Читать книгу The Growth of the English Constitution from the Earliest Times - Edward A. Freeman - Страница 3

Table of Contents

Year by year, on certain spots among the dales and the mountain-sides of Switzerland, the traveller who is daring enough to wander out of beaten tracks and to make his journey at unusual seasons may look on a sight such as no other corner of the earth can any longer set before him. He may there gaze and feel, what none can feel but those who have seen with their own eyes, what none can feel in its fulness more than once in a lifetime, the thrill of looking for the first time face to face on freedom in its purest and most ancient form. He is there in a land where the oldest institutions of our race, institutions which may be traced up to the earliest times of which history or legend gives us any glimmering, still live on in their primæval freshness. He is in a land where an immemorial freedom, a freedom only less eternal than the rocks that guard it, puts to shame the boasted antiquity of kingly dynasties, which, by its side, seem but as innovations of yesterday. There, year by year, on some bright morning of the spring-tide, the Sovereign People, not entrusting its rights to a few of its own number, but discharging them itself in the majesty of its corporate person, meets in the open market-place or in the green meadow at the mountain’s foot, to frame the laws to which it yields obedience as its own work, to choose the rulers whom it can afford to greet with reverence as drawing their commission from itself. Such a sight there are but few Englishmen who have seen; to be among those few I reckon among the highest privileges of my life. Let me ask you to follow me in spirit to the very home and birth-place of freedom, to the land where we need not myth and fable to add aught to the fresh and gladdening feeling with which we for the first time tread the soil and drink in the air of the immemorial democracy of Uri(1). It is one of the opening days of May; it is the morning of Sunday; for men there deem that the better the day the better the deed; they deem that the Creator cannot be more truly honoured than in using, in His fear and in His presence, the highest of the gifts which He has bestowed on man. But deem not that, because the day of Christian worship is chosen for the great yearly assembly of a Christian commonwealth, the more directly sacred duties of the day are forgotten. Before we, in our luxurious island, have lifted ourselves from our beds, the men of the mountains, Catholic and Protestant alike, have already paid the morning’s worship in God’s temple. They have heard the mass of the priest or they have listened to the sermon of the pastor, before some of us have awakened to the fact that the morn of the holy day has come. And when I saw men thronging the crowded church, or kneeling, for want of space within, on the bare ground beside the open door, when I saw them marching thence to do the highest duties of men and citizens, I could hardly forbear thinking of the saying of Holy Writ, that “where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty.” From the marketplace of Altdorf, the little capital of the Canton, the procession makes its way to the place of meeting at Böblingen. First marches the little army of the Canton, an army whose weapons never can be used save to drive back an invader from their land(2). Over their heads floats the banner, the bull’s head of Uri, the ensign which led men to victory on the fields of Sempach and Morgarten. And before them all, on the shoulders of men clad in a garb of ages past, are borne the famous horns, the spoils of the wild bull of ancient days, the very horns whose blast struck such dread into the fearless heart of Charles of Burgundy(3). Then, with their lictors before them, come the magistrates of the commonwealth on horseback(4), the chief magistrate, the Landammann, with his sword by his side. The people follow the chiefs whom they have chosen to the place of meeting, a circle in a green meadow, with a pine forest rising above their heads and a mighty spur of the mountain range facing them on the other side of the valley. The multitude of freemen take their seats around the chief ruler of the commonwealth, whose term of office comes that day to an end. The Assembly opens; a short space is first given to prayer, silent prayer offered up by each man in the temple of God’s own rearing. Then comes the business of the day. If changes in the law are demanded, they are then laid before the vote of the Assembly, in which each citizen of full age has an equal vote and an equal right of speech. The yearly magistrates have now discharged all their duties; their term of office is at an end; the trust which has been placed in their hands falls back into the hands of those by whom it was given, into the hands of the sovereign people. The chief of the commonwealth, now such no longer, leaves his seat of office and takes his place as a simple citizen in the ranks of his fellows. It rests with the free will of the Assembly to call him back to his chair of office, or to set another there in his stead. Men who have neither looked into the history of the past, nor yet troubled themselves to learn what happens year by year in their own age, are fond of declaiming against the caprice and ingratitude of the people, and of telling us that under a democratic government neither men nor measures can remain for an hour unchanged. The witness alike of the present and of the past is an answer to baseless theories like these. The spirit which made democratic Athens year by year bestow her highest offices on the patrician Periklês and the reactionary Phôkiôn(5) still lives in the democracies of Switzerland, alike in the Landesgemeinde of Uri and in the Federal Assembly at Bern. The ministers of Kings, whether despotic or constitutional, may vainly envy the sure tenure of office which falls to the lot of those who are chosen to rule by the voice of the people. Alike in the whole Confederation and in the single Canton reelection is the rule; the rejection of the out-going magistrate is the rare exception(6). The Landammann of Uri, whom his countrymen have raised to the seat of honour, and who has done nothing to lose their confidence, need not fear that when he has gone to the place of meeting in the pomp of office, his place in the march homeward will be transferred to another against his will.

