equality. You will, I imagine, concede to me that the first duty of
a government is to ensure the security of that industry which is the
condition of social life and civilised cultivation; that especially in so
excitable a country as France it is necessary that the dangerous classes
should be saved from the strong temptation of long idleness; and that
no danger could be more formidable than six months’ beggary among the
revolutionary _ouvriers_, immediately preceding the exact period fixed
by European as well as French opinion for an apprehended convulsion.
It is from this state of things, whether by fair means or foul, that
Louis Napoleon has delivered France. The effect was magical. Like people
who have nearly died because it was prophesied they would die at a
specified time, and instantly recovered when they found or thought that
the time was gone and past, so France, timorously anticipating the fated
revolution, in a moment revived when she found or fancied that it was
come and over. Commerce instantly improved; New Year’s Day, when all the
Boulevards are one continued fair, has not (as I am told) been for some
years so gay and splendid; people began to buy, and consequently to sell;
for though it is quite possible, or even probable, that new misfortunes
and convulsions may be in store for the French people, yet no one can say
when they will be, and to wait till revolutions be exhausted is but the
best Parisian for our old acquaintance _Rusticus expectat_. Clever people
may now prove that the dreaded peril was a simple chimera, but they can’t
deny that the fear of it was very real and painful, nor can they dispute
that in a week after the _coup d’état_ it had at once, and apparently for
ever, passed away.
I fear it must be said that no legal or constitutional act could have
given an equal confidence. What was wanted was the assurance of an
audacious Government, which would stop at nothing, scruple at nothing,
to secure its own power and the tranquillity of the country. That
assurance all now have; a man who will in this manner dare to dissolve
an assembly constitutionally his superiors, then prevent their meeting
by armed force; so well and so sternly repress the first beginning of an
outbreak, with so little misgiving assume and exercise sole power,—may
have enormous other defects, but is certainly a bold ruler—most probably
an unscrupulous one—little likely to flinch from any inferior trial.
Of Louis Napoleon, whose personal qualities are, for the moment, so
important, I cannot now speak at length. But I may say that, with
whatever other deficiencies he may have, he has one excellent advantage
over other French statesmen—he has never been a professor, nor a
journalist, nor a promising barrister, nor, by taste, a _littérateur_.
He has not confused himself with history; he does not think in leading
articles, in long speeches, or in agreeable essays. But he is capable
of observing facts rightly, of reflecting on them simply, and acting on
them discreetly. And his motto is Danton’s, _De l’audace et toujours de
l’audace_, and this you know, according to Bacon, in time of revolution,
will carry a man far, perhaps even to ultimate victory, and that
ever-future millennium ‘_la consolidation de la France_.’
But on these distant questions I must not touch. I have endeavoured to
show you what was the crisis, how strong the remedy, and what the need of
a dictatorship. I hope to have convinced you that the first was imminent,
the second effectual, and the last expedient. I remain yours,
AMICUS.
LETTER II.
_THE MORALITY OF THE COUP D’ÉTAT._
PARIS: Jan. 15, 1852.
SIR,—I know quite well what will be said about, or in answer to, my
last letter. It will be alleged that I think everything in France is to
be postponed to the Parisian commerce—that a Constitution, Equality,
Liberty, a Representative Government, are all to be set aside if
they interfere even for a moment with the sale of _étrennes_ or the
manufacture of gimcracks.
I, as you know, hold no such opinions: it would not be necessary for me
to undeceive you, who would, I rather hope, never suspect me of _that_
sort of folly. But as St. Athanasius aptly observes, ‘for the sake of
the women who may be led astray, I will this very instant explain my
sentiments.’
Contrary to Sheridan’s rule, I commence by a concession. I certainly
admit, indeed I would, upon occasion, maintain, _bonbons_ and bracelets
to be things less important than common law and Constitutional action.
A _coup d’état_ would, I may allow, be mischievously supererogatory if
it only promoted the enjoyment of what a lady in the highest circles is
said to call ‘bigotry and virtue.’ But the real question is not to be so
disposed of. The Parisian trade, the jewellery, the baubles, the silks,
the luxuries, which the Exhibition showed us to be the characteristic
industry of France, are very dust in the balance if weighed against the
hands and arms which their manufacture employs—the industrial habits
which their regular sale rewards—the hunger and idle weariness which
the certain demand for them prevents. For this is the odd peculiarity
of commercial civilisation. The life, the welfare, the existence of
thousands depend on their being paid for doing what seems nothing when
done. That gorgeous dandies should wear gorgeous studs—that pretty
girls should be prettily dressed—that pleasant drawing-rooms should
be pleasantly attired—may seem, to people of our age, sad trifling.
