In the eighth book of his classic On War Clausewitz describes what he understood to be the revolution in warfare which had taken place in his own lifetime. The wars of the eighteenth century, he says, were wars of kings not of peoples. National existence was not at stake (as certainly it was for Prussia after Austerlitz and Jena) but simply the conquest of an enemy province or two. Wars of this kind were affairs of the State, an autocratic State, and entirely separated from the interests of the people. Violence was restricted by calculation. In fact, this was what the twentieth century has come to call ‘limited war’.

After 1789, however, there was a profound change. Clausewitz goes on: “Whilst, according to the usual way of seeing things, all hopes were placed on a very limited military force in 1793, such a force as no one had any conception of made its appearance. War had again suddenly become an affair of the people, and that of a people numbering thirty millions, every one of whom regarded himself as a citizen of the State….

After all this was perfected by the hand of Buonaparte, this military power, based on the strength of the whole nation, marched over Europe, smashing everything in pieces so surely and certainly, that where it only encountered the old-fashioned Armies the result was not doubtful for a moment. A reaction, however, awoke in due time. [Elsewhere] the War became of itself an affair of the people….

The pattern of trade

Before the application of steam to transport the cost of all types of carriage was very high, and therefore trade was small in relation to total output. Moreover, before the building of railways the costs of carriage were much lower by water than by land, so that much more trade was done between regions, even regions far apart, which were linked by sea or river than between regions, even regions of the same country, which were connected only by land. There was some long-distance trade in European products within Europe itself, for example the exchange at Leipzig of the industrial products of Saxony and Silesia for the primary products of eastern Europe, and a substantial trade in Zurich, Basle and Strasbourg which acted as intermediaries between Germany, Italy and southern France. But the main areas of trade were concentrated around the great seas— the Atlantic, the Mediterranean, the Baltic—and the main European trading cities were those which mediated the exchange of goods between the more densely settled areas of western and central Europe and the regions on the periphery.

The most important complex of trade was that between Europe and the Americas. The West Indies had a large surplus of products which were in demand in Europe, principally sugar, coffee and some minor products such as cotton, indigo, pimento and ginger. The hybrid colonies from Maryland to Carolina also had staple crops. The northern colonies had few staples of value in European markets, but a surplus of food and lumber.

An age so full of dramatic reversals of fortune and so big with consequences as that of 1793 to 1830 may seem to defy any attempt to compose in one volume a survey of Europe and some of its links with distant regions. Yet the very effort to survey the field in perspective, astride the ‘natural frontier’ of 1815, presents a challenge and provokes questions sometimes obscured. This volume is intended to offer a portrait or survey rather than a compressed record. Stirring episodes, locally decisive battles, commanding personalities may receive no more than passing mention or may even be sought in vain in the index. But the problem of compression is not the only or the most interesting one. More surprising is the uncertainty about some of the foundations. There is still plenty of room for debate. The printed records are bulkier than for the eighteenth century, but many of them relate to kaleidoscopic changes, blurred for us by political scene-shifting and by the fog of war. Moreover, the voices of articulate contemporaries were more strident, more at cross-purposes with each other, than in the apparently calm and confident age before 1789, more even than in the short period when the Revolution in its first stages seemed, not only in French eyes, to signify clearly a few universal principles applicable to all Europe and perhaps to all mankind. On the other hand, in the following period after 1830, aptly described as the zenith of European power (Vol. X), the records, though even bulkier, were becoming more systematic, and the basic social data were either more regularly collected or at least collected in ways more capable of statistical analysis.

For the political historian the period in North American history between the end of the Seven Years War, or ‘French and Indian War’, and the outbreak of the wars of the French Revolution is divided into two parts by the successful establishment of a new nation—the United States of America. The constitutional historian may concern himself rather less with this break in continuity. The constitutional problem before the American Revolution was that of providing an acceptable framework of common institutions within which the individual colonies could continue to exercise their characteristic inheritance of internal self-government; after it, it became a question of whether the several states into which the colonies had been transmuted could supply themselves with such organs for common action as their new situation in the world seemed to require. The new national government had to find solutions that had eluded the advisers of George III. From this admittedly limited point of view, the story has an underlying unity which it is the object of this chapter to present.

By the middle of the eighteenth century, the thirteen British colonies that were to form the nucleus of the new United States all enjoyed some form of representative institutions, as did indeed eight other island colonies in the western Atlantic and Caribbean sea. Despite the important differences in situation and in the economic and social make-up of the colonies, their institutions had a family likeness. They were indeed the product of two features that distinguished British colonisation in North America from the comparable activity of rival European powers.