Such is the scene, which, save for a moment, when the world was turned upside down by the inroads of revolutionary France(7), has gone on year by year as far as history goes back in the most unchanged of European states. Let me ask you to follow me yet again to the place of assembly of a younger member of the same noble band of commonwealths(8), to pass from Uri to Appenzell, from the green meadows of Bözlingen to the hill-side market-place of Trogen. Somewhat of the pomp and circumstance which marks the assembly of Catholic and pastoral Uri is lacking in the assembly of the Protestant and industrial population of the Outer Rhodes of Appenzell. But the stamp of antiquity, the stamp of immemorial freedom, is impressed alike on the assembly and on the whole life of either commonwealth. We miss in Appenzell the solemn procession, the mounted magistrates, the military pomp, of Uri, but we find in their stead an immemorial custom which breathes perhaps more than any other the spirit of days when freedom was not a thing of course, but a thing for which men had to give their toil and, if need be, their blood. Each man who makes his way to the Landesgemeinde of Trogen bears at his side the sword which the law at once commands him to carry and forbids him to draw(9). And in the proceedings of the assembly itself, the men of Appenzell have kept one ancient rite, which surpasses all that I have ever seen or heard of in its heart-stirring solemnity. When the newly chosen Landammann enters on his office, his first duty is to bind himself by an oath to obey the laws of the commonwealth over which he is called to rule. His second duty is to administer to the multitude before him the same oath by which he has just bound himself. To hear the voice of thousands of freemen pledging themselves to obey the laws which they themselves have made is a moment in one’s life which can never be forgotten, a moment for whose sake it would be worth while to take a far longer and harder journey than that which leads us to Uri or Appenzell.

And now I may be asked why I have begun a discourse on the constitution of England with a picture of the doings of two small commonwealths whose political and social state is so widely different from our own. I answer that I have done so because my object is, not merely to speak of the constitution of England in the shape which the changes of fourteen hundred years have at last given it, but to trace back those successive changes to the earliest times which either history or tradition sets before us. In the institutions of Uri and Appenzell, and in others of the Swiss Cantons which have never departed from the primæval model, we may see the institutions of our own forefathers, the institutions which were once common to the whole Teutonic race, institutions whose outward form has necessarily passed away from greater states, but which contain the germs out of which every free constitution in the world has grown. Let us look back to the earliest picture which history can give us of the political and social being of our own forefathers. In the Germany of Tacitus we have the picture of the institutions of the Teutonic race before our branch of that race sailed from the mouths of the Elbe and the Weser to seek new homes by the Humber and the Thames. There, in the picture of our fathers and brethren seventeen hundred years back, the free Teutonic Assembly, the armed Assembly of the whole people, is set before us, well nigh the same, in every essential point, as it may still be seen in Uri, Unterwalden, Glarus, and Appenzell. One point however must be borne in mind. In the assemblies of those small Cantons it is only the most democratic side of the old Teutonic constitution which comes prominently into sight. The commonwealth of Uri, by the peculiar circumstances of its history, grew into an independent and sovereign state. But in its origin it was not a nation, it was not even a tribe(10). The Landesgemeinden of which I have been speaking are the Assemblies, not of a nation but of a district; they answer in our own land, not to the Assemblies of the whole Kingdom, but to the lesser Assemblies of the shire or the hundred. But they are not on that account any the less worthy of our notice, they do not on that account throw any the less light on that common political heritage which belongs alike to Swabia and to England. In every Teutonic land which still keeps any footsteps of its ancient institutions, the local divisions are not simply administrative districts traced out for convenience on the map. In fact, they are not divisions at all; they are not divisions of the Kingdom, but the earlier elements out of whose union the Kingdom grew. Yorkshire, by that name, is younger than England, but Yorkshire, by its elder name of Deira, is older than England(11). And Yorkshire or Deira itself is younger than the smaller districts of which it is made up, Craven, Cleveland, Holderness, and others. The Landesgemeinde of Uri answers, not to an Assembly of all England, not to an Assembly of all Deira, but to an Assembly of Holderness or Cleveland. But in the old Teutonic system the greater aggregate was simply organized after the model of the lesser elements out of whose union it was formed. In fact, for the political unit, for the atom which joined with its fellow atoms to form the political whole, we must go to areas yet smaller than those of Holderness or Uri. That unit, that atom, the true kernel of all our political life, must be looked for in Switzerland in the Gemeinde or Commune; in England—smile not while I say it—in the parish vestry(12).