But grave as we are, we must become graver still when we reflect on
the horrid suffering which the sudden cessation of large luxurious
consumption would certainly create, if we imagine such a city as Lyons
to be, without warning, turned out of work, and the population feelingly
told ‘to cry in the streets when no man regardeth.’
The first duty of society is the preservation of society. By the sound
work of old-fashioned generations—by the singular painstaking of the
slumberers in churchyards—by dull care—by stupid industry, a certain
social fabric somehow exists; people contrive to go out to their work,
and to find work to employ them actually until the evening, body and soul
are kept together, and this is what mankind have to show for their six
thousand years of toil and trouble.
To keep up this system we must sacrifice everything. Parliaments,
liberty, leading articles, essays, eloquence,—all are good, but they are
secondary; at all hazards, and if we can, mankind must be kept alive. And
observe, as time goes on, this fabric becomes a tenderer and a tenderer
thing. Civilisation can’t bivouac; dangers, hardships, sufferings,
lightly borne by the coarse muscle of earlier times, are soon fatal to
noble and cultivated organisation. Women in early ages are masculine,
and, as a return match, the men of late years are becoming women. The
strong apprehension of a Napoleonic invasion has, perhaps, just now
caused more substantial misery in England than once the wars of the Roses.
To apply this ‘screed of doctrine’ to the condition of France. I do not
at all say that, but for the late _coup d’état_, French civilisation
would certainly have soon come to a final end. _Some_ people might have
continued to take their meals. Even Socialism would hardly abolish _eau
sucrée_. But I do assert that, according to the common belief of the
common people, their common comforts were in considerable danger. The
debasing torture of acute apprehension was eating into the crude pleasure
of stupid lives. No man liked to take a long bill: no one could imagine
to himself what was coming. Fear was paralysing life and labour, and as I
said at length, in my last, fear, so intense, whether at first reasonable
or unreasonable, will, ere long, invincibly justify itself. May 1852
would, in all likelihood, have been an evil and bloody time, if it had
been preceded by six months’ famine among the starvable classes.
At present all is changed. Six weeks ago society was living from hand to
mouth: now she feels sure of her next meal. And this, in a dozen words,
is the real case—the political excuse for Prince Louis Napoleon. You ask
me, or I should not do so, to say a word or two on the moral question
and the oath. You are aware how limited my means of doing so are. I have
forgotten Paley, and have never read the Casuists. But it certainly does
not seem to me proved or clear, that a man who has sworn, even in the
most solemn manner, to see another drown, is therefore quite bound, or
even at liberty, to stand placidly on the bank. What ethical philosopher
has demonstrated this? Coleridge said it was difficult to advance a new
error in morals,—yet this, I think, would be one; and the keeping of
oaths is peculiarly a point of mere science, for Christianity, in terms
at least, only forbids them all. And supposing I am right, such certainly
was the exact position of Louis Napoleon. He saw society, I will not say
dying or perishing—for I hate unnecessarily to overstate my point,—in
danger of incurring extreme and perhaps lasting calamities, likely not
only to impair the happiness, but moreover to debase the character of the
French nation, and these calamities he could prevent. Now who has shown
that ethics require of him to have held his hand?
The severity with which the riot was put down on the first Thursday in
December has, I observe, produced an extreme effect in England; and with
our happy exemption from martial bloodshed, it must, of course, do so.
But better one _émeute_ now than many in May, be it ever remembered.
There are things more demoralising than death, and among these is the
sickly-apprehensive suffering for long months of an entire people.
Of course you understand that I am not holding up Louis Napoleon as
a complete standard either of ethical scrupulosity or disinterested
devotedness; veracity has never been the family failing—for the great
Emperor was a still greater liar. And Prince Louis has been long
playing what, morality apart, is the greatest political misfortune to
any statesman—a visibly selfish game. Very likely, too, the very high
heroes of history—a Washington, an Aristides, by Carlyle profanely called
‘favourites of Dryasdust,’ would have extricated the country more easily,
and perhaps more completely from its scrape. Their ennobling rectitude
would have kept M. de Girardin consistent, and induced M. Thiers to vote
for the Revision of the Constitution; and even though, as of old, the
Mountain were deafer than the uncharmed adder, a sufficient number of
self-seeking Conservatives might have been induced by perfect confidence
in a perfect President, to mend a crotchety performance, that was visibly
ruining, what the poet calls, ‘The ever-ought-to-be-conserved-thing,’
their country.
I remember reading, several years ago, an article in the _Westminster
Review_, on the lamented Armand Carrel, in which the author, well known
to be one of our most distinguished philosphers, took occasion to
observe that what the French most wanted was, ‘_un homme de caractère_.’
