History of Civilization in England, Vol. 2 of 3

Henry Thomas Buckle

History of Civilization in England, Vol. 2 of 3

CHAPTER I

OUTLINE OF THE HISTORY OF THE FRENCH INTELLECT FROM THE MIDDLE OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY TO THE ACCESSION TO POWER OF LOUIS XIV

The consideration of these great changes in the English mind, has led me into a digression, which, so far from being foreign to the design of this Introduction, is absolutely necessary for a right understanding of it. In this, as in many other respects, there is a marked analogy between investigations concerning the structure of society and investigations concerning the human body. Thus, it has been found, that the best way of arriving at a theory of disease is by beginning with the theory of health; and that the foundation of all sound pathology must be first sought in an observation, not of the abnormal, but of the normal functions of life. Just in the same way, it will, I believe, be found, that the best method of arriving at great social truths, is by first investigating those cases in which society has developed itself according to its own laws, and in which the governing powers have least opposed themselves to the spirit of their times.1 It is on this account that, in order to understand the position of France, I have begun by examining the position of England. In order to understand the way in which the diseases of the first country were aggravated by the quackery of ignorant rulers, it was necessary to understand the way in which the health of the second country was preserved by being subjected to smaller interference, and allowed with greater liberty to continue its natural march. With the light, therefore, which we have acquired by a study of the normal condition of the English mind, we can, with the greater ease, now apply our principles to that abnormal condition of French society, by the operations of which, at the close of the eighteenth century, some of the dearest interests of civilization were imperilled.

In France, a long train of events, which I shall hereafter relate, had, from an early period, given to the clergy a share of power larger than that which they possessed in England. The results of this were for a time decidedly beneficial, inasmuch as the church restrained the lawlessness of a barbarous age, and secured a refuge for the weak and oppressed. But as the French advanced in knowledge, the spiritual authority, which had done so much to curb their passions, began to press heavily upon their genius, and impede its movements. That same ecclesiastical power, which to an ignorant age is an unmixed benefit, is to a more enlightened age a serious evil. The proof of this was soon apparent. For when the Reformation broke out, the church had in England been so weakened, that it fell almost at the first assault; its revenues were seized by the crown,2 and its offices, after being greatly diminished both in authority and in wealth, were bestowed upon new men, who, from the uncertainty of their tenure, and the novelty of their doctrines, lacked that long-established prescription by which the claims of the profession are mainly supported. This, as we have already seen, was the beginning of an uninterrupted progress, in which, at every successive step, the ecclesiastical spirit lost some of its influence. In France, on the other hand, the clergy were so powerful, that they were able to withstand the Reformation, and thus preserve for themselves those exclusive privileges which their English brethren vainly attempted to retain.

This was the beginning of that second marked divergence between French and English civilization,3 which had its origin, indeed, at a much earlier period, but which now first produced conspicuous results. Both countries had, in their infancy, been greatly benefited by the church, which always showed itself ready to protect the people against the oppressions of the crown and the nobles.4 But in both countries, as society advanced, there arose a capacity for self-protection; and early in the sixteenth, or probably even in the fifteenth century, it became urgently necessary to diminish that spiritual authority, which, by prejudging the opinions of men, has impeded the march of their knowledge.5 It is on this account that Protestantism, so far from being, as its enemies have called it, an aberration arising from accidental causes, was essentially a normal movement, and was the legitimate expression of the wants of the European intellect. Indeed, the Reformation owed its success, not to a desire of purifying the church, but to a desire of lightening its pressure; and it may be broadly stated, that it was adopted in every civilized country, except in those where preceding events had increased the influence of the ecclesiastical order, either among the people or among their rulers. This was, unhappily, the case with France, where the clergy not only triumphed over the Protestants, but appeared, for a time, to have gained fresh authority by the defeat of such dangerous enemies.6

The consequence of all this was, that in France, every thing assumed a more theological aspect than in England. In our country, the ecclesiastical spirit had, by the middle of the sixteenth century, become so feeble, that even intelligent foreigners were struck by the peculiarity.7 The same nation, which, during the Crusades, had sacrificed innumerable lives in the hope of planting the Christian standard in the heart of Asia,8 was now almost indifferent to the religion even of its own sovereign. Henry VIII., by his sole will, regulated the national creed, and fixed the formularies of the church, which, if the people had been in earnest, he could not possibly have done; for he had no means of compelling submission; he had no standing army; and even his personal guards were so scanty, that at any moment they could have been destroyed by a rising of the warlike apprentices of London.9 After his death, there came Edward, who, as a Protestant king, undid the work of his father; and, a few years later, there came Mary, who, as a Popish queen, undid the work of her brother; while she, in her turn, was succeeded by Elizabeth, under whom another great alteration was effected in the established faith.10 Such was the indifference of the people, that these vast changes were accompanied without any serious risk.11 In France, on the other hand, at the mere name of religion, thousands of men were ready for the field. In England, our civil wars have all been secular; they have been waged, either for a change of dynasty, or for an increase of liberty. But those far more horrible wars, by which, in the sixteenth century, France was desolated, were conducted in the name of Christianity, and even the political struggles of the great families were merged in a deadly contest between Catholics and Protestants.12

