French & English

It is customary with the reactionary parties in France to look to England as the model of everything that is stable; and as their ignorance of English affairs prevents them from seeing what is going on beneath the surface, they conclude that what they believe to be the British constitution is invested with indefinite durability, whilst the French republican constitution is always about to perish.

In calculating thus, the French reactionists omit one consideration of immense importance. They fail to see that the very presence of old institutions, unless they are so perfectly adapted to modern wants as to make people forget that they are old, is in itself a provocative to the spirit of change, and that it excites a desire for novelty which remains unappeased so long as the old institutions last. The old thing quickens the impulse to modernise when something not old enough to attract attention by its antiquity would have left that special and peculiar passion unawakened.

As an example of this, I may mention the existence of mediæval buildings in the streets of a town. Such buildings act as a powerful stimulus to the destructive tendencies of modern municipalities. French cities formerly abounded in such old buildings, but the municipalities cleared most of them away, and it became necessary to restrain this destructive instinct by the enactment of a law for the protection of all buildings classed as “historical monuments.”

In like manner the presence of the State Church in England, of the hereditary legislating peers, and of the royal family, as well as of many other ancient things of minor importance, is a stimulus to the spirit of change in radical politicians. It sounds paradoxical, but it is true, that the conservative House of Lords is an obstacle to the final establishment of a conservative spirit in the people. Great numbers of the English electors and many of their representatives are animated by the same tendency to destroy and reconstruct which used to be very active in France.

It does not require any special clearness of vision to perceive that, so far from having closed the era of great changes, Great Britain and Ireland have only entered upon it. Their future for many years, perhaps for an entire century, is destined to be a future of change,—of change desired eagerly by some, resisted with all the strength of self-protecting instinct by many others, admitted to be inevitable by the wise, who will be anxious only to direct and control it wisely. It will be a time of uncertainty and unrest, of new political combinations, and very probably of ephemeral cabinets. The tendency to instability in cabinets was already manifest before the coalition which enabled Lord Salisbury’s government to live.[33] The well-known difficulty in finding support for any government in France was beginning to show itself very plainly in England also. Except on a single question, the House of Commons will no longer conveniently divide itself into two parties, after the old English fashion, but splits into three or four, almost like the French Chamber.

The condition of instability which already exists in England, was strikingly illustrated in the year 1886 by a chance vote in the House of Commons. Mr. Labouchere had so powerful a minority in favour of his resolution against the hereditary principle in the other House, that a sign from Mr. Gladstone would have immediately converted it into a majority, and Mr. Gladstone’s support of the resolution was refused in terms scarcely more consolatory for hereditary legislators than those of the resolution itself. The House did not listen to Mr. Labouchere’s speech with indignation, but with amusement, and the only incident of any solemnity was the exclamation of a member who cried out “The Writing on the Wall!” when the formidable minority was made known. Now, although the English have not any written constitution, all foreigners have hitherto been accustomed to believe in the dignity and permanence of the House of Lords, and they have believed it to be a part of that great reality which was called La Constitution Anglaise. How is it possible to retain these old beliefs after such a parliamentary incident as this?

The question of stability as it affects established Churches will be dealt with in the chapters on Religion. The true cause of the instability of Anglicanism is not religious, but social. A State Church can hardly afford to be tolerant; the necessities of her position require her to repress Dissent with the strong hand, as the dominant Churches both in England and France have done in other ages. If a State Church has no longer the strength to persecute efficaciously, free religious communities will grow up around her, and in course of time they will claim equality. They have got it in France by co-establishment, which postpones the final separation; but in England there is not co-establishment, and it is too late to think of that expedient, as some well-intentioned men are now doing. The Dissenters dislike being treated as inferiors; they are weary of being put “under the ban.” I remember reading a letter from a Dissenter who had visited America, describing the novel and delightful sensation of being in a country where he was not “under the ban” on account of his religious opinions, and his sensations on returning to England, where, as a Dissenter, he felt at every step that he was placed in an inferior caste. In France the sacerdotal power owes its present instability and precariousness of tenure to its essentially political character. In both countries the real and genuine religious hatred which belonged to the old spirit of enmity between Catholic and Protestant has given place to a newer and less virulent kind of antagonism.

The essential character of all modern political change is the preference of utility to dignity, and consequently of useful institutions to august institutions. At the present time (1888) there are many more august institutions in England than in France. Not only have we the monarchy and the House of Peers, but there are still the old romantic orders of knighthood, including the Garter, which is the most august order in the world, and the least democratic. In France such institutions have been replaced by the Presidency of the Republic, the Senate, and the Legion of Honour, all much less august than the throne of Saint Louis, the Peers of France, and the Order of the Holy Ghost. The change is something like that from pope and cardinals to an evangelical consistory.

Will England herself retain eternally what remains to her of the august dignities of the past? It is now believed that the State Church and the House of Lords are both institutions of doubtful durability. Is the throne itself secure from that destructive spirit which is threatening them?