Everybody is aware—for all except myself know French quite perfectly—that
this expression is not by any means equivalent to our common phrase, a
‘man of character,’ or ‘respectable individual,’ it does not at all refer
to mere goodness: it is more like what we sometimes say of an eccentric
country gentleman, ‘He is a character;’ for it denotes a singular
preponderance of peculiar qualities, an accomplished obstinacy, an
inveterate fixedness of resolution and idea that enables him to get done
what he undertakes. The Duke of Wellington is, ‘_par excellence, homme de
caractère_;’ Lord Palmerston rather so; Mr. Cobden a little; Lord John
Russell not at all. Now exactly this, beyond the immense majority of
educated men, Louis Napoleon is, as a pointed writer describes him:—‘The
President is a superior man, but his superiority is of the sort that
is hidden under a dubious exterior: his life is entirely internal; his
speech does not betray his inspiration; his gesture does not copy his
audacity; his look does not reflect his ardour; his step does not reveal
his resolution; his whole mental nature is in some sort repressed by
his physical: he thinks and does not discuss; he decides and does not
deliberate; he acts without agitation; he speaks, and assigns no reason;
his best friends are unacquainted with him; he obtains their confidence,
but never asks it.’ Also his whole nature is, and has been, absorbed
in the task which he has undertaken. For many months, his habitual
expression has been exactly that of a gambler who is playing for his
highest and last stake; in society it is said to be the same—a general
and diffusive politeness, but an ever-ready reflection and a constant
reserve. His great qualities are rather peculiar. He is not, like his
uncle, a creative genius, who will leave behind him social institutions
such as those which nearly alone, in this changeful country, seem to be
always exempt from every change; he will suggest little; he has hardly an
organising mind; but he will coolly estimate his own position and that
of France; he will observe all dangers and compute all chances. He can
act—he can be idle: he may work what is; he may administer the country.
Any how _il fera son possible_, and you know, in the nineteenth century,
how much and how rare that is.
I see many people are advancing beautiful but untrue ethics about his
private character. Thus I may quote as follows from a very estimable
writer:—‘On the 15th of October, he requested his passports and left
Aremberg for London. In this capital he remained from the end of 1838 to
the month of August 1840. In these twenty months, instead of learning to
command armies and govern empires, his days and nights, when not given
to frivolous pleasures, were passed on the turf, in the betting-room, or
in clubs where high play and desperate stakes roused the jaded energy of
the _blasé_ gambler.’—(A. V. Kirwan, Esq., Barrister-at-Law, in _Fraser’s
Magazine_.)
The notion of this gentleman clearly is, that a betting man can’t
in nature be a good statesman; that horse-racing is providentially
opposed to political excellence; that ‘by an interesting illustration
of the argument from design, we notice an antithesis alike marvellous
and inevitable,’ between turf and tariffs. But, setting Paley for a
moment apart, how is a man, by circumstances excluded from military
and political life, and by birth from commercial pursuits, really and
effectually to learn administration? Mr. Kirwan imagines that he should
read all through Burke, common-place Tacitus, collate Cicero, and
annotate Montesquieu. Yet take an analogous case. Suppose a man, shut out
from trading life, is to qualify himself for the practical management
of a counting-house. Do you fancy he will do it ‘by a judicious study
of the principles of political economy,’ and by elaborately re-reading
Adam Smith and John Mill? He had better be at Newmarket, and devote
his _heures perdues_ to the Oaks and the St. Leger. He may learn there
what he will never acquire from literary study—the instinctive habit
of applied calculation, which is essential to a merchant and extremely
useful to a statesman. Where, too, did Sir Robert Walpole learn business,
or Charles Fox, or anybody in the eighteenth century? And after all, M.
Michel de Bourges gave the real solution of the matter. ‘Louis Napoleon,’
said the best orator of the Mountain, ‘may have had rather a stormy
youth (laughter). But don’t suppose that any one in all France imagines
you, you _Messieurs_, of the immaculate majority, to be the least better
(sensation). I am not speaking to saints’ (uproar). If compared with
contemporary French statesmen, and the practical choice is between him
and them, the President will not seem what he appears when measured by
the notions of a people who exact at least from inferior functionaries _a
rigid decorum in the pettiest details of their private morals_.