The primitive Teutonic constitution, the constitution of the Germans of Tacitus, the constitution which has lingered on in a few remote corners of the old German realm, is democratic, but it is not purely democratic. Or rather it is democratic, purely democratic, in the truer, older, and more honourable sense of that much maligned word; it is not purely democratic in that less honourable, but purely arbitrary, sense which is often put upon it in modern controversy. Democracy, according to Periklês, is a government of the whole people, as opposed to oligarchy, a government of only a part of the people(13). A government which vests all power in any one class, a government which shuts out any one class, whether that class be the highest or the lowest, does not answer the definition of Periklês; it is not a government of the whole but only of a part; it is not a democracy but an oligarchy(14). Democracy, in the sense of Periklês, demands that every freeman shall have a voice in the affairs of the commonwealth; it does not necessarily demand that every freeman should have an equal voice. It does not forbid the existence of magistrates clothed with high authority and held in high reverence, nor does it forbid respect for ancient birth or even an attachment to an hereditary line of rulers. The older school of English constitutional writers delighted to show that the English Constitution contained a monarchic, an aristocratic, and a democratic element, the three being wrought together in such true and harmonious proportion that we could enjoy the good side of all the three great forms of government without ever seeing the evil side of any of them. These worthy speculators were perhaps a little Utopian in their theories; still there is no doubt that, in every glimpse we get of old Teutonic politics, we see what we may fairly call a monarchic, an aristocratic, and a democratic element. Those earliest glimpses set before us three classes of men as found in every Teutonic society, the noble, the common freeman, and the slave(15). The existence of the slave, harshly as the name now grates on our ears, is no special shame or blame to our own forefathers. Slavery, in some shape or other, has unhappily been the common law of most nations in most ages; it is a mere exception to the general rule that, partly through the circumstances of most European countries, partly through the growth of humanity and civilization, the hateful institution has, during a few centuries past, gradually disappeared from a certain portion of the earth’s surface. And we must not forget that, in many states of society, the doom of slavery may have been thankfully received as an alleviation of his lot by the man whose life was forfeited either as a prisoner in merciless warfare or as a wrong-doer sentenced for his crimes(16). But I mention the existence of slavery only that we may remember that when we speak of freedom, freeman, democracy, and the like, we are after all speaking of the rights of a privileged class—that, whether in Athens, in Rome, or in the early Teutonic communities, there was always a large mass of human beings who had no share in the freedom, the victory, or the glory of their masters. We are now more closely concerned with those distinctions which, from the earliest times, we find among the freemen themselves. In the Germany of Tacitus, as at this day in the democratic Cantons, the sovereign power is vested in the whole people, acting directly in their own persons. But if the sovereignty of the popular Assembly is plainly set before us, we have also no less plainly set before us the existence of a Council smaller than the popular Assembly, and also the existence of a class of nobles, the nature and extent of whose privileges is not very well defined, but who clearly had privileges of some kind or other, and whose privileges passed on by hereditary descent. Here we have an aristocratic element as distinctly marked as the democratic element which is supplied by the popular Assembly. And at the head of all we see personal chiefs of tribes and nations, chiefs bearing different titles, Kings, Dukes, or Ealdormen, who in most cases drew their title to rule from an union of birth and election, rulers whom the nation chose and whom the nation could depose, but who still were the personal leaders of the nation, its highest magistrates in peace, its highest leaders in war. Here then, besides the democratic and the aristocratic elements, we have a distinct monarchic element standing out clearly in our earliest glimpses of Teutonic political life. King, Lords, and Commons, in their present shapes, are something comparatively recent, but we may see something which may fairly pass as the germ of King, Lords, and Commons, from the very beginning of our history.

I will even go a step further. The Constitution which I have just sketched is indeed the common possession of the Teutonic race, but it is something more. We should perhaps not be wrong if we were to call it a common possession of the whole Aryan family of mankind. It is possible that we may even find traces of it beyond the bounds of the Aryan family(17). But I will put speculations like these aside. It is enough for me that the Constitution which was the common heritage of the Teutonic race, was an heritage which the Teuton shared with his kinsfolk in Greece and Italy. Turn to the earliest records of European civilization. In the Homeric poems we see a constitution, essentially the same as that which is set before us in the Germany of Tacitus, established alike in the Achaian camp before Ilios, in the island realm of Ithakê, and even among the Gods on Olympos. Zeus is the King of all; but he has around him his Council of the greater Gods, and there are times when he summons to his court the whole Assembly of the Divine nation, when Gods of all ranks gather together in the court of their chief, when, save old Ocean himself, even all the River-gods were there, and when we are specially told—a fact which might perhaps be pressed into the service of very recent controversies—that not one of the Nymphs stayed away(18). If we come down to earth, we find the King of Men as the common leader of all, but we find him surrounded by his inner Council of lesser princes and captains. And on great occasions, Agamemnôn on earth, like Zeus in heaven, gathers together the general Assembly of freeborn warriors, an assembly in which, if debate was mainly confined to a few eloquent leaders, the common freeman, the undistinguished citizen and soldier, had at least the right of speaking his mind as to the proposals of his chiefs, by loud applause or by emphatic silence(19). Nor is this picture confined to the host in battle array beneath the walls of Ilios; we must remember that in all early societies the distinction between soldier and civilian is unknown; the army is the nation, and the nation is the army. The same picture which the Iliad sets before us as the constitution of the Achaian army is set before us in the glimpses of more peaceful life which we find in the Odyssey as being no less the constitution of every Hellenic commonwealth on its own soil. Everywhere we find the same three elements, the supreme leader or King, the lesser chiefs who form his Council, and the final authority of all, the general Assembly of the freemen(20). We see the same in every glimpse which history or legend gives us of the political state of Rome and the other old Italian commonwealths(21). Everywhere we find the King, the Senate, the Assembly of the people, and the distribution of powers is not essentially changed when the highest personal authority is transferred from the hands of a King chosen for life to the hands of Consuls chosen for a year(22). The likeness between the earliest political institutions of the Greek, the Italian, and the Teuton is so close, so striking in every detail, that we can hardly fail to see in it possession handed on from the earliest times, a possession which Greek, Italian, and Teuton already had in the days before the separation, in those unrecorded but still authentic times when Greek, Italian, and Teuton were still a single people speaking a single tongue.

