might be styled medium not French at all, is also in general character
the least French of French productions. It seems almost as if expressly
written to be part of what Goethe taught his disciples to look for,
namely, a "world-literature." "Gil Blas," though French in form, is in
essence French only because it is human. And for the same reason it is
of every other nation as well. It possesses, therefore, as French
literature a unique and, so to speak, paradoxical importance in not
being French literature; it is, in fact, perhaps quite the only French
book that is less national than universal.
XV.
MONTESQUIEU: 1689-1755; DE TOCQUEVILLE: 1805-1859.
To Montesquieu belongs the glory of being the founder, or inventor, of
the philosophy of history. Bossuet might dispute this palm with him; but
Bossuet, in his "Discourse on Universal History," only exemplified the
principle which it was left to Montesquieu afterward more consciously to
develop.
Three books, still living, are associated with the name of
Montesquieu--"The Persian Letters," "The Greatness and the Decline of
the Romans," and "The Spirit of Laws." "The Persian Letters" are a
series of epistles purporting to be written by a Persian sojourning in
Paris and observing the manners and morals of the people around him. The
idea is ingenious; though the ingenuity, we suppose, was not original
with Montesquieu. Such letters afford the writer of them an admirable
advantage for telling satire on contemporary follies. This production of
Montesquieu became the suggestive example to Goldsmith for his "Citizen
of the World; or, Letters of a Chinese Philosopher." We shall have here
no room for illustrative citations from Montesquieu's "Persian Letters."
The second work, that on the "Greatness and the Decline of the Romans,"
is less a history than a series of essays on the history of Rome. It is
brilliant, striking, suggestive. It aims to be philosophical rather than
historical. It deals in bold generalizations. The spirit of it is,
perhaps, too constantly and too profoundly hostile to the Romans.
Something of the ancient Gallic enmity--as if a derivation from that
last and noblest of the Gauls, Vercingetorix--seems to animate the
Frenchman in discussing the character and the career of the great
conquering nation of antiquity. The critical element is the element
chiefly wanting to make Montesquieu's work equal to the demands of
modern historical scholarship. Montesquieu was, however, a full worthy
forerunner of the philosophical historians of to-day. We give a single
extract in illustration--an extract condensed from the chapter in which
the author analyzes and expounds the foreign policy of the Romans. The
generalizations are bold and brilliant,--too bold, probably, for strict
critical truth. (We use, for our extract, the recent translation by Mr.
Jehu Baker, who enriches his volume with original notes of no little
interest and value.) Montesquieu:
This body [the Roman Senate] erected itself into a tribunal for the
judgment of all peoples, and at the end of every war it decided upon
the punishment and the recompenses which it conceived each to be
entitled to. It took away parts of the lands of the conquered states,
in order to bestow them upon the allies of Rome, thus accomplishing
two objects at once--attaching to Rome those kings of whom she had
little to fear and much to hope, and weakening those of whom she had
little to hope and all to fear.
Allies were employed to make war upon an enemy, but the destroyers
were at once destroyed in their turn. Philip was beaten with the half
of the AEtolians, who were immediately afterward annihilated for having
joined themselves to Antiochus. Antiochus was beaten with the help of
the Rhodians, who, after having received signal rewards, were
humiliated forever, under the pretext that they had requested that
peace might be made with Perseus.
When they had many enemies on hand at the same time, they accorded a
truce to the weakest, which considered itself happy in obtaining such
a respite, counting it for much to be able to secure a postponement of
its ruin.
When they were engaged in a great war, the Senate affected to ignore
all sorts of injuries, and silently awaited the arrival of the proper
time for punishment; when, if it saw that only some individuals were
culpable, it refused to punish them, choosing rather to hold the
entire nation as criminal, and thus reserve to itself a useful
vengeance.
As they inflicted inconceivable evils upon their enemies, there were
not many leagues formed against them; for those who were most distant
from danger were not willing to draw nearer to it. The consequence of
this was, that they were rarely attacked; whilst, on the other hand,
they constantly made war at such time, in such manner, and against
such peoples, as suited their convenience; and, among the many nations
which they assailed, there were very few that would not have submitted
to every species of injury at their hands if they had been willing to
leave them in peace.
It being their custom to speak always as masters, the ambassadors whom
they sent to nations which had not yet felt their power were certain
to be insulted; and this was an infallible pretext for a new war.
As they never made peace in good faith, and as, with the design of
universal conquest, their treaties were, properly speaking, only
suspensions of war, they always put conditions in them which began the
ruin of the states which accepted them. They either provided that the
garrisons of strong places should be withdrawn, or that the number of
troops should be limited, or that the horses or the elephants of the
vanquished party should be delivered over to themselves; and if the
defeated people was powerful on sea, they compelled it to burn its
vessels, and sometimes to remove, and occupy a place of habitation
farther inland.
