The Continental Reformers

Lord Acton, in an unforgettable passage in his Inaugural Lecture on the Study of History, has said that “after many ages persuaded of the headlong decline and impending dissolution of society, and governed by usage and the will of masters who were in their graves, the sixteenth century went forth armed for untried experience, and ready to watch with hopefulness a prospect of incalculable change.”¹ His reference was to the new world revealed by learning, by science, and by discovery. But his words offer an appropriate text for a discussion of the change in the conception of the relations between religion and secular interests which took place in the same period. Its inevitable consequence was the emergence, after a prolonged moral and intellectual conflict, of new conceptions of social expediency and of new lines of economic thought.

In an unforgettable passage in his Inaugural Lecture on the Study of History, Lord Acton wrote: “For many ages, people believed that society was declining rapidly and would soon fall apart. They were governed by custom and by the will of masters who were in their graves. Then the sixteenth century set out ready for new experiences, and ready to look hopefully toward a future of unimaginable change.”¹ He was referring to the new world revealed by learning, science, and discovery. But his words also provide a fitting starting point for a discussion of another change in the same period. This was a change in how people understood the relationship between religion and secular interests. After a long moral and intellectual conflict, this change inevitably led to new ideas about what was beneficial for society and new approaches to economic thought.

The strands in this movement were complex, and the formula which associates the Reformation with the rise of economic individualism is no complete explanation. Systems prepare their own overthrow by a preliminary process of petrifaction. The traditional social philosophy was static, in the sense that it assumed a body of class relations sharply defined by custom and law, and little affected by the ebb and flow of economic movements. Its weakness in the face of novel forces was as obvious as the strain put upon it by the revolt against the source of ecclesiastical jurisprudence, the partial discredit of the canon law and of ecclesiastical discipline, and the rise of a political science equipped from the arsenals of antiquity. But it is not to under-estimate the effect of the Reformation to say that the principal causes making the age a watershed, from which new streams of social theory descend, lay in another region. Mankind does not reflect upon questions of economic and social organization until compelled to do so by the sharp pressure of some practical emergency. The sixteenth century was an age of social speculation for the same reason as the early nineteenth—because it was an age of social dislocation. The retort of conservative religious teachers to a spirit which seems to them the triumph of Mammon produces the last great literary expression of the appeal to the average conscience which had been made by an older social order. The practical implications of the social theory of the Middle Ages are stated more clearly in the sixteenth century than even in its zenith, because they are stated with the emphasis of a creed which is menaced.

The forces in this movement were complex. Linking the Reformation to the rise of economic individualism does not fully explain it. Systems prepare their own overthrow by first becoming rigid. The traditional social philosophy was static. It assumed that class relations were sharply defined by custom and law, and little affected by economic changes. This philosophy was plainly vulnerable to new forces. It was also strained by the revolt against the source of church law, the partial loss of respect for canon law and church discipline, and the rise of political science armed with ideas from antiquity. Yet it is not to underestimate the Reformation to say that the main causes of this turning point lay elsewhere. From this point, new currents of social theory began to flow. People do not reflect on economic and social organization until an urgent practical problem forces them to do so. The sixteenth century was an age of social speculation for the same reason as the early nineteenth century: it was an age of social upheaval. Conservative religious teachers responded to a spirit that seemed to them the triumph of Mammon. Their response was the last great literary expression of the older social order’s appeal to the average conscience. The practical implications of medieval social theory were stated more clearly in the sixteenth century than even at its height. They were clearer because they were stated with the emphasis of a belief under threat.

The religious revolution of the age came on a world heaving with the vastest economic crisis that Europe had experienced since the fall of Rome. Art and scientific curiosity and technical skill, learning and statesmanship, the scholarship which explored the past and the prophetic vision which pierced the future, had all poured their treasures into the sumptuous shrine of the new civilization. Behind the genii of beauty and wisdom who were its architects there moved a murky, but indispensable, figure. It was the demon whom Dante had met muttering gibberish in the fourth circle of the Inferno, and whom Sir Guyon was to encounter three centuries later, tanned with smoke and seared with fire, in a cave adjoining the mouth of hell. His uncouth labors quarried the stones which Michael Angelo was to raise, and sank deep in the Roman clay the foundations of the walls to be adorned by Raphael.

