But the French magistracy at least enjoys independence? It did previous to 1789. The government did not interpose in the appointment of magistrates. This system, otherwise very defective, did not err through servility. The empire, artfully retaining a certain semblance of the ancient régime, was careful not to do so where the independence of the magistracy was concerned. The emperor nominated all the magistrates, and made them removable at pleasure. This system did not suit the Restoration, and immovability was established. Under Louis Philippe, the magistracy rapidly diminished. The more honest felt themselves bound by their oath, and refused to serve the royalty of July. But the Third Empire, by its administrative practices, effaced the last trace of judiciary independence, and destroyed the permanence of the office by the prospect of lucrative advancement. Hitherto money had not seemed to be the aim of the magistrate. The idea of a career to pursue never entered his head. The magistrate did not have to earn his livelihood, and he belonged to his native place, where, regarded with universal respect, he lived on his own fortune, which was the exterior pledge of his independence. The needy and the ambitious did not seek such a post. The empire raised the salaries of the magistrates only to make the office accessible to that class of people who are ready to obey at whatever cost. Immovability was illusory when the greater part of the magistrates, desirous only of advancement, went from one place to another according to the ministerial humor. Besides, the government asked nothing better than to have in each locality transient magistrates who were strangers to the people, and only awaited an opportunity of ascending the ladder of promotion. This allurement was more efficacious than fear in effecting the change in our judiciary customs. The justiceship of the peace, which ought to be a kind of rural and local institution, and which for some time preserved that character, speedily degenerated. The empire at last ended by bringing it completely under the yoke of centralism. Instead of being the independent arbiter of petty quarrels and trivial interests that required immediate solution because they were not worth the expense and delay of a suit, the justice of the peace now found himself an electoral agent, and implicated in politics. He had to be chosen from the nomadic class of civilians. To prevent all ties with the people, fees were done away with, and his salary made equal to that of the judges of the inferior court. The pretext was made that the dignity of the magistracy did not allow a judge to receive perquisites. The truth is that there was a very different reason. The justices of the peace, being natives of the country, and already in possession of a patrimony, had no eye to the fees. Many of them had scarcely any. On an average, the perquisites did not amount to more than five or six hundred francs, and were not always easily collected. A mere income of seven or eight hundred francs was not sufficient to attract a stranger, especially when there was no prospect of promotion. The empire sought to bind the justices of the peace closely to itself, and deprived the office, practically speaking, of its perpetuity, for the same reason that it had made the assize judges removable. The justiceship of the peace, having been made a round of the judiciary ladder, became accessible to those civilians or agents who only asked to serve the government. Our judiciary army, as numerous as our administrative army, and composed of agents nominated directly by the state, had, then, but one course open to it. Its apparent immovability no longer hid anything. Those who are familiar with the affairs of the empire know what to think of a magistracy which takes it upon itself to sound its own praises. Though founded on very different principles, the French magistracy, by a sudden deviation, has gone back to the Cæsarean type of Byzantium.
This mixture of the appearance of freedom with despotism is natural to an absolute power resting on a popular basis. We cannot see how it could be otherwise. Ancient Rome afforded the same spectacle. The Cæsars never ceased to repeat that they were the representatives of the people, and the defenders of national liberty. We are not astonished that the French government which sprang from the Revolution has assumed this attitude. The Romans only admitted Roman civilization, which they called “Roman peace.” Their poets often speak of “the majesty of Roman peace.” Civilization, then, consisted in obeying the proconsuls, paying the taxes, furnishing recruits, and working on the roads and public monuments. At this price, the provinces enjoyed a little tranquillity. It is noteworthy that the French Revolution assumed to be the only light capable of guiding the world in the way of liberty, equality, fraternity, progress, civilization, comfort, etc. Its disciples still assert that France is continuing to fulfil this mission. This is what Louis Napoleon meant when he said that France alone contended for an idea. This immeasurable pride in thinking ourselves superior to other nations has had to bow down. It was not by virtue of our actual qualities that we undertook to assume such a supremacy, but, on the contrary, by virtue of the errors and vices that have sprung up in modern times. In the XVIIth century, when our moral superiority was acknowledged and incontestable, no Frenchman ever advertised any pretension to overrule other nations, or believed that our nation was destined to precede others in order to enlighten them. This pretension sprang up in 1789, at the time when a new system was promulgated in the midst of the terrors of the Revolution. Supposing this idea to be new, what right had France to impose it forcibly on other nations? Europe rose in arms to repel revolutionary or Cæsarean invasions, and before the coalition France has three times fallen.