I have referred more than once to the picture of our race in its earliest recorded times, as set before us by the greatest of Roman historians in the Germany of Tacitus. Let me now set before you some special points of his description in his own words as well as I am able to clothe them in an English dress(23).

“They choose their Kings on account of their nobility, their leaders on account of their valour. Nor have the Kings an unbounded or arbitrary power, and the leaders rule rather by their example than by the right of command; if they are ready, if they are foreward, if they are foremost in leading the van, they hold the first place in honour.... On smaller matters the chiefs debate, on greater matters all men; but so that those things whose final decision rests with the whole people are first handled by the chiefs.... The multitude sits armed in such order as it thinks good; silence is proclaimed by the priests, who have also the right of enforcing it. Presently the King or chief, according to the age of each, according to his birth, according to his glory in war or his eloquence, is listened to, speaking rather by the influence of persuasion than by the power of commanding. If their opinions give offence, they are thrust aside with a shout; if they are approved, the hearers clash their spears. It is held to be the most honourable kind of applause to use their weapons to signify approval. It is lawful also in the assembly to bring matters for trial and to bring charges of capital crimes.... In the same assembly chiefs are chosen to administer justice through the districts and villages. Each chief in so doing has a hundred companions of the commons assigned to him, as at once his counsellors and his authority. Moreover they do no matter of business, public or private, except in arms.”

Here we have a picture of a free commonwealth of warriors, in which each freeman has his place in the state, where the vote of the general Assembly is the final authority on all matters, but where both hereditary descent and elective office are held in high honour. We see also in a marked way the influence of personal character and of the power of speech; we see the existence of local divisions, local assemblies, local magistrates; in a word, we see in this picture of our forefathers in their old land, seventeen hundred years ago, the germs of all the institutions which have grown up step by step among ourselves in the course of ages. And a Swiss of the democratic Cantons would see in it, not merely the germs of his constitution, but the living picture of the thing itself.

This immemorial Teutonic constitution was thus the constitution of our forefathers in their old land of Northern Germany, before they made their way into the Isle of Britain. And that constitution, in all its essential points, they brought with them into their new homes, and there, transplanted to a new soil, it grew and flourished, and brought forth fruit richer and more lasting than it brought forth in the land of its earlier birth. On the Teutonic mainland, the old Teutonic freedom, with its free assemblies, national and local, gradually died out before the encroachments of a brood of petty princes(24). In the Teutonic island it has changed its form from age to age; it has lived through many storms and it has withstood the attacks of many enemies, but it has never utterly died out. The continued national life of the people, notwithstanding foreign conquests and internal revolutions, has remained unbroken for fourteen hundred years. At no moment has the tie between the present and the past been wholly rent asunder; at no moment have Englishmen sat down to put together a wholly new constitution in obedience to some dazzling theory. Each step in our growth has been the natural consequence of some earlier step; each change in our law and constitution has been, not the bringing in of anything wholly new, but the developement and improvement of something that was already old. Our progress has in some ages been faster, in others slower; at some moments we have seemed to stand still, or even to go back; but the great march of political developement has never wholly stopped; it has never been permanently checked since the day when the coming of the Teutonic conquerors first began to change Britain into England. New and foreign elements have from time to time thrust themselves into our law; but the same spirit which could develope and improve whatever was old and native has commonly found means sooner or later to cast forth again whatever was new and foreign. The lover of freedom, the lover of progress, the man who has eyes keen enough to discover real identity under a garb of outward unlikeness, need never shrink from tracing up the political institutions of England to their earliest shape. The fourteen hundred years of English history are the possession of those who would ever advance, not the possession of those who would stand still or go backwards. The wisdom of our forefathers was ever shown, not in a dull and senseless clinging to things as they were at any given moment, but in that spirit, the spirit alike of the true reformer and the true conservative, which keeps the whole fabric standing, by repairing and improving from time to time whatever parts of it stand in need of repair or improvement. Let ancient customs prevail(25); let us ever stand fast in the old paths. But the old paths have in England ever been the paths of progress; the ancient custom has ever been to shrink from mere change for the sake of change, but fearlessly to change whenever change was really needed. And many of the best changes of later times, many of the most wholesome improvements in our Law and Constitution, have been only the casting aside of innovations which have crept in in modern and evil times. They have been the calling up again, in an altered garb, of principles as old as the days when we get our first sight of our forefathers in their German forests. Changed as it is in all outward form and circumstance, the England in which we live, has, in its true life and spirit, far more in common with the England of the earliest times than it has with the England of days far nearer to our own. In many a wholesome act of modern legislation, we have gone back, wittingly or unwittingly, to the earliest principles of our race. We have advanced by falling back on a more ancient state of things; we have reformed by calling to life again the institutions of earlier and ruder times, by setting ourselves free from the slavish subtleties of Norman lawyers, by casting aside as an accursed thing the innovations of Tudor tyranny and Stewart usurpation.

