History of Civilization in England, Vol. 2 of 3

These things might have been sufficient to rescue even the physical labours of Descartes from the attacks constantly made on them by men who either have not studied his works, or else, having studied them, are unable to understand their merit. But the glory of Descartes, and the influence he exercised over his age, do not depend even on such claims as these. Putting them aside, he is the author of what is emphatically called Modern Philosophy.214 He is the originator of that great system and method of metaphysics, which, notwithstanding its errors, has the undoubted merit of having given a wonderful impulse to the European mind, and communicated to it an activity which has been made available for other purposes of a different character. Besides this, and superior to it, there is another obligation which we are under to the memory of Descartes. He deserves the gratitude of posterity, not so much on account of what he built up, as on account of what he pulled down. His life was one great and successful warfare against the prejudices and traditions of men. He was great as a creator, but he was far greater as a destroyer. In this respect he was the true successor of Luther, to whose labours his own were the fitting supplement. He completed what the great German reformer had left undone.215 He bore to the old systems of philosophy precisely the same relation that Luther bore to the old systems of religion. He was the great reformer and liberator of the European intellect. To prefer, therefore, even the most successful discoverers of physical laws to this great innovator and disturber of tradition, is just as if we should prefer knowledge to freedom, and believe that science is better than liberty. We must, indeed, always be grateful to those eminent thinkers, to whose labours we are indebted for that vast body of physical truths which we now possess. But, let us reserve the full measure of our homage for those far greater men, who have not hesitated to attack and destroy the most inveterate prejudices: men who, by removing the pressure of tradition, have purified the very source and fountain of our knowledge, and secured its future progress, by casting off obstacles in the presence of which progress was impossible.216

It will not be expected, perhaps it will hardly be desired, that I should enter into a complete detail of the philosophy of Descartes: a philosophy which, in England at least, is rarely studied, and therefore, is often attacked. But it will be necessary to give such an account of it as will show its analogy with the anti-theological policy of Richelieu, and will thus enable us to see the full extent of that vast movement which took place in France before the accession of Louis XIV. By this means, we shall be able to understand how the daring innovations of the great minister were so successful, since they were accompanied and reinforced by corresponding innovations in the national intellect; thus affording an additional instance of the way in which the political history of every country is to be explained by the history of its intellectual progress.

In 1637, when Richelieu was at the height of his power, Descartes published that great work which he had long been meditating, and which was the first open announcement of the new tendencies of the French mind. To this work he gave the name of a ‘Method;’ and, assuredly, the method is the most alien to what is commonly called theology that can possibly be conceived. Indeed, so far from being theological, it is essentially and exclusively psychological. The theological method rests on ancient records, on tradition, on the voice of antiquity. The method of Descartes rests solely on the consciousness each man has of the operations of his own mind, and lest anyone should mistake the meaning of this, he, in subsequent works, developed it at great length, and with unrivalled clearness. For his main object was to popularize the views which he put forward. Therefore, says Descartes, ‘I write in French rather than in Latin, because I trust that they who only employ their simple and native reason will estimate my opinions more fairly than they who only believe in ancient books.’217 So strongly does he insist upon this, that, almost at the beginning of his first work, he cautions his readers against the common error of looking to antiquity for knowledge; and he reminds them that ‘when men are too curious to know the practices of past ages, they generally remain very ignorant of their own.’218

Indeed, so far from following the old plan of searching for truths in the records of the past, the great essential of this new philosophy is to wean ourselves from all such associations, and, beginning the acquisition of knowledge by the work of destruction, first pull down, in order that afterwards we may build up.219 When I, says Descartes, set forth in the pursuit of truth, I found that the best way was to reject every thing I had hitherto received, and pluck out all my old opinions, in order that I might lay the foundation of them afresh: believing that, by this means, I should more easily accomplish the great scheme of life, than by building on an old basis, and supporting myself by principles which I had learned in my youth, without examining if they were really true.220 ‘I, therefore, will occupy myself freely and earnestly in effecting a general destruction of all my old opinions.’221 For, if we would know all the truths that can be known, we must, in the first place, free ourselves from our prejudices, and make a point of rejecting those things which we have received, until we have subjected them to a new examination.222 We, therefore, must derive our opinions, not from tradition, but from ourselves. We must not pass judgment upon any subject which we do not clearly and distinctly understand; for, even if such a judgment is correct, it can only be so by accident, not having solid ground on which to support itself.223 But, so far are we from this state of indifference, that our memory is full of prejudices:224 we pay attention to words rather than to things;225 and being thus slaves to form, there are too many of us ‘who believe themselves religious, when, in fact, they are bigoted and superstitious; who think themselves perfect because they go much to church, because they often repeat prayers, because they wear short hair, because they fast, because they give alms. These are the men who imagine themselves such friends of God, that nothing they do displeases Him; men who, under pretence of zeal, gratify their passions by committing the greatest crimes, such as betraying towns, killing princes, exterminating nations: and all this they do to those who will not change their opinions.’226