We have been sobered by this experience. The rôle, brilliant as it was, has only left us bitter remembrances. It remains for us to govern ourselves without any pretension to govern others. Our political and military organization has suddenly crumbled to pieces. That masterpiece, which was a combination of contradictions, order, and disorder, is now only a ruin. Lamentations are heard on all sides. It is perceived that, under the pretext of equality, all Frenchmen have been reduced to equal powerlessness. When men of good-will sprang up on every hand to the help of France, leaders were wanting; there was no one to direct. Overwhelmed in the first place by number, we ended by overcoming that difficulty, and then there was a deficiency of organization. Leaders and discipline are not the work of a day. If education has not developed individual ability, in vain will you seek for genuine, natural, and acknowledged leaders. The spirit of the family alone, by forming the character, habituates men to a necessary subordination. The atheism of the state tends to root out of every conscience the sense of duty. How obey, if we do not comprehend the obligation of obedience, and if those who rule over us do not seem worthy of ruling us? Discipline is a certain moral order. It should first exist within us by submission to Providence and to the social order established by Providence. Imperial and republican despotism have aimed at moulding the whole French nation after one single type. And when the overruling, guiding will was gone, the whole nation was paralyzed. The Roman Empire had the same fate. It fell both in the east and west from causes analogous to those that are preying on us. An able despotism, a vast material organization, admirable military traditions, and the assent of the people, could not ensure the stability of the brilliant communities of Rome and Byzantium. The same principles must lead to the same consequences: no stable form of government; the supreme power constantly at the mercy of elections, factions, and violence. The Cæsarean system, whenever it obtains sway, gives glory, and grandeur, and brilliancy to society, but also leads to anarchy and incurable weakness.
Roman civilization was overthrown by pastoral nations: in the East, by the Arabs and Turks; in the West, by the Germans. Cæsarean France easily obtained the ascendancy over Italy, Austria, and Spain, because, already initiated into Cæsarism by Roman law, they offered but slight resistance. But when it undertook a struggle with Germany, its fortune changed, because that country has many strong elements opposed to Cæsarism and the principles of the French Revolution. Its esprit de famille, its tendency to decentralization, and its official morality, superior to ours, are among the differences that carry us back to the invasions of the first four centuries. Cæsarean France has played a great part against modern Germany. But France is not so thoroughly Cæsarean as the Roman Empire. Its interests, its customs, and its traditions, impregnated with Catholicism, resist this assimilation. The Italian astuteness of the Bonapartes succeeded in making us think despotism would lead to liberty. Our eyes are painfully opened to the imperial régime and modern institutions. We can no longer deny that our social condition has approximated to ancient Cæsarism, and reproduced its principal conditions. The empire did not even conceal this imitation. The public works and the plebiscitum were the popular side of this régime. No nation of Europe has experienced anything comparable to it. In no other has the government become the contractor and general constructor of all the public works.
The Roman Empire alone presents a similar spectacle. The emperors provided for the amusement of the Roman people. They instituted festivals and games. They everywhere erected buildings for ornament or public utility, the ruins of which are still famous. The great monuments of our ancient monarchies were due to individuals, guilds, and the zeal of the faithful. The state did not interpose. Since 1789, the state alone has erected edifices because it alone has had wealth. This system of public works is only one form of communism. Though Louis Napoleon had no taste for the arts, he had a passion for building. This phlegmatic Cæsar, like the Roman emperors, made it a duty to amuse the people. Family gatherings and the old festivals authorized by religion did not meet with his approval. Such festivals are, from their very nature, anti-Cæsarean. They recall principles and sentiments opposed to Cæsarism. But the individual must not escape Cæsar. Public amusements have a certain influence of their own. They must divert the mind from all the influences of family, corporations, and religion, and partake of the vulgar communism authorized by the state. It is thus Cæsar undertook to amuse the people. Who does not know what the Paris theatres became? The towns in the provinces followed the movement, constrained by the préfets and mayors. Corruption, promoted by books and official addresses, was put in practice in every theatre of the empire. When the immense bazaar of the Universal Exposition was opened, Louis Napoleon invited all the sovereigns of Europe to be present. They had no wish to attend, but yielded to his importunities. They held a grudge against their Amphitryon. That was not the only mark of superiority he affected with respect to them. He proposed a congress to sanction the principles of the French Revolution. He neglected no opportunity of influencing their policy. He was constantly shaking the thrones of Europe by his democratic pretensions. He believed himself alone to be legitimate, and pitied the other sovereigns who lacked the consecration of universal suffrage. Experience has once more shown us that immense powers may rest on fragile foundations, but the lesson will be of no use to the Bonapartes, who are ready to recommence. Shall it be lost on France?