The truest answer may be that the fate of the throne depends far more on the qualities of a single individual than does the fate of the other august English institutions. A very good, wise, and prudent king would make the throne last during a long reign; a bad, incompetent, foolish king would certainly unsettle and perhaps overturn it. In the nineteenth century the person who has done most for the English monarchy began her work as a girl, and said to Spring Rice fifty years ago, “Never mention the word ‘trouble.’ Only tell me how the thing is to be done, to be done rightly, and I will do it if I can”[34] It is possible, however, that Her Majesty’s reign, though it has immensely strengthened the throne for the present, may have unexpected consequences. Whilst it lasts, the country is the happiest of republics, enjoying complete liberty under the presidency of the person most respected in the State. To go back, after that, to a condition of real subjection under a masterful and meddlesome king, is more than the English people would ever be likely to endure. It remains a question, too, whether the country would endure a king who, without being what might be called a tyrant, was simply determined to make his position a reality. Suppose, for example, that instead of being a minister, Lord Salisbury, with his governing instincts, had been king. He would have attempted to control many things, but would the loyalty of the country have borne the strain? What thoughtful English people say now in private, amounts to this: that the Queen will certainly remain undisturbed, that her son will probably have a quiet reign, and reap the fruits of his unsparing personal work, but that beyond him nothing is known. The old positive certainty about the duration of the monarchy in England, whatever the quality of the monarch, has given place to personal considerations.

There is another possibility that may lead to anything but settled rest and peace. The country may divide itself into two extreme parties: the advocates of a really strong monarchy, with an active, ruling king, may be opposed to a vigorous radical party that would then be openly republican. If ever this should come to pass, it is hard to see how civil disturbance could be avoided. A determined sovereign, under such circumstances, might proclaim himself Emperor, not only of India, but of Great Britain, and the Gladstone of the day might answer that move by bold republicanism in the House of Commons.

The future of France has now rather better prospects of stability, or might have them, if the effects of the next war with Germany were not so difficult to foresee. The reason is not because the French are less fickle than the English, but simply because they have got through more of the long revolutionary process, so that the new order is more under the protection of popular conservative instincts. There is also a strong desire for rest, a weariness of change after the most disturbed century of the national existence. The single wish of the people is to pursue their avocations in peace, and if the plain truth must be told, they have no longer the old capacity for political enthusiasm. The genuine royalist sentiment is almost extinct; if it lingers at all, it is only in a few aristocratic families, and hardly even in these since the death of Henri V. deprived it alike of object and aliment. Even the Count of Paris himself does not reverence the Divine Right of royalty in his own person, since he condescends to bid against the Bonapartists for democratic acceptance.

On the other hand, the republican sentiment, though resolute as to the preservation of republican forms, has certainly become wonderfully cool. The coolness of the young men is especially remarkable and significant. They are mostly republicans, it is true, and have no belief in the possibility of a monarchical restoration, but the more intelligent of them see the difficulties and the defects of a republican government very plainly, and they have a tendency to dwell upon those difficulties and defects in a manner that would astonish the militant republicans of the past. This composed and rational temper is the state of mind that comes upon all of us after the settled possession of an object, and it is a sign of settled possession. I myself have known two generations of French republicans, the ardent, hopeful, self-sacrificing men who looked forward, as from the desert to the promised land, and now their sons, for whom the promised land has the incurable defect of being no longer ideal.

Democratic institutions may vary in their form and still remain democratic. I should not venture to predict eternal duration for the present French republican forms, but I believe that the democracy will last, if only because it is inconceivable that an aristocracy should ever destroy it and take its place. The strong popular conservative tendency which has been already noticed may possibly preserve both the senate and the presidence. Sir Henry Maine had a very contemptuous estimate of the position of a French president, whose position he considered “pitiable.” That is merely an example of the English habit of despising, already alluded to. If the position of president were “pitiable,” it would not be so much coveted by the leading politicians. In dignity it is inferior, no doubt, to that of a great king, but it is superior to the minor royalties. In influence it is enough to say that it is superior to that of a merely ceremonial monarch, because the president presides over councils of ministers, and is, in fact, himself a permanent minister, or the only minister with any approach to permanence. It is not surprising that a constitutional sovereign should manifest a constant unwillingness to read speeches composed by others, to be afterwards criticised in Parliament with utter disregard of the royal name that covers them. A French president is at least permitted to write his own messages, which are the expression of his own opinions. The greatest function of a French president is a very lofty and noble one. It is to smooth asperities, to diminish the bad effect of political dissension, and to be watchful of the interests of the country. He has also a direct and immediate influence on foreign affairs, which has already proved useful on more than one occasion. These are reasons why the office may possibly be maintained, but there is another reason that affects the estimation of the republic in rural districts. The country looks to the president with satisfaction as the nearest approach to permanence that a democratic constitution can admit. What Bagehot said of the Queen twenty years ago is in a great measure true of the French president to-day. Amidst the frequent changes of ministers he is comparatively stable. The peasants follow with difficulty the names of successive ministers, but they all know the name of the president, and his portrait is seen everywhere. Their belief about the president is that he is a respectable, trustworthy man: “C’est un brave homme, Mossieu Grévy (or Carnot, as the case may be), je le crois b’en, moi.” Is that nothing? It is not the Russian’s adoration of the Czar, nor the German’s affection for old Kaiser Wilhelm, but it is an element of tranquillity in the State.