THE SOCIAL CONTRACT

OR PRINCIPLES OF POLITICAL RIGHT

by Jean Jacques Rousseau

1762

Translated by G. D. H. Cole, public domain

Rendered into HTML and text by Jon Roland of the Constitution Society

Foederis æquas Dicamus leges.

Virgil, Æneid xi.

FOREWARD

This little treatise is part of a longer work which I began years ago

without realising my limitations, and long since abandoned. Of the

various fragments that might have been extracted from what I wrote, this

is the most considerable, and, I think, the least unworthy of being

offered to the public. The rest no longer exists.

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BOOK I

I MEAN to inquire if, in the civil order, there can be any sure and

legitimate rule of administration, men being taken as they are and laws

as they might be. In this inquiry I shall endeavour always to unite what

right sanctions with what is prescribed by interest, in order that

justice and utility may in no case be divided.

I enter upon my task without proving the importance of the subject. I

shall be asked if I am a prince or a legislator, to write on politics. I

answer that I am neither, and that is why I do so. If I were a prince or

a legislator, I should not waste time in saying what wants doing; I

should do it, or hold my peace.

As I was born a citizen of a free State, and a member of the Sovereign,

I feel that, however feeble the influence my voice can have on public

affairs, the right of voting on them makes it my duty to study them: and

I am happy, when I reflect upon governments, to find my inquiries always

furnish me with new reasons for loving that of my own country.

1. SUBJECT OF THE FIRST BOOK

MAN is born free; and everywhere he is in chains. One thinks himself the

master of others, and still remains a greater slave than they. How did

this change come about? I do not know. What can make it legitimate? That

question I think I can answer.

If I took into account only force, and the effects derived from it, I

should say: "As long as a people is compelled to obey, and obeys, it

does well; as soon as it can shake off the yoke, and shakes it off, it

does still better; for, regaining its liberty by the same right as took

it away, either it is justified in resuming it, or there was no

justification for those who took it away." But the social order is a

sacred right which is the basis of all other rights. Nevertheless, this

right does not come from nature, and must therefore be founded on

conventions. Before coming to that, I have to prove what I have just

asserted.

2. THE FIRST SOCIETIES

THE most ancient of all societies, and the only one that is natural, is

the family: and even so the children remain attached to the father only

so long as they need him for their preservation. As soon as this need

ceases, the natural bond is dissolved. The children, released from the

obedience they owed to the father, and the father, released from the

care he owed his children, return equally to independence. If they

remain united, they continue so no longer naturally, but voluntarily;

and the family itself is then maintained only by convention.

This common liberty results from the nature of man. His first law is to

provide for his own preservation, his first cares are those which he

owes to himself; and, as soon as he reaches years of discretion, he is

the sole judge of the proper means of preserving himself, and

consequently becomes his own master.

The family then may be called the first model of political societies:

the ruler corresponds to the father, and the people to the children; and

all, being born free and equal, alienate their liberty only for their

own advantage. The whole difference is that, in the family, the love of

the father for his children repays him for the care he takes of them,

while, in the State, the pleasure of commanding takes the place of the

love which the chief cannot have for the peoples under him.

Grotius denies that all human power is established in favour of the

governed, and quotes slavery as an example. His usual method of

reasoning is constantly to establish right by fact.[1] It would be

possible to employ a more logical method, but none could be more

favourable to tyrants.

It is then, according to Grotius, doubtful whether the human race

belongs to a hundred men, or that hundred men to the human race: and,

throughout his book, he seems to incline to the former alternative,

which is also the view of Hobbes. On this showing, the human species is

divided into so many herds of cattle, each with its ruler, who keeps

guard over them for the purpose of devouring them.

As a shepherd is of a nature superior to that of his flock, the

shepherds of men, i.e., their rulers, are of a nature superior to that

of the peoples under them. Thus, Philo tells us, the Emperor Caligula

reasoned, concluding equally well either that kings were gods, or that

men were beasts.

The reasoning of Caligula agrees with that of Hobbes and Grotius.

Aristotle, before any of them, had said that men are by no means equal

naturally, but that some are born for slavery, and others for dominion.

Aristotle was right; but he took the effect for the cause. Nothing can

be more certain than that every man born in slavery is born for slavery.

Slaves lose everything in their chains, even the desire of escaping from

them: they love their servitude, as the comrades of Ulysses loved their

brutish condition.[2] If then there are slaves by nature, it is because

there have been slaves against nature. Force made the first slaves, and

their cowardice perpetuated the condition.

I have said nothing of King Adam, or Emperor Noah, father of the three

great monarchs who shared out the universe, like the children of Saturn,

whom some scholars have recognised in them. I trust to getting due

thanks for my moderation; for, being a direct descendant of one of these

princes, perhaps of the eldest branch, how do I know that a verification

of titles might not leave me the legitimate king of the human race? In

any case, there can be no doubt that Adam was sovereign of the world, as

Robinson Crusoe was of his island, as long as he was its only

inhabitant; and this empire had the advantage that the monarch, safe on

his throne, had no rebellions, wars, or conspirators to fear.

3. THE RIGHT OF THE STRONGEST

THE strongest is never strong enough to be always the master, unless he

transforms strength into right, and obedience into duty. Hence the right

of the strongest, which, though to all seeming meant ironically, is

really laid down as a fundamental principle. But are we never to have an

explanation of this phrase? Force is a physical power, and I fail to see

what moral effect it can have. To yield to force is an act of necessity,

not of will -- at the most, an act of prudence. In what sense can it be a

duty?

Suppose for a moment that this so-called "right" exists. I maintain that

the sole result is a mass of inexplicable nonsense. For, if force

creates right, the effect changes with the cause: every force that is

greater than the first succeeds to its right. As soon as it is possible

to disobey with impunity, disobedience is legitimate; and, the strongest

being always in the right, the only thing that matters is to act so as

to become the strongest. But what kind of right is that which perishes

when force fails? If we must obey perforce, there is no need to obey

because we ought; and if we are not forced to obey, we are under no

obligation to do so. Clearly, the word "right" adds nothing to force: in

this connection, it means absolutely nothing.

Obey the powers that be. If this means yield to force, it is a good

precept, but superfluous: I can answer for its never being violated. All

power comes from God, I admit; but so does all sickness: does that mean

that we are forbidden to call in the doctor? A brigand surprises me at

the edge of a wood: must I not merely surrender my purse on compulsion;

but, even if I could withhold it, am I in conscience bound to give it

up? For certainly the pistol he holds is also a power.

Let us then admit that force does not create right, and that we are

obliged to obey only legitimate powers. In that case, my original

question recurs.

4. SLAVERY

SINCE no man has a natural authority over his fellow, and force creates

no right, we must conclude that conventions form the basis of all

legitimate authority among men.

If an individual, says Grotius, can alienate his liberty and make

himself the slave of a master, why could not a whole people do the same

and make itself subject to a king? There are in this passage plenty of

ambiguous words which would need explaining; but let us confine

ourselves to the word alienate. To alienate is to give or to sell. Now,

a man who becomes the slave of another does not give himself; he sells

himself, at the least for his subsistence: but for what does a people

sell itself? A king is so far from furnishing his subjects with their

subsistence that he gets his own only from them; and, according to

Rabelais, kings do not live on nothing. Do subjects then give their

persons on condition that the king takes their goods also? I fail to see

what they have left to preserve.

It will be said that the despot assures his subjects civil tranquillity.

Granted; but what do they gain, if the wars his ambition brings down

upon them, his insatiable avidity, and the vexations conduct of his

ministers press harder on them than their own dissensions would have

done? What do they gain, if the very tranquillity they enjoy is one of

their miseries? Tranquillity is found also in dungeons; but is that

enough to make them desirable places to live in? The Greeks imprisoned

in the cave of the Cyclops lived there very tranquilly, while they were

awaiting their turn to be devoured.

To say that a man gives himself gratuitously, is to say what is absurd

and inconceivable; such an act is null and illegitimate, from the mere

fact that he who does it is out of his mind. To say the same of a whole

people is to suppose a people of madmen; and madness creates no right.

Even if each man could alienate himself, he could not alienate his

children: they are born men and free; their liberty belongs to them, and

no one but they has the right to dispose of it. Before they come to

years of discretion, the father can, in their name, lay down conditions

for their preservation and well-being, but he cannot give them

irrevocably and without conditions: such a gift is contrary to the ends

of nature, and exceeds the rights of paternity. It would therefore be

necessary, in order to legitimise an arbitrary government, that in every

generation the people should be in a position to accept or reject it;

but, were this so, the government would be no longer arbitrary.

To renounce liberty is to renounce being a man, to surrender the rights

of humanity and even its duties. For him who renounces everything no

indemnity is possible. Such a renunciation is incompatible with man's

nature; to remove all liberty from his will is to remove all morality

from his acts. Finally, it is an empty and contradictory convention that

sets up, on the one side, absolute authority, and, on the other,

unlimited obedience. Is it not clear that we can be under no obligation

to a person from whom we have the right to exact everything? Does not

this condition alone, in the absence of equivalence or exchange, in

itself involve the nullity of the act? For what right can my slave have

against me, when all that he has belongs to me, and, his right being

mine, this right of mine against myself is a phrase devoid of meaning?

Grotius and the rest find in war another origin for the so-called right

of slavery. The victor having, as they hold, the right of killing the

vanquished, the latter can buy back his life at the price of his

liberty; and this convention is the more legitimate because it is to the

advantage of both parties.

But it is clear that this supposed right to kill the conquered is by no

means deducible from the state of war. Men, from the mere fact that,

while they are living in their primitive independence, they have no

mutual relations stable enough to constitute either the state of peace

or the state of war, cannot be naturally enemies. War is constituted by

a relation between things, and not between persons; and, as the state of

war cannot arise out of simple personal relations, but only out of real

relations, private war, or war of man with man, can exist neither in the

state of nature, where there is no constant property, nor in the social

state, where everything is under the authority of the laws.

Individual combats, duels and encounters, are acts which cannot

constitute a state; while the private wars, authorised by the

Establishments of Louis IX, King of France, and suspended by the Peace

of God, are abuses of feudalism, in itself an absurd system if ever

there was one, and contrary to the principles of natural right and to

all good polity.

War then is a relation, not between man and man, but between State and

State, and individuals are enemies only accidentally, not as men, nor

even as citizens,[3] but as soldiers; not as members of their country,

but as its defenders. Finally, each State can have for enemies only

other States, and not men; for between things disparate in nature there

can be no real relation.

Furthermore, this principle is in conformity with the established rules

of all times and the constant practice of all civilised peoples.

Declarations of war are intimations less to powers than to their

subjects. The foreigner, whether king, individual, or people, who robs,

kills or detains the subjects, without declaring war on the prince, is

not an enemy, but a brigand. Even in real war, a just prince, while

laying hands, in the enemy's country, on all that belongs to the public,

respects the lives and goods of individuals: he respects rights on which

his own are founded. The object of the war being the destruction of the

hostile State, the other side has a right to kill its defenders, while

they are bearing arms; but as soon as they lay them down and surrender,

they cease to be enemies or instruments of the enemy, and become once

more merely men, whose life no one has any right to take. Sometimes it

is possible to kill the State without killing a single one of its

members; and war gives no right which is not necessary to the gaining of

its object. These principles are not those of Grotius: they are not

based on the authority of poets, but derived from the nature of reality

and based on reason.

The right of conquest has no foundation other than the right of the

strongest. If war does not give the conqueror the right to massacre the

conquered peoples, the right to enslave them cannot be based upon a

right which does not exist. No one has a right to kill an enemy except

when he cannot make him a slave, and the right to enslave him cannot

therefore be derived from the right to kill him. It is accordingly an

unfair exchange to make him buy at the price of his liberty his life,

over which the victor holds no right. Is it not clear that there is a

vicious circle in founding the right of life and death on the right of

slavery, and the right of slavery on the right of life and death?

Even if we assume this terrible right to kill everybody, I maintain that

a slave made in war, or a conquered people, is under no obligation to a

master, except to obey him as far as he is compelled to do so. By taking

an equivalent for his life, the victor has not done him a favour;

instead of killing him without profit, he has killed him usefully. So

far then is he from acquiring over him any authority in addition to that

of force, that the state of war continues to subsist between them: their

mutual relation is the effect of it, and the usage of the right of war

does not imply a treaty of peace. A convention has indeed been made; but

this convention, so far from destroying the state of war, presupposes

its continuance.

So, from whatever aspect we regard the question, the right of slavery is

null and void, not only as being illegitimate, but also because it is

absurd and meaningless. The words slave and right contradict each other,

and are mutually exclusive. It will always be equally foolish for a man

to say to a man or to a people: "I make with you a convention wholly at

your expense and wholly to my advantage; I shall keep it as long as I

like, and you will keep it as long as I like."

5. THAT WE MUST ALWAYS GO BACK TO A FIRST CONVENTION

EVEN if I granted all that I have been refuting, the friends of

despotism would be no better off. There will always be a great

difference between subduing a multitude and ruling a society. Even if

scattered individuals were successively enslaved by one man, however

numerous they might be, I still see no more than a master and his

slaves, and certainly not a people and its ruler; I see what may be

termed an aggregation, but not an association; there is as yet neither

public good nor body politic. The man in question, even if he has

enslaved half the world, is still only an individual; his interest,

apart from that of others, is still a purely private interest. If this

same man comes to die, his empire, after him, remains scattered and

without unity, as an oak falls and dissolves into a heap of ashes when

the fire has consumed it.

