects, which, though in some respects uniting by insensible shades, have always preserved the broad features of their original difference. By one sect, the freedom of the will is virtually, and often expressly, denied; for it is asserted, not only that we cannot of our own will effect anything meritorious, but that whatever good we may do will be useless, since the Deity has predestined some men to perdition, others to salvation. By the other sect, the freedom of the will is as strongly upheld; good works are declared essential to salvation; and the opposite party is accused of exaggerating that state of grace of which faith is a necessary accompaniment.⁹⁸¹

These opposite principles, when pushed to their logical consequences, must lead the first sect into antinomianism,⁹⁸² and the second sect into the doctrine of supererogatory works.⁹⁸³ But since on such subjects, men feel far more than they reason, it usually happens that they prefer following some common and accredited standard, or appealing to some ancient name:⁹⁸⁴ and they, therefore, generally class themselves on the one side under Augustin, Calvin, and Jansenius; on the other side under Pelagius, Arminius, and Molina.

Now, it is an interesting fact, that the doctrines which in England are called Calvinistic, have been always connected with a democratic spirit; while those of Arminianism have found most favour among the aristocratic or protective party. In the republics of Switzerland, of North America, and of Holland, Calvinism was always the popular creed.⁹⁸⁵ On the other hand, in those evil days, immediately after the death of Elizabeth, when our liberties were in imminent peril; when the Church of England, aided by the crown, attempted to subjugate the consciences of men; and when the monstrous claim of the divine right of episcopacy was first put forward;⁹⁸⁶– then it was that Arminianism became the cherished doctrine of the ablest and most ambitious of the ecclesiastical party.⁹⁸⁷ And in that sharp retribution which followed, the Puritans and Independents, by whom the punishment was inflicted, were, with scarcely an exception, Calvinists:⁹⁸⁸ nor should we forget, that the first open movement against Charles proceeded from Scotland, where the principles of Calvin had long been in the ascendant.

This different tendency of these two creeds is so clearly marked, that an inquiry into its causes becomes a necessary part of general history, and as we shall presently see, is intimately connected with the history of the French Revolution.

The first circumstance by which we must be struck is, that Calvinism is a doctrine for the poor, and Arminianism for the rich. A creed which insists upon the necessity of faith, must be less costly than one which insists upon the necessity of works. In the former case, the sinner seeks salvation by the strength of his belief; in the latter case, he seeks it by the fullness of his contributions. And as those contributions, wherever the clergy have much power, always flow in the same direction, we find that in countries which favour the Arminian doctrine of works, the priests are better paid, and the churches more richly ornamented, than they are where Calvinism has the upper hand. Indeed it is evident to the most vulgar calculation, that a religion which concentrates our charity upon ourselves, is less expensive than one which directs our charity to others.

This is the first great practical divergence of the two creeds: a divergence which may be verified by any one who is acquainted with the histories of different Christian nations, or who has even travelled in countries where the different tenets are professed. It is also observable, that the Church of Rome, whose worship is addressed mainly to the senses, and who delights in splendid cathedrals and pompous ceremonies, has always displayed against the Calvinists an animosity far greater than she has done against any other Protestant sect.⁹⁸⁹

Out of these circumstances, inevitably arose the aristocratic tendency of Arminianism, and the democratic tendency of Calvinism. The people love pomp and pageantry as much as the nobles do, but they do not love to pay for them. Their untutored minds are easily captivated by the array of a numerous priesthood, and by the gorgeousness of a well-appointed temple. Still, they know full well that these things absorb a large part of that wealth which would otherwise flow into their own cottages. On the other hand, the aristocracy, by their standing, their habits, and the traditions of their education, naturally contract a taste for expense, which makes them unite splendour with religion, and connect pomp with piety. Besides this, they have an intuitive and well-founded belief that their own interests are associated with the interests of the priesthood, and that whatever weakens the one will hasten the downfall of the other. Hence it is, that every Christian democracy has simplified its external worship; every Christian aristocracy has embellished it. By a parity of reasoning, the more any society tends to equality, the more likely it is that its theological opinions will be Calvinistic; while the more a society tends towards inequality, the greater the probability of those opinions being Arminian.