as we find it. What stealthy, secret, unknown, excellent forces may,
in the wisdom of Providence, be even now modifying this most curious
intellectual fabric, neither you nor I can know or tell. Let us hope
they may be many. But if we indulge, and from the immense records of
revolutionary history, I think, with due distrust, we may legitimately
and even beneficially indulge, in system-building and speculation, we
must take the _data_ which we have, and not those which we desire or
imagine. Louis Napoleon has proposed a system: English writers by the
thousand (if I was in harness instead of holiday-making I should be most
likely among them) proclaim his system an evil one. What then? Do you
know what Father Newman says to the religious reformers, rather sharply,
but still well, ‘Make out first of all where you stand—draw up your
creed—write down your catechism.’ So I answer to the English eloquence,
‘State first of all what you would have—draw up your novel system for
the French Government—write down your political Constitution.’ Don’t
criticise but produce; do not find fault but propose—and when you have
proposed upon theory and have created upon paper, let us see whether the
system be such a one as will work, in fact, and be accepted by a wilful
nation in reality—otherwise your work is nought.
And mind, too, that the system to be sketched out must be fit to protect
the hearths and homes of men. It is easy to compose polities if you do
but neglect this one essential condition. Four years ago, Europe was in
a ferment with the newest ideas, the best theories, the most elaborate,
the most artistic Constitutions. There was the labour, and toil, and
trouble, of a million intellects, as good, taken on the whole, perhaps,
as the world is likely to see,—of old statesmen, and literary gentlemen,
and youthful enthusiasts, all over Europe, from the Baltic Sea to the
Mediterranean, from the frontiers of Russia to the Atlantic Ocean. Well,
what have we gained? A Parliament in Sardinia! Surely this is a lesson
against proposing politics which won’t work, convening assemblies that
can’t legislate, constructing executives that aren’t able to keep the
peace, founding Constitutions inaugurated with tears and eloquence, soon
abandoned with tears and shame; beginning a course of fair auguries and
liberal hopes, but one from whose real dangers and actual sufferings a
frightened and terrified people, in the end, flee for a temporary, or may
be a permanent, refuge under a military and absolute ruler.
Mazzini sneers at the selfishness of shopkeepers—I am for the shopkeepers
against him. There are people who think because they are Republican there
shall be no more ‘cakes and ale.’ Aye, verily, but there will though; or
else stiffish ginger will be hot in the mouth. Legislative Assemblies,
leading articles, essay eloquence—such are good—very good,—useful—very
useful. Yet they can be done without. We can want them. Not so with all
things. The selling of figs, the cobbling of shoes, the manufacturing
of nails,—these are the essence of life. And let whoso frameth a
Constitution of his country think on these things.
I conclude, as I ought, with my best thanks for the insertion of these
letters; otherwise I was so full of the subject that I might have
committed what Disraeli calls ‘the extreme act of human fatuity,’ I might
have published a pamphlet: from this your kindness has preserved me, and
I am proportionally grateful.
I am, yours,
AMICUS.
II.
_CÆSARISM AS IT EXISTED IN 1865._
[Lest the preceding letters should be supposed to express Mr.
Bagehot’s complete and final judgment on the character of the
imperial _régime_ of Louis Napoleon, it has been thought well
to publish a paper which he contributed to the _Economist_
after a visit to France in 1865, of a nature to correct the
misapprehensions to which the somewhat youthful essays which
precede might give rise. It appeared soon after the publication
of the Emperor’s Life of Julius Cæsar.]
That the French Emperor should have spare leisure and unoccupied
reflection to write a biography, is astonishing, but if he wished to
write a biography, his choice of a subject is very natural. Julius
Cæsar was the first who tried on an imperial scale the characteristic
principles of the French Empire,—as the first Napoleon revived them,
as the third Napoleon has consolidated them. The notion of a demagogue
ruler, both of a fighting demagogue and a talking demagogue, was indeed
familiar to the Greek Republics; but their size was small, and their
history unemphatic. On the big page of universal history, Julius Cæsar is
the first instance of a democratic despot. He overthrew an aristocracy—a
corrupt, and perhaps effete aristocracy, it is true, but still an
aristocracy—by the help of the people, of the unorganised people. He said
to the numerical majority of Roman citizens, ‘I am your advocate and
your leader: make me supreme, and I will govern for your good, and in
your name.’ This is exactly the principle of the French Empire. No one
will ever make an approach to understanding it, who does not separate it
altogether, and on principle, from the despotisms of feudal origin and
legitimate pretensions. The old Monarchies claim the obedience of the
people upon grounds of duty. They say they have consecrated claims to
the loyalty of mankind. They appeal to conscience, even to religion. But
Louis Napoleon is a Benthamite despot. He is for the ‘greatest happiness
of the greatest number.’ He says, ‘I am where I am, because I know better
than any one else what is good for the French people, and they know that
I know better.’ He is not the Lord’s anointed; he is the people’s agent.
