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.

Confronted with the problem of regenerating society in decline, Iberian liberalism professed two conflicting ideals: reform by an enlightened minority within the traditional constitution, and radical revolution, deriving its political theory from the sovereignty of the people. The origins of these programmes must be sought in the later eighteenth century, when foreign influences were grafted on to the traditions of earlier diagnosticians of decline. The Iberian Enlightenment, although it revivified intellectual life, was, by European standards, a derivative and second-rate affair: its significance lies in its influence on the reforming civil servants who controlled the Spanish monarchy in the later years of Charles III; whether they drew on outmoded mercantilism, on more modern physiocratic influences or, later, on the ideas of Adam Smith, they were committed to the proposition that civil society was not an unalterable, sacrosanct structure, but susceptible of rational improvement by legislation based on political economy. Since their aim was the increased prosperity of the state, their emphasis was on useful arts, practical reform, and the elimination of useless classes, useless scholastic education and economically harmful charity. Compared with the Spanish reformers, Pombal's tightening of effective state control in the interests of increased revenue, effected by the exertions of an over-worked sole minister, was an old-fashioned programme, inspired by Colbert. Nevertheless, to the Portuguese liberals this suspicious autocrat became the picture of the enlightened reformer.

The reform programme was to be spread all over Spain by government-sponsored Patriotic Societies. Their activities were often puerile, a naive parade of scraps of scientific knowledge picked up in foreign journals. Nevertheless, these government servants and their local supporters staked out a programme: the recasting of university education on lines inspired by the regalian claims of the state; the promotion of public works, by which some provincial capitals were transformed; a network of roads from Madrid; the rationalisation of administrative divisions and the removal of obstructions to efficient government caused by municipal sloth and corruption and by provincial privilege. Apart from a few deists they were not heterodox, least of all were they revolutionaries.

By the later eighteenth century, Europeans were looking at Africa with new expectations and hopes. Malachy Postlethwayt, citing Leo Africanus, claimed that the continent and its peoples could produce not merely precious metals but ‘all the richest articles of the East and West India commerce’; ‘if once a turn for industry and the arts was introduced among them, a greater quantity of the European produce and manufactures might be exported thither than to any other country in the whole world’. Merchants and manufacturers seeking new markets, statesmen whose colonial systems had been damaged in war, dreamed similar dreams; and, in this period, some took tentative steps to discover what substance might lie behind them.

The primary need, if speculations based on Leo Africanus were to give way to credit-worthy enterprises, was for precise geographical knowledge. The aspiration to extend trade powerfully reinforced the interest which students of the developing natural sciences showed in Africa, as in other unexplored regions. Inspired by Linnaeus, many Swedish botanists made modest journeys into unfamiliar country, noting, like Sparrmann at the Cape, what economic potentialities the land seemed to hold, together with much miscellaneous sociological detail. Sir Joseph Banks, President of the Royal Society and sponsor of botanical studies at Kew, also encouraged botanical collectors in Africa; among his correspondents was James Bruce, whose observations during his journeys in Abyssinia (1768–73) were inspired by a widely ranging scientific curiosity.

The Low Countries did not remain unperturbed by the political unrest which affected Europe at the end of the eighteenth century. Both halves of them were involved in the 1780's in reform movements, some aspects of which were forerunners of the French revolutionary ideas.

Dutch intervention in the American War of Independence (1780–4) had only brought the United Provinces economic losses and a feeling of impotence. The naval reverses they suffered were imputed to the stadholder William V's neglect, and gave new impetus to the opposition against the hereditary stadholderate, restored in 1747. At the same time, certain quarters, inspired by the ideology of Enlightenment, criticised also with increased vigour the inefficiency of the selfish urban oligarchies, upon which the whole system of provincial and federal representative assemblies was based, and demanded actual elections by the substantial citizens instead of de facto cooption of magistrates. Thus, at the very beginning, the ‘Patriot’ movement was split into two wings: a conservative one whose sole aim it was to count the stadholder out and revest the plenitude of authority in the patrician oligarchy, and a democratic one which intended a limited progressive reform of power. The latter was the more active. It even organised militias to resist, if need be, the stadholder's standing troops. The Conservatives used them at first for their own purpose as a pressure group against the stadholder. However, their unnatural alliance could not last. It broke down after the Democrats had seized power in Utrecht in 1785 and increased elsewhere their influence so as to counterbalance the Conservatives.