The end of the eighteenth century was an era of fulfilment in Russia even if the abuses of the regime were becoming as in grained as its habit of success. As much of the Petrine vision had been realised as was possible through the imitation of Europe's political and social superstructure rather than through the basic transformation of Russia. The richer nobility had been entirely westernised, the diplomatic and military tools of raison d'état had been acquired with the narrow industrial basis which contemporary warfare demanded and with effective if wasteful methods of conscripting man-power. Even some of the cultural insignia of national greatness were apparent. With the last two partitions of Poland in 1793 and 1795, the empire had reached territorial limits in the west that were hardly to be extended until the mid-twentieth century. In the south the Black Sea coast-line had been won from the Dniester to the sea of Azov and to the northern rivers of the Caucasus. Odessa was founded by 1796, and beyond the Caucasus the Christian kingdom of Georgia was becoming a voluntary protectorate. From the Caspian sea to the frontiers of Chinese administration the nomads of Central Asia were increasingly submitting to the political influence of Russian arms, trade and even culture.

As far as can be ascertained from the periodic and unreliable census of males for fiscal and military purposes, the population in 1800 within the new frontiers was probably nearer 35 than 40 million. This population seems to have begun to surge in time with the similar phenomenon in central and western Europe, although conditions were dissimilar.

During the late eighteenth century there was a movement common to many European countries towards powerful and efficient central government. This movement was the counterpart of the more spectacular endeavour to increase the liberty of the individual. Thus, the era of the American Declaration of Independence, of the Declaration of the Rights of Man, and of Adam Smith's The Wealth of Nations, the charter of economic liberalism, was also the time when the modern state began to consolidate its forces. Just as the thinkers of the Enlightenment attempted to define the nature of the state as well as the nature of man, so their ideas were reflected during the ensuing years in a clearer identity of both. The growth of central authority and individual liberty hand in hand is shown by events such as the destruction of Jesuit power in Spain, Portugal, Austria and France, and the destruction of the power of the church and the nobility in the French Revolution. In France and England, the great social, political and constitutional changes which eventually gave the middle classes control over the central government tended to obscure the growth of bureaucratic power; and the liberal tradition has sometimes led to the belief that during the great age of revolution the state increased in strength only in countries where ‘enlightened despots’ flourished: the Prussia of Frederick II, the Austria of Joseph II, the Spain of Charles III, and the rest. But Henri Pirenne, by his definition of enlightened despotism as ‘la rationalisation de l'État’, diverted attention from the enlightened despots themselves to the nature of their work of reforming the state, which was remarkably similar in its intentions and results to contemporary reform programmes being carried out in England and France.

Superficially, the peninsula of Italy is a unity, bounded by sea and mountain. A closer look at the map reveals an agglomeration of regions, rather than a geographic whole; its structure is dominated by the Apennine chain and the great contrast between north and south. In the eighteenth century, its diversity was very great. Italy contained societies almost isolated one from another and shaped by climate and topography into startlingly different forms. The rich Po valley had little in common with the semi-desert of the Apulian Capitanata; the Legations were rich while the papal territories west of the Apennines were poor. Potenza is sixty miles from Salerno but has one of the coldest climates in Italy. The lives of Italians varied as much as their landscape and climate; at a time when Arthur Young found the farms around Lodi fat and prosperous, men were living in caves near Otranto. Even language helped to divide the peninsula. Twenty-odd dialects made it uncertain that a man speaking Italian—the speech of Tuscany—would be understood in the countryside. Nor were these differences blurred by eighteenth-century communications. The one good road in the kingdom of Naples led out of it, to Rome. In some parts, the towns were barely linked to one another; they often represented yet other divisions, historical and political, which had broken up the peninsula still more. There were more great cities than in other countries but no metropolis drew the cultural life of Italy to a focus.

By the end of its existence the ancien régime had reached the limit of its powers in military no less than in other spheres. The size of armies and the scale of warfare had greatly increased, but there was a fatal clumsiness in the means by which this was achieved and the uses to which the expanded resources were put. The rigid line formation adopted to get the best out of mediocre weapons and troops made it hard to concentrate force for a telling blow at key points on the front. The large armies with their ponderous supply-trains could only move slowly and were not readily able to force an engagement on an inferior opponent. Consequently battles were either evaded by the weaker side or failed to be decisive. Wars dragged on without result until the huge expense which their expanded scale involved led the combatants to desist. From this impasse only an occasional stroke of luck or genius afforded escape.