The effect this difference produced on the intellect of the two countries is very obvious. The English, concentrating their abilities upon great secular matters, had, by the close of the sixteenth century, produced a literature which never can perish. But the French, down to that period, had not put forth a single work, the destruction of which would now be a loss to Europe. What makes this contrast the more remarkable is, that in France the civilization, such as it was, had a longer standing; the material resources of the country had been earlier developed; its geographical position made it the centre of European thought;13 and it had possessed a literature at a time when our ancestors were a mere tribe of wild and ignorant barbarians.

The simple fact is, that this is one of those innumerable instances which teach us that no country can rise to eminence so long as the ecclesiastical power possesses much authority. For, the predominance of the spiritual classes is necessarily accompanied by a corresponding predominance of the topics in which those classes delight. Whenever the ecclesiastical profession is very influential, ecclesiastical literature will be very abundant, and what is called profane literature will be very scanty. Hence it occurred, that the minds of the French, being almost entirely occupied with religious disputes, had no leisure for those great inquiries into which we in England were beginning to enter;14 and there was, as we shall presently see, an interval of a whole generation between the progress of the French and English intellects, simply because there was about the same interval between the progress of their scepticism. The theological literature, indeed, rapidly increased;15 but it was not until the seventeenth century that France produced that great secular literature, the counterpart of which was to be found in England before the sixteenth century had come to a close.

Such was, in France, the natural consequence of the power of the church being prolonged beyond the period which the exigencies of society required. But while this was the intellectual result, the moral and physical results were still more serious. While the minds of men were thus heated by religious strife, it would have been idle to expect any of those maxims of charity to which theological faction is always a stranger. While the Protestants were murdering the Catholics,16 and the Catholics murdering the Protestants, it was hardly likely that either sect should feel tolerance for the opinions of its enemy.17 During the sixteenth century, treaties were occasionally made between the two parties; but they were only made to be immediately broken;18 and, with the single exception of l'Hôpital, the bare idea of toleration does not seem to have entered the head of any statesman of the age. It was recommended by him;19 but neither his splendid abilities, nor his unblemished integrity, could make head against the prevailing prejudices, and he eventually retired into private life without effecting any of his noble schemes.20

Indeed, in the leading events of this period of French history, the predominance of the theological spirit was painfully shown. It was shown in the universal determination to subordinate political acts to religious opinions.21 It was shown in the conspiracy of Amboise, and in the conference of Poissy; and still more was it shown in those revolting crimes so natural to superstition, the massacres of Vassy and of St. Bartholomew, the murder of Guise by Poltrot, and of Henry III. by Clement. These were the legitimate results of the spirit of religious bigotry. They were the results of that accursed spirit, which, whenever it has had the power, has punished even to the death those who dared to differ from it; and which, now that the power has passed away, still continues to dogmatize on the most mysterious subjects, tamper with the most sacred principles of the human heart, and darken with its miserable superstitions those sublime questions that no one should rudely touch, because they are for each according to the measure of his own soul, because they lie in that unknown tract which separates the Finite from the Infinite, and because they are as a secret and individual covenant between Man and his God.

How long these sad days22 would, in the ordinary course of affairs, have been prolonged in France, is a question which we now perhaps have no means of answering; though there is no doubt that the progress even of empirical knowledge must, according to the process already pointed out, have eventually sufficed to rescue so great a country from her degraded position. Fortunately, however, there now took place what we must be content to call an accident, but which was the beginning of a most important change. In the year 1589, Henry IV. ascended the throne of France. This great prince, who was far superior to any of the French sovereigns of the sixteenth century,23 made small account of those theological disputes which his predecessors had thought to be of paramount importance. Before him, the kings of France, animated by the piety natural to the guardians of the church, had exerted all their authority to uphold the interests of the sacred profession. Francis I. said, that if his right hand were a heretic, he would cut it off.24 Henry II., whose zeal was still greater,25 ordered the judges to proceed against the Protestants, and publicly declared that he would ‘make the extirpation of the heretics his principal business.’26 Charles IX., on the celebrated day of St. Bartholomew, attempted to relieve the church by destroying them at a single blow. Henry III. promised to ‘oppose heresy even at the risk of his life;’ for he said, ‘he could not find a prouder grave than amidst the ruins of heresy.’27