A people, says Grotius, can give itself to a king. Then, according to

Grotius, a people is a people before it gives itself. The gift is itself

a civil act, and implies public deliberation. It would be better, before

examining the act by which a people gives itself to a king, to examine

that by which it has become a people; for this act, being necessarily

prior to the other, is the true foundation of society.

Indeed, if there were no prior convention, where, unless the election

were unanimous, would be the obligation on the minority to submit to the

choice of the majority? How have a hundred men who wish for a master the

right to vote on behalf of ten who do not? The law of majority voting is

itself something established by convention, and presupposes unanimity,

on one occasion at least.

6. THE SOCIAL COMPACT

I SUPPOSE men to have reached the point at which the obstacles in the

way of their preservation in the state of nature show their power of

resistance to be greater than the resources at the disposal of each

individual for his maintenance in that state. That primitive condition

can then subsist no longer; and the human race would perish unless it

changed its manner of existence.

But, as men cannot engender new forces, but only unite and direct

existing ones, they have no other means of preserving themselves than

the formation, by aggregation, of a sum of forces great enough to

overcome the resistance. These they have to bring into play by means of

a single motive power, and cause to act in concert.

This sum of forces can arise only where several persons come together:

but, as the force and liberty of each man are the chief instruments of

his self-preservation, how can he pledge them without harming his own

interests, and neglecting the care he owes to himself? This difficulty,

in its bearing on my present subject, may be stated in the following

terms:

"The problem is to find a form of association which will defend and

protect with the whole common force the person and goods of each

associate, and in which each, while uniting himself with all, may still

obey himself alone, and remain as free as before." This is the

fundamental problem of which the Social Contract provides the solution.

The clauses of this contract are so determined by the nature of the act

that the slightest modification would make them vain and ineffective; so

that, although they have perhaps never been formally set forth, they are

everywhere the same and everywhere tacitly admitted and recognised,

until, on the violation of the social compact, each regains his original

rights and resumes his natural liberty, while losing the conventional

liberty in favour of which he renounced it.

These clauses, properly understood, may be reduced to one -- the total

alienation of each associate, together with all his rights, to the whole

community; for, in the first place, as each gives himself absolutely,

the conditions are the same for all; and, this being so, no one has any

interest in making them burdensome to others.

Moreover, the alienation being without reserve, the union is as perfect

as it can be, and no associate has anything more to demand: for, if the

individuals retained certain rights, as there would be no common

superior to decide between them and the public, each, being on one point

his own judge, would ask to be so on all; the state of nature would thus

continue, and the association would necessarily become inoperative or

tyrannical.

Finally, each man, in giving himself to all, gives himself to nobody;

and as there is no associate over whom he does not acquire the same

right as he yields others over himself, he gains an equivalent for

everything he loses, and an increase of force for the preservation of

what he has.

If then we discard from the social compact what is not of its essence,

we shall find that it reduces itself to the following terms:

"Each of us puts his person and all his power in common under the

supreme direction of the general will, and, in our corporate capacity,

we receive each member as an indivisible part of the whole."

At once, in place of the individual personality of each contracting

party, this act of association creates a moral and collective body,

composed of as many members as the assembly contains votes, and

receiving from this act its unity, its common identity, its life and its

will. This public person, so formed by the union of all other persons

formerly took the name of city,[4] and now takes that of Republic or

body politic; it is called by its members State when passive. Sovereign

when active, and Power when compared with others like itself. Those who

are associated in it take collectively the name of people, and severally

are called citizens, as sharing in the sovereign power, and subjects, as

being under the laws of the State. But these terms are often confused

and taken one for another: it is enough to know how to distinguish them

when they are being used with precision.

7. THE SOVEREIGN

THIS formula shows us that the act of association comprises a mutual

undertaking between the public and the individuals, and that each

individual, in making a contract, as we may say, with himself, is bound

in a double capacity; as a member of the Sovereign he is bound to the

individuals, and as a member of the State to the Sovereign. But the

maxim of civil right, that no one is bound by undertakings made to

himself, does not apply in this case; for there is a great difference

between incurring an obligation to yourself and incurring one to a whole

of which you form a part.

Attention must further be called to the fact that public deliberation,

while competent to bind all the subjects to the Sovereign, because of

the two different capacities in which each of them may be regarded,

cannot, for the opposite reason, bind the Sovereign to itself; and that

it is consequently against the nature of the body politic for the

Sovereign to impose on itself a law which it cannot infringe. Being able

to regard itself in only one capacity, it is in the position of an

individual who makes a contract with himself; and this makes it clear

that there neither is nor can be any kind of fundamental law binding on

the body of the people -- not even the social contract itself. This does

not mean that the body politic cannot enter into undertakings with

others, provided the contract is not infringed by them; for in relation

to what is external to it, it becomes a simple being, an individual.

But the body politic or the Sovereign, drawing its being wholly from the

sanctity of the contract, can never bind itself, even to an outsider, to

do anything derogatory to the original act, for instance, to alienate

any part of itself, or to submit to another Sovereign. Violation of the

act by which it exists would be self-annihilation; and that which is

itself nothing can create nothing.

As soon as this multitude is so united in one body, it is impossible to

offend against one of the members without attacking the body, and still

more to offend against the body without the members resenting it. Duty

and interest therefore equally oblige the two contracting parties to

give each other help; and the same men should seek to combine, in their

double capacity, all the advantages dependent upon that capacity.

Again, the Sovereign, being formed wholly of the individuals who compose

it, neither has nor can have any interest contrary to theirs; and

consequently the sovereign power need give no guarantee to its subjects,

because it is impossible for the body to wish to hurt all its members.

We shall also see later on that it cannot hurt any in particular. The

Sovereign, merely by virtue of what it is, is always what it should be.

This, however, is not the case with the relation of the subjects to the

Sovereign, which, despite the common interest, would have no security

that they would fulfil their undertakings, unless it found means to

assure itself of their fidelity.

In fact, each individual, as a man, may have a particular will contrary

or dissimilar to the general will which he has as a citizen. His

particular interest may speak to him quite differently from the common

interest: his absolute and naturally independent existence may make him

look upon what he owes to the common cause as a gratuitous contribution,

the loss of which will do less harm to others than the payment of it is

burdensome to himself; and, regarding the moral person which constitutes

the State as a persona ficta, because not a man, he may wish to enjoy

the rights of citizenship without being ready to fulfil the duties of a

subject. The continuance of such an injustice could not but prove the

undoing of the body politic.

In order then that the social compact may not be an empty formula, it

tacitly includes the undertaking, which alone can give force to the

rest, that whoever refuses to obey the general will shall be compelled

to do so by the whole body. This means nothing less than that he will be

forced to be free; for this is the condition which, by giving each

citizen to his country, secures him against all personal dependence. In

this lies the key to the working of the political machine; this alone

legitimises civil undertakings, which, without it, would be absurd,

tyrannical, and liable to the most frightful abuses.

8. THE CIVIL STATE

THE passage from the state of nature to the civil state produces a very

remarkable change in man, by substituting justice for instinct in his

conduct, and giving his actions the morality they had formerly lacked.

Then only, when the voice of duty takes the place of physical impulses

and right of appetite, does man, who so far had considered only himself,

find that he is forced to act on different principles, and to consult

his reason before listening to his inclinations. Although, in this

state, he deprives himself of some advantages which he got from nature,

he gains in return others so great, his faculties are so stimulated and

developed, his ideas so extended, his feelings so ennobled, and his

whole soul so uplifted, that, did not the abuses of this new condition

often degrade him below that which he left, he would be bound to bless

continually the happy moment which took him from it for ever, and,

instead of a stupid and unimaginative animal, made him an intelligent

being and a man.

Let us draw up the whole account in terms easily commensurable. What man

loses by the social contract is his natural liberty and an unlimited

right to everything he tries to get and succeeds in getting; what he

gains is civil liberty and the proprietorship of all he possesses. If we

are to avoid mistake in weighing one against the other, we must clearly

distinguish natural liberty, which is bounded only by the strength of

the individual, from civil liberty, which is limited by the general

will; and possession, which is merely the effect of force or the right

of the first occupier, from property, which can be founded only on a

positive title.

We might, over and above all this, add, to what man acquires in the

civil state, moral liberty, which alone makes him truly master of

himself; for the mere impulse of appetite is slavery, while obedience to

a law which we prescribe to ourselves is liberty. But I have already

said too much on this head, and the philosophical meaning of the word

liberty does not now concern us.

9. REAL PROPERTY

EACH member of the community gives himself to it, at the moment of its

foundation, just as he is, with all the resources at his command,

including the goods he possesses. This act does not make possession, in

changing hands, change its nature, and become property in the hands of

the Sovereign; but, as the forces of the city are incomparably greater

than those of an individual, public possession is also, in fact,

stronger and more irrevocable, without being any more legitimate, at any

rate from the point of view of foreigners. For the State, in relation to

its members, is master of all their goods by the social contract, which,

within the State, is the basis of all rights; but, in relation to other

powers, it is so only by the right of the first occupier, which it holds

from its members.

The right of the first occupier, though more real than the right of the

strongest, becomes a real right only when the right of property has

already been established. Every man has naturally a right to everything

he needs; but the positive act which makes him proprietor of one thing

excludes him from everything else. Having his share, he ought to keep to

it, and can have no further right against the community. This is why the

right of the first occupier, which in the state of nature is so weak,

claims the respect of every man in civil society. In this right we are

respecting not so much what belongs to another as what does not belong

to ourselves.

In general, to establish the right of the first occupier over a plot of

ground, the following conditions are necessary: first, the land must not

yet be inhabited; secondly, a man must occupy only the amount he needs

for his subsistence; and, in the third place, possession must be taken,

not by an empty ceremony, but by labour and cultivation, the only sign

of proprietorship that should be respected by others, in default of a

legal title.

In granting the right of first occupancy to necessity and labour, are we

not really stretching it as far as it can go? Is it possible to leave

such a right unlimited? Is it to be enough to set foot on a plot of

common ground, in order to be able to call yourself at once the master

of it? Is it to be enough that a man has the strength to expel others

for a moment, in order to establish his right to prevent them from ever

returning? How can a man or a people seize an immense territory and keep

it from the rest of the world except by a punishable usurpation, since

all others are being robbed, by such an act, of the place of habitation

and the means of subsistence which nature gave them in common? When

Nunez Balboa, standing on the sea-shore, took possession of the South

Seas and the whole of South America in the name of the crown of Castile,

was that enough to dispossess all their actual inhabitants, and to shut

out from them all the princes of the world? On such a showing, these

ceremonies are idly multiplied, and the Catholic King need only take

possession all at once, from his apartment, of the whole universe,

merely making a subsequent reservation about what was already in the

possession of other princes.

We can imagine how the lands of individuals, where they were contiguous

and came to be united, became the public territory, and how the right of

Sovereignty, extending from the subjects over the lands they held,

became at once real and personal. The possessors were thus made more

dependent, and the forces at their command used to guarantee their

fidelity. The advantage of this does not seem to have been felt by

ancient monarchs, who called themselves Kings of the Persians,

Scythians, or Macedonians, and seemed to regard themselves more as

rulers of men than as masters of a country. Those of the present day

more cleverly call themselves Kings of France, Spain, England, etc.:

thus holding the land, they are quite confident of holding the

inhabitants.

The peculiar fact about this alienation is that, in taking over the

goods of individuals, the community, so far from despoiling them, only

assures them legitimate possession, and changes usurpation into a true

right and enjoyment into proprietorship. Thus the possessors, being

regarded as depositaries of the public good, and having their rights

respected by all the members of the State and maintained against foreign

aggression by all its forces, have, by a cession which benefits both the

public and still more themselves, acquired, so to speak, all that they

gave up. This paradox may easily be explained by the distinction between

the rights which the Sovereign and the proprietor have over the same

estate, as we shall see later on.

It may also happen that men begin to unite one with another before they

possess anything, and that, subsequently occupying a tract of country

which is enough for all, they enjoy it in common, or share it out among

themselves, either equally or according to a scale fixed by the

Sovereign. However the acquisition be made, the right which each

individual has to his own estate is always subordinate to the right

which the community has over all: without this, there would be neither

stability in the social tie, nor real force in the exercise of

Sovereignty.

I shall end this chapter and this book by remarking on a fact on which

the whole social system should rest: i.e., that, instead of destroying

natural inequality, the fundamental compact substitutes, for such

physical inequality as nature may have set up between men, an equality

that is moral and legitimate, and that men, who may be unequal in

strength or intelligence, become every one equal by convention and legal

right.[5]

--------------------------------

BOOK II

1. THAT SOVEREIGNTY IS INALIENABLE

THE first and most important deduction from the principles we have so

far laid down is that the general will alone can direct the State

according to the object for which it was instituted, i.e., the common

good: for if the clashing of particular interests made the establishment

of societies necessary, the agreement of these very interests made it

possible. The common element in these different interests is what forms

the social tie; and, were there no point of agreement between them all,

no society could exist. It is solely on the basis of this common

interest that every society should be governed.