Between 1763 and 1792 there was little fighting on land between the major European powers. In this breathing space, means were devised of making decisive victory the normal, instead of the exceptional, outcome of a major war. The new military thinking was an integral part of the general movement of criticism of established institutions; inspired by the same ideas, it triumphed only when the general cause of reform did so.

In the generation between the Revolutions of 1793 and 1830, the community of science and technology outgrew the posture of the Enlightenment and assumed the stance of the nineteenth century. The old rationale of Condillac and the associationist psychology developed into that of Comte and positivism, which would know in order to predict and predict in order to control. Condorcet, last of the philosophes, left the testament of the eighteenth century to appear in 1795 after his death—Sketch for a Historical Picture of the Progress of the Human Mind. In that moving little book, science figures as the bearer of progress. It is the instrument which educates the human understanding in the order of nature. But the revolutionary generation was more messianic than naturalistic, and it transmuted this benign educational mission into something closer to engineering—civil engineering, social engineering, and perhaps the engineering of humanity itself. The Encyclopedists had already prided themselves on freeing science from metaphysics. Now the positivists would consummate the emancipation by liberating science even from ontology and, indeed, from every pretence to lay hold on a reality beyond observation, experience and act. Comte wished to abandon absolute in favour of relative statements. And for this reason, he looked to human history rather than to some outer reality as the repository of experience. In his philosophy, rationalism turned attention to historical thinking, which had hitherto been the resort of romantics hostile to exact science. Man in history replaced matter in motion as the natural process par excellence, and science, rising in history, served it also as dynamic motor, the factor which made all the difference between one age and another, and which, graduating into knowledge of its own methods, held the promise of regeneration.

Public opinion first became a major force in Europe in the period of the French Revolution and of the Restoration. First of all the revolutionaries carried their gospel all over Europe. Later the opponents of French hegemony carried on the war against Napoleon through the press as well as on the battlefield. When peace returned again to Europe in 1814–15 the traditional rulers found that the tempest could not be stilled. Through the press and through the societies open and secret the struggle between the old and the new worlds went on. The old world was powerful and resourceful, but it could never strangle the demon of change. The ferment was European. Philhellenism, which appealed to the classical background of educated Europeans, aimed at aiding the Greek patriots; it also aroused the question why the fight against the oppressor should be limited to the shores of the Aegean. Daniel O'Connell's Catholic Association won the vote for Catholic Ireland from Protestant England; it was admired and copied by Catholic Belgium for use against Protestant Holland. The press became more and more the vehicle of political and of economic change, and the chief means of expression of a middle class avid for political and for economic power.

As opinion in all European countries grew more confident and more vocal, so did the activity of government in controlling it increase. Napoleon saw the importance of this; so did Metternich. Even in liberal countries like England and Restoration France governments showed great activity. For if this was the period of revolution and of the clamant popular will, it was also the period of growing state power.

The ‘Near East’ is a term sometimes used to denote only the Islamic lands between the Mediterranean and the variously defined countries of the ‘Middle East’. In this chapter it is used to cover all the coastlands of the eastern Mediterranean—roughly, what was known, a century and a half ago, as the Levant; and any survey of changes in European relations with these lands must include some reference to other parts of the Ottoman Empire and its immediate neighbours in Asia. The fortunes of this decaying but still tough-cored Empire were so closely linked in every part that it is difficult to separate the affairs of Egypt sharply from those of Greece, the Balkans and the lower Danube, or from those of Turkey in Asia. Penetrating all these regions were the commercial and strategical activities of the European powers—of the French and English mainly through maritime interests in the Mediterranean, of the Austrians and Russians chiefly on the landward fringes of Turkey, but with many overlapping contacts and rivalries in each direction. Finally, arising out of this penetration (perhaps even inspiring some of it) and in turn accelerating it, was the influence, both dissolving and reviving, of the technique, habits and ideas of contemporary Europeans upon the older ways of life throughout the Near East.

In this gradual process, the differences between the nations of Europe were much less important, in relation to Islam, than were their similarities. In spite of their rivalries or open enmities, the embassies at Constantinople had more in common with each other than with the intricate maze of officials at the Porte; the western consuls and merchants, there and at Smyrna, were still all ‘Franks’ in the eyes of Turkish pashas and even of Greek and Armenian traders; to the Mameluke beys of Egypt around 1800, the French and British armies were simply alternative brands of the same totally foreign medicine.