These were the words of wisdom which this great teacher addressed to his countrymen only a few years after they had brought to a close the last religious war that has ever been waged in France. The similarity of those views to those which, about the same time, were put forth by Chillingworth, must strike every reader, but ought not to excite surprise; for they were but the natural products of a state of society in which the right of private judgment, and the independence of the human reason, were first solidly established. If we examine this matter a little closer, we shall find still further proof of the analogy between France and England. So identical are the steps of the progress, that the relation which Montaigne bears to Descartes is just the same as that which Hooker bears to Chillingworth; the same in reference to the difference of time, and also in reference to the difference of opinions. The mind of Hooker was essentially sceptical; but his genius was so restrained by the prejudices of his age, that, unable to discern the supreme authority of private judgment, he hampered it by appeals to councils and to the general voice of ecclesiastical antiquity: impediments which Chillingworth, thirty years later, effectually removed. In precisely the same way, Montaigne, like Hooker, was sceptical; but, like him, he lived at a period when the spirit of doubt was yet young, and when the mind still trembled before the authority of the Church. It is, therefore, no wonder that even Montaigne, who did so much for his age, should have hesitated respecting the capacity of men to work out for themselves great truths; and that, pausing in the course that lay before him, his scepticism should often have assumed the form of a distrust of the human faculties.227 Such shortcomings, and such imperfections, are merely an evidence of the slow growth of society, and of the impossibility for even the greatest thinkers to outstrip their contemporaries beyond a certain point. But, with the advance of knowledge, this deficiency was at length supplied; and, as the generation after Hooker brought forth Chillingworth, just so did the generation after Montaigne bring forth Descartes. Both Chillingworth and Descartes were eminently sceptical; but their scepticism was directed, not against the human intellect, but against those appeals to authority and tradition without which it had hitherto been supposed that the intellect could not safely proceed. That this was the case with Chillingworth, we have already seen. That it was likewise the case with Descartes, is, if possible, still more apparent; for that profound thinker believed, not only that the mind, by its own efforts, could root out its most ancient opinions, but that it could, without fresh aid, build up a new and solid system in place of the one which it had thrown down.228

It is this extraordinary confidence in the power of the human intellect, which eminently characterizes Descartes, and has given to his philosophy that peculiar sublimity which distinguishes it from all other systems. So far from thinking that a knowledge of the external world is essential to the discovery of truth, he laid it down as a fundamental principle, that we must begin by ignoring such knowledge;229 that the first step is to separate ourselves from the delusions of nature, and reject the evidence presented to our senses.230 For, says Descartes, nothing is certain but thought; nor are there any truths except those which necessarily follow from the operation of our own consciousness. We have no knowledge of our soul except as a thinking substance:231 and it were easier for us to believe that the soul should cease to exist, than that it should cease to think.232 And, as to man himself, what is he but the incarnation of thought? For that which constitutes the man, is not his bones, nor his flesh, nor his blood. These are the accidents, the incumbrances, the impediments of his nature. But the man himself is the thought. The invisible me, the ultimate fact of existence, the mystery of life, is this: ‘I am a thing that thinks.’ This, therefore, is the beginning and the basis of our knowledge. The thought of each man is the last element to which analysis can carry us; it is the supreme judge of every doubt; it is the starting-point for all wisdom.233