I hold then that Sovereignty, being nothing less than the exercise of

the general will, can never be alienated, and that the Sovereign, who is

no less than a collective being, cannot be represented except by

himself: the power indeed may be transmitted, but not the will.

In reality, if it is not impossible for a particular will to agree on

some point with the general will, it is at least impossible for the

agreement to be lasting and constant; for the particular will tends, by

its very nature, to partiality, while the general will tends to

equality. It is even more impossible to have any guarantee of this

agreement; for even if it should always exist, it would be the effect

not of art, but of chance. The Sovereign may indeed say: "I now will

actually what this man wills, or at least what he says he wills"; but it

cannot say: "What he wills tomorrow, I too shall will" because it is

absurd for the will to bind itself for the future, nor is it incumbent

on any will to consent to anything that is not for the good of the being

who wills. If then the people promises simply to obey, by that very act

it dissolves itself and loses what makes it a people; the moment a

master exists, there is no longer a Sovereign, and from that moment the

body politic has ceased to exist.

This does not mean that the commands of the rulers cannot pass for

general wills, so long as the Sovereign, being free to oppose them,

offers no opposition. In such a case, universal silence is taken to

imply the consent of the people. This will be explained later on.

2. THAT SOVEREIGNTY IS INDIVISIBLE

SOVEREIGNTY, for the same reason as makes it inalienable, is

indivisible; for will either is, or is not, general;[6] it is the will

either of the body of the people, or only of a part of it. In the first

case, the will, when declared, is an act of Sovereignty and constitutes

law: in the second, it is merely a particular will, or act of magistracy

-- at the most a decree.

But our political theorists, unable to divide Sovereignty in principle,

divide it according to its object: into force and will; into legislative

power and executive power; into rights of taxation, justice and war;

into internal administration and power of foreign treaty. Sometimes they

confuse all these sections, and sometimes they distinguish them; they

turn the Sovereign into a fantastic being composed of several connected

pieces: it is as if they were making man of several bodies, one with

eyes, one with arms, another with feet, and each with nothing besides.

We are told that the jugglers of Japan dismember a child before the eyes

of the spectators; then they throw all the members into the air one

after another, and the child falls down alive and whole. The conjuring

tricks of our political theorists are very like that; they first

dismember the Body politic by an illusion worthy of a fair, and then

join it together again we know not how.

This error is due to a lack of exact notions concerning the Sovereign

authority, and to taking for parts of it what are only emanations from

it. Thus, for example, the acts of declaring war and making peace have

been regarded as acts of Sovereignty; but this is not the case, as these

acts do not constitute law, but merely the application of a law, a

particular act which decides how the law applies, as we shall see

clearly when the idea attached to the word law has been defined.

If we examined the other divisions in the same manner, we should find

that, whenever Sovereignty seems to be divided, there is an illusion:

the rights which are taken as being part of Sovereignty are really all

subordinate, and always imply supreme wills of which they only sanction

the execution.

It would be impossible to estimate the obscurity this lack of exactness

has thrown over the decisions of writers who have dealt with political

right, when they have used the principles laid down by them to pass

judgment on the respective rights of kings and peoples. Every one can

see, in Chapters III and IV of the First Book of Grotius, how the

learned man and his translator, Barbeyrac, entangle and tie themselves

up in their own sophistries, for fear of saying too little or too much

of what they think, and so offending the interests they have to

conciliate. Grotius, a refugee in France, ill-content with his own

country, and desirous of paying his court to Louis XIII, to whom his

book is dedicated, spares no pains to rob the peoples of all their

rights and invest kings with them by every conceivable artifice. This

would also have been much to the taste of Barbeyrac, who dedicated his

translation to George I of England. But unfortunately the expulsion of

James II, which he called his "abdication," compelled him to use all

reserve, to shuffle and to tergiversate, in order to avoid making

William out a usurper. If these two writers had adopted the true

principles, all difficulties would have been removed, and they would

have been always consistent; but it would have been a sad truth for them

to tell, and would have paid court for them to no one save the people.

Moreover, truth is no road to fortune, and the people dispenses neither

ambassadorships, nor professorships, nor pensions.

3. WHETHER THE GENERAL WILL IS FALLIBLE

IT follows from what has gone before that the general will is always

right and tends to the public advantage; but it does not follow that the

deliberations of the people are always equally correct. Our will is

always for our own good, but we do not always see what that is; the

people is never corrupted, but it is often deceived, and on such

occasions only does it seem to will what is bad.

There is often a great deal of difference between the will of all and

the general will; the latter considers only the common interest, while

the former takes private interest into account, and is no more than a

sum of particular wills: but take away from these same wills the pluses

and minuses that cancel one another,[7] and the general will remains as

the sum of the differences.

If, when the people, being furnished with adequate information, held its

deliberations, the citizens had no communication one with another, the

grand total of the small differences would always give the general will,

and the decision would always be good. But when factions arise, and

partial associations are formed at the expense of the great association,

the will of each of these associations becomes general in relation to

its members, while it remains particular in relation to the State: it

may then be said that there are no longer as many votes as there are

men, but only as many as there are associations. The differences become

less numerous and give a less general result. Lastly, when one of these

associations is so great as to prevail over all the rest, the result is

no longer a sum of small differences, but a single difference; in this

case there is no longer a general will, and the opinion which prevails

is purely particular.

It is therefore essential, if the general will is to be able to express

itself, that there should be no partial society within the State, and

that each citizen should think only his own thoughts:[8] which was

indeed the sublime and unique system established by the great Lycurgus.

But if there are partial societies, it is best to have as many as

possible and to prevent them from being unequal, as was done by Solon,

Numa and Servius. These precautions are the only ones that can guarantee

that the general will shall be always enlightened, and that the people

shall in no way deceive itself.

4. THE LIMITS OF THE SOVEREIGN POWER

IF the State is a moral person whose life is in the union of its

members, and if the most important of its cares is the care for its own

preservation, it must have a universal and compelling force, in order to

move and dispose each part as may be most advantageous to the whole. As

nature gives each man absolute power over all his members, the social

compact gives the body politic absolute power over all its members also;

and it is this power which, under the direction of the general will,

bears, as I have said, the name of Sovereignty.

But, besides the public person, we have to consider the private persons

composing it, whose life and liberty are naturally independent of it. We

are bound then to distinguish clearly between the respective rights of

the citizens and the Sovereign,[9] and between the duties the former

have to fulfil as subjects, and the natural rights they should enjoy as

men.

Each man alienates, I admit, by the social compact, only such part of

his powers, goods and liberty as it is important for the community to

control; but it must also be granted that the Sovereign is sole judge of

what is important.

Every service a citizen can render the State he ought to render as soon

as the Sovereign demands it; but the Sovereign, for its part, cannot

impose upon its subjects any fetters that are useless to the community,

nor can it even wish to do so; for no more by the law of reason than by

the law of nature can anything occur without a cause.

The undertakings which bind us to the social body are obligatory only

because they are mutual; and their nature is such that in fulfilling

them we cannot work for others without working for ourselves. Why is it

that the general will is always in the right, and that all continually

will the happiness of each one, unless it is because there is not a man

who does not think of "each" as meaning him, and consider himself in

voting for all? This proves that equality of rights and the idea of

justice which such equality creates originate in the preference each man

gives to himself, and accordingly in the very nature of man. It proves

that the general will, to be really such, must be general in its object

as well as its essence; that it must both come from all and apply to

all; and that it loses its natural rectitude when it is directed to some

particular and determinate object, because in such a case we are judging

of something foreign to us, and have no true principle of equity to

guide us.

Indeed, as soon as a question of particular fact or right arises on a

point not previously regulated by a general convention, the matter

becomes contentious. It is a case in which the individuals concerned are

one party, and the public the other, but in which I can see neither the

law that ought to be followed nor the judge who ought to give the

decision. In such a case, it would be absurd to propose to refer the

question to an express decision of the general will, which can be only

the conclusion reached by one of the parties and in consequence will be,

for the other party, merely an external and particular will, inclined on

this occasion to injustice and subject to error. Thus, just as a

particular will cannot stand for the general will, the general will, in

turn, changes its nature, when its object is particular, and, as

general, cannot pronounce on a man or a fact. When, for instance, the

people of Athens nominated or displaced its rulers, decreed honours to

one, and imposed penalties on another, and, by a multitude of particular

decrees, exercised all the functions of government indiscriminately, it

had in such cases no longer a general will in the strict sense; it was

acting no longer as Sovereign, but as magistrate. This will seem

contrary to current views; but I must be given time to expound my own.

It should be seen from the foregoing that what makes the will general is

less the number of voters than the common interest uniting them; for,

under this system, each necessarily submits to the conditions he imposes

on others: and this admirable agreement between interest and justice

gives to the common deliberations an equitable character which at once

vanishes when any particular question is discussed, in the absence of a

common interest to unite and identify the ruling of the judge with that

of the party.

From whatever side we approach our principle, we reach the same

conclusion, that the social compact sets up among the citizens an

equality of such a kind, that they all bind themselves to observe the

same conditions and should therefore all enjoy the same rights. Thus,

from the very nature of the compact, every act of Sovereignty, i.e.,

every authentic act of the general will, binds or favours all the

citizens equally; so that the Sovereign recognises only the body of the

nation, and draws no distinctions between those of whom it is made up.

What, then, strictly speaking, is an act of Sovereignty? It is not a

convention between a superior and an inferior, but a convention between

the body and each of its members. It is legitimate, because based on the

social contract, and equitable, because common to all; useful, because

it can have no other object than the general good, and stable, because

guaranteed by the public force and the supreme power. So long as the

subjects have to submit only to conventions of this sort, they obey

no-one but their own will; and to ask how far the respective rights of

the Sovereign and the citizens extend, is to ask up to what point the

latter can enter into undertakings with themselves, each with all, and

all with each.

We can see from this that the sovereign power, absolute, sacred and

inviolable as it is, does not and cannot exceed the limits of general

conventions, and that every man may dispose at will of such goods and

liberty as these conventions leave him; so that the Sovereign never has

a right to lay more charges on one subject than on another, because, in

that case, the question becomes particular, and ceases to be within its

competency.

When these distinctions have once been admitted, it is seen to be so

untrue that there is, in the social contract, any real renunciation on

the part of the individuals, that the position in which they find

themselves as a result of the contract is really preferable to that in

which they were before. Instead of a renunciation, they have made an

advantageous exchange: instead of an uncertain and precarious way of

living they have got one that is better and more secure; instead of

natural independence they have got liberty, instead of the power to harm

others security for themselves, and instead of their strength, which

others might overcome, a right which social union makes invincible.

Their very life, which they have devoted to the State, is by it

constantly protected; and when they risk it in the State's defence, what

more are they doing than giving back what they have received from it?

What are they doing that they would not do more often and with greater

danger in the state of nature, in which they would inevitably have to

fight battles at the peril of their lives in defence of that which is

the means of their preservation? All have indeed to fight when their

country needs them; but then no one has ever to fight for himself. Do we

not gain something by running, on behalf of what gives us our security,

only some of the risks we should have to run for ourselves, as soon as

we lost it?

5. THE RIGHT OF LIFE AND DEATH

THE question is often asked how individuals, having no right to dispose

of their own lives, can transfer to the Sovereign a right which they do

not possess. The difficulty of answering this question seems to me to

lie in its being wrongly stated. Every man has a right to risk his own

life in order to preserve it. Has it ever been said that a man who

throws himself out of the window to escape from a fire is guilty of

suicide? Has such a crime ever been laid to the charge of him who

perishes in a storm because, when he went on board, he knew of the

danger?

The social treaty has for its end the preservation of the contracting

parties. He who wills the end wills the means also, and the means must

involve some risks, and even some losses. He who wishes to preserve his

life at others' expense should also, when it is necessary, be ready to

give it up for their sake. Furthermore, the citizen is no longer the

judge of the dangers to which the law-desires him to expose himself; and

when the prince says to him: "It is expedient for the State that you

should die," he ought to die, because it is only on that condition that

he has been living in security up to the present, and because his life

is no longer a mere bounty of nature, but a gift made conditionally by

the State.

The death-penalty inflicted upon criminals may be looked on in much the

same light: it is in order that we may not fall victims to an assassin

that we consent to die if we ourselves turn assassins. In this treaty,

so far from disposing of our own lives, we think only of securing them,

and it is not to be assumed that any of the parties then expects to get

hanged.

Again, every malefactor, by attacking social rights, becomes on forfeit

a rebel and a traitor to his country; by violating its laws be ceases to

be a member of it; he even makes war upon it. In such a case the

preservation of the State is inconsistent with his own, and one or the

other must perish; in putting the guilty to death, we slay not so much

the citizen as an enemy. The trial and the judgment are the proofs that

he has broken the social treaty, and is in consequence no longer a

member of the State. Since, then, he has recognised himself to be such

by living there, he must be removed by exile as a violator of the

compact, or by death as a public enemy; for such an enemy is not a moral

person, but merely a man; and in such a case the right of war is to kill

the vanquished.