After having destroyed the armies of a prince, they ruined his
finances by excessive taxes, or by the imposition of a tribute under
the pretext of requiring him to pay the expenses of the war--a new
species of tyranny, which forced the vanquished sovereign to oppress
his own subjects, and thus to alienate their affection.
When they granted peace to a king, they took some of his brothers or
children as hostages. This gave them the means of troubling his
kingdom at their pleasure. If they held the nearest heir, they
intimidated the possessor; if only a prince of a remote degree, they
used him to stir up revolts against the legitimate ruler.
Whenever any people or prince withdrew their obedience from their
sovereign, they immediately accorded to them the title of allies of
the Roman people, and thus rendered them sacred and inviolable; so
that there was no king, however great he might be, who would for a
moment be sure of his subjects, or even of his family.
Although the title of Roman ally was a species of servitude, it was,
nevertheless, very much sought after; for the possession of this title
made it certain that the recipients of it would receive injuries from
the Romans only, and there was ground for the hope that this class of
injuries would be rendered less grievous than they would otherwise be.
Thus, there was no service which nations and kings were not ready to
perform, nor any humiliation which they did not submit to, in order to
obtain this distinction....
These customs were not merely some particular facts which happened at
hazard. They were permanently established principles, as may be
readily seen; for the maxims which the Romans acted upon against the
greatest powers were precisely those which they had employed in the
beginning of their career against the small cities which surrounded
them....
But nothing served Rome more effectually than the respect which she
inspired among all nations. She immediately reduced kings to silence,
and rendered them as dumb. With the latter, it was not a mere question
of the degree of their power; their very persons were attacked. To
risk a war with Rome was to expose themselves to captivity, to death,
and to the infamy of a triumph. Thus it was that kings, who lived in
pomp and luxury, did not dare to look with steady eyes upon the Roman
people, and, losing courage, they hoped, by their patience and their
obsequiousness, to obtain some postponement of the calamities with
which they were menaced.
The "Spirit of Laws" is probably to be considered the masterpiece of
Montesquieu. It is our duty, however, to say that this work is quite
differently estimated by different authorities. By some, it is praised
in terms of the highest admiration, as a great achievement in wide and
wise political or juridical philosophy. By others, it is dismissed very
lightly, as the ambitious, or, rather, pretentious, effort of a
superficial man, a showy mere sciolist.
The philosophical aim and ambition of the author at once appear in the
inquiry which he institutes for the three several animating _principles_
of the several forms of government respectively distinguished by him;
namely, democracy (or republicanism), monarchy, and despotism. What
these three principles are will be seen from the following statement:
"As _virtue_ is necessary in a republic, and in a monarchy _honor_, so
_fear_ is necessary in a despotic government." The meaning is that in
republics virtue possessed by the citizens is the spring of national
prosperity; that under a monarchy the desire of preferment at the hands
of the sovereign is what quickens men to perform services to the State;
that despotism thrives by fear inspired in the breasts of those subject
to its sway.
To illustrate the freely discursive character of the work, we give the
whole of chapter sixteen--there are chapters still shorter--in Book
VII.:
AN EXCELLENT CUSTOM OF THE SAMNITES.
The Samnites had a custom which in so small a republic, and especially
in their situation, must have been productive of admirable effects.
The young people were all convened in one place and their conduct was
examined. He that was declared the best of the whole assembly had
leave given him to take which girl he pleased for his wife; the second
best chose after him, and so on. Admirable institution! The only
recommendation that young men could have on this occasion was their
virtue and the service done their country. He who had the greatest
share of these endowments chose which girl he liked out of the whole
nation. Love, beauty, chastity, virtue, birth, and even wealth itself,
were all, in some measure, the dowry of virtue. A nobler and grander
recompense, less chargeable to a petty state and more capable of
influencing both sexes, could scarce be imagined.
The Samnites were descended from the Lacedemonians; and Plato, whose
institutes are only an improvement of those of Lycurgus, enacted
nearly the same law.
The relation of the foregoing chapter to the subject indicated in the
title of the book is sufficiently obscure and remote for a work like
this, purporting to be philosophical. What relation exists seems to be
found in the fact that the custom described tends to produce that
popular virtue by which republics flourish. But the information, at all
events, is curious and interesting.
The following paragraphs, taken from the second chapter of Book XIV.,
contain in germ a large part of the philosophy underlying M. Taine's
essays on the history of literature:
OF THE DIFFERENCE OF MEN IN DIFFERENT CLIMATES.
