Originally published in Tait's Edinburgh Magazine (William Tait) vol.1 #1 (Apr 1832).
"A change has come over the Spirit of the Time; mighty questions have been stirred; deep interests have been created; vast masses of men, formerly inert and passive, have suddenly begun to heave to and fro with the force of a newly-inspired animation; old things are passing away—all things are becoming new."—Prospectus of Tait's Magazine.
Persons less adventurous than ourselves would scarcely dare to preach at so early a period of their career. But we are too deeply in earnest to be scared at a solemn epithet,—too intent upon the furtherance of one grand object to be moved by considerations of ordinary expediency. Our desire is, at the outset, to evince, as clearly as possible, the intensity of our own convictions, and to give to the world a flavour of the quality of our principles. We propose, therefore, populo volente, to preach for a little from the text which our prospectus has incidentally supplied; to look back to the past, and forward to the future; to trace, in a rough and rapid sketch, the gradual development of that mighty spirit which is now agitating the nation; and to endeavour to divine, by anticipation, the ultimate shape and form which it is likely to impress on the great communities of mankind. We do not of course pretend to any kind of political second-sight—a millstone is to our eyes as impenetrably opaque as to those of other men. But we have read history with tolerable diligence and attention. Through the spectacles of past experience we have looked at the events of our own time; and we are anxious to note down the results of a course of observation and inquiry extending to half a century—a period, into which has been crowded enough to diversify the annals of ages. Truly, "a change has come over the spirit of the time." How that has been gradually produced, and what consequences are likely to follow from this mighty revolution of opinion, it will be cur business here, as concisely as possible, to explain.
The first note, in the march of this "change," was sounded at Lexington in America. There the first volley of musketry was fired at the bosoms of the colonists; there the first blood flowed in a contest which had its origin in the assertion of a great principle of public liberty—namely, that taxation without representation is tyranny and oppression—and which, after various turns of fortune, received its consummation in victory and independence. Folly and infatuation, almost incredible in these times, when tyrants have become better instructed in the means of repression, aided the cause of justice and liberty. The might seemed in enormous disproportion to the right; but the right, nevertheless, prevailed. America was emancipated; and, happily for herself, she found a Washington to consolidate, by popular institutions, planted on the broadest basis, that freedom and independence which he had so gloriously conquered for his country. What freeman's heart does not warm at the name of that saint-like hero and guardian of liberty? And who can think, without proud exultation, of the conquest achieved by the wisdom of Franklin and the virtue of Washington? But these great men, and their scarcely less amiable associates, conquered not for themselves alone.
They, indeed, overthrew and falsified all pre-existing theories of government, by establishing a pure democracy in one of the largest as well as richest countries of the world; and by organizing it so as to enable it to resist every shock to which it might be exposed, and to extend itself on every side without materially endangering the principle of central union and strength. But this, considered by itself, was not, in our estimation, their greatest achievement. They gave a new impulse to the human mind throughout the whole civilized world. They roused it from the lethargy into which it had sunk. They forced men to think, to inquire, and to discuss. Asserting right against might—principle against authority and dictation, they rallied around them the sympathies of generous spirits in all countries, For the first time there began to be a public opinion. Popular at first as are all wars, with the unthinking multitude, the disastrous events of the contest soon produced a powerful reaction in this country. Parliament resounded with denunciations uttered in strains of eloquence worthy of the best days of Greece and Rome. In the fierce collision of parties, and the discussion of passing topics, great principles were evolved. Light gleamed from the western sky, and was reflected, in a concentrated and dazzling radiance, by the great mirrors of Parliament. The press, too, became animated; and, obscurely conscious of its power, began to minister to that new-born appetite which was destined to grow by what it fed on. "A change had already come over the spirit of the time;" and afforded an auspicious prognostication of progressive expansion in the time to come.
America is, therefore, to be considered as the fatherland of liberty in these modern days. But men of other nations besides ours worshipped at the shrine where Franklin, and Washington, and Jefferson ministered as priests. In the spirit of national hatred, not in any generous sympathy with a people struggling for all that is dear to men, France had aided the American colonists in throwing off the yoke of the mother country. She had sent her Fayettes and her Rochambeaus to command her auxiliary battalions, and fight by the side of Washington against the forces of that great country which she considered as her natural enemy. Deeply committed in the contest, therefore, she became insensibly identified with its results, and bound, by every tie of honour, to uphold that independence which she had helped to establish. A connexion was thus formed, and an interchange of feelings and opinions produced, of which the consequences were not yet foreseen. But a very few years sufficed to bring on the crisis to which so many causes were now contributing; and which, sooner or later, overtakes every system, civil or religious, that is essentially adverse to the interests of mankind. The good seed imported from America found a congenial soil in France. There oppression and misrule had reached that point where endurance ends and resistance begins.