But, it will be said, the condemnation of a criminal is a particular

act. I admit it: but such condemnation is not a function of the

Sovereign; it is a right the Sovereign can confer without being able

itself to exert it. All my ideas are consistent, but I cannot expound

them all at once.

We may add that frequent punishments are always a sign of weakness or

remissness on the part of the government. There is not a single ill-doer

who could not be turned to some good. The State has no right to put to

death, even for the sake of making an example, any one whom it can leave

alive without danger.

The right of pardoning or exempting the guilty from a penalty imposed by

the law and pronounced by the judge belongs only to the authority which

is superior to both judge and law, i.e., the Sovereign; each its right

in this matter is far from clear, and the cases for exercising it are

extremely rare. In a well-governed State, there are few punishments, not

because there are many pardons, but because criminals are rare; it is

when a State is in decay that the multitude of crimes is a guarantee of

impunity. Under the Roman Republic, neither the Senate nor the Consuls

ever attempted to pardon; even the people never did so, though it

sometimes revoked its own decision. Frequent pardons mean that crime

will soon need them no longer, and no one can help seeing whither that

leads. But I feel my heart protesting and restraining my pen; let us

leave these questions to the just man who has never offended, and would

himself stand in no need of pardon.

6. LAW

BY the social compact we have given the body politic existence and life;

we have now by legislation to give it movement and will. For the

original act by which the body is formed and united still in no respect

determines what it ought to do for its preservation.

What is well and in conformity with order is so by the nature of things

and independently of human conventions. All justice comes from God, who

is its sole source; but if we knew how to receive so high an

inspiration, we should need neither government nor laws. Doubtless,

there is a universal justice emanating from reason alone; but this

justice, to be admitted among us, must be mutual. Humanly speaking, in

default of natural sanctions, the laws of justice are ineffective among

men: they merely make for the good of the wicked and the undoing of the

just, when the just man observes them towards everybody and nobody

observes them towards him. Conventions and laws are therefore needed to

join rights to duties and refer justice to its object. In the state of

nature, where everything is common, I owe nothing to him whom I have

promised nothing; I recognise as belonging to others only what is of no

use to me. In the state of society all rights are fixed by law, and the

case becomes different.

But what, after all, is a law? As long as we remain satisfied with

attaching purely metaphysical ideas to the word, we shall go on arguing

without arriving at an understanding; and when we have defined a law of

nature, we shall be no nearer the definition of a law of the State.

I have already said that there can be no general will directed to a

particular object. Such an object must be either within or outside the

State. If outside, a will which is alien to it cannot be, in relation to

it, general; if within, it is part of the State, and in that case there

arises a relation between whole and part which makes them two separate

beings, of which the part is one, and the whole minus the part the

other. But the whole minus a part cannot be the whole; and while this

relation persists, there can be no whole, but only two unequal parts;

and it follows that the will of one is no longer in any respect general

in relation to the other.

But when the whole people decrees for the whole people, it is

considering only itself; and if a relation is then formed, it is between

two aspects of the entire object, without there being any division of

the whole. In that case the matter about which the decree is made is,

like the decreeing will, general. This act is what I call a law.

When I say that the object of laws is always general, I mean that law

considers subjects en masse and actions in the abstract, and never a

particular person or action. Thus the law may indeed decree that there

shall be privileges, but cannot confer them on anybody by name. It may

set up several classes of citizens, and even lay down the qualifications

for membership of these classes, but it cannot nominate such and such

persons as belonging to them; it may establish a monarchical government

and hereditary succession, but it cannot choose a king, or nominate a

royal family. In a word, no function which has a particular object

belongs to the legislative power.

On this view, we at once see that it can no longer be asked whose

business it is to make laws, since they are acts of the general will;

nor whether the prince is above the law, since he is a member of the

State; nor whether the law can be unjust, since no one is unjust to

himself; nor how we can be both free and subject to the laws, since they

are but registers of our wills.

We see further that, as the law unites universality of will with

universality of object, what a man, whoever he be, commands of his own

motion cannot be a law; and even what the Sovereign commands with regard

to a particular matter is no nearer being a law, but is a decree, an

act, not of sovereignty, but of magistracy.

I therefore give the name "Republic" to every State that is governed by

laws, no matter what the form of its administration may be: for only in

such a case does the public interest govern, and the res publica rank as

a reality. Every legitimate government is republican;[10] what

government is I will explain later on.

Laws are, properly speaking, only the conditions of civil association.

The people, being subject to the laws, ought to be their author: the

conditions of the society ought to be regulated solely by those who come

together to form it. But how are they to regulate them? Is it to be by

common agreement, by a sudden inspiration? Has the body politic an organ

to declare its will? Who can give it the foresight to formulate and

announce its acts in advance? Or how is it to announce them in the hour

of need? How can a blind multitude, which often does not know what it

wills, because it rarely knows what is good for it, carry out for itself

so great and difficult an enterprise as a system of legislation? Of

itself the people wills always the good, but of itself it by no means

always sees it. The general will is always in the right, but the

judgment which guides it is not always enlightened. It must be got to

see objects as they are, and sometimes as they ought to appear to it; it

must be shown the good road it is in search of, secured from the

seductive influences of individual wills, taught to see times and spaces

as a series, and made to weigh the attractions of present and sensible

advantages against the danger of distant and hidden evils. The

individuals see the good they reject; the public wills the good it does

not see. All stand equally in need of guidance. The former must be

compelled to bring their wills into conformity with their reason; the

latter must be taught to know what it wills. If that is done, public

enlightenment leads to the union of understanding and will in the social

body: the parts are made to work exactly together, and the whole is

raised to its highest power. This makes a legislator necessary.

7. THE LEGISLATOR

IN order to discover the rules of society best suited to nations, a

superior intelligence beholding all the passions of men without

experiencing any of them would be needed. This intelligence would have

to be wholly unrelated to our nature, while knowing it through and

through; its happiness would have to be independent of us, and yet ready

to occupy itself with ours; and lastly, it would have, in the march of

time, to look forward to a distant glory, and, working in one century,

to be able to enjoy in the next.[11] It would take gods to give men

laws.

What Caligula argued from the facts, Plato, in the dialogue called the

Politicus, argued in defining the civil or kingly man, on the basis of

right. But if great princes are rare, how much more so are great

legislators? The former have only to follow the pattern which the latter

have to lay down. The legislator is the engineer who invents the

machine, the prince merely the mechanic who sets it up and makes it go.

"At the birth of societies," says Montesquieu, "the rulers of Republics

establish institutions, and afterwards the institutions mould the

rulers."[12]

He who dares to undertake the making of a people's institutions ought to

feel himself capable, so to speak, of changing human nature, of

transforming each individual, who is by himself a complete and solitary

whole, into part of a greater whole from which he in a manner receives

his life and being; of altering man's constitution for the purpose of

strengthening it; and of substituting a partial and moral existence for

the physical and independent existence nature has conferred on us all.

He must, in a word, take away from man his own resources and give him

instead new ones alien to him, and incapable of being made use of

without the help of other men. The more completely these natural

resources are annihilated, the greater and the more lasting are those

which he acquires, and the more stable and perfect the new institutions;

so that if each citizen is nothing and can do nothing without the rest,

and the resources acquired by the whole are equal or superior to the

aggregate of the resources of all the individuals, it may be said that

legislation is at the highest possible point of perfection.

The legislator occupies in every respect an extraordinary position in

the State. If he should do so by reason of his genius, he does so no

less by reason of his office, which is neither magistracy, nor

Sovereignty. This office, which sets up the Republic, nowhere enters

into its constitution; it is an individual and superior function, which

has nothing in common with human empire; for if he who holds command

over men ought not to have command over the laws, he who has command

over the laws ought not any more to have it over men; or else his laws

would be the ministers of his passions and would often merely serve to

perpetuate his injustices: his private aims would inevitably mar the

sanctity of his work.

When Lycurgus gave laws to his country, he began by resigning the

throne. It was the custom of most Greek towns to entrust the

establishment of their laws to foreigners. The Republics of modern Italy

in many cases followed this example; Geneva did the same and profited by

it.[13] Rome, when it was most prosperous, suffered a revival of all the

crimes of tyranny, and was brought to the verge of destruction, because

it put the legislative authority and the sovereign power into the same

hands.

Nevertheless, the decemvirs themselves never claimed the right to pass

any law merely on their own authority. "Nothing we propose to you," they

said to the people, "can pass into law without your consent. Romans, be

yourselves the authors of the laws which are to make you happy."

He, therefore, who draws up the laws has, or should have, no right of

legislation, and the people cannot, even if it wishes, deprive itself of

this incommunicable right, because, according to the fundamental

compact, only the general will can bind the individuals, and there can

be no assurance that a particular will is in conformity with the general

will, until it has been put to the free vote of the people. This I have

said already; but it is worth while to repeat it.

Thus in the task of legislation we find together two things which appear

to be incompatible: an enterprise too difficult for human powers, and,

for its execution, an authority that is no authority.

There is a further difficulty that deserves attention. Wise men, if they

try to speak their language to the common herd instead of its own,

cannot possibly make themselves understood. There are a thousand kinds

of ideas which it is impossible to translate into popular language.

Conceptions that are too general and objects that are too remote are

equally out of its range: each individual, having no taste for any other

plan of government than that which suits his particular interest, finds

it difficult to realise the advantages he might hope to draw from the

continual privations good laws impose. For a young people to be able to

relish sound principles of political theory and follow the fundamental

rules of statecraft, the effect would have to become the cause; the

social spirit, which should be created by these institutions, would have

to preside over their very foundation; and men would have to be before

law what they should become by means of law. The legislator therefore,

being unable to appeal to either force or reason, must have recourse to

an authority of a different order, capable of constraining without

violence and persuading without convincing.

This is what has, in all ages, compelled the fathers of nations to have

recourse to divine intervention and credit the gods with their own

wisdom, in order that the peoples, submitting to the laws of the State

as to those of nature, and recognising the same power in the formation

of the city as in that of man, might obey freely, and bear with docility

the yoke of the public happiness.

This sublime reason, far above the range of the common herd, is that

whose decisions the legislator puts into the mouth of the immortals, in

order to constrain by divine authority those whom human prudence could

not move.[14] But it is not anybody who can make the gods speak, or get

himself believed when he proclaims himself their interpreter. The great

soul of the legislator is the only miracle that can prove his mission.

Any man may grave tablets of stone, or buy an oracle, or feign secret

intercourse with some divinity, or train a bird to whisper in his ear,

or find other vulgar ways of imposing on the people. He whose knowledge

goes no further may perhaps gather round him a band of fools; but he

will never found an empire, and his extravagances will quickly perish

with him. Idle tricks form a passing tie; only wisdom can make it

lasting. The Judaic law, which still subsists, and that of the child of

Ishmael, which, for ten centuries, has ruled half the world, still

proclaim the great men who laid them down; and, while the pride of

philosophy or the blind spirit of faction sees in them no more than

lucky impostures, the true political theorist admires, in the

institutions they set up, the great and powerful genius which presides

over things made to endure.

We should not, with Warburton, conclude from this that politics and

religion have among us a common object, but that, in the first periods

of nations, the one is used as an instrument for the other.

8. THE PEOPLE

AS, before putting up a large building, the architect surveys and sounds

the site to see if it will bear the weight, the wise legislator does not

begin by laying down laws good in themselves, but by investigating the

fitness of the people, for which they are destined, to receive them.

Plato refused to legislate for the Arcadians and the Cyrenæans, because

he knew that both peoples were rich and could not put up with equality;

and good laws and bad men were found together in Crete, because Minos

had inflicted discipline on a people already burdened with vice.

A thousand nations have achieved earthly greatness, that could never

have endured good laws; even such as could have endured them could have

done so only for a very brief period of their long history. Most

peoples, like most men, are docile only in youth; as they grow old they

become incorrigible. When once customs have become established and

prejudices inveterate, it is dangerous and useless to attempt their

reformation; the people, like the foolish and cowardly patients who rave

at sight of the doctor, can no longer bear that any one should lay hands

on its faults to remedy them.

There are indeed times in the history of States when, just as some kinds

of illness turn men's heads and make them forget the past, periods of

violence and revolutions do to peoples what these crises do to

individuals: horror of the past takes the place of forgetfulness, and

the State, set on fire by civil wars, is born again, so to speak, from

its ashes, and takes on anew, fresh from the jaws of death, the vigour

of youth. Such were Sparta at the time of Lycurgus, Rome after the

Tarquins, and, in modern times, Holland and Switzerland after the

expulsion of the tyrants.

But such events are rare; they are exceptions, the cause of which is

always to be found in the particular constitution of the State

concerned. They cannot even happen twice to the same people, for it can

make itself free as long as it remains barbarous, but not when the civic

impulse has lost its vigour. Then disturbances may destroy it, but

revolutions cannot mend it: it needs a master, and not a liberator. Free

peoples, be mindful of this maxim: "Liberty may be gained, but can never

be recovered."