A cold air constringes the extremities of the external fibers of the
body; this increases their elasticity, and favors the return of the
blood from the extreme parts to the heart. It contracts those very
fibers; consequently it increases also their force. On the contrary, a
warm air relaxes and lengthens the extremes of the fibers; of course
it diminishes their force and elasticity.
People are therefore more vigorous in cold climates. Here the action
of the heart and the reaction of the extremities of the fibers are
better performed, the temperature of the humors is greater, the blood
moves freer toward the heart, and reciprocally the heart has more
power. This superiority of strength must produce various effects; for
instance, a greater boldness--that is, more courage; a greater sense
of superiority--that is, less desire of revenge; a greater opinion of
security--that is, more frankness, less suspicion, policy, and
cunning. In short, this must be productive of very different tempers.
Put a man into a close, warm place, and for the reasons above given he
will feel a great faintness. If under this circumstance you propose a
bold enterprise to him, I believe you will find him very little
disposed towards it; his present weakness will throw him into a
despondency; he will be afraid of every thing, being in a state of
total incapacity. The inhabitants of warm countries are, like old men,
timorous; the people in cold countries are, like young men, brave.
In the following extract, from chapter five, Book XXIV., the climatic
theory is again applied, this time to the matter of religion, in a style
that makes one think of Buckle's "History of Civilization":
When the Christian religion, two centuries ago, became unhappily
divided into Catholic and Protestant, the people of the north embraced
the Protestant, and those south adhered still to the Catholic.
The reason is plain: the people of the north have, and will forever
have, a spirit of liberty and independence, which the people of the
south have not; and therefore a religion which has no visible head is
more agreeable to the independency of the climate than that which has
one.
Climate is a "great matter" with Montesquieu. In treating of the subject
of a State changing its religion, he says:
The ancient religion is connected with the constitution of the
kingdom, and the new one is not; the former _agrees with the climate_,
and very often the new one is opposite to it.
For the Christian religion, Montesquieu professes profound
respect--rather as a pagan political philosopher might do, than as one
intimately acquainted with it by a personal experience of his own. His
spirit, however, is humane and liberal. It is the spirit of Montaigne,
it is the spirit of Voltaire, speaking in the idiom of this different
man, and of this different man as influenced by his different
circumstances. Montesquieu had had practical proof of the importance to
himself of not offending the dominant hierarchy.
On the whole, concerning Montesquieu it may justly be said, that of all
political philosophers, he, if not the profoundest, is at least one of
the most interesting; if not the most accurate and critical, at least
one of the most brilliant and suggestive.
As to Montesquieu the man, it is perhaps sufficient to say that he seems
to have been a very good type of the French gentleman of quality. An
interesting story told by Sainte-Beuve reveals, if true, a side at once
attractive and repellent of his personal character. Montesquieu at
Marseilles employed a young boatman, whose manner and speech indicated
more cultivation than was to have been looked for in one plying his
vocation. The philosopher learned his history. The youth's father was at
the time a captive in one of the Barbary States, and this son of his was
now working to earn money for his ransom. The stranger listened
apparently unmoved, and went his way. Some months later, home came the
father, released he knew not how, to his surprised and overjoyed family.
The son guessed the secret, and, meeting Montesquieu a year or so after
in Marseilles, threw himself in grateful tears at his feet, begged the
generous benefactor to reveal his name and to come and see the family he
had blessed. Montesquieu, calmly expressing himself ignorant of the
whole business, actually shook the young fellow off, and turned away
without betraying the least emotion. It was not till after the
cold-blooded philanthropist's death that the fact came out.
A tranquil, happy temperament was Montesquieu's. He would seem to have
come as near as any one ever did to being the natural master of his part
in life. But the world was too much for him; as it is for all--at last.
Witness the contrast of these two different sets of expressions from
his pen. In earlier manhood he says:
Study has been for me the sovereign remedy for all the
dissatisfactions of life, having never had a sense of chagrin that an
hour's reading would not dissipate. I wake in the morning with a
secret joy to behold the light. I behold the light with a kind of
ravishment, and all the rest of the day I am happy.
In late life, the brave, cheerful tone had declined to this:
I am broken down with fatigue; I must repose for the rest of my life
Then it took a further fall to this:
I have expected to kill myself for the last three months, finishing an
addition to my work on the origin and changes of the French civil law.
It will take only three hours to read it; but, I assure you, it has
been such a labor to me, that my hair has turned white under it all.
Finally it touches nadir:
It [his work] has almost cost me my life; I must rest; I can work no
more.
My candles are all burned out; I have set off all my cartridges.
When Montesquieu died, only Diderot, among Parisian men of letters,
followed him to his tomb.