Our revolutions and various coups d’état within a century have transformed us into a Cæsarean nation. All our political elements bear the impress of this fatal destiny. The army, the magistracy, the administration, and the schools are disciplining us for this social system. There is no power but the state. Property is no longer managed according to the wishes of the proprietor, but by those of the legislator. Luxury has increased to an astonishing degree. How easily it has pervaded all classes of society! It is the government that has led us to yield to these new requirements of fashion. Economically speaking, luxury is waste of capital, and an unproductive expenditure. Old French society, founded on the right of property and the permanence of families and fortunes, rejected luxuries, superfluities, and useless expense. In everything, it had an eye to the solid and durable. That, in fact, was the character of French industry. The Roman Empire was a stranger to lasting influences and hereditary fortunes. Proscriptions and confiscations made short work of them. Nothing must appear to rival Cæsar, and manifest any power or independence. Christian society pursued and attained a different object. With us, the civil code takes the place of confiscations and proscriptions; it takes care that fortunes are as speedily wasted as acquired; it ruins by periodical liquidations families scarcely formed. In spite of this, the instincts of nature incline us to a certain care of our property. Speedily acquired fortunes, made by commerce, industrial pursuits, or legal transmission, became a source of anxiety to the imperial mind. They might foster independence! Thence the constant preoccupation of the empire to lead the whole nation into luxurious habits by the temptation of pleasures and large salaries. The multiplication of cabarets is an unmistakable evidence of this. Obliged to expend more than they gained, the office-holders remained in servitude. And from one to another the emulation has extended throughout France. Cæsar not only amused the people, but, led away by example, the people sought additional amusements at their own expense. Thus property, idly spent, and lacking the permanence that assures independence, ceased to limit or be an obstacle to Cæsar’s will. All wealth became dependent on the public credit and the stock market, and had an interest in the continuance of Cæsar’s reign. The whole interior policy of the empire was based on this principle. The political institution of luxury kept pace with the theatre and literature.
The immorality of Cæsarism may be readily understood. Morality in a nation is solely engendered by domestic life. But the family is the bête noire of Cæsarism. It was by destroying it and assuming its functions that Cæsarism succeeded in training the people. A man, separated from his family and the place where he ought to live, and transported to another region where he is only accountable to the state, a stranger to the people among whom he lives, no longer thinks about his morality, but the service he must render to the state. How many functionaries, inadmissible in one place on account of tricks frowned upon by public opinion, are sent elsewhere without losing the favor of the government!
France was as surprised by the invasion as the old world by the deluge. Let us admire her patience and courage. We must remember, however, that it was not Cæsarism that saved her. The official world had disappeared. What remained rather clogged than aided the movement for repairing our disaster. Our deliverance sprang from the people not enrolled under the official banner. Without a government, France has shown her spirit of unity, and revealed her moral and material resources. It was not only the emperor, but the whole empire, that surrendered its sword to the King of Prussia at Sedan. In the same way, Napoleon surrendered to England after Waterloo. The high functionaries that only existed by the will or caprice of Cæsar, and who only served him by giving up all responsibility, were suddenly left in darkness. The emperor only sought ex officio supporters. In a country like France, these are always to be found. Messrs. Morny, Billault, Troplong, Rouher, and Ollivier had pliancy of mind enough to say and do anything to palliate and excuse everything. Thus, without any counterpoise, the imperial government consisted in a single will which was intermittent, fluctuating, and a perpetual source of troubles and catastrophes to France. History is not a casualty. It has its laws which control events. It is well to repel invasions; it is better to do away with their cause. Demosthenes replied to the Athenians who sought news of Philip: “Why, of what consequence is it? Should he have perished, you would create another by your dissensions. The Macedonian domination is only the result of Greek anarchy.”