We cannot here discuss what the effect of this system was in ancient
times. These columns are not the best place for an historical
dissertation; but we may set down very briefly the results of some close
and recent observation of the system as it now exists, as it is at work
in France. Part of its effects are well understood in England, but a part
of them are, we think, but mistily seen and imperfectly apprehended.
In the first place, the French Empire is really the _best finished_
democracy which the world has ever seen. What the many at the moment
desire is embodied with a readiness, and efficiency, and a completeness
which has no parallel, either in past history or present experience. An
absolute Government with a popular instinct has the unimpeded command
of a people renowned for orderly dexterity. A Frenchman will have
arranged an administrative organisation really and effectually, while an
Englishman is still bungling, and a German still reflecting. An American
is certainly as rapid, and in some measure as efficient, but his speed
is a little head-long, and his execution is very rough; he tumbles
through much, but he only tumbles. A Frenchman will not hurry; he has a
deliberate perfection in detail, which may always be relied on, for it
is never delayed. The French Emperor knows well how to use these powers.
His bureaucracy is not only endurable, but pleasant. An idle man who
wants his politics done for him, has them done for him. The welfare of
the masses—the present good of the present multitude—is felt to be the
object of the Government and the law of the polity. The Empire gives to
the French the full gratification of their main wishes, and the almost
artistic culture of an admirable workmanship, of an administration
finished as only Frenchmen can finish it, and as it never was finished
before.
It belongs to such a Government to care much for material prosperity, and
it does care. It makes the people as comfortable as they will permit.
If they are not more comfortable, it is their own fault. The Government
would give them free trade, and consequent diffused comfort, if it could.
No former French Government has done as much for free trade as this
Government. No Government has striven to promote railways, and roads, and
industry, like this Government. France is much changed in twelve years.
Not exactly by the mere merit of the Empire, for it entered into a great
inheritance; it succeeded to the silent work of the free monarchy which
revolution had destroyed and impeded. There were fruitful and vigorous
germs of improvement ready to be elicited—ready to start forth—but under
an unintelligent Government they would not have started forth; they would
have lain idle and dead, but under the adroit culture of the present
Government, they have grown so as to amaze Europe and France itself.
If, indeed, as is often laid down, the _present happiness_ of the
greatest number was the characteristic object of the Government, it would
be difficult to make out that any probable French Government would be
better, or indeed nearly so good, as the present. The intelligence of the
Emperor on economical subjects—on the bread and meat of the people—is
really better than that of the classes opposed to him. He gives the
present race of Frenchmen more that is good than any one else would give
them, and he gives it them in their own name. They have as much as they
like of all that is good for them. But if not the present happiness of
the greatest number, but _their future elevation_, be, as it is, the true
aim and end of Government, our estimate of the Empire will be strangely
altered. It is an admirable Government for present and coarse purposes,
but a detestable Government for future and refined purposes.
In the first place, it stops the _teaching apparatus_, it stops the
effectual inculcation of important thought upon the mass of mankind. All
other mental effort but this, the Empire not only permits but encourages.
The high intellect of Paris is as active, as well represented, as that
of London, and it is even more keen. Intellect still gives there, and
has always given, a distinctive position. To be a _Membre de l’Institut_
is a recognised place in France; but in London, it is an ambiguous
distinction to be a ‘clever fellow.’ The higher kinds of thought are
better discussed in Parisian society than in London society, and better
argued in the _Revue des Deux Mondes_ than in any English periodical.
The speculative thought of France has not been killed by the Empire; it
is as quick, as rigorous, as keen as ever. But though still alive, it is
no longer powerful; it cannot teach the mass. The _Revue_ is permitted,
but newspapers—effectual newspapers—are forbidden. A real course of free
lectures on popular subjects would be impossible in Paris. _Agitation_ is
forbidden, and it is agitation, and agitation alone, which teaches. The
crude mass of men bear easily philosophical treatises, refined articles,
elegant literature; there are but two instruments penetrative enough to
reach their opaque minds—the newspaper article and the popular speech,
and both of these are forbidden.
In London the reverse is true. We may say that only the loudest sort of
expression is permitted to attain its due effect. The popular organs of
literature so fill men’s minds with incomplete thoughts, that deliberate
treatment, that careful inquiry, that quiet thought have no hearing.
People are so deafened with the loud reiteration of many half truths,
that they have neither curiosity nor energy for elaborate investigation.