I have but one last point to make about this _coup d’état_, and then I
will release you from my writing. I do not know whether you in England
rightly realise the French Socialism. Take, for instance, M. Proudhon,
who is perhaps their ideal and perfect type. He was _représentant de
la Seine_ in the late Assembly, elected, which is not unimportant,
after the publication of his books and on account of his opinions. In
his ‘_Confessions d’un Révolutionnaire_,’ a very curious book—for he
writes extremely well—after maintaining that our well-known but, as we
imagine, advanced friends, Ledru Rollin, and Louis Blanc, and Barbès, and
Blanqui are all _réactionnaires_, and clearly showing, to the grief of
mankind, that once the legislator of the Luxembourg wished to preserve
‘equilibrium,’ and the author of the provincial circulars to maintain the
‘tranquillity,’ he gives the following _bonâ fide_ and amusing account of
his own investigations:—
‘I commenced my task of solitary conspiracy by the study
of the socialisms of antiquity, necessary, in my judgment,
to determine the law, whether practical or theoretical, of
progress. These socialisms I found in the Bible. A memoir
on the institution of the Sabbath—considered with regard to
morals, to health, and in its relation to the family and the
city—procured for me a bronze medal from my academy. From the
faith in which I had been reared, I had precipitated myself
head-long, head-foremost, into pure reason, and already, what
was wonderful and a good omen, when I made Moses a philosopher
and a socialist, I was greeted with applause. If I am now in
error, the fault is not merely mine. Was there ever a similar
seduction?
‘But I studied, above all, with a view to action. I cared
little for academical laurels. I had no leisure to become
_savant_, still less a _littérateur_ or an archæologist. I
began immediately upon political economy.
‘I had assumed as the rule of my investigations that every
principle which, pushed to its consequences, should end in a
contradiction, must be considered false and null; and that if
this principle had been developed into an institution, the
institution itself must be considered as factitious, as utopian.
‘Furnished with this criterion, I chose for the subject of
investigation what I found in society the most ancient,
the most respectable, the most universal, the least
controverted,—property. Everybody knows what happened; after
a long, a minute, and, above all, an impartial analysis, I
arrived, as an algebraist guided by his equations, to this
surprising conclusion. Property, consider it as you will,—refer
it to what principle you may, is a contradictory idea; and as
the denial of property carries with it of necessity that of
authority, I deduced immediately from my first axiom also this
corollary, not less paradoxical, the true form of government
is _anarchy_. Lastly, finding by a mathematical demonstration
that no amelioration in the economy of society could be arrived
at by its natural constitution, or without the concurrence and
reflective adhesion of its members; observing, also, that there
is a definite epoch in the life of societies, in which their
progress, at first unreflecting, requires the intervention of
the free reason of man, I concluded that this spontaneous and
impulsive force (_cette force d’impulsion spontanée_), which
we call Providence, is not everything in the affairs of this
world: from that moment, without being an Atheist, I ceased to
worship God. He’ll get on without your so doing, said to me one
day the _Constitutionnel_. Well: perhaps he may.’
These theories have been expanded into many and weary volumes, and
condensed into the famous phrase, ‘_La Propriété c’est le vol_;’ and have
procured their author, in his own sect, reputation and authority.
The _Constitutionnel_ had another hit against M. Proudhon, a day or two
ago. They presented their readers with two decrees in due official form
(the walls were at the moment covered with those of the 2nd of December),
as the last ideal of what the straightest sect of the Socialists
particularly desire. It was as follows:—‘Nothing any longer exists.
Nobody is charged with the execution of the aforesaid decree. Signed,
Vacuum.’
Such is the speculation of the new reformers—what their practices would
be I can hardly tell you. My feeble income does not allow me to travel to
the Basses Alpes and really investigate the subject; but if one quarter
of the stories in circulation are in the least to be believed (we are
quite dependent on oral information, for the Government papers deal in
asterisks and ‘details unfit for publication,’ and the rest are devoted
to the state of the navy and say nothing), the atrocities rival the
nauseous corruption of what our liberal essayist calls ‘Jacobin carrion,’
the old days of Carrier and Barère. This is what people here are afraid
of; and that is why I write such things,—and not to horrify you, or amuse
you, or bore you—anything rather than that; and they think themselves
happy in finding a man who, with or without whatever other qualities or
defects, will keep them from the vaunted Millennium and much-expected
_Jacquerie_. I hope you think so, too—and that I am not, as they say in
my native Tipperary, ‘Whistling jigs to a milestone.’ I am, sir, yours
truly,
AMICUS.
P.S.—You will perhaps wish me to say something on the great event of
this week, the exile of the more dangerous members of the late Assembly,
and the transportation of the Socialists to Cayenne. Both measures were
here expected; though I think that both lists are more numerous than was
anticipated: but no one really knew what would be done by this silent
Government. You will laugh at me when I tell you that both measures have
been well received: but properly limited and understood, I am persuaded
that the fact is so.