The religious revolution of the age came as Europe struggled through its greatest economic crisis since the fall of Rome. Art, scientific curiosity, technical skill, learning, and statesmanship had all contributed their treasures to the grand shrine of the new civilization. So had the scholarship that explored the past and the prophetic vision that looked into the future. Behind the spirits of beauty and wisdom who built this civilization moved a shadowy but indispensable figure. He was the demon Dante had met muttering gibberish in the fourth circle of the Inferno. Three centuries later, Sir Guyon would encounter him in a cave beside the mouth of hell, darkened by smoke and scorched by fire. His rough labor cut the stones that Michael Angelo would build with. It also laid deep in the Roman clay the foundations of the walls that Raphael would decorate.

For it was the mastery of man over his environment which heralded the dawn of the new age, and it was in the stress of expanding economic energies that this mastery was proved and won. Like sovereignty in a feudal society, the economic efforts of the Middle Ages, except in a few favored spots, had been fragmentary and decentralized. Now the scattered raiders were to be organized and disciplined; the dispersed and irregular skirmishes were to be merged in a grand struggle, on a front which stretched from the Baltic to the Ganges and from the Spice Islands to Peru. Every year brought the news of fresh triumphs. The general who marshaled the host and launched the attack was economic power.

Human mastery over the environment announced the dawn of the new age. This mastery was tested and won amid the pressure of expanding economic activity. Like sovereignty in a feudal society, economic activity in the Middle Ages had been fragmented and decentralized, except in a few favored places. Now the scattered raiders were to be organized and disciplined. Their scattered and irregular skirmishes were to become one great struggle. Its front stretched from the Baltic to the Ganges and from the Spice Islands to Peru. Every year brought news of fresh triumphs. Economic power was the general who assembled the army and launched the attack.

Economic power, long at home in Italy, was leaking through a thousand creeks and inlets into western Europe, for a century before, with the climax of the great Discoveries, the flood came on breast-high. Whatever its truth as a judgment on the politics of the fifteenth century, the conventional verdict on its futility does scanty justice to its economic significance. It was in an age of political anarchy that the forces destined to dominate the future tried their wings. The era of Columbus and Da Gama was prepared by the patient labor of Italian cartographers and Portuguese seamen, as certainly as was that of Crompton and Watt by the obscure experiments of nameless predecessors.

Economic power had long been at home in Italy. For a century, it had been trickling into western Europe through countless creeks and inlets. Then, at the height of the great Discoveries, the flood rose breast-high. The common judgment that the fifteenth century was futile may or may not be true of its politics. But it hardly does justice to the century’s economic importance. During that age of political anarchy, the forces destined to dominate the future first tried their wings. The era of Columbus and Da Gama was prepared by the patient work of Italian cartographers and Portuguese sailors. So, too, the era of Crompton and Watt was prepared by the little-known experiments of nameless predecessors.

The master who set the problem that the heroes of the age were to solve was material necessity. The Europe of the earlier Middle Ages, like the world of the twentieth century, had been a closed circle. But it had been closed, not by the growth of knowledge, but by the continuance of ignorance; and, while the latter, having drawn the whole globe into a single economic system, has no space left for fresh expansion, for the former, with the Mediterranean as its immemorial pivot, expansion had hardly begun. Tapping the wealth of the East by way of the narrow apertures in the Levant, it resembled, in the rigidity of the limits imposed on its commercial strategy, a giant fed through the chinks of a wall.

Material necessity was the master that set the problem the heroes of the age had to solve. Europe in the earlier Middle Ages was a closed circle, like the world of the twentieth century. But medieval Europe was closed because of continuing ignorance, not growing knowledge. The twentieth-century world has drawn the whole globe into a single economic system. It has no space left for further expansion. Medieval Europe, by contrast, had hardly begun to expand, and the Mediterranean had long been its center. Europe drew on the wealth of the East through narrow openings in the Levant. The strict limits on its trade strategy made it like a giant fed through cracks in a wall.