Taking our stand on this ground, we rise, says Descartes, to the perception of the existence of the Deity. For, our belief in His existence is an irrefragable proof that He exists. Otherwise, whence does the belief arise? Since nothing can come out of nothing, and since no effect can be without a cause, it follows that the idea we have of God must have an origin; and this origin, whatever name we give it, is no other than God.234 Thus, the ultimate proof of His existence is our idea of it. Instead, therefore, of saying that we know ourselves because we believe in God, we should rather say that we believe in God because we know ourselves.235 This is the order and precedence of things. The thought of each man is sufficient to prove His existence, and it is the only proof we can ever possess. Such, therefore, is the dignity and supremacy of the human intellect, that even this, the highest of all matters, flows from it, as from its sole source.236 Hence, our religion should not be acquired by the teaching of others, but should be worked out by ourselves: it is not to be borrowed from antiquity, but it is to be discovered by each man's mind; it is not traditional, but personal. It is because this great truth has been neglected, that impiety has arisen. If each man were to content himself with that idea of God which is suggested by his own mind, he would attain to a true knowledge of the Divine Nature. But when, instead of confining himself to this, he mixes up with it the notions of others, his ideas become perplexed; they contradict themselves; and the composition being thus confused, he often ends by denying the existence, not, indeed, of God, but of such a God as that in whom he has been taught to believe.237

The mischief which these principles must have done to the old theology is very obvious.238 Not only were they fatal, in the minds of those who received them, to many of the common dogmas – such, for instance, as that of transubstantiation,239– but they were likewise directly opposed to other opinions, equally indefensible, and far more dangerous. For Descartes, by founding a philosophy which rejected all authority except that of the human reason,240 was, of course, led to abandon the study of final causes,241– an old and natural superstition, by which, as we shall hereafter see, the German philosophers were long impeded, and which still hangs, though somewhat loosely, about the minds of men.242 At the same time, by superseding the geometry of the ancients, he aided in weakening that inordinate respect with which antiquity was then regarded. In another matter, still more important, he displayed the same spirit, and met with the same success. With such energy did he attack the influence, or rather the tyranny of Aristotle, that although the opinions of that philosopher were intimately interwoven with the Christian theology,243 his authority was entirely overthrown by Descartes; and with it there perished those scholastic prejudices, for which Aristotle, indeed, was not responsible, but which, under the shelter of his mighty name, had, during several centuries, perplexed the understandings of men, and retarded the progress of their knowledge.244

These were the principal services rendered to civilization by one of the greatest men Europe has ever produced. The analogy between him and Richelieu is very striking, and is as complete as their relative positions would allow. The same disregard of ancient notions, the same contempt for theological interests, the same indifference to tradition, the same determination to prefer the present to the past: in a word, the same essentially modern spirit, is seen alike in the writings of Descartes, and in the actions of Richelieu. What the first was to philosophy, that was the other to politics. But, while acknowledging the merits of these eminent men, it behoves us to remember that their success was the result, not only of their own abilities, but likewise of the general temper of their time. The nature of their labours depended on themselves; the way in which their labours were received, depended on their contemporaries. Had they lived in a more superstitious age, their views would have been disregarded, or, if noticed, would have been execrated as impious novelties. In the fifteenth, or early in the sixteenth century, the genius of Descartes and of Richelieu would have lacked the materials necessary to their work; their comprehensive minds would, in that state of society, have found no play; they would have awakened no sympathies; their bread would have been cast upon those waters which return it not again. And it would have been well for them if, in such a case, indifference were the only penalty with which they would be visited. It would have been well if they had not paid the forfeit incurred by many of those illustrious thinkers who have vainly attempted to stem the torrent of human credulity. It would have been well if the church had not risen in her wrath – if Richelieu had not been executed as a traitor, and Descartes burned as a heretic.

Indeed, the mere fact that two such men, occupying so conspicuous a place before the public eye, and enforcing views so obnoxious to the interests of superstition, should have lived without serious danger, and then have died peaceably in their beds – the mere fact that this should have happened, is a decisive proof of the progress which, during fifty years, had been made by the French nation. With such rapidity were the prejudices of that great people dying away, that opinions utterly subversive of theological traditions, and fatal to the whole scheme of ecclesiastical power, were with impunity advocated by Descartes, and put in practice by Richelieu. It was now clearly seen, that the two foremost men of their time could, with little or no risk, openly propagate ideas which, half a century before, it would have been accounted dangerous even for the most obscure man to whisper in the privacy of his own chamber.