Youth is not infancy. There is for nations, as for men, a period of

youth, or, shall we say, maturity, before which they should not be made

subject to laws; but the maturity of a people is not always easily

recognisable, and, if it is anticipated, the work is spoilt. One people

is amenable to discipline from the beginning; another, not after ten

centuries. Russia will never be really civilised, because it was

civilised too soon. Peter had a genius for imitation; but he lacked true

genius, which is creative and makes all from nothing. He did some good

things, but most of what he did was out of place. He saw that his people

was barbarous, but did not see that it was not ripe for civilisation: he

wanted to civilise it when it needed only hardening. His first wish was

to make Germans or Englishmen, when he ought to have been making

Russians; and he prevented his subjects from ever becoming what they

might have been by persuading them that they were what they are not. In

this fashion too a French teacher turns out his pupil to be an infant

prodigy, and for the rest of his life to be nothing whatsoever. The

empire of Russia will aspire to conquer Europe, and will itself be

conquered. The Tartars, its subjects or neighbours, will become its

masters and ours, by a revolution which I regard as inevitable. Indeed,

all the kings of Europe are working in concert to hasten its coming.

9. THE PEOPLE (continued)

As nature has set bounds to the stature of a well-made man, and, outside

those limits, makes nothing but giants or dwarfs, similarly, for the

constitution of a State to be at its best, it is possible to fix limits

that will make it neither too large for good government, nor too small

for self-maintenance. In every body politic there is a maximum strength

which it cannot exceed and which it only loses by increasing in size.

Every extension of the social tie means its relaxation; and, generally

speaking, a small State is stronger in proportion than a great one.

A thousand arguments could be advanced in favour of this principle.

First, long distances make administration more difficult, just as a

weight becomes heavier at the end of a longer lever. Administration

therefore becomes more and more burdensome as the distance grows

greater; for, in the first place, each city has its own, which is paid

for by the people: each district its own, still paid for by the people:

then comes each province, and then the great governments, satrapies, and

vice-royalties, always costing more the higher you go, and always at the

expense of the unfortunate people. Last of all comes the supreme

administration, which eclipses all the rest. All these over charges are

a continual drain upon the subjects; so far from being better governed

by all these different orders, they are worse governed than if there

were only a single authority over them. In the meantime, there scarce

remain resources enough to meet emergencies; and, when recourse must be

had to these, the State is always on the eve of destruction.

This is not all; not only has the government less vigour and promptitude

for securing the observance of the laws, preventing nuisances,

correcting abuses, and guarding against seditious undertakings begun in

distant places; the people has less affection for its rulers, whom it

never sees, for its country, which, to its eyes, seems like the world,

and for its fellow-citizens, most of whom are unknown to it. The same

laws cannot suit so many diverse provinces with different customs,

situated in the most various climates, and incapable of enduring a

uniform government. Different laws lead only to trouble and confusion

among peoples which, living under the same rulers and in constant

communication one with another, intermingle and intermarry, and, coming

under the sway of new customs, never know if they can call their very

patrimony their own. Talent is buried, virtue unknown and vice

unpunished, among such a multitude of men who do not know one another,

gathered together in one place at the seat of the central

administration. The leaders, overwhelmed with business, see nothing for

themselves; the State is governed by clerks. Finally, the measures which

have to be taken to maintain the general authority, which all these

distant officials wish to escape or to impose upon, absorb all the

energy of the public, so that there is none left for the happiness of

the people. There is hardly enough to defend it when need arises, and

thus a body which is too big for its constitution gives way and falls

crushed under its own weight.

Again, the State must assure itself a safe foundation, if it is to have

stability, and to be able to resist the shocks it cannot help

experiencing, as well as the efforts it will be forced to make for its

maintenance; for all peoples have a kind of centrifugal force that makes

them continually act one against another, and tend to aggrandise

themselves at their neighbours' expense, like the vortices of Descartes.

Thus the weak run the risk of being soon swallowed up; and it is almost

impossible for any one to preserve itself except by putting itself in a

state of equilibrium with all, so that the pressure is on all sides

practically equal.

It may therefore be seen that there are reasons for expansion and

reasons for contraction; and it is no small part of the statesman's

skill to hit between them the mean that is most favourable to the

preservation of the State. It may be said that the reason for expansion,

being merely external and relative, ought to be subordinate to the

reasons for contraction, which are internal and absolute. A strong and

healthy constitution is the first thing to look for; and it is better to

count on the vigour which comes of good government than on the resources

a great territory furnishes.

It may be added that there have been known States so constituted that

the necessity of making conquests entered into their very constitution,

and that, in order to maintain themselves, they were forced to expand

ceaselessly. It may be that they congratulated themselves greatly on

this fortunate necessity, which none the less indicated to them, along

with the limits of their greatness, the inevitable moment of their fall.

10. THE PEOPLE (continued)

A BODY politic may be measured in two ways -- either by the extent of

its territory, or by the number of its people; and there is, between

these two measurements, a right relation which makes the State really

great. The men make the State, and the territory sustains the men; the

right relation therefore is that the land should suffice for the

maintenance of the inhabitants, and that there should be as many

inhabitants as the land can maintain. In this proportion lies the

maximum strength of a given number of people; for, if there is too much

land, it is troublesome to guard and inadequately cultivated, produces

more than is needed, and soon gives rise to wars of defence; if there is

not enough, the State depends on its neighbours for what it needs over

and above, and this soon gives rise to wars of offence. Every people, to

which its situation gives no choice save that between commerce and war,

is weak in itself: it depends on its neighbours, and on circumstances;

its existence can never be more than short and uncertain. It either

conquers others, and changes its situation, or it is conquered and

becomes nothing. Only insignificance or greatness can keep it free.

No fixed relation can be stated between the extent of territory and the

population that are adequate one to the other, both because of the

differences in the quality of land, in its fertility, in the nature of

its products, and in the influence of climate, and because of the

different tempers of those who inhabit it; for some in a fertile country

consume little, and others on an ungrateful soil much. The greater or

less fecundity of women, the conditions that are more or less favourable

in each country to the growth of population, and the influence the

legislator can hope to exercise by his institutions, must also be taken

into account. The legislator therefore should not go by what he sees,

but by what he foresees; he should stop not so much at the state in

which he actually finds the population, as at that to which it ought

naturally to attain. Lastly, there are countless cases in which the

particular local circumstances demand or allow the acquisition of a

greater territory than seems necessary. Thus, expansion will be great in

a mountainous country, where the natural products, i.e., woods and

pastures, need less labour, where we know from experience that women are

more fertile than in the plains, and where a great expanse of slope

affords only a small level tract that can be counted on for vegetation.

On the other hand, contraction is possible on the coast, even in lands

of rocks and nearly barren sands, because there fishing makes up to a

great extent for the lack of land-produce, because the inhabitants have

to congregate together more in order to repel pirates, and further

because it is easier to unburden the country of its superfluous

inhabitants by means of colonies.

To these conditions of law-giving must be added one other which, though

it cannot take the place of the rest, renders them all useless when it

is absent. This is the enjoyment of peace and plenty; for the moment at

which a State sets its house in order is, like the moment when a

battalion is forming up, that when its body is least capable of offering

resistance and easiest to destroy. A better resistance could be made at

a time of absolute disorganisation than at a moment of fermentation,

when each is occupied with his own position and not with the danger. If

war, famine, or sedition arises at this time of crisis, the State will

inevitably be overthrown.

Not that many governments have not been set up during such storms; but

in such cases these governments are themselves the State's destroyers.

Usurpers always bring about or select troublous times to get passed,

under cover of the public terror, destructive laws, which the people

would never adopt in cold blood. The moment chosen is one of the surest

means of distinguishing the work of the legislator from that of the

tyrant.

What people, then, is a fit subject for legislation? One which, already

bound by some unity of origin, interest, or convention, has never yet

felt the real yoke of law; one that has neither customs nor

superstitions deeply ingrained, one which stands in no fear of being

overwhelmed by sudden invasion; one which, without entering into its

neighbours' quarrels, can resist each of them single-handed, or get the

help of one to repel another; one in which every member may be known by

every other, and there is no need to lay on any man burdens too heavy

for a man to bear; one which can do without other peoples, and without

which all others can do;[15] one which is neither rich nor poor, but

self-sufficient; and, lastly, one which unites the consistency of an

ancient people with the docility of a new one. Legislation is made

difficult less by what it is necessary to build up than by what has to

be destroyed; and what makes success so rare is the impossibility of

finding natural simplicity together with social requirements. All these

conditions are indeed rarely found united, and therefore few States have

good constitutions.

There is still in Europe one country capable of being given laws --

Corsica. The valour and persistency with which that brave people has

regained and defended its liberty well deserves that some wise man

should teach it how to preserve what it has won. I have a feeling that

some day that little island will astonish Europe.

11. THE VARIOUS SYSTEMS OF LEGISLATION

IF we ask in what precisely consists the greatest good of all, which

should be the end of every system of legislation, we shall find it

reduce itself to two main objects, liberty and equality -- liberty,

because all particular dependence means so much force taken from the

body of the State and equality, because liberty cannot exist without it.

I have already defined civil liberty; by equality, we should understand,

not that the degrees of power and riches are to be absolutely identical

for everybody; but that power shall never be great enough for violence,

and shall always be exercised by virtue of rank and law; and that, in

respect of riches, no citizen shall ever be wealthy enough to buy

another, and none poor enough to be forced to sell himself:[16] which

implies, on the part of the great, moderation in goods and position,

and, on the side of the common sort, moderation in avarice and

covetousness.

Such equality, we are told, is an unpractical ideal that cannot actually

exist. But if its abuse is inevitable, does it follow that we should not

at least make regulations concerning it? It is precisely because the

force of circumstances tends continually to destroy equality that the

force of legislation should always tend to its maintenance.

But these general objects of every good legislative system need

modifying in every country in accordance with the local situation and

the temper of the inhabitants; and these circumstances should determine,

in each case, the particular system of institutions which is best, not

perhaps in itself, but for the State for which it is destined. If, for

instance, the soil is barren and unproductive, or the land too crowded

for its inhabitants, the people should turn to industry and the crafts,

and exchange what they produce for the commodities they lack. If, on the

other hand, a people dwells in rich plains and fertile slopes, or, in a

good land, lacks inhabitants, it should give all its attention to

agriculture, which causes men to multiply, and should drive out the

crafts, which would only result in depopulation, by grouping in a few

localities the few inhabitants there are.[17] If a nation dwells on an

extensive and convenient coast-line, let it cover the sea with ships and

foster commerce and navigation. It will have a life that will be short

and glorious. If, on its coasts, the sea washes nothing but almost

inaccessible rocks, let it remain barbarous and ichthyophagous: it will

have a quieter, perhaps a better, and certainly a happier life. In a

word, besides the principles that are common to all, every nation has in

itself something that gives them a particular application, and makes its

legislation peculiarly its own. Thus, among the Jews long ago and more

recently among the Arabs, the chief object was religion, among the

Athenians letters, at Carthage and Tyre commerce, at Rhodes shipping, at

Sparta war, at Rome virtue. The author of The Spirit of the Laws has

shown with many examples by what art the legislator directs the

constitution towards each of these objects. What makes the constitution

of a State really solid and lasting is the due observance of what is

proper, so that the natural relations are always in agreement with the

laws on every point, and law only serves, so to speak, to assure,

accompany and rectify them. But if the legislator mistakes his object

and adopts a principle other than circumstances naturally direct; if his

principle makes for servitude while they make for liberty, or if it

makes for riches, while they make for populousness, or if it makes for

peace, while they make for conquest -- the laws will insensibly lose

their influence, the constitution will alter, and the State will have no

rest from trouble till it is either destroyed or changed, and nature has

resumed her invincible sway.

12. THE DIVISION OF THE LAWS

IF the whole is to be set in order, and the commonwealth put into the

best possible shape, there are various relations to be considered.

First, there is the action of the complete body upon itself, the

relation of the whole to the whole, of the Sovereign to the State; and

this relation, as we shall see, is made up of the relations of the

intermediate terms.

The laws which regulate this relation bear the name of political laws,

and are also called fundamental laws, not without reason if they are

wise. For, if there is, in each State, only one good system, the people

that is in possession of it should hold fast to this; but if the

established order is bad, why should laws that prevent men from being

good be regarded as fundamental? Besides, in any case, a people is

always in a position to change its laws, however good; for, if it choose

to do itself harm, who can have a right to stop it?

The second relation is that of the members one to another, or to the

body as a whole; and this relation should be in the first respect as

unimportant, and in the second as important, as possible. Each citizen

would then be perfectly independent of all the rest, and at the same

time very dependent on the city; which is brought about always by the

same means, as the strength of the State can alone secure the liberty of

its members. From this second relation arise civil laws.

We may consider also a third kind of relation between the individual and

the law, a relation of disobedience to its penalty. This gives rise to

the setting up of criminal laws, which, at bottom, are less a particular

class of law than the sanction behind all the rest.

Along with these three kinds of law goes a fourth, most important of

all, which is not graven on tablets of marble or brass, but on the

hearts of the citizens. This forms the real constitution of the State,

takes on every day new powers, when other laws decay or die out,

restores them or takes their place, keeps a people in the ways in which

it was meant to go, and insensibly replaces authority by the force of

habit. I am speaking of morality, of custom, above all of public

opinion; a power unknown to political thinkers, on which none the less

success in everything else depends. With this the great legislator

concerns himself in secret, though he seems to confine himself to

particular regulations; for these are only the arc of the arch, while

manners and morals, slower to arise, form in the end its immovable

keystone.