Belonging to an entirely different world, literary, social, political,
from that in which Montesquieu flourished--more than one full century,
and that a French century, had intervened--was a man kindred in genius
with him, to whom, for the double reason that his intellectual rank
deserves it, and that the subject of his principal work is one to
command especially the interest of Americans, we feel compelled to
devote serious, though it must be hastening, attention. We refer to
Alexis de TOCQUEVILLE, the author of that famous book, "Democracy in
America." We can most conveniently discharge our duty by letting their
likeness in intellectual character and achievement bridge for us the
chasm of time between the two men, and thus considering the later in
conjunction here with the earlier author.
"Democracy in America" is a most remarkable book to have been, as in
fact it was, the production of a young man of thirty. It was the fruit
of a tour in the United States undertaken by the writer ostensibly to
visit in an official capacity the prisons of the new nation that France
had helped create, in a kind of counterpoise to England, on this side of
the Atlantic. The inquisitive young French inspector inspected much more
than the prison system of the lusty infant republic. He observed and
studied American institutions and manners at large, in order to lay a
base line for the boldest speculative triangulation into the probable
political future of the world.
Tocqueville held the belief that democracy, as a system of government,
was destined to prevail universally. He wrote his observations and
reflections, and he made his guesses, primarily for the instruction of
France. So confident was his conviction on the subject of democratic
destiny for his own country at least, that, while as yet the apparently
profound peace was undisturbed of the monarchical reaction under Louis
Philippe, he predicted an impending revolution; predicted in fact the
revolution which actually occurred in 1848. France, after that date,
both during the prophet's life, and subsequently to his death,
experienced her vibrations from, one form of government to another; but
no one can now deny that thus far the resultant tendency is in favor of
Tocqueville's bold speculative forecast of the political future of his
nation. The same thing is true, we think, more broadly, of the world in
general; and of this Brazil apparently furnishes a striking late
instance in confirmation.
"Democracy in America" is a classic in literature. Its credit is highest
with those best qualified to form a judgment. But its fame is universal.
It associates its author in rank of genius with the foremost political
philosophers of the world--with Machiavelli, with Montesquieu, with
Burke. Every American aiming at a political career, every American
journalist having to discuss political subjects should be familiar with
this book. Mr. Bryce's more recent work on the United States, which has
sprung so suddenly into such commanding fame, by no means supersedes,
though it does most usefully supplement, the monumental treatise of
Tocqueville--a name generally miscalled "De Tocqueville."
Of Alexis de Tocqueville's life it need only be said that, sprung of a
noble French family, he ran a respectable, though neither a brilliant,
nor a very influential, career in the politics of his country; until,
discontented with the second empire, that of the usurper, Louis
Napoleon, he retired, about 1851, from public service and devoted
himself to labor with the pen. His second chief work was "The Ancient
Regime," published in 1856, three years before his death.
We cannot probably make a better brief selection, at once more
characteristic and more interesting, from Tocqueville's "Democracy in
America" than by presenting in large part the chapter entitled: "Causes
which render democratic armies weaker than other armies at the outset of
a campaign, and more formidable in a protracted warfare."
A striking illustrative light was destined to be thrown by momentous
subsequent history in our own land on the sagacity and justness of the
speculations hazarded here by the author on his particular topic.
It would not be far wrong to consider that Americans, by the great civil
war, furnished, in a single historical case, the double example required
for complete illustration of Tocqueville's point: an example of the
democratic, together with an example of the aristocratic, community
engaging in war after a long peace. Readers may make each his own
comparison of the Frenchman's philosophical speculations with the actual
facts that emerged in the course of our national strife:
Any army is in danger of being conquered at the outset of a campaign,
after a long peace; any army which has long been engaged in warfare
has strong chances of victory: this truth is peculiarly applicable to
democratic armies. In aristocracies the military profession, being a
privileged career, is held in honor even in time of peace. Men of
great talents, great attainments, and great ambition embrace it; the
army is in all respects on a level with the nation, and frequently
above it.
We have seen, on the contrary, that among a democratic people the
choicer minds of the nation are gradually drawn away from the
military profession to seek, by other paths, distinction, power, and
especially wealth. After a long peace--and in democratic ages the
periods of peace are long--the army is always inferior to the country
itself. In this state it is called into active service: and until war
has altered it, there is danger for the country as well as for the
army.
I have shown that in democratic armies, and in time of peace, the rule
of seniority is the supreme and inflexible law of advancement. This is
not only a consequence, as I have before observed, of the constitution
of these armies, but of the constitution of the people, _and it will
always occur_.
The words italicized by us above illustrate the intrepid firmness of our
author in staking the fortune of an opinion of his upon the risk of
confutation by future fact. He affirms, it will be seen, absolutely, and
does not seek to save himself by a clause.