Between the Peace of Paris 1763 and the outbreak, thirty years later, of the war of the first European coalition against revolutionary France, the outlines of a Western civilisation which was recognisably ‘modern’ in most of its characteristic attitudes and attributes rapidly emerged. A civil war between the English colonists in North America and the imperial government at Westminster, unparalleled industrial and commercial expansion in Britain, radical social and political reforms in France and a steady but uneven increase in population imposed on the western world a momentum of revolutionary change which has never since slackened. On a comparatively minor scale, but with results which helped to determine the trend towards greater social and political equality at this period, there occurred in western Europe another series of revolutions—such as the struggles in the small city republic of Geneva between 1768 and 1789 for the political and economic emancipation of the middle-class représentants and the socially inferior and unprivileged natifs, the Dutch ‘patriotic’ movement of 1784–7 and the schismatic revolt of the Belgian democrats in the Austrian Netherlands between 1789 and 1792. Even in conservative England the radicalism inherent in the ambivalent Whig creed received a fresh emphasis in the county ‘association’ movement of 1779–80 in favour of parliamentary reform and the agitation in 1787–90 for the relief of the Protestant Dissenters from their civic disabilities under the Test and Corporation Acts. The closer study of these radical movements and of their connections with the American and French revolutions has led some historians to see in this period a pattern of radical reform and revolutionary change common to many parts of the western world.

The defeat and abdication of Napoleon did not automatically mean the restoration of the Bourbons. That solution had secured the more or less reluctant consent of those who could have any influence on the decisions–that is to say, the Allies on the one hand and on the other the leading figures in the government of the Empire, represented by the Senate and by the provisional government over which Talleyrand presided. But, even after that, the exact nature of the future regime was still undecided. Monarchy, no doubt, but what brand of monarchy? The pre-1789 monarchy, with the king ruling by divine right, his good pleasure limited only by his own conscience and by the traditional privileges of the various groups and collective bodies of State? Or the 1791 monarchy, the king ruling only with the authority delegated by the nation and as the nation's principal servant, by virtue of a contract freely entered into by both parties?

The senatorial party, including as it did the surviving members of the revolutionary assemblies, clearly hoped to secure the triumph of the second solution. They had the support of Tsar Alexander of Russia, who had announced his intention of securing a regime in France corresponding to the enlightened spirit of the age. The very day the emperor abdicated, the Senate adopted a constitution in conformity with the principle of popular sovereignty. It was stated therein that the late king's brother was freely called to the throne, and might reign only after swearing to observe this constitution.

At Valmy, on 20 September 1792, the first of the many victories of the armies of the Revolution marked for Europe the start of a twenty-year war, only interrupted from 1802 to 1804 by two years of precarious peace. For France, this meant the beginning of a new regime—the Republic. Democratic at first, then middle-class and, later, Consular, it finally turned into a military dictatorship which, from 1804, adopted the name of Empire. This new regime sprang from the big social, economic and administrative changes which had occurred since 1789. The democratic republic, in 1793 and 1794, tried to fulfil the ambitions of the Revolution by combining economic equality with the equality of civic rights that had been secured in 1789. In so doing, it was to give the world an example which would inspire future socialism. But these ideals were to be short-lived. The bourgeois republic, like the military dictatorship, was to be content with consolidating the achievements of 1789, now firmly established even against the reaction of 1814.

No doubt the administrative and social achievement of 1789–92, and the socialist experiments too, would have taken shape differently if France had not been in an almost permanent state of war which dominated internal policy during the next twenty-two years. The war, and the dangers to which France was exposed by repeated defeats during the first five months of the struggle (April to September 1792), developed in the people an exalted patriotism along with the fear of enemy invasion and of seignorial reaction.

In the generation before the French Revolution the two Scandinavian kingdoms and their appendages—except for Iceland, whose population fell to 40,000 after the great volcanic eruption of 1783—continued to enjoy the relative calm and prosperity which had followed the end of the Great Northern War in 1721. Copenhagen flourished as the political and economic capital of the ‘twin kingdoms’ of Denmark and Norway, with the duchies of Schleswig and Holstein loosely but (after 1773) completely attached to the Danish crown. Stockholm, though overshadowed by St Petersburg, was still the centre of what was probably the foremost second-class power of Europe, one which stretched eastwards across the Grand Duchy of Finland and retained a lodgment on the south shore of the Baltic, Pomerania west of the River Peene, together with the island of Rügen.