Religion had been depraved into gross superstition among the many, and utter infidelity among the few; while the privileges, the power, the wealth, the luxury, and the profligacy of an overgrown hierarchy, were viewed with indignation and distrust. The government was in keeping with the church—weak, wicked, worthless, wavering; despised abroad, oppressive at home; beggared in means notwithstanding the abominable extortions systematically practised under its sanction; corrupt in principle, and still more corrupt in practice; allied to, and identified with, all that had grown most odious to the expanding intellect of the nation, and gradually losing its last hold on these hereditary prepossessions and prejudices to which alone it could look for support. The people had continually before their eyes the example of that young and vigorous country, whose standards of independence they had helped to rear, and the sickening experience of their own. In America they saw nothing but freedom and happiness—in France nothing but slavery and misery. Was it possible that such a state of things could endure long?—that the yoke which had worn into the raw could be patiently borne?—that the people should submit to suffer contempt and oppression, and misery,—that a degenerate nobility, a corrupt church, and a worthless, contemptible government, might continue to riot in the spoils of their industry? No, truly: The time for all this was past; the spirit of feudalism was laid, and the era of sense and reason had begun.
The States-General were convoked, and the revolution commenced:—that event itself was a revolution, and it was the precursor of others still more memorable. Folly, and infatuation bordering on insanity, reigned in the King's councils. Mirabeau thundered and lightened in the National Assembly. The long-suppressed voice of the country was at length heard; and perfidy, occasionally borrowing help from violence, forced it to assume a tone of menace and defiance. The people responded to the loudest notes that were struck by their representatives in their name. The Court was defeated and driven from all its positions. A hollow truce succeeded,—a constitution was granted,—and, in the first moments of giddy triumph, accepted with joy. But the fierce impulse had been given,—the mighty movement had been commenced, and none could arrest its onward career. The States-General became the Constituent Assembly; and the Constituent Assembly merged into the Convention. The monarchy was overthrown—the altars of the church were rendered desolate. A great act of national justice followed. Europe was astounded. The old despotisms were stricken with terror and dismay. The shock was electric, and thrilled through the hearts of the nations. Deep heavings and loudly-uttered sympathies greeted the first efforts of the French people. But the public execution of the King was the signal for a partial reaction. A general war burst upon France. The legions of despotism gathered round her frontiers, and threatened to blot her out as a nation from the map of Europe. But the army of young liberty was strong in the might with which it was nerved; the opposing hosts were overthrown; victory followed fast on the heels of victory; her raw levies became experienced veterans; her young generals great commanders; genius and valour attended her steps. Great crimes were indeed committed; the wildest anarchy for a season prevailed; and fanatical fiends, thrown up to the surface by the very violence of the commotion, revelled out their day of blood and tears. But victory became chained to the car of the Republic; and the preliminaries of Leoben, followed by the peace of Campo-Formio, secured it a recognised place among the nations.
Such was the conclusion of the first act of this tremendous drama. But the representation soon changed its character. A great military chief had appeared—too great for a republic. The people also, weary of change, sickened with blood, and exhausted with suffering, longed for repose. The time was favourable to adventurous ambition; and the man who appeared upon the scene, was equal to any time or to any occasion, however critical. He was now in the full blaze of his fame. His military achievements had thrown those of all the other revolutionary commanders into the shade. In genius he stood proudly eminent, towering high above all rivalry. His force of character was matchless; his self-confidence unbounded. His perceptions were quick as the flash of the lightning; and decision came the instant after, like the rattling peal of thunder. Amidst the sands and solitudes of Egypt, he had divined, from the columns of an old newspaper, the true state of affairs in France. His resolution was taken. He saw that the crisis had arrived, and he returned to France.