By the last decade of the eighteenth century, a national consciousness had developed among educated people in Germany, ‘unsought and as if by accident,’ as Meinecke says, owing to the recent outstanding achievements of German poets and thinkers, but it was a cultural, not a political, nation to which this small minority of the population felt itself to belong. As Goethe and Schiller expressed the feeling of the intellectuals in their satirical Xenien (1796):

In the century just drawing to a close, the two outstanding features in the history of Germany outside the Habsburg territories had been the establishment by Frederick William I and Frederick the Great of Brandenburg-Prussia as a centre of political power of European importance, and the creation by a number of writers, mostly residing outside Prussia, of a body of literature and philosophy that already made nonsense of the earlier French assertion that no German could be a man of wit, and that was to gain for Germany, after the inevitable time lag, a position of intellectual leadership in Europe. The way in which these two new factors in German history, in origin almost entirely separate, now helped and now hindered each other's further growth, and in which the ruling classes, in general obstinately conservative, reacted under these and other influences to the events of the Revolutionary and Napoleonic era, must be the main topics in any account of German constitutional and social history between the Peace of Bale (1795) and the French Revolution of July 1830.

In 1763 Spain emerged from the Seven Years War a weaker and a wiser power. It was now clear to Charles III and his ministers that there was no short-cut to strength and security, and that the survival of Spain as a colonial power and her recovery of status in Europe depended on her own political and economic resources, the decline of which the earlier Bourbons had done something to arrest but little to reverse. Already be-fore his accession to the throne of Spain in 1759 Charles III had displayed his reforming ideas as duke of Parma and king of Naples and had declared his intention of leading Spain back to greatness. He had considerable qualifications for the task. In spite of his own limited intelligence—seen perhaps in his childish obsession with hunting—he impressed foreign observers and his own subjects with his seriousness and application to business. His religious devotion was accompanied by a sober personal life and a chaste loyalty to the memory of his wife, María Amalia of Saxony, who died soon after their accession to the Spanish throne. He was highly conscious of his own sovereignty, and his absolutist views can be seen in the advice which he gave to his son: ‘Anyone who criticises the actions of the government, even though they are not good, commits a crime.’ Above all, however, he showed his talent for government in his ministerial appointments: he chose his advisers not from the aristocracy, who were politically inept, nor, as is sometimes alleged, from the middle classes, who were not yet a recognisable force in Spain, but from a group of university-trained lawyers among the lower ranks of the nobility, who were devoted to absolute monarchy and whose minds were open to the practical applications of the Enlightenment.

Currents of European expansion had lapped the shores of Africa since the fifteenth century. But at the end of the eighteenth century the continent and its peoples were still little known. If anything, European knowledge of and interest in Africa had declined since the heyday of Portuguese discovery and expansion in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. The coastline was tolerably well known, even if its scientific survey was to be mainly the work of the early nineteenth century, and if the east coast was now little frequented by European mariners. But what knowledge of the interior the Portuguese had once gained had been but indifferently passed on to, or remembered by, the other Europeans who had now surpassed them as builders of empires overseas. Following courses set by forgotten Portuguese embassies, French merchant-explorers had sought to make the Senegal river a highway to the empires and gold-mines of the western Sudan that were known partially through some (though not always the most accurate) of the medieval Arab writers. But their ambitions had been frustrated, in part by lack of consistent commercial backing in France, in part by the hostility both of the Sudanese peoples and of British sea power. In Guinea, Europeans had been content with their trade in Negro slaves for the Americas. Slaves were readily purchasable from African merchants and rulers at the coast. Thus Europeans lacked any incentive to penetrate inland, while at the same time established African interests existed to block any such penetration. Further south, the African kingdoms of the lower Congo and Angola, and the protectorates which Portugal had once sought to establish over them, had both been largely destroyed by the concentration of Portuguese merchants on this same trade.

The dates 1793 and 1830 are not very helpful limits. Much that was of great importance happened in Italy between them, yet they are themselves hardly significant. 1793 began with the murder of the French agent in Rome (13 January) but this is not enough to mark an epoch. Although Italy was by then already involved in the diplomatic and military struggles of Europe, the course of her history was decisively changed only in 1796. In that year, it may be said, the Settecento ended and the Revolution came to the peninsula; the modern history of Italy begins with the physical presence of the French army. The next great change came at the collapse of the Napoleonic system—the restorations of 1799–1800 were only an interlude—and this chapter can be roughly divided at 1814. Before that collapse the whole peninsula had gradually been subjected to common governmental and political influences for the first time in centuries; after 1814, although all the restored regimes had to take account of Austrian predominance, the peninsula was again fragmented. 1830 did not change this state of affairs.