Among the different classes of laws, the political, which determine the

forms of the government, are alone relevant to my subject.

--------------------------------

BOOK III

BEFORE speaking of the different forms of government, let us try to fix

the exact sense of the word, which has not yet been very clearly

explained.

1. GOVERNMENT IN GENERAL

I WARN the reader that this chapter requires careful reading, and that I

am unable to make myself clear to those who refuse to be attentive.

Every free action is produced by the concurrence of two causes; one

moral, i.e., the will which determines the act; the other physical,

i.e., the power which executes it. When I walk towards an object, it is

necessary first that I should will to go there, and, in the second

place, that my feet should carry me. If a paralytic wills to run and an

active man wills not to, they will both stay where they are. The body

politic has the same motive powers; here too force and will are

distinguished, will under the name of legislative power and force under

that of executive power. Without their concurrence, nothing is, or

should be, done.

We have seen that the legislative power belongs to the people, and can

belong to it alone. It may, on the other hand, readily be seen, from the

principles laid down above, that the executive power cannot belong to

the generality as legislature or Sovereign, because it consists wholly

of particular acts which fall outside the competency of the law, and

consequently of the Sovereign, whose acts must always be laws.

The public force therefore needs an agent of its own to bind it together

and set it to work under the direction of the general will, to serve as

a means of communication between the State and the Sovereign, and to do

for the collective person more or less what the union of soul and body

does for man. Here we have what is, in the State, the basis of

government, often wrongly confused with the Sovereign, whose minister it

is.

What then is government? An intermediate body set up between the

subjects and the Sovereign, to secure their mutual correspondence,

charged with the execution of the laws and the maintenance of liberty,

both civil and political.

The members of this body are called magistrates or kings, that is to say

governors, and the whole body bears the name prince.[18] Thus those who

hold that the act, by which a people puts itself under a prince, is not

a contract, are certainly right. It is simply and solely a commission,

an employment, in which the rulers, mere officials of the Sovereign,

exercise in their own name the power of which it makes them

depositaries. This power it can limit, modify or recover at pleasure;

for the alienation of such a right is incompatible with the nature of

the social body, and contrary to the end of association.

I call then government, or supreme administration, the legitimate

exercise of the executive power, and prince or magistrate the man or the

body entrusted with that administration.

In government reside the intermediate forces whose relations make up

that of the whole to the whole, or of the Sovereign to the State. This

last relation may be represented as that between the extreme terms of a

continuous proportion, which has government as its mean proportional.

The government gets from the Sovereign the orders it gives the people,

and, for the State to be properly balanced, there must, when everything

is reckoned in, be equality between the product or power of the

government taken in itself, and the product or power of the citizens,

who are on the one hand sovereign and on the other subject.

Furthermore, none of these three terms can be altered without the

equality being instantly destroyed. If the Sovereign desires to govern,

or the magistrate to give laws, or if the subjects refuse to obey,

disorder takes the place of regularity, force and will no longer act

together, and the State is dissolved and falls into despotism or

anarchy. Lastly, as there is only one mean proportional between each

relation, there is also only one good government possible for a State.

But, as countless events may change the relations of a people, not only

may different governments be good for different peoples, but also for

the same people at different times.

In attempting to give some idea of the various relations that may hold

between these two extreme terms, I shall take as an example the number

of a people, which is the most easily expressible.

Suppose the State is composed of ten thousand citizens. The Sovereign

can only be considered collectively and as a body; but each member, as

being a subject, is regarded as an individual: thus the Sovereign is to

the subject as ten thousand to one, i.e., each member of the State has

as his share only a ten-thousandth part of the sovereign authority,

although he is wholly under its control. If the people numbers a hundred

thousand, the condition of the subject undergoes no change, and each

equally is under the whole authority of the laws, while his vote, being

reduced to a hundred-thousandth part, has ten times less influence in

drawing them up. The subject therefore remaining always a unit, the

relation between him and the Sovereign increases with the number of the

citizens. From this it follows that, the larger the State, the less the

liberty.

When I say the relation increases, I mean that it grows more unequal.

Thus the greater it is in the geometrical sense, the less relation there

is in the ordinary sense of the word. In the former sense, the relation,

considered according to quantity, is expressed by the quotient; in the

latter, considered according to identity, it is reckoned by similarity.

Now, the less relation the particular wills have to the general will,

that is, morals and manners to laws, the more should the repressive

force be increased. The government, then, to be good, should be

proportionately stronger as the people is more numerous.

On the other hand, as the growth of the State gives the depositaries of

the public authority more temptations and chances of abusing their

power, the greater the force with which the government ought to be

endowed for keeping the people in hand, the greater too should be the

force at the disposal of the Sovereign for keeping the government in

hand. I am speaking, not of absolute force, but of the relative force of

the different parts of the State.

It follows from this double relation that the continuous proportion

between the Sovereign, the prince and the people, is by no means an

arbitrary idea, but a necessary consequence of the nature of the body

politic. It follows further that, one of the extreme terms, viz., the

people, as subject, being fixed and represented by unity, whenever the

duplicate ratio increases or diminishes, the simple ratio does the same,

and is changed accordingly. From this we see that there is not a single

unique and absolute form of government, but as many governments

differing in nature as there are States differing in size.

If, ridiculing this system, any one were to say that, in order to find

the mean proportional and give form to the body of the government, it is

only necessary, according to me, to find the square root of the number

of the people, I should answer that I am here taking this number only as

an instance; that the relations of which I am speaking are not measured

by the number of men alone, but generally by the amount of action, which

is a combination of a multitude of causes; and that, further, if, to

save words, I borrow for a moment the terms of geometry, I am none the

less well aware that moral quantities do not allow of geometrical

accuracy.

The government is on a small scale what the body politic which includes

it is on a great one. It is a moral person endowed with certain

faculties, active like the Sovereign and passive like the State, and

capable of being resolved into other similar relations. This accordingly

gives rise to a new proportion, within which there is yet another,

according to the arrangement of the magistracies, till an indivisible

middle term is reached, i.e., a single ruler or supreme magistrate, who

may be represented, in the midst of this progression, as the unity

between the fractional and the ordinal series.

Without encumbering ourselves with this multiplication of terms, let us

rest content with regarding government as a new body within the State,

distinct from the people and the Sovereign, and intermediate between

them.

There is between these two bodies this essential difference, that the

State exists by itself, and the government only through the Sovereign.

Thus the dominant will of the prince is, or should be, nothing but the

general will or the law; his force is only the public force concentrated

in his hands, and, as soon as he tries to base any absolute and

independent act on his own authority, the tie that binds the whole

together begins to be loosened. If finally the prince should come to

have a particular will more active than the will of the Sovereign, and

should employ the public force in his hands in obedience to this

particular will, there would be, so to speak, two Sovereigns, one

rightful and the other actual, the social union would evaporate

instantly, and the body politic would be dissolved.

However, in order that the government may have a true existence and a

real life distinguishing it from the body of the State, and in order

that all its members may be able to act in concert and fulfil the end

for which it was set up, it must have a particular personality, a

sensibility common to its members, and a force and will of its own

making for its preservation. This particular existence implies

assemblies, councils, power and deliberation and decision, rights,

titles, and privileges belonging exclusively to the prince and making

the office of magistrate more honourable in proportion as it is more

troublesome. The difficulties lie in the manner of so ordering this

subordinate whole within the whole, that it in no way alters the general

constitution by affirmation of its own, and always distinguishes the

particular force it possesses, which is destined to aid in its

preservation, from the public force, which is destined to the

preservation of the State; and, in a word, is always ready to sacrifice

the government to the people, and never to sacrifice the people to the

government.

Furthermore, although the artificial body of the government is the work

of another artificial body, and has, we may say, only a borrowed and

subordinate life, this does not prevent it from being able to act with

more or less vigour or promptitude, or from being, so to speak, in more

or less robust health. Finally, without departing directly from the end

for which it was instituted, it may deviate more or less from it,

according to the manner of its constitution.

From all these differences arise the various relations which the

government ought to bear to the body of the State, according to the

accidental and particular relations by which the State itself is

modified, for often the government that is best in itself will become

the most pernicious, if the relations in which it stands have altered

according to the defects of the body politic to which it belongs.

2. THE CONSTITUENT PRINCIPLE IN THE VARIOUS FORMS OF GOVERNMENT

TO set forth the general cause of the above differences, we must here

distinguish between government and its principle, as we did before

between the State and the Sovereign.

The body of the magistrate may be composed of a greater or a less number

of members. We said that the relation of the Sovereign to the subjects

was greater in proportion as the people was more numerous, and, by a

clear analogy, we may say the same of the relation of the government to

the magistrates.

But the total force of the government, being always that of the State,

is invariable; so that, the more of this force it expends on its own

members, the less it has left to employ on the whole people.

The more numerous the magistrates, therefore, the weaker the government.

This principle being fundamental, we must do our best to make it clear.

In the person of the magistrate we can distinguish three essentially

different wills: first, the private will of the individual, tending only

to his personal advantage; secondly, the common will of the magistrates,

which is relative solely to the advantage of the prince, and may be

called corporate will, being general in relation to the government, and

particular in relation to the State, of which the government forms part;

and, in the third place, the will of the people or the sovereign will,

which is general both in relation to the State regarded as the whole,

and to the government regarded as a part of the whole.

In a perfect act of legislation, the individual or particular will

should be at zero; the corporate will belonging to the government should

occupy a very subordinate position; and, consequently, the general or

sovereign will should always predominate and should be the sole guide of

all the rest.

According to the natural order, on the other hand, these different wills

become more active in proportion as they are concentrated. Thus, the

general will is always the weakest, the corporate will second, and the

individual will strongest of all: so that, in the government, each

member is first of all himself, then a magistrate, and then a citizen --

in an order exactly the reverse of what the social system requires.

This granted, if the whole government is in the hands of one man, the

particular and the corporate will are wholly united, and consequently

the latter is at its highest possible degree of intensity. But, as the

use to which the force is put depends on the degree reached by the will,

and as the absolute force of the government is invariable, it follows

that the most active government is that of one man.

Suppose, on the other hand, we unite the government with the legislative

authority, and make the Sovereign prince also, and all the citizens so

many magistrates: then the corporate will, being confounded with the

general will, can possess no greater activity than that will, and must

leave the particular will as strong as it can possibly be. Thus, the

government, having always the same absolute force, will be at the lowest

point of its relative force or activity.

These relations are incontestable, and there are other considerations

which still further confirm them. We can see, for instance, that each

magistrate is more active in the body to which he belongs than each

citizen in that to which he belongs, and that consequently the

particular will has much more influence on the acts of the government

than on those of the Sovereign; for each magistrate is almost always

charged with some governmental function, while each citizen, taken

singly, exercises no function of Sovereignty. Furthermore, the bigger

the State grows, the more its real force increases, though not in direct

proportion to its growth; but, the State remaining the same, the number

of magistrates may increase to any extent, without the government

gaining any greater real force; for its force is that of the State, the

dimension of which remains equal. Thus the relative force or activity of

the government decreases, while its absolute or real force cannot

increase.

Moreover, it is a certainty that promptitude in execution diminishes as

more people are put in charge of it: where prudence is made too much of,

not enough is made of fortune; opportunity is let slip, and deliberation

results in the loss of its object.

I have just proved that the government grows remiss in proportion as the

number of the magistrates increases; and I previously proved that, the

more numerous the people, the greater should be the repressive force.

From this it follows that the relation of the magistrates to the

government should vary inversely to the relation of the subjects to the

Sovereign; that is to say, the larger the State, the more should the

government be tightened, so that the number of the rulers diminish in

proportion to the increase of that of the people.

It should be added that I am here speaking of the relative strength of

the government, and not of its rectitude: for, on the other hand, the

more numerous the magistracy, the nearer the corporate will comes to the

general will; while, under a single magistrate, the corporate will is,

as I said, merely a particular will. Thus, what may be gained on one

side is lost on the other, and the art of the legislator is to know how

to fix the point at which the force and the will of the government,

which are always in inverse proportion, meet in the relation that is

most to the advantage of the State.

3. THE DIVISION OF GOVERNMENTS

WE saw in the last chapter what causes the various kinds or forms of

government to be distinguished according to the number of the members

composing them: it remains in this to discover how the division is made.

In the first place, the Sovereign may commit the charge of the

government to the whole people or to the majority of the people, so that

more citizens are magistrates than are mere private individuals. This

form of government is called democracy.

Or it may restrict the government to a small number, so that there are

more private citizens than magistrates; and this is named aristocracy.

Lastly, it may concentrate the whole government in the hands of a single

magistrate from whom all others hold their power. This third form is the

most usual, and is called monarchy, or royal government.

It should be remarked that all these forms, or at least the first two,

admit of degree, and even of very wide differences; for democracy may

include the whole people, or may be restricted to half. Aristocracy, in

its turn, may be restricted indefinitely from half the people down to

the smallest possible number. Even royalty is susceptible of a measure

of distribution. Sparta always had two kings, as its constitution

provided; and the Roman Empire saw as many as eight emperors at once,

without it being possible to say that the Empire was split up. Thus

there is a point at which each form of government passes into the next,

and it becomes clear that, under three comprehensive denominations,

government is really susceptible of as many diverse forms as the State

has citizens.