I have said that the primæval Teutonic constitution was brought with them by our Teutonic forefathers when they came as conquerors into the Isle of Britain. I will not again go into the details of the English Conquest, the settlement which gave us a new home in a new land, nor into all the questions and controversies to which the details of the English Conquest have given rise. I have spoken of them over and over again with my voice and with my pen, and I hope I may now take for granted what I have fully argued out elsewhere(26). I hope that I may be allowed to assume the plain facts of the case, without going through the details of every point. I will assume then—for it is that to which the question really comes—that England is England and that Englishmen are Englishmen. I will assume that we are not Romans or Welshmen, but that we are the descendants of the Angles, Saxons, and Jutes who came hither in the fifth and sixth centuries, of the Danes and Northmen who came hither in the ninth. I will assume that we are a people, not indeed of unmixed Teutonic blood—for no people in the world is of absolutely unmixed blood—but a people whose blood is not more mixed than that of any other nation; that Englishmen are as truly Englishmen as Britons are Britons or as High-Germans are High-Germans. I will assume that what is Teutonic in us is not merely one element among others, but that it is the very life and essence of our national being; that whatever else we may have in us, whatever we have drawn from those whom we conquered or from those who conquered us, is no coordinate element, but a mere infusion into our Teutonic essence; in a word I will assume that Englishmen are Englishmen, that we are ourselves and not some other people. I assume all this; if any man disputes it, if any man chooses not to be an Englishman but to be a Welshman or a Roman, I cannot argue with him now; I can only ask him to turn to the arguments which I have urged on all those points in other times and places. I assume that, as we have had one national name, one national speech, from the beginning, we may be fairly held to have an unbroken national being. And when we find a Teutonic-speaking people in Britain living under the same political and social forms as the Teutonic-speaking people of the mainland, it is surely no very rash or far-fetched inference that the tongue and the laws which they have in common are a common possession drawn from a common source; that the island colony in short came itself, and brought its laws and language with it, from the elder mother-land beyond the sea.

Our fathers then came into Britain, and they brought with them the same primæval political system, the same distinctions of rank, the same division of political power, which they had been used to in their elder Anglian and Saxon homes. The circumstances of the Conquest would no doubt bring about some changes. It would probably tend to increase the numbers of the class of slaves. Such of the natives as were neither slain nor driven out would of course pass into that class. Especially, though there is no doubt that our forefathers brought their women with them from their own homes, there is no doubt that many British women passed into bondage, so much so that one of the common Old-English names for a female slave is Wylne or Welshwoman(27). And we may infer that this increased familiarity with slavery would tend to strengthen the custom by which freemen guilty of crimes were reduced to slavery by sentence of law. Again, I suspect that the circumstances of the Conquest did something to raise the position both of the common freeman and of the King or leader, as compared with the intermediate class of nobles. No two things are more levelling than colonization and successful warfare. The levelling effect of colonization is obvious; the levelling effect of warfare is not so obvious in modern times. In modern armies, where there is a strictly defined system of military ranks, where the distinction of officer and private is broadly drawn, where the private soldier is little more than a machine in the hands of his commander, the effect may even be the other way. But in an earlier state of things, where victory depends on the individual prowess of each man, nothing can be more levelling than warfare. Honour and profit fall to the lot of the stoutest heart and the strongest arm, whether their owner be noble or peasant in his own land. And this would be still more the case when war and colonization went hand in hand, when success brought not only victory but conquest, when men fought, not to go back loaded with glory and plunder to their old homes, but to win for themselves new homes as the reward of their valour. On the other hand, in an early state of things personal influence is almost everything; a vigorous and popular ruler is practically absolute, because no one has the wish to withstand his will, but a weak or unpopular ruler can exercise no authority whatever. In such a state of things as this no one can so easily gain the authority of unbounded influence as the military chief who leads his tribe to victory. And again, that influence would be increased tenfold when the successful chief led them not only to victory but to conquest, when he was not only a ruler but a founder, the man who had led his people to win for themselves a new land, to create a new state, the prize of his sword and of theirs. Mere nobility of birth, however highly honoured, would be but a feeble influence compared with either of these influences above and below it. I think that we may trace something of the results of these influences in the position of the oldest English nobility. That there was a difference between the noble and the common freeman, in Old-English phrase between the Eorl and the Ceorl(28), is shown by countless allusions to the distinction in our earliest records. But it is by no means easy to say what the distinction really was. And, as we shall presently see that this primitive nobility gradually gave way to a nobility of quite another kind and founded on quite another principle, we may perhaps be inclined to think that, at least after the settlement of the English in Britain, the privileges of the Eorlas were little more than honorary. I need hardly say that a traditional deference for high birth, a traditional preference for men of certain families in the disposal of elective offices, may go on when birth carries with it no legal privilege whatever. Nowhere has this been more strikingly shown than in those democratic Cantons of Switzerland of which I have already spoken. In a commonwealth where magistrates were chosen yearly, where every freeman had an equal vote in their choice, it still happened that, year after year, the representatives of certain famous houses were chosen as if by hereditary right. Such were the Barons of Attinghausen in Uri and the house of Tschudi in Glarus(29). And, whatever we say of such a custom in other ways, it was surely well suited to have a good effect on the members of these particular families; it was well suited to raise up in them a succession of men fitted to hold the high offices of the commonwealth. A man who knows that, if he be at all worthy of a certain post of honour, he will be chosen to it before any other man, but who also knows that, if he shows himself unworthy of it, he may either fail to attain it at all or may be peacefully removed from it at the end of any twelvemonth, is surely under stronger motives to make himself worthy of the place which he hopes to fill than either the man who has to run the chance of an unlimited competition or the man who succeeds to honour and authority by the mere right of his birth.