As was the general scheme, so were the details; inelastic in its external, Europe was hardly more flexible in its internal, relations. Its primary unit had been the village; and the village, a community of agrarian shareholders fortified by custom, had repressed with a fury of virtuous unanimity the disorderly appetites which menaced its traditional routine with the evil whose name is Change. Beyond the village lay the greater, more privileged, village called the borough, and the brethren of borough and gild had turned on the foreign devil from upland and valley a face of flint. Above both were the slowly waking nations. Nationalism was an economic force before nationality was a political fact, and it was a sound reason for harrying a competitor that he was a Florentine or a man of the Emperor. The privileged colony with its depôt, the Steel-yard of the Hanseatic League, the Fondaco Tedesco of the south Germans, the Factory of the English Merchant Adventurers, were but tiny breaches in a wall of economic exclusiveness. Trade, as in modern Turkey or China, was carried on under capitulations.

The details matched the general pattern. Europe was inflexible in its relations with the outside world and hardly more flexible in its internal relations. Its basic unit had been the village. The village was a community of agricultural shareholders, protected by custom. With furious and righteous unanimity, it suppressed the unruly desires that threatened its traditional routine with the evil called Change. Beyond the village was the borough, a larger, more privileged village. Members of the borough and guild turned a stony face toward the foreign devil from the hills and valleys. Above both were the slowly awakening nations. Nationalism was an economic force before nationality became a political fact. The fact that a competitor was a Florentine or a subject of the Emperor was reason enough to harass him. Privileged colonies and their trading depots made only tiny breaches in this wall of economic exclusion. Examples included the Steel-yard of the Hanseatic League, the Fondaco Tedesco of the south Germans, and the Factory of the English Merchant Adventurers. Trade was carried on under capitulations, as in modern Turkey or China.

This narrow framework had been a home. In the fifteenth century it was felt to be a prison. Expanding energies pressed against the walls; restless appetites gnawed and fretted wherever a crack in the surface offered room for erosion. Long before the southward march of the Turks cut the last of the great routes from the East, the Venetian monopoly was felt to be intolerable. Long before the plunder of Mexico and the silver of Potosi flooded Europe with treasure, the mines of Germany and the Tyrol were yielding increasing, if still slender, streams of bullion, which stimulated rather than allayed its thirst.² It was not the lords of great estates, but eager and prosperous peasants, who in England first nibbled at commons and undermined the manorial custom, behind which, as behind a dyke, their small savings had been accumulated. It was not great capitalists, but enterprising gildsmen, who began to make the control of the fraternity the basis of a system of plutocratic exploitation, or who fled, precocious individualists, from the fellowship of borough and craft, that they might grow to what stature they pleased in rural isolation. It was not even the Discoveries which first began the enormous tilt of economic power from south and east to north and west. The records of German and English trade suggest that the powers of northern Europe had for a century before the Discoveries been growing in wealth and civilization,³ and for a century after them English economic development was to be as closely wedded to its continental connections as though Diaz had never rounded the Cape, nor Columbus praised Heaven for leading him to the shores of Zayton and Guinsay. First attempted as a counterpoise to the Italian monopolist, then pressed home with ever greater eagerness to turn the flank of the Turk, as his strangle-hold on the eastern commerce tightened, the Discoveries were neither a happy accident nor the fruit of the disinterested curiosity of science. They were the climax of almost a century of patient economic effort. They were as practical in their motive as the steam-engine.

This narrow framework had once been a home. By the fifteenth century, it felt like a prison. Growing energies pressed against its walls. Restless desires gnawed and strained at every crack where they could wear the walls away. The Venetian monopoly was felt to be unbearable long before the Turks marched south and cut the last great routes from the East. And Europe’s thirst for treasure had been growing long before the plunder of Mexico and the silver of Potosi flooded it with wealth. The mines of Germany and the Tyrol were producing growing, though still small, streams of bullion. These stirred Europe’s thirst rather than satisfying it.² In England, it was not the lords of great estates who first nibbled away at common land and undermined manorial custom. It was eager, prosperous peasants who did so. Manorial custom had protected their small savings as a dike holds back water. Nor was it great capitalists who first turned control of the guild into a basis for exploitation by the wealthy. It was enterprising guild members. Others, individualists ahead of their time, fled the fellowship of town and craft. They sought rural isolation, where they could grow as large as they pleased. Even the Discoveries did not begin the great shift of economic power from south and east to north and west. German and English trade records suggest that northern European powers had been growing in wealth and civilization for a century before the Discoveries.³ For a century afterward, English economic development remained closely tied to its continental connections. It was as if Diaz had never rounded the Cape, or Columbus praised Heaven for leading him to the shores of Zayton and Guinsay. The Discoveries were first attempted to counter the Italian monopolist. Then, as the Turk’s stranglehold on eastern trade tightened, the search was pursued ever more eagerly to find a way around him. The Discoveries were neither a happy accident nor the fruit of science’s disinterested curiosity. They were the climax of almost a century of patient economic effort. Their motive was as practical as that of the steam engine.