These were the opinions expressed, in the sixteenth century, by the heads of the oldest monarchy in Europe.28 But with such feelings, the powerful intellect of Henry IV. had not the slightest sympathy. To suit the shifting politics of his age, he had already changed his religion twice; and he did not hesitate to change it a third time,29 when he found that by doing so he could ensure tranquillity to his country. As he had displayed such indifference about his own creed, he could not with decency show much bigotry about the creed of his subjects.30 We find, accordingly, that he was the author of the first public act of toleration which any government promulgated in France since Christianity had been the religion of the country. Only five years after he had solemnly abjured Protestantism, he published the celebrated Edict of Nantes,31 by which, for the first time, a Catholic government granted to heretics a fair share of civil and religious rights. This was, unquestionably, the most important event that had yet occurred in the history of French civilization.32 If it is considered by itself, it is merely an evidence of the enlightened principles of the king; but when we look at its general success, and at the cessation of religious war which followed it, we cannot fail to perceive that it was part of a vast movement, in which the people themselves participated. Those who recognize the truth of the principles I have laboured to establish, will expect that this great step towards religious liberty was accompanied by that spirit of scepticism, in the absence of which toleration has always been unknown. And that this was actually the case, may be easily proved by an examination of the transitionary state which France began to enter towards the end of the sixteenth century.

The writings of Rabelais are often considered to afford the first instance of religious scepticism in the French language.33 But, after a tolerably intimate acquaintance with the works of this remarkable man, I have found nothing to justify such an opinion. He certainly treats the clergy with great disrespect, and takes every opportunity of covering them with ridicule.34 His attacks, however, are always made upon their personal vices, and not upon that narrow and intolerant spirit to which those vices were chiefly to be ascribed. In not a single instance does he show any thing like consistent scepticism;35 nor does he appear to be aware that the disgraceful lives of the French clergy were but the inevitable consequence of a system, which, corrupt as it was, still possessed every appearance of strength and vitality. Indeed, the immense popularity which he enjoyed is, almost of itself, a decisive consideration; since no one, who is well informed as to the condition of the French early in the sixteenth century, will believe it possible that a people, so sunk in superstition, should delight in a writer by whom superstition is constantly attacked.

But the extension of experience, and the consequent increase of knowledge, were preparing the way for a great change in the French intellect. The process, which had just taken place in England, was now beginning to take place in France; and in both countries the order of events was precisely the same. The spirit of doubt, hitherto confined to an occasional solitary thinker, gradually assumed a bolder form: first it found a vent in the national literature, and then it influenced the conduct of practical statesmen. That there was, in France, an intimate connexion between scepticism and toleration, is proved, not only by those general arguments which make us infer that such connexion must always exist, but also by the circumstance, that only a few years before the promulgation of the Edict of Nantes, there appeared the first systematic sceptic who wrote in the French language. The Essays of Montaigne were published in 1588,36 and form an epoch, not only in the literature, but also in the civilization, of France. Putting aside personal peculiarities, which have less weight than is commonly supposed, it will be found that the difference between Rabelais and Montaigne is a measure of the difference between 154537 and 1588, and that it, in some degree, corresponds with the relation I have indicated between Jewel and Hooker, and between Hooker and Chillingworth. For, the law which governs all these relations is the law of a progressive scepticism. What Rabelais was to the supporters of theology, that was Montaigne to the theology itself. The writings of Rabelais were only directed against the clergy; but the writings of Montaigne were directed against the system of which the clergy were the offspring.38 Under the guise of a mere man of the world, expressing natural thoughts in common language, Montaigne concealed a spirit of lofty and audacious inquiry.39 Although he lacked that comprehensiveness which is the highest form of genius, he possessed other qualities essential to a great mind. He was very cautious, and yet he was very bold. He was cautious, since he would not believe strange things because they had been handed down by his forefathers; and he was bold, since he was undaunted by the reproaches with which the ignorant, who love to dogmatize, always cover those whose knowledge makes them ready to doubt.40 These peculiarities would, in any age, have made Montaigne a useful man: in the sixteenth century they made him an important one. At the same time, his easy and amusing style41 increased the circulation of his works, and thus contributed to popularize those opinions which he ventured to recommend for general adoption.

This, then, is the first open declaration of that scepticism, which, towards the end of the sixteenth century, publicly appeared in France.42 During nearly three generations, it continued its course with a constantly increasing activity, and developed itself in a manner similar to that which took place in England. It will not be necessary to follow all the steps of this great process; but I will endeavour to trace those which, by their prominence, seem to be the most important.

