Читать книгу The Pursuit of Certainty - Shirley Robin Letwin - Страница 17

CHAPTER 9

The Proper Political Disposition

However reserved Hume was about the possibility of discovering, or the usefulness of acting on general laws in politics, and however impartial he was between political parties, he was altogether committed to a particular style of politics. Whenever he found instances of it, he was ready with praise; when it was absent, he could not be sympathetic. To what he called “the vulgar,” who judged by ordinary party criteria, he seemed inconsistent. For it was not any political principle or doctrine, but his preference for a disposition that gave form to his politics.

It is a disposition, first of all, that considers visions of another, better world, or indeed any desire to impose some ideal pattern of life or government on all men, irrelevant to politics. Hume was convinced that such attempts were futile; he would have agreed with Dr. Johnson that there is nothing “too little for so little a creature as man.” The ideals men pursued rarely, if ever, had the influence so often attributed to them. The shape of politics, like the shape of a personality, could not be imposed by a single act or idea; it was the consequence of many particular events, men, and circumstances, each in itself often insignificant or even petty. Men prated of glory and heavenly cities, but what in fact happened had little relation to such pronouncements.

This mundane attitude determined Hume’s view of the Civil War. He chose to write about it because he thought it “the most curious, interesting, and instructive part of our history.”¹ He did not see it as an occasion when the armies of God and Satan met. It was a time when certain ambiguities and contradictions in the Constitution could no longer be tolerated, and an unfortunate congruence of events and passions had produced a catastrophe instead of the peaceful adjustment that might have been. What had happened then, as always, was determined by a series of small decisions and actions in which, perhaps, ideals played a part. The king’s failure to answer parliament’s petition immediately, Buckingham’s rivalry with Richelieu, the abilities of Pym, the king’s personal deficiencies, the ambitions of Cromwell, were at least as important as the imposition of ship money and the fear of Catholicism.

Hume therefore blamed no man, not even any group of men: “the truth is, there is so much reason to blame, and praise, alternately, king and parliament, that I am afraid the mixture of both in my composition being so equal, may pass sometimes for an affectation, and not the result of judgement and evidence.”¹ He defended the Stuarts against those who charged them with having precipitated the Civil War, not because he considered their policies faultless, but because he believed that they had played a relatively small part in the whole picture. He could not cast the king as the villain of the piece because he saw even a king as one of many men harnessed together by circumstances, passions, personal and legal ties. This refusal to believe that any man or conviction can alone determine the course of history, and the tendency to reduce great historical events to so many ordinary occurrences and unforeseen consequences gave Hume’s history its air of calm, which, as he lacked the novelist’s talents, amounted almost to dullness. For what grandeur is there left in a decision of state when one has been told that the king threw himself on the bed and cried, “I told you this before?” It is the same standpoint that led Tolstoy to describe Napoleon’s pudgy hands and Montaigne to commend Tacitus for attending to private manners and tendencies rather than to “universal battles and commotions.” It was a standpoint that made Hume’s history admired for its civilized tone in the salons of Paris, and moved Victorians to condemn him, at the very least, for frivolity.

Insofar as the grand ideals men professed had any influence, they were always, Hume felt certain, pernicious. Worldly interests paraded as high-minded patriotism, religious enthusiasm masked crude ambition. Cromwell and Pym and their followers fared badly in Hume’s hands because he was certain that: “Equally full of fraud and ardour, these pious patriots talked perpetually of seeking the Lord, yet still pursued their own purposes.”² He attributed the calmer spirit under the later Stuarts to the fact that cant and hypocrisy had been detected, and pretensions to greater purity had become suspect. It was significant, he pointed out, that whereas the patriots of the ’40’s called themselves the “godly party,” the anti-papists of ’79 were content to describe themselves as the “good” and the “honest” party, “a sure prognostic that their measures were not to be so furious, nor their pretensions so exorbitant.”¹