The result was not the less sensational because it had been long prepared. Heralded by an economic revolution not less profound than that of three centuries later, the new world of the sixteenth century took its character from the outburst of economic energy in which it had been born. Like the nineteenth century, it saw a swift increase in wealth and an impressive expansion of trade, a concentration of financial power on a scale unknown before, the rise, amid fierce social convulsions, of new classes and the depression of old, the triumph of a new culture and system of ideas amid struggles not less bitter.

The result was no less dramatic because it had been a long time in the making. An economic revolution had announced the new world of the sixteenth century. That revolution was no less profound than the one three centuries later. The new world was shaped by the burst of economic energy that gave rise to it. Like the nineteenth century, the sixteenth saw wealth grow rapidly and trade expand impressively. Financial power became concentrated on a scale never seen before. Amid fierce social upheavals, new classes rose and old ones declined. A new culture and system of ideas also triumphed amid struggles that were no less bitter.

It was an age of economic, not less than of political, sensations, which were recorded in the letter-books⁴ of business men as well as in the state papers of Governments. The decline of Venice and of the south German cities which had distributed the products that Venice imported, and which henceforward must either be marooned far from the new trade routes or break out to the sea, as some of them did, by way of the Low Countries; the new economic imperialism of Portugal and Spain; the outburst of capitalist enterprise in mining and textiles; the rise of commercial companies, no longer local but international, and based, not merely on exclusive privileges, but on the power of massed capital to drive from the field all feebler competitors; a revolution in prices which shattered all customary relationships; the collapse of medieval rural society in a nightmare of peasants’ wars; the subjection of the collegiate industrial organization of the Middle Ages to a new money-power; the triumph of the State and its conquest, in great parts of Europe, of the Church—all were crowded into less than two generations. A man who was born when the Council of Basel was sitting saw also, if he lived to a ripe old age, the dissolution of the English monasteries. At the first date Portuguese explorers had hardly passed Sierra Leone; at the second Portugal had been the master of an Indian Empire for almost a generation. In the intervening three-quarters of a century the whole framework of European civilization had been transformed.

It was an age of dramatic economic as well as political events. Businessmen recorded them in their letter-books⁴, just as governments recorded them in their state papers. Venice declined, as did the south German cities that had distributed the goods Venice imported. From then on, those cities had either to remain stranded far from the new trade routes or reach the sea through the Low Countries, as some did. Portugal and Spain launched a new kind of economic imperialism. Capitalist enterprise expanded rapidly in mining and textiles. Commercial companies emerged that were international rather than local. They relied not merely on exclusive privileges but on the power of pooled capital to drive weaker competitors out of the field. A revolution in prices shattered all customary relationships. Medieval rural society collapsed in a nightmare of peasants’ wars. The collective industrial organization of the Middle Ages came under the control of a new money power. The State triumphed and, in great parts of Europe, conquered the Church. All this happened in less than two generations. A man born while the Council of Basel was meeting would also have seen the dissolution of the English monasteries, if he lived to a ripe old age. At the first date, Portuguese explorers had hardly passed Sierra Leone. By the second, Portugal had ruled an Indian Empire for almost a generation. In the three-quarters of a century between those dates, the whole framework of European civilization had been transformed.

Compared with the currents which raced in Italy, or Germany, or the Low Countries, English life was an economic back-water. But even its stagnant shallows were stirred by the eddy and rush of the continental whirlpool. When Henry VII came to the throne, the economic organization of the country differed but little from that of the age of Wyclif. When Henry VIII died, full of years and sin, some of the main characteristics which were to distinguish it till the advent of steam-power and machinery could already, though faintly, be descried. The door that remained to be unlocked was colonial expansion, and forty years later the first experiments in colonial expansion had begun.

Compared with the swift currents in Italy, Germany, or the Low Countries, English life was an economic backwater. But even its stagnant shallows were stirred by the swirling rush of the continental whirlpool. When Henry VII came to the throne, England’s economic organization differed little from that of Wyclif’s age. When Henry VIII died, full of years and sin, some of its main features could already be faintly seen. These features would distinguish England’s economy until the arrival of steam power and machinery. The door still waiting to be unlocked was colonial expansion. Forty years later, the first experiments in colonial expansion had begun.