The starting-point of this assessment must be the structure of Italy in 1793. In no sense was it then a unity and its components were to absorb the shock of the revolution in very different ways. Its fundamental divisions were topographical: within regions divided by mountains and climate there existed widely differing societies, separated from one another even by language. Political boundaries stabilised their provincialism. Italy consisted of a jumble of states of which the kingdoms of Sardinia and Naples, the grand-duchy of Tuscany, the lesser duchies of Massa and Carrara, Parma and Modena and the principality of Piombino were monarchical.

An attempt has been made in Chapter I (pp. 7–11) to see how the general pattern of the European state system in 1830 differed from that of 1790. The shifting scenes of the war period are described in Chapter IX, and the negotiations leading to the settlement of 1815 in Chapter XXIV. Here it is intended to present in outline the main issues that were implicit in the situation created by that settlement or that came to a head in the years of relative tranquillity that followed it. Most of these issues are touched upon in other chapters concerning particular regions, but they need to be reviewed as elements in a developing total situation as it presented itself to sovereigns, chanceries and foreign ministers. Alexander I could not fix his gaze on Constantinople without remembering Spain and Germany; neither Metternich nor Canning could make a move about Latin America without keeping an eye on the Aegean. Moreover, certain general problems arise concerning the nature and conduct of international relations after 1815. At first, these are closely connected with the experiences, even with the personalities, of the statesmen who made the settlement; all of them, except for Talleyrand, survived in power for some years— Castlereagh and Alexander I until their deaths in 1822 and 1825, and Metternich for almost as many years after 1830 as before it.

The old régime in France—a monarchical bureaucracy working amid the survivals of a medieval society and a welter of prescriptive powers—had often displayed signs of weakness and instability. But these shortcomings in no way signified to contemporaries that the old régime was on the verge of disruption. The monarchy was taken for granted both by conservative and by revolutionary thinkers, and both, in their different ways, endowed the monarchy with an idyllic past. Conservatives, opposing the innovations of the growing bureaucracy, claimed to have discovered evidence of an old constitution under which the monarchy had worked in harmony with other powers of the realm. The revolutionary thinkers—that is to say those who wished to bring about radical changes in administration—thought in terms of absolute monarchy. They had in mind the royal power served by an enlightened bureaucracy, which would govern for the common good, unimpeded by medieval institutions and vested interests. The despotic state was merely to collect taxes (in moderation), maintain an army and a navy, and provide for police and justice. It was to be truly despotic in restricted functions and it was to maintain conditions under which natural laws would prevail, unhindered by medieval prejudice and unnecessary regulation. This idea of a powerful government which would reduce and simplify the tasks of government runs through all French eighteenth-century liberal thought; and it is here that even Rousseau finds some common ground with the Encyclopaedists and the Physiocrats.

When the last of her Habsburg rulers died in 1700, Spain, in the words of José de Gálvez, was ‘hardly less defunct than its dead master’. ‘With dominions more extensive and more opulent than any European state’, the country lacked roads, industry and commerce. The population had declined by a million and a half in the last hundred years. Agriculture was in decay. The administrative system was chaotic, the currency in confusion, and the treasury bankrupt. And if, in the New World, it might almost be said that there was ‘no peaceful desart yet unclaimed by Spain’, the Spanish American empire seemed to survive more by the forces of habit and inertia, and by the mutual jealousies of the European powers, than by any internal strength of its own. If it was not, as was sometimes thought, ripe for plucking or on the brink of collapse, nevertheless there is abundant testimony to its political, social and economic ills. The devastating report written for the information of the crown in 1749 by the two young naval officers Jorge Juan and Antonio de Ulloa, though dealing, it is true, with but a part of the colonial world, is a classical example.

Yet in the years between the War of the Spanish Succession and the Napoleonic invasions of the Iberian peninsula Spain herself rose with remarkable resilience from the decrepitude into which she had fallen in the seventeenth century. Her economic decline was first arrested and then reversed. Her administrative system was overhauled, centralised and modernised, on French and absolutist lines.