A few years after the appearance of the Essays of Montaigne, there was published in France a work, which though now little read, possessed in the seventeenth century a reputation of the highest order. This was the celebrated Treatise on Wisdom, by Charron, in which we find, for the first time, an attempt made in a modern language to construct a system of morals without the aid of theology.43 What rendered this book, in some respects, even more formidable than Montaigne's, was the air of gravity with which it was written. Charron was evidently deeply impressed with the importance of the task he had undertaken, and he is honourably distinguished from his contemporaries, by a remarkable purity both of language and of sentiment. His work is almost the only one of that age in which nothing can be found to offend the chastest ears. Although he borrowed from Montaigne innumerable illustrations,44 he has carefully omitted those indecencies into which that otherwise charming writer was often betrayed. Besides this, there is about the work of Charron a systematic completeness which never fails to attract attention. In originality, he was, in some respects, inferior to Montaigne; but he had the advantage of coming after him, and there can be no doubt that he rose to an elevation which, to Montaigne, would have been inaccessible. Taking his stand, as it were, on the summit of knowledge, he boldly attempts to enumerate the elements of wisdom, and the conditions under which those elements will work. In the scheme which he thus constructs, he entirely omits theological dogmas;45 and he treats with undissembled scorn many of those conclusions which the people had hitherto universally received. He reminds his countrymen that their religion is the accidental result of their birth and education, and that if they had been born in a Mohammedan country, they would have been as firm believers in Mohammedanism as they then were in Christianity.46 From this consideration, he insists on the absurdity of their troubling themselves about the variety of creeds, seeing that such variety is the result of circumstances over which they have no control. Also it is to be observed, that each of these different religions declares itself to be the true one;47 and all of them are equally based upon supernatural pretensions, such as mysteries, miracles, prophets, and the like.48 It is because men forget these things, that they are the slaves of that confidence which is the great obstacle to all real knowledge, and which can only be removed by taking such a large and comprehensive view, as will show us how all nations cling with equal zeal to the tenets in which they have been educated.49 And, says Charron, if we look a little deeper, we shall see that each of the great religions is built upon that which preceded it. Thus, the religion of the Jews is founded upon that of the Egyptians; Christianity is the result of Judaism; and, from these two last, there has naturally sprung Mohammedanism.50 We, therefore, adds this great writer, should rise above the pretensions of hostile sects, and, without being terrified by the fear of future punishment, or allured by the hope of future happiness, we should be content with such practical religion as consists in performing the duties of life; and, uncontrolled by the dogmas of any particular creed, we should strive to make the soul retire inward upon itself, and by the efforts of its own contemplation, admire the ineffable grandeur of the Being of beings, the supreme cause of all created things.51

Such were the sentiments which, in the year 1601, were for the first time laid before the French people in their own mother-tongue.52 The sceptical and secular spirit, of which they were the representatives, continued to increase; and, as the seventeenth century advanced, the decline of fanaticism, so far from being confined to a few isolated thinkers, gradually became common, even among ordinary politicians.53 The clergy, sensible of the danger, wished the government to check the progress of inquiry;54 and the pope himself, in a formal remonstrance with Henry, urged him to remedy the evil, by prosecuting the heretics, from whom he thought all the mischief had originally proceeded.55 But this the king steadily refused. He saw the immense advantages that would arise, if he could weaken the ecclesiastical power by balancing the two sects against each other;56 and therefore, though he was a Catholic, his policy rather leaned in favour of the Protestants, as being the weaker party.57 He granted sums of money towards the support of their ministers and the repair of their churches;58 he banished the Jesuits, who were their most dangerous enemies;59 and he always had with him two representatives of the reformed church, whose business it was to inform him of any infraction of those edicts which he had issued in favour of their religion.60

Thus it was, that in France, as well as in England, toleration was preceded by scepticism; and thus it was, that out of this scepticism there arose the humane and enlightened measures of Henry IV. The great prince, by whom these things were effected, unhappily fell a victim to that fanatical spirit which he had done much to curb;61 but the circumstances which occurred after his death, showed how great an impetus had been given to the age.

On the murder of Henry IV., in 1610, the government fell into the hands of the queen, who administered it during the minority of her son, Louis XIII. And it is a remarkable evidence of the direction which the mind was now taking, that she, though a weak and bigoted woman,62 refrained from those persecutions which, only one generation before, had been considered a necessary proof of religious sincerity. That, indeed, must have been a movement of no common energy, which could force toleration, early in the seventeenth century, upon a princess of the house of Medici, an ignorant and superstitious Catholic, who had been educated in the midst of her priests, and had been accustomed to look for their applause as the highest object of earthly ambition.