Yet the genuine or sincere idealist worried Hume even more than the spurious one. For once the cause became sacred, it could be made to sanctify anything. As ultimate benefits grow more inspiring, benevolence here and now seems less needful, and thus holy purposes beget a “narrow contracted selfishness.”² Religious enthusiasm was a species of such idealism, and Hume blamed it for the worst evils of the Civil War. He considered the conduct of the parliamentary party laudable, he said, “till they push’d their Advantages so far as to excite a Civil War … and to this Extremity nothing carry’d them but their furious Zeal for Presbytery: a low Bigotry, with which they sully’d a noble Cause.”³ Religious enthusiasm was a delusion that made men think they were “above ordinances,” and “unlimited and unrestrained by any rules which govern inferior mortals.” It led astray even men as noted for “temper, insinuation, address, and profound judgement” as Henry Vane, whose excellent understanding was so corrupted by such “whimsies, mingling with pride,… that sometimes he thought himself the person deputed to reign on earth for a thousand years over the whole congregation of the faithful.”⁴ It had converted the truly noble principles which had inspired the constitutional struggle into “the most virulent poison.”⁵ Destruction was ever the result of religious enthusiasm because “popular rage … must be attended with the most pernicious consequences, when it arises from a principle which disclaims all control by human law, reason, or authority.”⁶

In later times, when idealism was no longer linked to God, and the danger was not of religious enthusiasm, Hume would have spoken against its modern equivalents—faith in the master race, the class struggle, progress, or equality. For they, too, have inspired men to “disclaim all control by human law, reason, or authority” in the name of a higher glory. His remarks on a species of egalitarianism are a fair illustration of what he might have said in our time: In a perfect theocracy, governed by infinitely intelligent beings, distribution of honours and goods according to virtue might perhaps work. But if ordinary men try as much, “the total dissolution of society must be the immediate consequence.” For the “uncertainty of merit” and the “self-conceit” of each man would make it impossible to establish any “determinate rule of conduct.” It is all very wed for fanatics to suppose “that dominion was founded on grace, and that saints alone inherit the earth;” reasonable men, and the civil magistrate, put such “sublime theorists on the same footing with common robbers,” and maintain firmly that “a rule, which, in speculation may seem the most advantageous to society, may yet be found, in practice totally pernicious and destructive.”¹

Whatever its shape or form, glory had no place in Hume’s politics. He had little tolerance for grandiose schemes—the old Romans were, he declared, “the general robbers of the world, whose ambition and avarice made desolate the earth, and reduced opulent nations to want and beggary.”² What struck him about Pericles was not what he did for the glory of Athens but that when he lay dying, and his friends began enumerating “his great qualities and successes, his conquests and victories, and his nine trophies erected over the enemies of the republic,” the dying hero suddenly interrupted them to say, “You forget the most eminent of my praises, while you dwell so much on those vulgar advantages in which fortune had a principal share. You have not observed that no citizen has ever yet worne mourning on my account.”³ And in the Treatise, Hume concluded his discussion of pride and courage with an admonition against heroism. Of course, in a way, one had to admire the hero’s dazzling character, and so mankind generally sang his praises. But “men of cool reflexion,” who think not only of the hero himself, more readily disparage heroism. They remember: “The infinite confusions and disorder which it has caused in the world, … the subversion of empires, the devastation of provinces, the sack of cities. ”.”⁴ Heroism destroys peace and liberty, and is therefore a plague.

Any government that attempts to reform its subjects is no less dangerous. The function of government is not to change men. That is better left to time and accident:

Sovereigns must take mankind as they find them, and cannot pretend to introduce any violent change in their principles and ways of thinking. A long course of time with a variety of accidents and circumstances, are requisite to produce those great revolutions, which so much diversify the face of human affairs. And the less natural any set of principles are, which support a particular society, the more difficulty will a legislator meet with in raising and cultivating them. It is his best policy to comply with the common bent of mankind and give it all the improvements of which it is susceptible.¹

Radical or violent action rarely brings the improvement it promises. Although tyrannicide was much approved of in ancient times because it freed mankind from “many of these monsters, and seemed to keep the others in awe, whom the sword or poniard could not reach,” experience has taught modern men that such means do not usually achieve their ends. On the same grounds, Hume opposed war against France, whatever her ambitions. The best protection against the danger that the French might establish a universal monarchy was to maintain steady resistance through a balance of power, and to hope that “the natural revolutions of human affairs, together with unforeseen events and accidents, may guard us against universal monarchy and preserve the world from so great an evil.”²