These were years when the boundaries of British rule were extended while its impact was intensified. New territory was acquired, both in India and outside it, while the activities of government advanced beyond the maintenance of order and the collection of revenue to economic and social policies that accorded with European ideas of utility and morality. Exaggerated fears of a revival of French power in Asia were at first associated with this territorial expansion, and the desire for a strong ally against a resurgent France was the main reason why the British allowed the Dutch to return to South-East Asia after the Napoleonic Wars. But the major concern of the English East India Company was now the establishment of its authority as the paramount power in India. Mughal supremacy had been little more than nominal after the death of Aurangzib, the last of the great emperors, in 1707, and the Maratha confederacy lacked the unity of direction and the centralised administrative system necessary for dominance over the sub-continent. Widespread disorder and devastation in central India, spreading to the borders of British territory, indicated the need for some paramount authority. Indian considerations thus brought the English Company to grips with the Marathas. Apart from arousing occasional suspicions of Russian designs, European politics were henceforth of diminishing importance in the shaping of its external policies.

European ideas, on the other hand, were of increasing importance in the development of internal policy. True, the defects that had arisen in the administrative institutions established by Lord Cornwallis in Bengal suggested that he had paid too little attention to Indian ideas and circumstances, and the reforms that were in train elsewhere made more use of local experience by modifying the rigidity of his separation of powers, by giving more responsibility to native officials, and by settling the land revenue with villages and with individual cultivators instead of with great landholders.

For nearly two thousand years the missionary work of the Church has been essentially Bible-centred, and that in three senses: the Bible has been the source of inspiration and of spiritual nourishment for the missionary himself; it has also been the basis of the worship of the Church into which he sought to bring pagan or non-Christian tribes or individuals; and (to a larger extent than is commonly recognized) it has been a means of evangelism in itself.

From the end of the period of oral transmission the Church was dependent for authentic knowledge of Christ on the apostolic witness enshrined in the Epistles and Gospels. The final definition of the canon, followed by the provision of an authoritative version of the Latin Scriptures by St Jerome, was, therefore, an important step both for the inner life of the Christian community and for its expansion into the pagan world. The facts to which successive generations of Christian missionaries have borne witness are not merely matters of subjective experience: they are rooted in history, and in a history which is recorded uniquely in the documents which comprise the New Testament, read in the context of the Old Testament. Moreover, it has been the consistent witness of the Church in every age that these records contain not only an account of the coming of Jesus Christ and of his work for man's salvation, but also an authentic Word of God to the human soul. The missionary, therefore, has been bound to the Bible by a threefold cord: his own spiritual life and his authority as a messenger of the Gospel depended on his own knowledge of the Scriptures; the message he sought to proclaim and the Church into which he brought his converts was centred on the Bible; and the written Scriptures were a means by which the Gospel could lay hold of the minds and hearts of men and women, sometimes more effectively than by any word of his own.

Tyndale

The survival of some two hundred manuscripts of the Wycliffite versions, most of them written after the synods of Oxford and London, A.D. 1407–9, is sufficient evidence of a demand for the Scriptures in English which legislation could not stifle. With the invention of printing (even if that did not immediately bring cheap and plentiful copies of the Bible) the galling knowledge that vernacular versions were circulating, sometimes with the consent of the Church, in most European countries must have stiffened determination to get an English translation into print. Further stimulus came from the teaching of Colet at home and from the Reformation in Germany and Switzerland. Simultaneously the quickening of scholarship manifest in the Complutensian Polyglot and Erasmus's Greek Testament meant that no mere rendering of the Vulgate would suffice, although one made from the original languages must provoke greater opposition from ecclesiastical authority. England was fortunate to have in William Tyndale the man who could do what was wanted, a man of sufficient scholarship to work from Hebrew and Greek, with genius to fashion a fitting English idiom and faith and courage to persist whatever it cost him.

Publication

With an Oxford education behind him (B.A. 1512, M.A. 1515), followed by a period of study at Cambridge, Tyndale went as tutor to the family of Sir John Walsh of Little Sodbury, Gloucestershire, where he not only found himself countering the arguments of Walsh's guests (abbots, deans, archdeacons and divers doctors, says Foxe) by open and manifest Scripture, but also translated Erasmus's Enchiridion Militis Christiani.