Our fathers then came into Britain, bringing with them the three elements of the primitive constitution which we find described by Tacitus; but as I am inclined to think, the circumstances of the Conquest did something, for a while at least, to strengthen the powers both of the supreme chief and of the general body of the people at the expense of the intermediate class of Eorlas or nobles. Let us first trace the origin and growth of the power of the supreme leader, in other words, the monarchic element, the kingly power. What then is a King? The question is much more easily asked than answered. The name of King has meant very different things in different times and places; the amount of authority attached to the title has varied greatly in different times and places. Still a kind of common idea seems to run through all its different uses; if we cannot always define a King, we at least commonly know a King when we see him. The King has, in popular sentiment at least, a vague greatness and sanctity attaching to him which does not attach to any mere magistrate, however high in rank and authority. I am not talking of the reason of the thing, but of what, as a matter of fact, has at all times been the popular feeling. Among the heathen Swedes, it is said that, when public affairs went wrong,—that is, in the state of things when we should now turn a Minister out of office and when our forefathers some generations back would have cut off his head,—they despised any such secondary victims, and offered the King himself in sacrifice to the Gods(30). Such a practice certainly implies that our Scandinavian kinsfolk had not reached that constitutional subtlety according to which the responsibility of all the acts of the Sovereign is transferred to some one else. They clearly did not, like modern constitution-makers, look on the person of the King as inviolable and sacred. But I suspect that the very practice which shows that they did not look on him as inviolable shows that they did look on him as sacred. Surely the reason why the King was sacrificed rather than any one else was because there was something about him which there was not about any one else, because no meaner victim would have been equally acceptable to the Gods. On the other hand—to stray for a moment beyond the range of Teutonic and even of Aryan precedent—we read that the ancient Egyptians forestalled the great device of constitutional monarchy, that their priests, in a yearly discourse, dutifully attributed all the good that was done in the land to the King personally and all the evil to his bad counsellors(31). These may seem two exactly opposite ways of treating a King; but the practice of sacrificing the King, and the practice of treating the King as one who can do no wrong, both start from the same principle, the principle that the King is, somehow or other, inherently different from everybody else. Our own Old-English Kings, like all other Teutonic Kings, were anything but absolute rulers; the nation chose them and the nation could depose them; they could do no important act in peace or war without the national assent; yet still the King, as the King, was felt to hold a rank differing in kind from the rank held by the highest of his subjects. Perhaps the distinction mainly consisted in a certain religious sentiment which attached to the person of the King, and did not attach to the person of any inferior chief. In heathen times, the Kings traced up their descent to the Gods whom the nation worshipped; in Christian times, they were distinguished from lesser rulers by being admitted to their office with ecclesiastical ceremonies; the chosen of the people became also the Anointed of the Lord. The distinction between Kings and rulers of any other kind is strictly immemorial; it is as old as anything that we know of the political institutions of our race. The distinction is clearly marked in the description which I read to you from Tacitus. He distinguishes in a marked way Reges and Duces, Kings and Leaders; Kings whose claim to rule rested on their birth, and leaders whose claim to rule rested on their personal merit. But from the same writer we learn that, though the distinction was so early established and so well understood, it still was not universal among all the branches of the Teutonic race. Of the German nations described by Tacitus, some, he expressly tells us, were governed by Kings, while others were not(32). That is to say, each tribe or district had its own chief, its magistrate in peace and its leader in war, but the whole nation was not united under any one chief who had any claim to the special and mysterious privileges of kingship. That is to say, though we hear of kingship as far back as our accounts will carry us, yet kingship was not the oldest form of government among the Teutonic tribes. The King and his Kingdom came into being by the union of several distinct tribes or districts, which already existed under distinct leaders of their own, and in our own early history we can mark with great clearness the date and circumstances of the introduction of kingship. We should be well pleased to know what were the exact Teutonic words which Tacitus expressed by the Latin equivalents Rex and Dux. As for the latter at least, we can make a fair guess. The Teutonic chief who was not a King bore the title of Ealdorman in peace and of Heretoga in war. The former title needs no explanation. It still lives on among us, though with somewhat less than its ancient dignity. The other title of Heretoga, army-leader, exactly answering to the Latin Dux, has dropped out of our own language, but it survives in High-German under the form of Herzog, which is familiarly and correctly translated by Duke(33). The Duces of Tacitus, there can be no doubt, were Ealdormen or Heretogan. It is less clear what the title was which he intended by Rex. Our word Cyning, King, is common to all the existing Teutonic tongues, and we find it as far back as we can trace the English language(34). But it is not the only, nor seemingly the oldest, word to express the idea. In the oldest monument of Teutonic speech, the Gothic translation of the Scriptures, the word King, in any of its forms, is not found. The word there used is Thiudans(35). And there is a third word Drihten, which in English is most commonly used in a religious sense(36). I would ask you to bear with me while I plunge for a moment into some obsolete Teutonic etymologies, as I think that the analogies of these three words are not a little interesting. All three names come from, or are closely connected with, words meaning the race or people. One of those words, Cyn or Kin, we still keep in modern English with no change of sound and with very little change of meaning. Now, the word Cyning, in its shortened form King, either comes straight from the substantive Cyn, or else from a closely connected adjective Cyne, noble, just like the Latin generosus from Genus, which, let me add, is the same word as our English Cyn. Let no one delude you into thinking that King has anything to do with the canning or cunning man. The man who first said that it had had simply not learned his Old-English grammar(37). It has to do with Cyn and Cyne, and it may be taken as “the noble one,” or, as ing is the Teutonic patronymic, any one that chooses may thus form Cyning from Cyn, and make the King, not the father of his people, but their offspring(38). Now the other two names, Thiudans or Theoden, and Drihten, have dropped out of our language, and so have the two words with which they are connected, just as Cyning is connected with Cyn. Thiduans or Theoden comes from Thiuda or Theod, also meaning people, a word which you will recognize in many of the old Teutonic names, Theodric, Theodberht, Theodbald, and the like. So Drihten either comes straight from Driht, a family or company, or else, just like Cyn and Cyne, from an adjective driht meaning noble or lordly. All these three names expressing kingship have thus to do with words meaning the race or people. They imply the chief of a people, something more than the chief of a mere tribe or district. Now in our Old-English Chronicles, when they tell how the first English Conquerors, Hengest and Horsa, settled in Kent, they do not call them Cyningas but Heretogan, Leaders or Dukes. It is not till after some victories over the Britons that we hear that Hengest took the rice or kingdom, and that his son Æsc is called King. So in Wessex, the first conquerors Cerdic and Cynric are called Ealdormen when they land; but, when they have established a settled dominion at the expense of the Welsh, we read that they too took the rice, and the leaders of the West-Saxons are henceforth spoken of as Kings(39). It is plain then that the first leaders of the English settlements in Britain, when they came over, bore only the lowlier title of Heretoga or Ealdorman; it was only when they had fought battles and found themselves at the head of a powerful and victorious settlement on the conquered soil that they were thought worthy of the higher title of Kings. And we may further believe that, with all their exploits they would not have been thought worthy of it, if they had not been held to come of the blood of the Gods, of the divine stock of Woden.