He had left victory, and he found defeat; confidence, and he found distrust and suspicion; prosperity, and he found nothing but misery. The government of the Directory had become at once contemptible for its imbecility, and hateful for its oppression. All looked up to him. He chose his time, and the revolution of the 18th Brumaire sealed the fate of the Republic. The sovereign power passed into the hands of the First Consul, who, by an easy transition, became the Emperor. But he was not allowed to rest on the eminence which he had gained. Coalition after coalition was formed against him, but to no purpose. Each in succession was annihilated by the united force of his power and his genius. A colossal fabric of military despotism was reared up out of the very elements which had been employed to crush it. Ancient thrones were overturned, and new ones erected in their stead. The independence of all nations was threatened. Europe crouched at the feet of this extraordinary man, who appeared to aim at universal dominion, and to stretch out the arms of his ambition over the whole earth. But the day of retribution was at hand. His star, so long in the ascendant, at length waxed dim and pale. Fortune forsook him in his most daring venture; the very elements conspired to accelerate his ruin; perfidy, too, did its part. After encountering disasters which it freezes the very spirit to think of, and maintaining a death-struggle, illumed, even in its most lurid and agonizing moments, by brilliant coruscations of his transcendent genius, he fell. But even, though fallen, he was feared by his enemies, because still beloved by all that remained of his once magnificent and invincible armies. The victors were astounded at their own success, and awed by the prestige that still hovered around his character. He was suffered to remain too near the theatre of his former power. France grew dissatisfied. The restored dynasty was detested as such, and hated still more as associated with recollections, feelings, and principles adverse to the spirit and genius of the age. He saw his advantage; landed in France from Elba; marched to Paris without opposition; walked into St. Cloud as easily as if he had only left it on an excursion; and once more became Emperor of the French. Romance has imagined nothing half so wonderful as this. But his days were numbered, even unto an hundred. Waterloo came, and he now fell like Lucifer, never to rise again. Legitimacy triumphed in his overthrow, and rivers of blood had apparently been poured out in vain.
But no, not in vain. If it be asked what benefits France reaped from the revolution, and the gigantic system that grew out of it? we answer, So many and so great, that they would have been cheaply purchased even at a costlier price. The old monarchy was overthrown, and never can be re-constituted on its ancient principles; aristocracy received a blow from which it never has recovered, and never will recover; the monopoly of the soil, as well as all other monopolies, was destroyed, and industry of every kind set free; taxes, oppressive by their amount, and infinitely more so by the inequality with which they had been levied, were put an end to; privileges of all sorts ceased; a code of laws, adapted to the new order of things was prepared, and put in force; the rule of succession was changed, and the abominably iniquitous principle of primogeniture, one of the most odious rules of feudalism, for ever abrogated; a new order of men was planted on the soil, and as they derived their title from the revolution, they were for that reason deeply interested in maintaining the validity of the changes it had operated, and the rights it had created. These were fully recognised by Napoleon; and the Bourbons, however willing to do so, durst not even challenge, far less attack them. The country prospered; the people saw and felt their consequence ; the career opened to ambition, in all classes, was boundless. Genius, talents, and virtue, became the only titles to honour, and the only passport to office. Hereditary wisdom was laughed to scorn. Emulation and enterprise had full scope for their exertions; industry was protected, commerce encouraged, the useful arts improved by the contributions of science, the fine arts encouraged by the patronage, not of this or that titled aristocrat, but by that of a thriving and happy population.
Withal public morals were purified. This is a result of the revolution, which no one can deny, and which it is impossible not to contemplate with satisfaction. But it had other and still more striking effects. The generation which grew up in the course of its progress, became unconsciously the inheritors of its principles, as well as of the habits of thought and feeling to which it had given birth; and these, in due time, they communicated to their children. Hence, out of every hundred of men in France, at the present day, at least ninety may be considered as children of the revolution, as persons who are deeply imbued with its leading doctrines, and resolute to maintain and defend all the great interests it created. Among such men, the spirit of liberty is an ever-living, ever-active principle, chainless as the wind, resistless as the ocean, and terrible to its enemies as an army with banners. It is wholly irrepressible. It is never stationary. Its course is onward, sometimes slower, sometimes quicker,—but always onward. It may be compared to one of those Alpine rivers, which, notwithstanding the strength and force of the current, may, for a time, be dammed up by the fallen avalanche, and thrown backwards by the magnitude of the apparently insurmountable obstacle, but which only recoils to accumulate greater power for the struggle, and is certain, at last, to burst through the opposing barrier with irresistible fury, scattering, in the first wild rush, terrible evidences of its power.
Nothing is more common among a certain class of sophists than to declaim about the horrors of the French Revolution, and the suffering and misery which attended its march. But persons shut their eyes to the obvious truth, that the wounds it inflicted were temporary, while the benefits it conferred must, from their very nature, be permanent. Pandemonium itself can disgorge nothing more odious or more horrible than the crimes of terrorists. But what then? These fanatical fiends, by their terrific and sanguinary energy, saved France, just as Palafox, or those under him, defended Zaragoza; and not a scar of a wound they inflicted is now discoverable on the fair face of society in France. The military despotism of Napoleon, his exhausting conscriptions, his endless wars, and his bloody battles, were dreadful evils, and no friend of humanity can contemplate such waste of life and living energy, without a shudder. But, again we say, what then? The blanks in the population have long since been filled up; the evil has been repaired and forgotten; while the good which that wonderful man performed, the monuments which he raised, the glory which he won, and the impulse which he gave to all the productive energies of France, remain as a permanent inheritance to that country. Posterity will judge more impartially than we can be supposed yet qualified to do, and strike the balance with a juster hand. One consoling reflection, however, arises from the survey of these disastrous events, and that is, that the onward course of the human mind was never for one instant altogether arrested. The crimes committed in the name of liberty, indeed, shook the wavering faith of some, abated the enthusiasm of others, and forced all, for a time, to pause; while the enemies of freedom greedily seized the opportunity to calumniate that which they hated, by representing the most frightful abuse and prostitution of the name, as its natural and necessary fruits, and thence seeking a pretext for riveting more firmly the fetters of despotism. In the first burst of surprise, astonishment, and sorrow, these men were believed and trusted; but the hollowness of their designs soon awakened reflection and stimulated inquiry. The mind soon recovered its tone and liberty. Liberty again appeared lovely as ever, despotism tenfold more hateful and hideous. But a severe course of experience engendered prudence and watchfulness, Men moderated their ardour in order to nurse their affection. The omnipotence of opinion was revealed, and to that all trusted.