The phenomenon which dazzled contemporaries was the swift start into apparent opulence, first of Portugal and then of Spain. The nemesis of parasitic wealth was not discerned, and it was left for the cynical rationalism of an ambassador of that commercial republic, in comparison with whose hoary wisdom the new plutocrats of the West were meddlesome children, to observe that the true mines of the Spanish Empire lay, not in America, but in the sodden clay of the water-logged Netherlands.⁵ The justice of the criticism was revealed when Spain, a corpse bound on the back of the most liberal and progressive community of the age, completed her own ruin by sacking the treasury from which, far more than from Potosi, her wealth had been drawn. But the beginnings of that long agony, in which the powerhouse of European enterprise was to be struck with paralysis, lay still in the future, and later generations of Spaniards looked back with pardonable exaggeration on the closing years of Charles V as a golden age of economic prosperity. Europe as a whole, however lacerated by political and religious struggles, seemed to have solved the most pressing of the economic problems which had haunted her in the later Middle Ages. During a thousand years of unresting struggle with marsh and forest and moor she had colonized her own waste places. That tremendous achievement almost accomplished, she now turned to the task of colonizing the world. No longer on the defensive, she entered on a phase of economic expansion which was to grow for the next four hundred years, and which only in the twentieth century was to show signs of drawing towards its close. Once a year she was irrigated with the bullion of America, once a year she was enriched with a golden harvest from the East. The period of mere experiment over, and the new connections firmly established, she appeared to be in sight of an economic stability based on broader foundations than ever before.

What dazzled people at the time was the sudden appearance of wealth, first in Portugal and then in Spain. They did not see the doom that came with wealth gained by living off others. An ambassador from a commercial republic saw it with a cynic’s clear reasoning. Compared with that republic’s age-old wisdom, the new rich of the West were meddlesome children. He observed that the true mines of the Spanish Empire lay not in America, but in the sodden clay of the waterlogged Netherlands.⁵ The criticism proved justified when Spain completed her own ruin by sacking the treasury that had supplied her wealth. Far more of her wealth had come from there than from Potosi. Spain was like a corpse tied to the back of the most liberal and progressive community of the age. But the beginning of that long agony still lay in the future. During it, the powerhouse of European enterprise would be paralyzed. Later generations of Spaniards looked back on the closing years of Charles V as a golden age of economic prosperity. Their exaggeration was understandable. Europe as a whole, though torn by political and religious struggles, seemed to have solved its most pressing economic problems. Those problems had haunted Europe in the later Middle Ages. For a thousand years, Europeans had struggled without rest against marsh, forest, and moor, settling their own uncultivated lands. With that tremendous achievement almost complete, they now turned to the task of colonizing the world. No longer on the defensive, Europe entered a period of economic expansion. It would continue to grow for the next four hundred years. Only in the twentieth century would it show signs of drawing to a close. Once a year, American bullion flowed into Europe. Once a year, a golden harvest from the East enriched her. The period of mere experiment was over, and the new connections were firmly established. Europe appeared close to achieving economic stability on broader foundations than ever before.

Portugal and Spain held the keys of the treasure-house of East and West. But it was not Portugal, with her tiny population, and her empire that was little more than a line of forts and factories 10,000 miles long, nor Spain, for centuries an army on the march, and now staggering beneath the responsibilities of her vast and scattered empire, devout to fanaticism, and with an incapacity for economic affairs which seemed almost inspired, who reaped the material harvest of the empires into which they had stepped, the one by patient toil, the other by luck. Gathering spoils which they could not retain, and amassing wealth which slipped through their fingers, they were little more than the political agents of minds more astute and characters better versed in the arts of peace. Every period and society has some particular center, or institution, or social class, in which the characteristic qualities of its genius seem to be fixed and embodied. In the Europe of the early Renaissance the heart of the movement had been Italy. In the Europe of the Reformation it was the Low Countries. The economic capital of the new civilization was Antwerp. The institution which best symbolized its eager economic energies was the international money-market and produce-exchange. Its typical figure, the paymaster of princes, was the international financier.