The French Empire, like the Roman, is the creation of historic necessities produced by an age of revolutions and the application of principles that only find complete development under an autocratic form. Anarchy, in a proud and powerful nation with a glorious past and a warlike spirit, will always end in military supremacy. Christianity alone was able to check the system of perpetual war kept up by paganism. It framed the law of nations, making them a Christian republic. By the Revolution of 1789, France abandoned this system. The Restoration of 1814 re-established it in part, but in 1830 the European treaties were broken. Europe had to be on its guard against us, and exclude us from its alliances. Louis Napoleon openly and officially expressed his contempt for treaties. With him France took refuge in proud isolation, affecting an intellectual dictatorship, the prelude of wars. War alone, in fact, can impose the will of one nation on another. This reign of armed propagandism has not ceased its manifestations since 1848. The public schools, all the academies, and the entire press came to the aid of Bonapartism. The personal enemies of the emperor were his most active auxiliaries. He was well aware of this. He carefully promoted Carbonarism in Italy, and Jacobinism in France—two terms for expressing the same thing. The attempts against his life only promoted his success, instead of being an obstacle to it. He recognized, so to speak, their justice, for he had taken the oaths of Carbonarism. When he realized that a crisis was at hand, he was not willing for France to escape the Revolution, the reins of which he held with apparent moderation. He successively let loose the press, the clubs, the secret societies, and even the mob. He weakened and degraded authority in the person of his agents, assured the pardon of all political offences, frequently changed his ministers without any reason or pretext, that the people might be convinced that they were all puppets. In this way, and under the pressure of invasion, he seemed preparing for a movement analogous to that of 1792. His death then would have thrown us into a state of anarchy which would probably have brought on the same invasion we have just undergone. He left behind him only reflections of himself. When he disappeared from the scene, all this was effaced. The regency of Eugénie amounted to about as much as the regency of Maria Louisa—vain imitation, and a manifest proof that, apart from the imperial person, there was no imperial government or recognized authority, and that the empire and anarchy were brother and sister.
The downfall of the French monarchy plunged France once more into a state of paganism. Our wars and invasions have been of the same character as the wars and invasions of the first centuries of our era. The French Empire had an insatiable thirst to invade Europe. Germany, on her side, has retained a power of expansion that recalls ancient times. She no longer emigrates en masse, but by the indirect ways of modern civilization. She first sends her pioneers. Her tillers of the soil go to the Sclave provinces of Austria and the Russian coasts of the Baltic. By their aptitude for labor, they take the lead, amass capital, and end by controlling the people that receive them. There is a German party in Russia, and this party has a controlling influence over the czars, or Muscovite Cæsars. The Sclave race, more impressible, more poetic, and less tenacious, less laborious, feels set aside by the new settlers. It realizes that it is the victim of its hospitable and beneficent nature. A reaction will soon take place. The czar will be forced to take the national cause in hand. Russia has not uttered its last word. She has been in some sort under foreign influence since she imbibed the corrupt Christianity of Byzantium. It was only under the direction of the French philosophers of the XVIIIth century that she finally became a part of the European world. After the wars of the Revolution and the empire, our influence greatly diminished, and yielded to German influence. Destitute of scientific or literary traditions, Russia sent her young men intended for office to the German universities. They returned with the scientific jargon of the schools, a strong dose of atheism, affiliated with the secret societies, and without any sympathy with the tastes and sentiments of the Sclave race. Thus favored, German influence has increased to such a degree as to cause anxiety in the Russian Empire. In its encroachments on Austria, Germany did not begin with pacific conquests. Silesia, seized by Frederic II., was colonized gradually. Finally, German emigration filled our banks, our counting-rooms, and our railway offices. This tendency to expansion could only be restrained or repressed by our alliance with a great nation. Unfortunately, France affected to be above European law. She pretended to promulgate a new law, a new civilization. She refused, in the name of the principles of 1789, to allow that there were any legitimate sovereigns in Europe. France, plunged into Cæsarism, found a rival in Germany, which had more ancient Cæsarean traditions, and which, less ravaged by revolution, was better organized than we for attack and defence. It is still increasing in population, whereas France, under the rule of economists, diminishes every day. This alone ought to warn French policy of the error into which it has fallen. The German Confederation, the imposing remains of Christian ages, was the safeguard of Europe, by maintaining a peaceful equilibrium in Germany. France and England, unwisely governed, allowed the German Confederation to be dismembered. The Germanic union under Prussia was evidently threatening. Lord Palmerston and Louis Napoleon, statesmen who had no correct notions of Christianity, could not see anything or comprehend anything. It was, however, evident that a peculiar kind of Cæsarism was to spring from this overturning of Germany. A slight knowledge of history and the German character should have been sufficient to convince Europe of this. The diplomacy which, by the treaty of 1856, arraigned the Sovereign Pontiff at its bar, rejoiced at the destruction of the Germanic Confederation, without dreaming that a few years later the Empire of Germany would consign the once powerful nations of England, France, and Russia to the second rank. At the moment of this change, it is not useless to remark how many deadly struggles the Papacy has had with Cæsarism. It was by the diffusion of Christian principles that it laid the foundation of Christian society.