There are even more: for, as the government may also, in certain

aspects, be subdivided into other parts, one administered in one fashion

and one in another, the combination of the three forms may result in a

multitude of mixed forms, each of which admits of multiplication by all

the simple forms.

There has been at all times much dispute concerning the best form of

government, without consideration of the fact that each is in some cases

the best, and in others the worst.

If, in the different States, the number of supreme magistrates should be

in inverse ratio to the number of citizens, it follows that, generally,

democratic government suits small States, aristocratic government those

of middle size, and monarchy great ones. This rule is immediately

deducible from the principle laid down. But it is impossible to count

the innumerable circumstances which may furnish exceptions.

4. DEMOCRACY

HE who makes the law knows better than any one else how it should be

executed and interpreted. It seems then impossible to have a better

constitution than that in which the executive and legislative powers are

united; but this very fact renders the government in certain respects

inadequate, because things which should be distinguished are confounded,

and the prince and the Sovereign, being the same person, form, so to

speak, no more than a government without government.

It is not good for him who makes the laws to execute them, or for the

body of the people to turn its attention away from a general standpoint

and devote it to particular objects. Nothing is more dangerous than the

influence of private interests in public affairs, and the abuse of the

laws by the government is a less evil than the corruption of the

legislator, which is the inevitable sequel to a particular standpoint.

In such a case, the State being altered in substance, all reformation

becomes impossible, A people that would never misuse governmental powers

would never misuse independence; a people that would always govern well

would not need to be governed.

If we take the term in the strict sense, there never has been a real

democracy, and there never will be. It is against the natural order for

the many to govern and the few to be governed. It is unimaginable that

the people should remain continually assembled to devote their time to

public affairs, and it is clear that they cannot set up commissions for

that purpose without the form of administration being changed.

In fact, I can confidently lay down as a principle that, when the

functions of government are shared by several tribunals, the less

numerous sooner or later acquire the greatest authority, if only because

they are in a position to expedite affairs, and power thus naturally

comes into their hands.

Besides, how many conditions that are difficult to unite does such a

government presuppose! First, a very small State, where the people can

readily be got together and where each citizen can with ease know all

the rest; secondly, great simplicity of manners, to prevent business

from multiplying and raising thorny problems; next, a large measure of

equality in rank and fortune, without which equality of rights and

authority cannot long subsist; lastly, little or no luxury -- for luxury

either comes of riches or makes them necessary; it corrupts at once rich

and poor, the rich by possession and the poor by covetousness; it sells

the country to softness and vanity, and takes away from the State all

its citizens, to make them slaves one to another, and one and all to

public opinion.

This is why a famous writer has made virtue the fundamental principle of

Republics;[E1] for all these conditions could not exist without virtue.

But, for want of the necessary distinctions, that great thinker was

often inexact, and sometimes obscure, and did not see that, the

sovereign authority being everywhere the same, the same principle should

be found in every well-constituted State, in a greater or less degree,

it is true, according to the form of the government.

It may be added that there is no government so subject to civil wars and

intestine agitations as democratic or popular government, because there

is none which has so strong and continual a tendency to change to

another form, or which demands more vigilance and courage for its

maintenance as it is. Under such a constitution above all, the citizen

should arm himself with strength and constancy, and say, every day of

his life, what a virtuous Count Palatine[19] said in the Diet of Poland:

Malo periculosam libertatem quam quietum servitium.[20]

Were there a people of gods, their government would be democratic. So

perfect a government is not for men.

5. ARISTOCRACY

WE have here two quite distinct moral persons, the government and the

Sovereign, and in consequence two general wills, one general in relation

to all the citizens, the other only for the members of the

administration. Thus, although the government may regulate its internal

policy as it pleases, it can never speak to the people save in the name

of the Sovereign, that is, of the people itself, a fact which must not

be forgotten.

The first societies governed themselves aristocratically. The heads of

families took counsel together on public affairs. The young bowed

without question to the authority of experience. Hence such names as

priests, elders, senate, and gerontes. The savages of North America

govern themselves in this way even now, and their government is

admirable.

But, in proportion as artificial inequality produced by institutions

became predominant over natural inequality, riches or power[21] were put

before age, and aristocracy became elective. Finally, the transmission

of the father's power along with his goods to his children, by creating

patrician families, made government hereditary, and there came to be

senators of twenty.

There are then three sorts of aristocracy -- natural, elective and

hereditary. The first is only for simple peoples; the third is the worst

of all governments; the second is the best, and is aristocracy properly

so called.

Besides the advantage that lies in the distinction between the two

powers, it presents that of its members being chosen; for, in popular

government, all the citizens are born magistrates; but here magistracy

is confined to a few, who become such only by election.[22] By this

means uprightness, understanding, experience and all other claims to

pre-eminence and public esteem become so many further guarantees of wise

government.

Moreover, assemblies are more easily held, affairs better discussed and

carried out with more order and diligence, and the credit of the State

is better sustained abroad by venerable senators than by a multitude

that is unknown or despised.

In a word, it is the best and most natural arrangement that the wisest

should govern the many, when it is assured that they will govern for its

profit, and not for their own. There is no need to multiply instruments,

or get twenty thousand men to do what a hundred picked men can do even

better. But it must not be forgotten that corporate interest here begins

to direct the public power less under the regulation of the general

will, and that a further inevitable propensity takes away from the laws

part of the executive power.

If we are to speak of what is individually desirable, neither should the

State be so small, nor a people so simple and upright, that the

execution of the laws follows immediately from the public will, as it

does in a good democracy. Nor should the nation be so great that the

rulers have to scatter in order to govern it and are able to play the

Sovereign each in his own department, and, beginning by making

themselves independent, end by becoming masters.

But if aristocracy does not demand all the virtues needed by popular

government, it demands others which are peculiar to itself; for

instance, moderation on the side of the rich and contentment on that of

the poor; for it seems that thorough-going equality would be out of

place, as it was not found even at Sparta.

Furthermore, if this form of government carries with it a certain

inequality of fortune, this is justifiable in order that as a rule the

administration of public affairs may be entrusted to those who are most

able to give them their whole time, but not, as Aristotle maintains, in

order that the rich may always be put first. On the contrary, it is of

importance that an opposite choice should occasionally teach the people

that the deserts of men offer claims to pre-eminence more important than

those of riches.

6. MONARCHY

So far, we have considered the prince as a moral and collective person,

unified by the force of the laws, and the depositary in the State of the

executive power. We have now to consider this power when it is gathered

together into the hands of a natural person, a real man, who alone has

the right to dispose of it in accordance with the laws. Such a person is

called a monarch or king.

In contrast with other forms of administration, in which a collective

being stands for an individual, in this form an individual stands for a

collective being; so that the moral unity that constitutes the prince is

at the same time a physical unity, and all the qualities, which in the

other case are only with difficulty brought together by the law, are

found naturally united.

Thus the will of the people, the will of the prince, the public force of

the State, and the particular force of the government, all answer to a

single motive power; all the springs of the machine are in the same

hands, the whole moves towards the same end; there are no conflicting

movements to cancel one another, and no kind of constitution can be

imagined in which a less amount of effort produces a more considerable

amount of action. Archimedes, seated quietly on the bank and easily

drawing a great vessel afloat, stands to my mind for a skilful monarch,

governing vast states from his study, and moving everything while he

seems himself unmoved.

But if no government is more vigorous than this, there is also none in

which the particular will holds more sway and rules the rest more

easily. Everything moves towards the same end indeed, but this end is by

no means that of the public happiness, and even the force of the

administration constantly shows itself prejudicial to the State.

Kings desire to be absolute, and men are always crying out to them from

afar that the best means of being so is to get themselves loved by their

people. This precept is all very well, and even in some respects very

true. Unfortunately, it will always be derided at court. The power which

comes of a people's love is no doubt the greatest; but it is precarious

and conditional, and princes will never rest content with it. The best

kings desire to be in a position to be wicked, if they please, without

forfeiting their mastery: political sermonisers may tell them to their

hearts' content that, the people's strength being their own, their first

interest is that the people should be prosperous, numerous and

formidable; they are well aware that this is untrue. Their first

personal interest is that the people should be weak, wretched, and

unable to resist them. I admit that, provided the subjects remained

always in submission, the prince's interest would indeed be that it

should be powerful, in order that its power, being his own, might make

him formidable to his neighbours; but, this interest being merely

secondary and subordinate, and strength being incompatible with

submission, princes naturally give the preference always to the

principle that is more to their immediate advantage. This is what Samuel

put strongly before the Hebrews, and what Machiavelli has clearly shown.

He professed to teach kings; but it was the people he really taught. His

Prince is the book of Republicans.[23]

We found, on general grounds, that monarchy is suitable only for great

States, and this is confirmed when we examine it in itself. The more

numerous the public administration, the smaller becomes the relation

between the prince and the subjects, and the nearer it comes to

equality, so that in democracy the ratio is unity, or absolute equality.

Again, as the government is restricted in numbers the ratio increases

and reaches its maximum when the government is in the hands of a single

person. There is then too great a distance between prince and people,

and the State lacks a bond of union. To form such a bond, there must be

intermediate orders, and princes, personages and nobility to compose

them. But no such things suit a small State, to which all class

differences mean ruin.

If, however, it is hard for a great State to be well governed, it is

much harder for it to be so by a single man; and every one knows what

happens when kings substitute others for themselves.

An essential and inevitable defect, which will always rank monarchical

below the republican government, is that in a republic the public voice

hardly ever raises to the highest positions men who are not enlightened

and capable, and such as to fill them with honour; while in monarchies

those who rise to the top are most often merely petty blunderers, petty

swindlers, and petty intriguers, whose petty talents cause them to get

into the highest positions at Court, but, as soon as they have got

there, serve only to make their ineptitude clear to the public. The

people is far less often mistaken in its choice than the prince; and a

man of real worth among the king's ministers is almost as rare as a fool

at the head of a republican government. Thus, when, by some fortunate

chance, one of these born governors takes the helm of State in some

monarchy that has been nearly overwhelmed by swarms of "gentlemanly"

administrators, there is nothing but amazement at the resources he

discovers, and his coming marks an era in his country's history.

For a monarchical State to have a chance of being well governed, its

population and extent must be proportionate to the abilities of its

governor. It is easier to conquer than to rule. With a long enough

lever, the world could be moved with a single finger; to sustain it

needs the shoulders of Hercules. However small a State may be, the

prince is hardly ever big enough for it. When, on the other hand, it

happens that the State is too small for its ruler, in these rare cases

too it is ill governed, because the ruler, constantly pursuing his great

designs, forgets the interests of the people, and makes it no less

wretched by misusing the talents he has, than a ruler of less capacity

would make it for want of those he had not. A kingdom should, so to

speak, expand or contract with each reign, according to the prince's

capabilities; but, the abilities of a senate being more constant in

quantity, the State can then have permanent frontiers without the

administration suffering.

The disadvantage that is most felt in monarchical government is the want

of the continuous succession which, in both the other forms, provides an

unbroken bond of union. When one king dies, another is needed; elections

leave dangerous intervals and are full of storms; and unless the

citizens are disinterested and upright to a degree which very seldom

goes with this kind of government, intrigue and corruption abound. He to

whom the State has sold itself can hardly help selling it in his turn

and repaying himself, at the expense of the weak, the money the powerful

have wrung from him. Under such an administration, venality sooner or

later spreads through every part, and peace so enjoyed under a king is

worse than the disorders of an interregnum.

What has been done to prevent these evils? Crowns have been made

hereditary in certain families, and an order of succession has been set

up, to prevent disputes from arising on the death of kings. That is to

say, the disadvantages of regency have been put in place of those of

election, apparent tranquillity has been preferred to wise

administration, and men have chosen rather to risk having children,

monstrosities, or imbeciles as rulers to having disputes over the choice

of good kings. It has not been taken into account that, in so exposing

ourselves to the risks this possibility entails, we are setting almost

all the chances against us. There was sound sense in what the younger

Dionysius said to his father, who reproached him for doing some shameful

deed by asking, "Did I set you the example?" "No," answered his son,

"but your father was not king."

Everything conspires to take away from a man who is set in authority

over others the sense of justice and reason. Much trouble, we are told,

is taken to teach young princes the art of reigning; but their education

seems to do them no good. It would be better to begin by teaching them

the art of obeying. The greatest kings whose praises history tells were

not brought up to reign: reigning is a science we are never so far from

possessing as when we have learnt too much of it, and one we acquire

better by obeying than by commanding. "Nam utilissimus idem ac

brevissimus bonarum malarumque rerum delectus cogitare quid aut nolueris

sub alio principe, aut volueris."[24]

One result of this lack of coherence is the inconstancy of royal

government, which, regulated now on one scheme and now on another,

according to the character of the reigning prince or those who reign for

him, cannot for long have a fixed object or a consistent policy -- and

this variability, not found in the other forms of government, where the

prince is always the same, causes the State to be always shifting from

principle to principle and from project to project. Thus we may say that

generally, if a court is more subtle in intrigue, there is more wisdom

in a senate, and Republics advance towards their ends by more consistent

and better considered policies; while every revolution in a royal

ministry creates a revolution in the State; for the principle common to

all ministers and nearly all kings is to do in every respect the reverse

of what was done by their predecessors.