Nothing like a belief in providence lay behind Hume’s conservatism. He was only certain that crusades brought destruction and evil, and that less drastic but firm resistance was often aided in unforeseen ways by the “natural revolution of human affairs,” that in general “human life is more governed by fortune than by reason.”³ Even the excellence of the British constitution, he often pointed out, was mainly the work of fortune; history teaches us what a “great mixture of accident… commonly concurs with a small ingredient of wisdom and foresight in erecting the complicated fabric of the most perfect government.”⁴ It was not out of faith in a beneficent natural order, but because he was sceptical of any human attempt to see and control ad, that Hume trusted to chance more than radical remedies. His affinity was not with Burke, but with Montaigne, who said: “It seems that our opinions and deliberations depend quite as much upon fortune, and that it involves our judgement also in its confusion and uncertainty.”⁵

Since men could so much more readily do damage than good, it was best in politics to aim too low rather than too high. It was safest to assume that every man was thoroughly selfish although in fact many men were not:

Political writers have established it as a maxim that in contriving any system of government, and fixing the several checks and controuls of the constitution, every man ought to be supposed a knave, and to have no other end in all his actions, than private interests. … Without this, say they, we shall… find, in the end, that we have no security for our liberties or possessions, except the good-will of our rulers; that is, we shall have no security at all.¹

Insofar as the magistrate set out to make men better than they are, he must not try to substitute a virtue for every vice. He must not hope to free men from every defect—“this concerns not the magistrate who aims only at possibilities. …” Very often a vice could be cured effectively and safely only by being replaced with another vice, and in that case, the magistrate had to decide only which was least pernicious to society. Hume accordingly argued that luxury, even when it may become excessive and give rise to many ills, should be tolerated because it was preferable to the idleness that would commonly replace it.²

The man of the proper political disposition would confine government to profane tasks. He would expect it to mediate collisions of interest, to enforce and sometimes impose agreements between parties, either to keep out of each other’s way or to engage in some common endeavour, and generally to protect members of society while they engage in their private activities. Where it had to interfere was fairly obvious. The government need not intervene between two neighbours who wish to drain a meadow which they possess in common, because each will know the other’s mind, and both must perceive that if either fads in his part, the whole project will collapse. But it is different where large numbers are involved. A thousand persons could not agree in any such action—“it being difficult for them to concert so complicated a design, and still more difficult for them to execute it; while each seeks a pretext to free himself of the trouble and expense, and woul’d lay the whole burden on others. Political society easily remedies both these inconveniences.”³ In addition, the government might be expected to look after morals in the most rudimentary sense, by encouraging men to be honest and industrious. The magistrate must subdue anti-social inclinations and stimulate industry; and he must check extravagance, corruption, or inefficiency in government. But these are all mundane duties.

An ideal minister, by Hume’s standards, would not then be behaving amiss if, like Plantagenet Palliser, he “passed his days and nights in thinking how he may take a halfpenny in the pound off the taxes of the people without robbing the revenue.” He would generally support whatever furthered tranquillity in society. What that might be, one could not say in general. He might even favour an established religion, but only because without it the country would be plagued by a too diligent clergy—“each ghostly practitioner, in order to render himself more precious and sacred in the eyes of his retainers will inspire them with the most violent abhorrence of all other sects.… Customers will be drawn to each conventicle by new industry and address in practising on the passions and credulity of the populace.”¹ By giving the clergy fixed salaries, a government might make exertion superfluous and thus bribe them into indolence.

However it goes about it, government must preserve liberty and peace. The two were not ready distinct for Hume, because he equated liberty with freedom from arbitrary interference. Liberty was wholly dependent on law and could never be reconciled with “illegal violence.” On this point Hume allowed no qualifications—a people governed by a tyrant without law “are slaves in the full and proper sense of the word; and it is impossible they can ever aspire to any refinements of taste or reason. They dare not so much as pretend to enjoy the necessaries of life in plenty or security.”² The extent of a ruler’s power mattered far less than its legal status. For a power granted by law could never be so dangerous to liberty as a lesser authority acquired through violence.³