Nor are the causes of this impunity difficult to understand. They are to be found in the diffusion of that sceptical spirit, by which, in France as well as in England, toleration was preceded. For, without entering into details which would be too long for the limits of this Introduction, it is enough to say, that French literature generally was, at this period, distinguished by a freedom and a boldness of inquiry, of which, England alone excepted, no example had then been seen in Europe. The generation which had listened to the teachings of Montaigne and of Charron, was now succeeded by another generation, the disciples, indeed, of those eminent men, but disciples who far outstripped their masters. The result was, that, during the thirty or forty years which preceded the power of Louis XIV.,245 there was not to be found a single Frenchman of note who did not share in the general feeling – not one who did not attack some ancient dogma, or sap the foundation of some old opinion. This fearless temper was the characteristic of the ablest writers of that time;246 but what is still more observable is, that the movement spread with such rapidity as to include in its action even those parts of society which are invariably the last to be affected by it. That spirit of doubt, which is the necessary precursor of all inquiry, and therefore of all solid improvement, owes its origin to the most thinking and intellectual parts of society, and is naturally opposed by the other parts: opposed by the nobles, because it is dangerous to their interests; opposed by the uneducated, because it attacks their prejudices. This is one of the reasons why neither the highest nor the lowest ranks are fit to conduct the government of a civilized country; since both of them, notwithstanding individual exceptions, are, in the aggregate, averse to those reforms which the exigencies of an advancing nation constantly require. But, in France, before the middle of the seventeenth century, even these classes began to participate in the great progress; so that, not only among thoughtful men, but likewise among the ignorant and the frivolous, there was seen that inquisitive and incredulous disposition, which, whatever may be said against it, has at least this peculiarity, that, in its absence, there is no instance to be found of the establishment of those principles of toleration and of liberty, which have only been recognized with infinite difficulty, and after many a hard-fought battle against prejudices whose inveterate tenacity might almost cause them to be deemed a part of the original constitution of the human mind.247

It is no wonder if, under these circumstances, the speculations of Descartes and the actions of Richelieu should have met with great success. The system of Descartes exercised immense influence, and soon pervaded nearly every branch of knowledge.248 The policy of Richelieu was so firmly established, that it was continued without the slightest difficulty by his immediate successor: nor was any attempt made to reverse it until that forcible and artificial reaction which, under Louis XIV., was fatal, for a time, to every sort of civil and religious liberty. The history of that reaction, and the way in which, by a counter-reaction, the French Revolution was prepared, will be related in the subsequent chapters of this volume; at present we will resume the thread of those events which took place in France before Louis XIV. assumed the government.