To the execrable Castlereagh policy of England it was owing that the old Bourbon incubus was saddled upon France. He died, however, by his own hand, and with him perished the system which had outlived the natural period of its demise—the system of Pitt, which had entailed upon Europe five-and-twenty years of war, upon England eight hundred millions of debt, and ended in the restoration of a superannuated dynasty, and the formation of the Holy Alliance, or, in other words, in a grand confederacy of sovereigns against the liberty of nations. We still groan and sweat under the weary load of this frightful legacy. But happily, its pressure forced men to open their eyes to the true nature of that detestable policy, which had laid it on the shoulders of the nation. Public opinion became more concentrated and more powerful. Peace abroad, retrenchment at home, the reform of all administrative abuses, and the extension as well as purification of our institutions, began to be loudly demanded. Green-bags and gagging-bills had been tried, and tried in vain. Nothing could resist the onward march of the spirit which had been awakened in the great mass of the people. Concessions could no longer be withheld. Under the compulsion of the power which now acted upon the government, its policy became insensibly liberalized. The Holy Alliance received its death-blow in England, though not until it had blasted, by its wavering influence, the nascent germs of liberty in Spain, in Naples, in Piedmont, and in Italy. Greece, glorious Greece, cast off the slough which for ages had deformed the fair face of that classic land, and appeared, fresh and vigorous, in the young beauty of independence. Even Turkey became the theatre of change, and Sultan Mahmoud an energetic and fearless reformer. The old Bourbon dynasty still endured in France; but its days were numbered—the prophetic anticipation of Napoleon was about to be realized. A man, Polignac, whom adversity had failed to teach wisdom, and who, cursed with the blindness of infatuation, thought himself secure, while seated as it were on a loaded mine:—this man fired the train, and the terrific explosion instantly followed.
The Revolution of the Three Days—who can name it without inward glorying and exultation?—achieved by the most heroic valour, unstained by a single crime, furnished an example, as well as a stimulus to opinion, throughout all Europe. Belgium and Poland, with opposite fates, followed the one; while in every civilized nation the force of the other was deeply felt, and soon visible in the demand for reform and regeneration. What has taken place in our own all know; what events we are yet destined to witness Heaven alone can tell. We hope the best; we have confidence in our present rulers, because their being, as such, is identified with the success of that measure which the country, the country at large, has so loudly approved. They must stand or fall with the cause of the people. But the House of Peers!—"Ay, there's the rub."—will they adventure still to resist the united wishes of the King, the Commons, and the people of Great Britain and Ireland? Will they force the Sybil to scatter her last leaves to the wind? Will they rush madly in where even angels would fear to tread? Will they dare the wrath of a mighty empire, that rottenness and corruption may still be their portion ? Will they compel us to act upon the conviction, daily becoming more general, that we could do very well without the Lords? Above all, will they not, by an act of constitutional energy, be saved "while it is called to-day" from the fate which their own folly would prepare for themselves? Time alone can resolve these mysteries; and as the interval must be brief, we wait with anxiety, but without fear. Meanwhile, Poland—heroic Poland!—has fallen, but not fallen in vain. No "pitying friend" stretched out a hand to help her; no "generous foe" is that which, by impelling its irresistible masses of disciplined barbarism, triumphed in the struggle. But the blood of her brave defenders has not been bootlessly shed. It cries from the earth for vengeance; and its cry will one day be heard. Renovated France and reformed Britain will not always lend a deaf ear to the supplications of men who have shewn that they deserve liberty by consenting to pay such a price for even a faint chance of obtaining it. We are upon the confines of a new era. "A change has come over the spirit of the time; mighty questions have been stirred; deep interests have been created; vast masses of men, formerly inert and passive, have suddenly begun to heave to and fro with the force of a newly-inspired animation; old things are passing away; all things are becoming new." Meanwhile, let the word be, "Fraternization among Freemen all over the World!"