The very word ‘elaborate’ is become a reproach: elaboration produces
something which the mass of men do not like, because it is above
them,—which is tiresome, because it needs industry,—difficult, because
it wants attention,—complicated, because it is true. On the whole,
perhaps, English thought has rarely been so unfinished, so piecemeal,
so _ragged_ as it is now. We have so many little discussions, that we
get no full discussion; we eat so many sandwiches, that we spoil our
dinner. And on the Continent, accordingly, the speculative thought of
England is despised. It is believed to be meagre, uncultivated, and
immature. We have only a single compensation. Our thought may be poor
and rough and fragmentary, but it is effectual. With our newspapers and
our speeches—with our clamorous multitudes of indifferent tongues—we
beat the ideas of the few into the minds of the many. The head of France
is a better head than ours, but it does not move her limbs. The head of
England is in comparison a coarse and crude thing, but rules her various
frame and regulates her whole life.
France, _as it is_, may be happier because of the Empire, but France
_in the future_ will be more ignorant because of the Empire. The daily
play of the higher mind upon the lower mind is arrested. The present
Government has given an instalment of free trade, but it could not endure
an agitation for free trade. A democratic despotism is like a theocracy;
it assumes its own correctness. It says, ‘I am the representative of the
people; I am here because I know what they wish, because I know what they
should have.’ As Cavaignac once said, ‘A Government which permits its
principles to be questioned is a lost Government.’ All popular discussion
whatever which aspires to teach the Government is radically at issue with
the hypothesis of the Empire. It says that the Cæsar, the omniscient
representative, is a mistaken representative, that he is not fit to be
Cæsar.
The deterioration of the future is one inseparable defect of the
imperial organisation, but it is not the only one,—for the moment, it
is not the greatest. The greatest is the corruption of the present. A
greater burden is imposed by it upon human nature than human nature
will bear. Everything requires the support, aid, countenance of the
central Government, and yet that Government is expected to keep itself
pure. Concessions of railways, concessions of the privilege of limited
liability,—on a hundred subjects, legal permission, administrative help,
are necessary to money-making. You concentrate upon a small body of
leading official men the power of making men’s fortunes, and it is simple
to believe they will not make their own fortunes. The very principle
of the system is to concentrate power, and power is money. Sir Robert
Walpole used to say, ‘No honest man could be a “Minister;”’ and in France
the temptations would conquer all men’s honesty. The system requires
angels to work it, and perhaps it has not been so fortunate as to find
angels. The nod of a minister on the Bourse is a fortune, and somehow or
other ministers make fortunes. The Bourse of Paris is still so small,
that a leading capitalist may produce a great impression on it, and a
leading capitalist working with a great minister, a vast impression.
Accordingly, all that goes with sudden wealth; all that follows from
the misuse of the two temptations of civilisation, money and women, is
concentrated round the Imperial court. The Emperor would cure much of it
if he could, but what can he do? They say he has said that he will not
change his men. He will not substitute fleas that are hungry for fleas
which at least are partially satisfied. He is right. The defect belongs
to the system, to these men; an enormous concentration of power in an
industrial system ensures an accumulation of pecuniary temptation.
These are the two main disadvantages which France suffers from her
present Government; the greater part of the price which she has to pay
for her present happiness. She endures the daily presence of an efficient
immorality; she sacrifices the educating apparatus which would elevate
Frenchmen yet to be born. But these two disadvantages are not the only
ones.
France gains the material present, but she does not gain the material
future. All that secures present industry, her Government confers; in
whatever needs confidence in the future she is powerless. _Credit_ in
France, to an Englishman’s eye, has almost to be created. The _country_
deposits in the Bank of France are only 1,000,000_l._ sterling; that bank
has fifty-nine branches, is immeasurably the greatest country bank in
France. All discussions on the currency come back to the _cours forcé_,
to the inevitable necessity of making inconvertible notes an irrefusable
tender during a revolution. If you propose the simplest operations of
credit to a French banker, he says, ‘You do not remember 1848; I do.’
And what is the answer? The present Government avowedly depends on, is
ostentatiously concentrated in, the existing Cæsar. Its existence depends
on the permanent occupation of the Tuileries by an extraordinary man.
The democratic despot—the representative despot—must have the sagacity
to divine the people’s will and the sagacity to execute it. What is the
likelihood that these will be hereditary? Can they be expected in the
next heirs—a child for Emperor, and a woman for Regent? The present
happiness of France is happiness on a short life-lease; it may end with
the life of a man who is not young, who has not spared himself, who has
always thought, who has always _lived_.
Such are the characteristics of the Empire as it is. Such is the nature
of Cæsar’s Government as we know it at the present. We scarcely expect
that even the singular ability of Napoleon III. will be able to modify,
by an historical retrospect, the painful impressions left by actual
contact with a living reality.[34]
III.