Since the death of Charles XII of Sweden neither of the Scandinavian powers had been strong enough to conduct an independent foreign policy of much importance to the rest of Europe, but they were regarded as useful assets in any major combination. Thus Catherine the Great in March 1765 concluded an alliance with Denmark which was not seriously interrupted for more than forty years, one of its original purposes being the maintenance of the free constitution of Sweden, the form of government by the four Estates which gave free play to party politics and foreign subsidies. For ten years (1762–72) Catherine held Sweden too within her ‘northern system’, a position in which the Swedes could continue good relations with Britain but not with France.

‘Go calmly and look English.’ Bagehot's formula for immunity in Parisian insurrections might well serve as a guide to his countrymen who study the historiography of the French Revolution, for party strife and inherited prejudices have branded their mark upon most French histories of the Revolution, so that the Anglo-Saxon student automatically enjoys the advantage of comparative detachment. Yet it is dangerous to presume upon this immunity and overemphasise the relationship between the disagreements of French historians and their particular political prejudices. A good deal depends on what we choose to include in our definition of ‘historical writing’. If, on the one hand, we consider all the journalism which offers interpretations of the Revolution, or, on the other, confine ourselves to comparing the broad conclusions of general histories a close correlation with contemporary politics is bound to emerge, as surely as the cup from Benjamin's sack. By either of these methods, and indeed, by the mere concentration upon developing interpretations (which are the necessary themes of any historiographical study), a mass of research, opinion on details, and narrative slips through our net. The main corpus of real historical writing is useful to everybody. ‘Progressive’ historians remain indebted to the vast collections of information made by ‘reactionaries’ like Mortimer-Ternaux, Wallon and Lenôtre; Gaxotte's attack on the Revolution leans heavily on Mathiez's labyrinthine investigation of the underworld of corruption.

But the problem is still not solved by admitting that there exists a wide no-man's-land of ‘fact’. The strong personal opinions of an historian are not just his ‘bias’, to be discounted; very often they also constitute the essential groundwork of his originality and insight.

There was a revolutionary era at the close of the eighteenth century somewhat as there had been an era of the Protestant Reformation in the sixteenth. In neither period did the same things happen in all countries. Everywhere, in the sixteenth century, there had been dissatisfaction at conditions in the church, but only certain places turned Protestant, each in its own way, Lutheran, Anglican or Calvinist, with no acceptance even of the common designation of Protestant until long after the event; some Protestant regions went back to Catholicism, and in the end most Europeans remained in the Roman church. Similarly, in the revolutionary era, by which the last third of the eighteenth century is to be understood, there was a widespread dissatisfaction at conditions in government and society. There were similar ideas in many countries on the direction of desirable change. The same vocabulary of political key words appeared in all European languages: ‘aristocracy’ and ‘feudalism’ acquired a bad sense for those who favoured a new order, for whom ‘sovereignty of the people’, ‘equality’ and ‘natural rights’ had a good sense, with a few terms, such as ‘constitution’, ‘law’ and ‘liberty’ favoured by all, though with different meanings. But only in two countries, the British American colonies and France, did revolution reach the point of permanently destroying the older authorities. Only in France did the revolution make social changes of the deepest kind. Only the French made a successful revolution entirely by their own efforts, since even the American Revolution owed its decisive outcome to French intervention.

Virtually all the changes and adjustments in educational thought and practice during the period of the revolutions sprang from the intellectual foundations of the Age of Reason which was just drawing to a close. Notions about the practice and content of teaching were highly articulate, even if they sometimes smelt more of the salon than the schoolroom. It was during these years that the discussion of education became conscious of its central place in all thinking about what d'Alembert referred to as ‘our minds, our customs and our achievements’. But to hold that the developments in educational thought were linked to one or two of the major themes of the Enlightenment would be to oversimplify the issues. Perhaps no one was in a better position to appreciate the range covered by the intellectual stimuli than Victor Cousin, who made contact with the thought of the Idéologues in the newly opened École Normale in Paris under the Empire, then made contact with transcendentalism in the German universities, and lived on to promote the reconstruction of French elementary education in the quite different philosophical atmosphere in which planning was accomplished under the Orleans monarchy. The eighteenth century, he remarked, had submitted everything to critical examination. This was the period that ‘made of education at first a problem, then a science, finally an art; hence pedagogy’. Pedagogy, he was prepared to concede, was a ridiculous word, but the thing itself was sacred, and its full flowering as a subject of scientific import had been accomplished in the age of revolution.