This incoherence further clears up a sophism that is very familiar to

royalist political writers; not only is civil government likened to

domestic government, and the prince to the father of a family -- this

error has already been refuted -- but the prince is also freely credited

with all the virtues he ought to possess, and is supposed to be always

what he should be. This supposition once made, royal government is

clearly preferable to all others, because it is incontestably the

strongest, and, to be the best also, wants only a corporate will more in

conformity with the general will.

But if, according to Plato,[25] the "king by nature" is such a rarity,

how often will nature and fortune conspire to give him a crown? And, if

royal education necessarily corrupts those who receive it, what is to be

hoped from a series of men brought up to reign? It is, then, wanton

self-deception to confuse royal government with government by a good

king. To see such government as it is in itself, we must consider it as

it is under princes who are incompetent or wicked: for either they will

come to the throne wicked or incompetent, or the throne will make them

so.

These difficulties have not escaped our writers, who, all the same, are

not troubled by them. The remedy, they say, is to obey without a murmur:

God sends bad kings in His wrath, and they must be borne as the scourges

of Heaven. Such talk is doubtless edifying; but it would be more in

place in a pulpit than in a political book. What are we to think of a

doctor who promises miracles, and whose whole art is to exhort the

sufferer to patience? We know for ourselves that we must put up with a

bad government when it is there; the question is how to find a good one.

7. MIXED GOVERNMENTS

STRICTLY speaking, there is no such thing as a simple government. An

isolated ruler must have subordinate magistrates; a popular government

must have a head. There is therefore, in the distribution of the

executive power, always a gradation from the greater to the lesser

number, with the difference that sometimes the greater number is

dependent on the smaller, and sometimes the smaller on the greater.

Sometimes the distribution is equal, when either the constituent parts

are in mutual dependence, as in the government of England, or the

authority of each section is independent, but imperfect, as in Poland.

This last form is bad; for it secures no unity in the government, and

the State is left without a bond of union.

Is a simple or a mixed government the better? Political writers are

always debating the question, which must be answered as we have already

answered a question about all forms of government.

Simple government is better in itself, just because it is simple. But

when the executive power is not sufficiently dependent upon the

legislative power, i.e., when the prince is more closely related to the

Sovereign than the people to the prince, this lack of proportion must be

cured by the division of the government; for all the parts have then no

less authority over the subjects, while their division makes them all

together less strong against the Sovereign.

The same disadvantage is also prevented by the appointment of

intermediate magistrates, who leave the government entire, and have the

effect only of balancing the two powers and maintaining their respective

rights. Government is then not mixed, but moderated.

The opposite disadvantages may be similarly cured, and, when the

government is too lax, tribunals may be set up to concentrate it. This

is done in all democracies. In the first case, the government is divided

to make it weak; in the second, to make it strong: for the maxima of

both strength and weakness are found in simple governments, while the

mixed forms result in a mean strength.

8. THAT ALL FORMS OF GOVERNMENT DO NOT SUIT ALL COUNTRIES

LIBERTY, not being a fruit of all climates, is not within the reach of

all peoples. The more this principle, laid down by Montesquieu,[E2] is

considered, the more its truth is felt; the more it is combated, the

more chance is given to confirm it by new proofs.

In all the governments that there are, the public person consumes

without producing. Whence then does it get what it consumes? From the

labour of its members. The necessities of the public are supplied out of

the superfluities of individuals. It follows that the civil State can

subsist only so long as men's labour brings them a return greater than

their needs.

The amount of this excess is not the same in all countries. In some it

is considerable, in others middling, in yet others nil, in some even

negative. The relation of product to subsistence depends on the

fertility of the climate, on the sort of labour the land demands, on the

nature of its products, on the strength of its inhabitants, on the

greater or less consumption they find necessary, and on several further

considerations of which the whole relation is made up.

On the other side, all governments are not of the same nature: some are

less voracious than others, and the differences between them are based

on this second principle, that the further from their source the public

contributions are removed, the more burdensome they become. The charge

should be measured not by the amount of the impositions, but by the path

they have to travel in order to get back to those from whom they came.

When the circulation is prompt and well-established, it does not matter

whether much or little is paid; the people is always rich and,

financially speaking, all is well. On the contrary, however little the

people gives, if that little does not return to it, it is soon exhausted

by giving continually: the State is then never rich, and the people is

always a people of beggars.

It follows that, the more the distance between people and government

increases, the more burdensome tribute becomes: thus, in a democracy,

the people bears the least charge; in an aristocracy, a greater charge;

and, in monarchy, the weight becomes heaviest. Monarchy therefore suits

only wealthy nations; aristocracy, States of middling size and wealth;

and democracy, States that are small and poor.

In fact, the more we reflect, the more we find the difference between

free and monarchical States to be this: in the former, everything is

used for the public advantage; in the latter, the public forces and

those of individuals are affected by each other, and either increases as

the other grows weak; finally, instead of governing subjects to make

them happy, despotism makes them wretched in order to govern them.

We find then, in every climate, natural causes according to which the

form of government which it requires can be assigned, and we can even

say what sort of inhabitants it should have.

Unfriendly and barren lands, where the product does not repay the

labour, should remain desert and uncultivated, or peopled only by

savages; lands where men's labour brings in no more than the exact

minimum necessary to subsistence should be inhabited by barbarous

peoples: in such places all polity is impossible. Lands where the

surplus of product over labour is only middling are suitable for free

peoples; those in which the soil is abundant and fertile and gives a

great product for a little labour call for monarchical government, in

order that the surplus of superfluities among the subjects may be

consumed by the luxury of the prince: for it is better for this excess

to be absorbed by the government than dissipated among the individuals.

I am aware that there are exceptions; but these exceptions themselves

confirm the rule, in that sooner or later they produce revolutions which

restore things to the natural order.

General laws should always be distinguished from individual causes that

may modify their effects. If all the South were covered with Republics

and all the North with despotic States, it would be none the less true

that, in point of climate, despotism is suitable to hot countries,

barbarism to cold countries, and good polity to temperate regions. I see

also that, the principle being granted, there may be disputes on its

application; it may be said that there are cold countries that are very

fertile, and tropical countries that are very unproductive. But this

difficulty exists only for those who do not consider the question in all

its aspects. We must, as I have already said, take labour, strength,

consumption, etc., into account.

Take two tracts of equal extent, one of which brings in five and the

other ten. If the inhabitants of the first consume four and those of the

second nine, the surplus of the first product will be a fifth and that

of the second a tenth. The ratio of these two surpluses will then be

inverse to that of the products, and the tract which produces only five

will give a surplus double that of the tract which produces ten.

But there is no question of a double product, and I think no one would

put the fertility of cold countries, as a general rule, on an equality

with that of hot ones. Let us, however, suppose this equality to exist:

let us, if you will, regard England as on the same level as Sicily, and

Poland as Egypt -- further south, we shall have Africa and the Indies;

further north, nothing at all. To get this equality of product, what a

difference there must be in tillage: in Sicily, there is only need to

scratch the ground; in England, how men must toil! But, where more hands

are needed to get the same product, the superfluity must necessarily be

less.

Consider, besides, that the same number of men consume much less in hot

countries. The climate requires sobriety for the sake of health; and

Europeans who try to live there as they would at home all perish of

dysentery and indigestion. "We are," says Chardin, "carnivorous animals,

wolves, in comparison with the Asiatics. Some attribute the sobriety of

the Persians to the fact that their country is less cultivated; but it

is my belief that their country abounds less in commodities because the

inhabitants need less. If their frugality," he goes on, "were the effect

of the nakedness of the land, only the poor would eat little; but

everybody does so. Again, less or more would be eaten in various

provinces, according to the land's fertility; but the same sobriety is

found throughout the kingdom. They are very proud of their manner of

life, saying that you have only to look at their hue to recognise how

far it excels that of the Christians. In fact, the Persians are of an

even hue; their skins are fair, fine and smooth; while the hue of their

subjects, the Armenians, who live after the European fashion, is rough

and blotchy, and their bodies are gross and unwieldy."

The nearer you get to the equator, the less people live on. Meat they

hardly touch; rice, maize, curcur, millet and cassava are their ordinary

food. There are in the Indies millions of men whose subsistence does not

cost a halfpenny a day. Even in Europe we find considerable differences

of appetite between Northern and Southern peoples. A Spaniard will live

for a week on a German's dinner. In the countries in which men are more

voracious, luxury therefore turns in the direction of consumption. In

England, luxury appears in a well-filled table; in Italy, you feast on

sugar and flowers.

Luxury in clothes shows similar differences. In climates in which the

changes of season are prompt and violent, men have better and simpler

clothes; where they clothe themselves only for adornment, what is

striking is more thought of than what is useful; clothes themselves are

then a luxury. At Naples, you may see daily walking in the Pausilippeum

men in gold-embroidered upper garments and nothing else. It is the same

with buildings; magnificence is the sole consideration where there is

nothing to fear from the air. In Paris and London, you desire to be

lodged warmly and comfortably; in Madrid, you have superb salons, but

not a window that closes, and you go to bed in a mere hole.

In hot countries foods are much more substantial and succulent; and the

third difference cannot but have an influence on the second. Why are so

many vegetables eaten in Italy? Because there they are good, nutritious

and excellent in taste. In France, where they are nourished only on

water, they are far from nutritious and are thought nothing of at table.

They take up all the same no less ground, and cost at least as much

pains to cultivate. It is a proved fact that the wheat of Barbary, in

other respects inferior to that of France, yields much more flour, and

that the wheat of France in turn yields more than that of northern

countries; from which it may be inferred that a like gradation in the

same direction, from equator to pole, is found generally. But is it not

an obvious disadvantage for an equal product to contain less

nourishment?

To all these points may be added another, which at once depends on and

strengthens them. Hot countries need inhabitants less than cold

countries, and can support more of them. There is thus a double surplus,

which is all to the advantage of despotism. The greater the territory

occupied by a fixed number of inhabitants, the more difficult revolt

becomes, because rapid or secret concerted action is impossible, and the

government can easily unmask projects and cut communications; but the

more a numerous people is gathered together, the less can the government

usurp the Sovereign's place: the people's leaders can deliberate as

safely in their houses as the prince in council, and the crowd gathers

as rapidly in the squares as the prince's troops in their quarters. The

advantage of tyrannical government therefore lies in acting at great

distances. With the help of the rallying-points it establishes, its

strength, like that of the lever,[26] grows with distance. The strength

of the people, on the other hand, acts only when concentrated: when

spread abroad, it evaporates and is lost, like powder scattered on the

ground, which catches fire only grain by grain. The least populous

countries are thus the fittest for tyranny: fierce animals reign only in

deserts.

9. THE MARKS OF A GOOD GOVERNMENT

THE question "What absolutely is the best government?" is unanswerable

as well as indeterminate; or rather, there are as many good answers as

there are possible combinations in the absolute and relative situations

of all nations.

But if it is asked by what sign we may know that a given people is well

or ill governed, that is another matter, and the question, being one of

fact, admits of an answer.

It is not, however, answered, because everyone wants to answer it in his

own way. Subjects extol public tranquillity, citizens individual

liberty; the one class prefers security of possessions, the other that

of person; the one regards as the best government that which is most

severe, the other maintains that the mildest is the best; the one wants

crimes punished, the other wants them prevented; the one wants the State

to be feared by its neighbours, the other prefers that it should be

ignored; the one is content if money circulates, the other demands that

the people shall have bread. Even if an agreement were come to on these

and similar points, should we have got any further? As moral qualities

do not admit of exact measurement, agreement about the mark does not

mean agreement about the valuation.

For my part, I am continually astonished that a mark so simple is not

recognised, or that men are of so bad faith as not to admit it. What is

the end of political association? The preservation and prosperity of its

members. And what is the surest mark of their preservation and

prosperity? Their numbers and population. Seek then nowhere else this

mark that is in dispute. The rest being equal, the government under

which, without external aids, without naturalisation or colonies, the

citizens increase and multiply most, is beyond question the best. The

government under which a people wanes and diminishes is the worst.

Calculators, it is left for you to count, to measure, to compare.[27]

10. THE ABUSE OF GOVERNMENT AND ITS TENDENCY TO DEGENERATE

AS the particular will acts constantly in opposition to the general

will, the government continually exerts itself against the Sovereignty.

The greater this exertion becomes, the more the constitution changes;

and, as there is in this case no other corporate will to create an

equilibrium by resisting the will of the prince, sooner or later the

prince must inevitably suppress the Sovereign and break the social

treaty. This is the unavoidable and inherent defect which, from the very

birth of the body politic, tends ceaselessly to destroy it, as age and

death end by destroying the human body.

There are two general courses by which government degenerates: i.e.,

when it undergoes contraction, or when the State is dissolved.

Government undergoes contraction when it passes from the many to the

few, that is, from democracy to aristocracy, and from aristocracy to

royalty. To do so is its natural propensity.[28] If it took the backward