_MEMOIR OF THE RIGHT HON. JAMES WILSON._[35]
Perhaps some of the subscribers to the _Economist_ would not be unwilling
to read a brief memoir of Mr. Wilson, even if the events narrated were in
no respect peculiar. They might possibly be interested in the biography
of an author of whose writings they have read so many, even if the
narrative related no marked transitions and no characteristic events.
But there were in Mr. Wilson’s life several striking changes. The scene
shifts from the manufactory of a small Scotch hatter in a small Scotch
town, to London—to the Imperial Parliament—to the English Treasury—to the
Council Board of India. Such a biography may be fairly expected to have
some interest. The life perhaps of no _Political Economist_ has been more
eventful.
James Wilson was born at Hawick, in Roxburghshire, on June 3, 1805.
His father, of whose memory he always spoke with marked respect, was a
thriving man of business, extensively engaged in the woollen manufacture
of that place. He was the fourth son in a family of fifteen children, of
whom, however, only ten reached maturity. Of his mother, who died when he
was very young, he scarcely retained any remembrance in after life. As to
his early years little is now recollected, except that he was a very mild
and serious boy, usually successful during school hours, but not usually
successful in the play-ground.
As Mr. Wilson’s father was an influential Quaker, he was sent when ten
years old to a Quaker school at Ackworth, where he continued for four
years. At that time—it may surprise some of those who knew him in later
life to be told—he was so extremely fond of books as to wish to be a
teacher; and as his father allowed his sons to choose their line in life,
he was sent to a seminary at Earl’s Colne in Essex, to qualify himself
for that occupation. But the taste did not last long. As we might expect,
the natural activity of his disposition soon induced him to regret his
choice of a sedentary life. He wrote to Hawick, ‘I would rather be the
most menial servant in my father’s mill than be a teacher;’ and he was
permitted to return home at once.
Many years later he often narrated that, after leaving Earlscome, he had
much wished to study for the Scottish bar, but the rules of the Society
of Friends, as then understood, would not allow his father to consent
to the plan. He was sometimes inclined half to regret that he had not
been able to indulge this taste, and he was much pleased at being told
by a great living advocate that ‘if he had gone to the bar he would
have been very successful.’ But at the time there was no alternative,
and at sixteen he accordingly commenced a life of business. He did not,
however, lose at once his studious predilections. For some years at least
he was in the habit of reading a good deal, very often till late in the
night. It was indeed then that he acquired almost all the knowledge of
books which he ever possessed. In later life he was much too busy to be
a regular reader, and he never acquired the habit of catching easily
the contents of books or even of articles in the interstices of other
occupations. Whatever he did, he did thoroughly. He would not read even
an article in a newspaper if he could well help doing so; but if he read
it at all, it was with as much slow, deliberate attention as if he were
perusing a Treasury minute.
At the early age we have mentioned he commenced his business life by
being apprenticed to a small hat manufacturer at Hawick; and it is still
remembered that he showed remarkable care and diligence in mastering all
the minutiæ of the trade. There was, indeed, nothing of the _amateur_ man
of business about him at any time. After a brief interval, his father
purchased his master’s business for him and for an elder brother, named
William, and the two brothers in conjunction continued to carry it on
at Hawick during two or three years with much energy. So small a town,
however, as Hawick then was, afforded no scope for enterprise in this
branch of manufacture, and they resolved to transfer themselves to London.
Accordingly, in 1824, Mr. Wilson commenced a mercantile life in London
(the name of the firm being Wilson, Irwin, & Wilson), and was very
prosperous and successful for many years. His pecuniary gains were
considerable, and to the practical instruction which he then obtained he
always ascribed his success as an economist and a financier. ‘Before I
was twenty years of age,’ he said at Devonport in 1859, ‘I was a partner
in a firm in London, and I can only say if there is in my life one
event which I regard with satisfaction more than another, it is that I
had then an opportunity of obtaining experience by observation which
has contributed in the main to what little public utility I have since
been to my country. During these few years I became acquainted—well
acquainted—with the middle classes of this country. I also became
acquainted in some degree with the working classes; and also, to a great
extent, with the foreign commerce of this country in pretty nearly all
parts of the world; and I can only say the information and the experience
I thus derived have been to me in my political career of greater benefit
than I can now describe.’
In 1831, the firm of Wilson, Irwin, & Wilson was dissolved by mutual
consent. But Mr. Wilson (under the firm of James Wilson & Co.) continued
to carry on the same kind of business, and continued to obtain the same
success. He began in 1824 with 2,000_l._, the gift of his father, and in
1837 was worth nearly 25,000_l._—a fair result for so short a period,
and evincing a steady business-like capacity and judgment; for it was
the fruit not of sudden success in casual speculation, but of regular
attention during several years to one business. From circumstances which
we shall presently state, he was very anxious that this part of his
career should be very clearly understood.