We thus see that kingship in the strict sense of the word, as distinguished from the government of Dukes or Ealdormen, had its beginning among the English in Britain, not in the very first moment of the Conquest, but in the years which immediately followed it, within the lifetime of the first generation of conquerors. The same distinction which we find among the Angles and Saxons we find also among the kindred nations of Scandinavia. When the Danes and Northmen began those invasions which led to such important settlements in Northern and Eastern England, we always find two marked classes of leaders, the Kings and the Jarls, the same word as Eorl. Of these the Jarls answer to the English Ealdormen(40). The distinction is again clearly marked, when we read that the Old-Saxons, the Saxons of the mainland, were ruled, not by Kings, but by what our Latin writer is pleased to call Satraps—that is, of course, Dukes or Ealdormen(41). But it is most strongly marked of all in several accounts where we read of nations which had been united under Kings falling back again upon the earlier dominion of these smaller local chiefs. Thus the Lombards in Italy, who had been led by Kings to their great conquest, are said for a while to have given up kingly government, and to have again set up a rule of independent Dukes. So the West-Saxons in our own island are said at one time to have cast away kingly government, and to have in the like sort fallen back on the rule of independent Ealdormen(42). In all these cases, we should be glad to know more clearly than we do what was the exact distinction between the King and the Duke or Ealdorman. But it is plain that the King was the representative of a closer national unity, while the Ealdorman represented the tendency on the part of each tribe or district to claim independence for itself. The government of the Ealdorman may not have been less effective than that of the King. If we remember the distinction drawn by Tacitus as to the respective qualifications for the two offices, we may even believe that the rule of the Ealdorman may have been the more effective. But we may be sure that the Ealdorman was felt to be, in some way or other, less distant from the mass of his people than the King was; the place of King could be held only by one of the stock of Woden; the place of Ealdorman, it would seem, was open to any man who showed that he possessed the gifts which were needed in a leader of men.

