By exhibiting to us the results of the life and of the experience of centuries, by teaching us by what steps the human mind has risen to its present eminence, and what the education given it in the past has been, it has enabled us to ascend from phenomena to the principles which preside over them; from facts to the law; and it has substituted for arbitrary assumptions and purely ideal systems, the slow but progressive work of the genius of nations. Not that it turns a deaf ear to the exalted lessons of philosophy, nor that it denies the eternal relations resulting from the nature of things. Far from it. On the contrary, it supplies a solid basis to intellectual investigations, and, so to speak, an answer for all the moral sciences, to this saying of Roederer: “Politics is a field which has been traversed thus far only in a balloon; it is time to put foot on solid ground.”

Neither does history, as thus understood, confine itself to mere description; it also assumes the office of judge. While it pulls down much that passion and inaccuracy have reared, and thus restores respect for the past, it does not turn that past into a fetish. It looks it boldly in the face and questions it, instead of prostrating itself before it and worshipping it with downcast eyes. Thus, by plainly showing us the many bonds which tie us to it, it escapes at once both the rashness of impatience and the wearisomeness of routine.

The impartiality it inculcates is not indifference; and there is no danger that the justice it metes out to past ages shall degenerate into a vain scepticism or a convenient optimism.

The study of history, thus understood, has another advantage; it accustoms us to those patient and disinterested investigations, to those lengthy labors, the positive result of which at first escapes us for a time, only to burst on our eyes, with so much more brilliancy, when rigorous research has succeeded in discovering it. It frees us from the deadly constraint of immediate utility.

There is nothing more fatal to science than the feverish impatience for results which obtains only too much in our own [pg 004] days, and which induces people to run after him who is in the greatest hurry, and which leads to hasty conclusions.

“Research undertaken from a disinterested love of science,” says the learned Hugo, one of the masters of the historical school of law in Germany,5 “that research which at first promises no other advantage but truth and the culture of the mind, is precisely that which brings us the richest rewards. Would we not be behind, in all the sciences, if we had clung only to those principles, the utility of which in practice was already known? Do we not, to-day, from many a discovery, reap advantages of which its author never dreamed?”

Doubtless this tendency, unless restrained by other demands, is not exempt from danger. We may be carried away by the attraction peculiar to these noble studies, withdraw into antiquity and fall into a species of historical mysticism which ends in the affirmation, that whatever has been is true, absolutely, and which, instead of confining itself to the explanation of transitory phenomena, invests them with all the dignity of principles. We shall endeavor to avoid the peril pointed out by Mallebranche. “Learned men study rather to acquire a chimerical greatness in the imagination of other men, than to acquire greater breadth and strength of mind themselves. They make their heads a kind of store-room, into which they gather, without order or discrimination, everything which has a look of erudition,—I mean to say everything which may seem rare or extraordinary and excite the wonder of other people. They glory in getting together, in this archÆological museum, antiques with nothing that is rich or solid about them, and the price of which depends on nothing but fancy, chance or passion.”

A display of erudition may obscure the truth, and bury it under its weight, instead of bringing it out into relief. By concentrating the mind on the material vestiges of the past, it may withdraw it from the intellectual movement of the present, and give us a race of scholars, of great merit, doubtless, [pg 005] but who move about like strangers among their contemporaries.

Without a sense for the practical, and without ideas of an elevated nature, a person may, indeed, be a man of erudition—he cannot be a historian. As the proverb says, the forest cannot be seen, for the trees. That this noble study may bear its best and most useful fruit; that is, that it should preserve us against ambitious formulas and destructive chimeras, we must pursue another way.

“The world,” says Montaigne, “is incapable of curing itself. It is so impatient of what burthens it, that it thinks only of how it shall rid itself of it, without inquiring at what price. A thousand examples show us that it cures itself ordinarily at its own cost. The getting rid of the present evil is not cure, unless there be a general amendment of condition. Good does not immediately succeed evil. One evil, and a worse, may follow another, like CÆsar's assassins, who brought the republic to such a pass, that they had reason to repent the meddling with it.” Such, too frequently, is the lot of those who, abandoning themselves to their imagination, and without consulting the past, mix together promises of liberty and the despotism of Utopias which they would impose on nations under pretext of enfranchising them. Despising the work of the ages, they think they can build upon a soil shaken by destruction and crumbled, until it may be likened to moving sand.

Contempt for the past is associated with a passion for reform. Men think of destroying that which should only be transformed. They condemn everything that has been, unconditionally, and launch out towards a new future. The suffering which has been gone through irritates and troubles the mind. The work of pulling down is so easy, it is supposed that the work of building up is equally so. Hence systems rise, as if the world were to begin anew. The pride of liberty and of human action becomes the principle of science; and, like all new principles, it pretends to exclusive and absolute dominion. Rationalism governs; abstract philosophy [pg 006] ignores the traditions and the requirements of the life of nations; and finds now in it, as in geometry, nothing but principles and deductions. The memory of recent oppression causes us to act as Tarquin did, and to level down the higher classes instead of elevating the inferior. Liberty and equality then govern by their negative side, instead of exercising the positive and beneficent influence they should have, to develop all forces to their utmost, to ennoble the mind, to give more elasticity to the soul and greater vigor to thought, to give birth to those varied forms and to that moral energy, which should bring us nearer to final equality in the bosom of God.6

We forget that no one is born free, and that every one ought to endeavor to become so,

and make himself worthy of liberty, by the exercise of manly virtue! Because the form has been changed, we believe that we have changed human nature.

It is easy to understand, why, where these ideas prevail, the study of the past should be neglected and despised. Efforts are made to avoid it. Why, it is asked, revive memories of oppression and misery? The old world is wrecked. It is annihilated. Peace to its ashes! Or else, after it has been destroyed, it is sought for again; and, under pretext of eradicating the evils existing in it, an attack is made on the eternal basis on which human society rests, on the laws not made by man, and which it is not given to man to change. The world becomes one vast laboratory, in which the rashest experiments are multiplied in number, in which mankind is but clay in the hands of the potter which every pretended “thinker” may mould at will, by giving him the false appearances of independence and of an emancipated being.