A few months after the death of Richelieu, Louis XIII. also died, and the crown was inherited by Louis XIV., who was then a child, and who for many years had no influence in public affairs. During his minority, the government was administered, avowedly by his mother, but in reality by Mazarin: a man who, though in every point inferior to Richelieu, had imbibed something of his spirit, and who, so far as he was able, adopted the policy of that great statesman, to whom he owed his promotion.249 He, influenced partly by the example of his predecessor, partly by his own character, and partly by the spirit of his age, showed no desire to persecute the Protestants, or to disturb them in any of the rights they then exercised.250 His first act was to confirm the Edict of Nantes;251 and, towards the close of his life, he even allowed the Protestants again to hold those synods which their own violence had been the means of interrupting.252 Between the death of Richelieu and the accession to power of Louis XIV., there elapsed a period of nearly twenty years, during which Mazarin, with the exception of a few intervals, was at the head of the state; and in the whole of that time, I have found no instance of any Frenchman being punished for his religion. Indeed, the new government, so far from protecting the church by repressing heresy, displayed that indifference to ecclesiastical interests which was now becoming a settled maxim of French policy. Richelieu, as we have already seen, had taken the bold step of placing Protestants at the head of the royal armies; and this he had done upon the simple principle, that one of the first duties of a statesman is to employ for the benefit of the country the ablest men he can find, without regard to their theological opinions, with which, as he well knew, no government has any concern. But Louis XIII., whose personal feelings were always opposed to the enlightened measures of his great minister, was offended by this magnanimous disregard of ancient prejudices; his piety was shocked at the idea of Catholic soldiers being commanded by heretics; and, as we are assured by a well-informed contemporary, he determined to put an end to this scandal to the church, and, for the future, allow no Protestant to receive the staff of marshal of France.253 Whether the king, if he had lived, would have carried his point, is doubtful;254 but what is certain is, that, only four months after his death, this appointment of marshal was bestowed upon Turenne, the most able of all the Protestant generals.255 And in the very next year, Gassion, another Protestant, was raised to the same dignity; thus affording the strange spectacle of the highest military power in a great Catholic country wielded by two men against whose religion the church was never weary of directing her anathemas.256 In a similar spirit, Mazarin, on mere grounds of political expediency, concluded an intimate alliance with Cromwell; an usurper who, in the opinion of the theologians, was doomed to perdition, since he was soiled by the triple crime of rebellion, of heresy, and of regicide.257 Finally, one of the last acts of this pupil of Richelieu's258 was to sign the celebrated treaty of the Pyrenees, by which ecclesiastical interests were seriously weakened, and great injury inflicted on him who was still considered to be the head of the church.259

But, the circumstance for which the administration of Mazarin is most remarkable, is the breaking out of that great civil war called the Fronde, in which the people attempted to carry into politics the insubordinate spirit which had already displayed itself in literature and in religion. Here we cannot fail to note the similarity between this struggle and that which, at the same time, was taking place in England. It would, indeed, be far from accurate to say that the two events were the counterpart of each other; but there can be no doubt that the analogy between them is very striking. In both countries, the civil war was the first popular expression of what had hitherto been rather a speculative, and, so to say, a literary scepticism. In both countries, incredulity was followed by rebellion, and the abasement of the clergy preceded the humiliation of the crown; for Richelieu was to the French church what Elizabeth had been to the English church. In both countries there now first arose that great product of civilization, a free press, which showed its liberty by pouring forth those fearless and innumerable works which mark the activity of the age.260 In both countries, the struggle was between retrogression and progress; between those who clung to tradition, and those who longed for innovation; while, in both, the contest assumed the external form of a war between king and parliament, the king being the organ of the past, the parliament the representative of the present. And, not to mention inferior similarities, there was one other point of vast importance in which these two great events coincide. This is, that both of them were eminently secular, and arose from the desire, not of propagating religious opinions, but of securing civil liberty. The temporal character of the English rebellion I have already noticed, and, indeed, it must be obvious to whoever has studied the evidence in its original sources. In France, not only do we find the same result, but we can even mark the stages of the progress. In the middle of the sixteenth century, and immediately after the death of Henry III., the French civil wars were caused by religious disputes, and were carried on with the fervour of a crusade. Early in the seventeenth century, hostilities again broke out; but though the efforts of the government were directed against the Protestants, this was not because they were heretics, but because they were rebels: the object being, not to punish an opinion, but to control a faction. This was the first great stage in the history of toleration; and it was accomplished, as we have already seen, during the reign of Louis XIII. That generation passing away, there arose, in the next age, the wars of the Fronde; and in this, which may be called the second stage of the French intellect, the alteration was still more remarkable. For, in the mean time, the principles of the great sceptical thinkers, from Montaigne to Descartes, had produced their natural fruit, and, becoming diffused among the educated classes, had influenced, as they always will do, not only those by whom they were received, but also those by whom they were rejected. Indeed, a mere knowledge of the fact, that the most eminent men have thrown doubt on the popular opinions of an age, can never fail, in some degree, to disturb the convictions even of those by whom the doubts are ridiculed.261 In such cases, none are entirely safe: the firmest belief is apt to become slightly unsettled; those who outwardly preserve the appearance of orthodoxy, often unconsciously waver; they cannot entirely resist the influence of superior minds, nor can they always avoid an unwelcome suspicion, that when ability is on one side, and ignorance on the other, it is barely possible that the ability may be right, and the ignorance may be wrong.