In fact, the proper political disposition is summed up for Hume in the belief that ruling is above all the activity of enforcing stable rules of conduct. The true mark of public spirit is not an urge to pursue exalted ends or to make men better, but a devotion to the rule of law. This is prescribed neither by the divine right of kings nor by any contract between ruler and ruled, but by a simple and universal interest in preserving internal peace. Images of mob disorders and the tyranny they brought on were always before Hume’s eyes. He never forgot the unruly Roman populace and how it was used to support a succession of military tyrants. The lessons of Roman history were reinforced by the record of the Civil War in England. And they were brought to life by the chronic mob disorders in his own time: when Walpole proposed his Excise Tax, the noise of the mob outside parliament nearly drowned the debate indoors; there were violent disturbances when French actors were employed at the Haymarket Theatre, when the malt tax was imposed in Scotland, when cheap Irish labour was imported, when gin was taxed; a mob of two thousand stoned to death a witness for an unpopular cause; a mob rioted at the execution of a well-known smuggler; and when the queen pardoned the commander of the guard for firing on the rioters, the mob stormed the prison, released the prisoners, and lynched the commander. Such disdain of the rule of law may gratify the passions of arrogant men, but only, Hume was convinced, at the cost of exposing society to arbitrary rule and chaos. Liberty may all too easily be destroyed in the name of liberty.

Still, one could not categorically ride out revolution. The grounds on which Hume would judge whether revolution was justified were far more complicated and difficult than those defended or opposed by Whigs and Tories. They provided no easy rule of thumb, yet they were perfectly clear:

But tho’, on some occasions, it may be justifiable, both in sound politics and morality, to resist supreme power, ’tis certain, that in the ordinary course of affairs nothing can be more pernicious and criminal; and that besides the convulsions, which always attend revolutions, such a practice tends directly to the subversion of all government, and the causing an universal anarchy and confusion among mankind. As numerous and civiliz’d societies cannot subsist without government, so government is entirely useless without an exact obedience. We ought always to weigh the advantages, which we reap from authority against the disadvantages; and by this means we shall become more scrupulous of putting in practice the doctrine of resistance. The common rule requires submission; and ’tis only in cases of grievous tyranny and oppression, that the exception can take place.¹

The burden of proof was on those demanding a change—” ’tis certain that the concurrence of all those tides, original contract, long possession, present possession, succession, and positive laws, forms the strongest title to sovereignty, and is justly regarded as sacred and inviolable.” A break was unavoidable only when custom itself became confused, when the tides to power became so “mingled and opposed in different degrees” that clear possession could be given to none. Then the problem became “less capable of solution from the arguments of lawyers and philosophers, than from the swords of the soldiery.”¹

Whether he found a disposition to observe custom determined many of Hume’s judgements in the history. He regarded the king’s prerogative as a species of arbitrary power and was not in the least disposed to defend it as such. But he excused the first two Stuart kings because he believed there were good precedents for the powers they claimed, and that they had not therefore violated the established legal order. If the limitations on prerogative had been fixed and certain, the character of Charles I was such, Hume believed, that he would have observed them. But in fact there were many precedents for arbitrariness, while, at the same time, the people were wanting more liberty.² As a result, the “throne perpetually tottered”³ and the smallest mistake was bound to be fatal; even after the event, it was difficult to say what should have been done. A king deficient in political prudence had not a chance. There were many parallel instances in history. Much the same sort of circumstances had brought down Edward II. His father, despite his violent invasions of liberty, had met with few difficulties. But the son lacked the skill to manage under a constitution that depended mainly on the king’s personal character. When custom was uncertain the king ought not to be held responsible for all the misfortunes that followed. Kings should be judged only on their willingness to be ruled by custom:

It is a shameful delusion in modern historians, to imagine that all the ancient princes who were unfortunate in their government, were also tyrannical in their conduct, and that the seditions of the people always proceeded from some invasion of their privileges by the monarch … always to throw, without distinction, the blame of all disorders upon the sovereign, would introduce a fatal error in politics, and serve as a perpetual apology for treason and rebellion; as if the turbulence of the great, and madness of the people, were not equally with the tyranny of princes, evils incident to human society, and no less carefully to be guarded against in every well-regulated constitution.⁴

For Charles II, however, Hume had no sympathy. The monarchy, when he ascended the throne, was definitely limited, and the prerogatives he and his successor claimed were well beyond the law as it had by then been defined. But the docile parliament of James II, with its “violent aversion” to opposition which kept it for so long from displaying “some small remains of English spirit and generosity,”¹