Kingship thus became the law of all the Teutonic tribes which settled in Britain and whose union made up the English nation. That union, we must always remember, was very gradual. Step by step, smaller Kings or independent Ealdormen admitted the supremacy of a more powerful King. Then, in a second stage, the smaller state was absolutely incorporated with the greater. Its ruler now, if he continued to rule at all, ruled no longer as an independent or even as a vassal sovereign, but as a mere magistrate, acting by the deputed authority of the sovereign of whom he held his office(43). The settlement made by Cerdic and Cynric on the southern coast grew, step by step, by the incorporation of many small kingdoms and independent Ealdormanships, into the lordship of the whole Isle of Britain, into the immediate kingship of all its English inhabitants. The Ealdorman of a corner of Hampshire thus grew step by step into the King of the West-Saxons, the King of the Saxons, the King of the English, the Emperor of all Britain, the lord, in later times, of a dominion reaching into every quarter of the world(44). But the point which now concerns us is that, with each step in the growth of the King’s territorial dominion, his political authority within that dominion has grown also. The change from an Ealdorman to a King, the change from a heathen King to a Christian King crowned and anointed, doubtless did much to raise the power and dignity of the ruler who thus at each change surrounded himself with new titles to reverence. But this was not all. The mere increase in the extent of territorial dominion would at each step work most powerfully to increase the direct power of the King, and still more powerfully to increase the vague reverence which everywhere attaches to kingship. In Homer we read of Kings, some of whom were “more kingly,” more of Kings, than others. So it was among ourselves. A King who reigned over all Wessex was more of a King than a King who reigned only over the Isle of Wight, and a King who reigned over all England was more of a King than a King who reigned only over Wessex(45). The greater the territory over which a King reigns the less familiar he becomes to the mass of his people; he is more and more shrouded in a mysterious awe, he is more and more looked on as a being of a different nature from other men, of a different nature even from other civil magistrates and military leaders, however high their authority and however illustrious their personal character. Such a separation of the King from the mass of his people may indeed, in some states of things, lead, not to the increase, but to the lessening of his practical power. He may become in popular belief too great and awful for the effectual exercise of power, and, by dint of his very greatness, his practical authority may be transferred to his representatives who govern in his name. He may be surrounded with a worship almost more than earthly, while the reality of power passes to a Mayor of the Palace, or is split up among the satraps of distant provinces(46). But, with a race of vigorous and politic Kings ruling over a nation whose tendencies are to closer unity and not to wider separation, each step in the territorial growth of the kingdom is also a step in the growth, not only of the formal dignity, but of the practical authority of the King. The King of the English, who in the eleventh century held the direct sovereignty of all England, the over-lordship of all Britain, was a very different person from his forefather, who in the sixth century deemed that another victory over the Briton, the acquisition of another strip of British territory, another hundred, it may be, of modern Hampshire, had made him great enough to change his title of Ealdorman for that of King. Such a King was every inch a King; his personal character was of the highest moment for the good or evil fortune of his kingdom. His will counted for much in the making of the laws by which his people were to be governed, and in the disposal of honours and offices among those who were to govern under him. But yet he was not a despot; men never forgot that the King was what his name implied, the representative, the impersonation, the offspring of the people. It was from the choice of the people that he received his authority to rule over them, a choice limited under all ordinary circumstances to the royal house, but which, within that house, was not tied down by a blind regard to any particular law of succession. It was a choice which at any time could fix itself on the worthiest man of the royal house, and which, when the royal house failed to supply a fitting candidate, could boldly fix itself on the worthiest man of the whole people(47). And those from whom the King first drew his power ever shared with him in its exercise. The laws, the grants, the appointments to offices, which the King made, needed the assent of the people in their national Assembly, the gathering of the Wise Men of the whole land(48). And those who gave him his power and who guided him in its exercise could also, when need so called, take away the power which they had given. At rare intervals—for it is only at rare intervals that so great a step is likely to be taken—has the English nation exercised its highest power by taking away the Crown from Kings who were unworthy to wear it. I speak not of acts of violence or murder, or of processes which, though clothed under legal form, were without precedent in our history. I speak not of the secret death of Henry the Sixth or of the open execution of Charles the First. I speak of the regular process of the Law. In Northumberland the right of deposition was exercised with special frequency(49). But I will speak only of that direct and unbroken line of Kings who from Kings of the West-Saxons grew into the Kings of the English. Six times at least, in the space of nine hundred years, from Sigeberht of Wessex to James the Second, has the Great Council of the Nation thus put forth the last and greatest of its powers(50). The last exercise of this power has made its future exercise needless. All that in old times was to be gained by the deposition of a King can now be gained by a vote of censure on a Minister, or, in the extremest case, by his impeachment.