Portugal and Spain held the keys to the treasure houses of East and West. Portugal had a tiny population. Its empire was little more than a 10,000-mile line of forts and trading posts. Spain had been an army on the march for centuries. Now it was staggering under the responsibilities of its vast, scattered empire. It was devout to the point of fanaticism, and its incompetence in economic affairs seemed almost inspired. Yet neither country reaped the material rewards of the empire it had acquired. Portugal had gained its empire through patient effort, Spain through luck. They gathered spoils they could not keep and amassed wealth that slipped through their fingers. They were little more than political agents for people with sharper minds and characters better suited to the arts of peace. Every period and society has some particular center, institution, or social class that seems to embody its distinctive genius. In the Europe of the early Renaissance, the heart of the movement had been Italy. In the Europe of the Reformation, it was the Low Countries. The economic capital of the new civilization was Antwerp. The institution that best symbolized its eager economic energy was the international money market and produce exchange. Its typical figure was the international financier, who paid the bills of princes.

Before it was poisoned by persecution, revolution and war, the spirit of the Netherlands found its purest incarnation in Erasmus, a prophet without sackcloth and a reformer untouched by heat or fury, to the universal internationalism of whose crystal spirit the boundaries of States were a pattern scrawled to amuse the childish malice of princes. Of that cosmopolitan country, destined to be the refuge of the international idea when outlawed by every other power in Europe, Antwerp, “a home common to all nations,” was the most cosmopolitan city. Made famous as a center of learning by Plantin’s press, the metropolis of painting in a country where painting was almost a national industry, it was at once the shrine to which masters like Cranach, Dürer and Holbein made their pilgrimage of devotion, and an asylum which offered to the refugees of less happy countries a haven as yet undisturbed by any systematic campaign to stamp out heresy. In the exuberance of its intellectual life, as in the glitter of its material prosperity, the thinker and the reformer found a spiritual home, where the energies of the new age seemed gathered for a bound into that land of happiness and dreams, for the scene of which More, who knew his Europe, chose as the least incredible setting the garden of his lodgings at Antwerp.

Before persecution, revolution and war poisoned the spirit of the Netherlands, Erasmus was its purest embodiment. He was a prophet without sackcloth and a reformer untouched by anger or fury. His clear spirit embraced all nations. To him, the borders of states were a pattern scribbled to amuse the childish malice of princes. The Netherlands was a cosmopolitan country, destined to shelter the international ideal when every other power in Europe had outlawed it. Its most cosmopolitan city was Antwerp, “a home common to all nations.” Plantin’s press made Antwerp famous as a center of learning. It was also the capital of painting in a country where painting was almost a national industry. Masters like Cranach, Dürer and Holbein made pilgrimages to Antwerp as if to a shrine. It was also a haven for refugees from less fortunate countries. No systematic campaign to stamp out heresy had yet disturbed them there. Amid Antwerp’s lively intellectual life and glittering material prosperity, thinkers and reformers found a spiritual home. There, the energies of the new age seemed ready to leap into a land of happiness and dreams. More, who knew his Europe, chose the garden of his lodgings in Antwerp as the least incredible setting for that imagined land.

The economic preëminence of Antwerp owed much to the industrial region behind it, from which the woollen and worsteds of Valenciennes and Tournai, the tapestries of Brussels and Oudenarde, the iron of Namur, and the munitions of the Black Country round Liége, poured in an unceasing stream on to its quays.⁶ But Antwerp was a European, rather than a Flemish, metropolis. Long the competitor of Bruges for the reception of the two great currents of trade from the Mediterranean and the Baltic, which met in the Low Countries, by the last quarter of the fifteenth century she had crushed her rival. The Hanse League maintained a depôt at Antwerp; Italian banking firms in increasing numbers opened businesses there; the English Merchant Adventurers made it the entrepôt through which English cloth, long its principal import, was distributed to northern Europe; the copper market moved from Venice to Antwerp in the nineties. Then came the great Discoveries, and Antwerp, the first city to tap the wealth, not of an inland sea, but of the ocean, stepped into a position of unchallenged preëminence almost unique in European history. The long sea-roads which ran east and west met and ended in its harbors. The Portuguese Government made it in 1503 the depôt of the Eastern spice trade. From the accession of Charles V it was the commercial capital of the Spanish Empire, and, in spite of protests that the precious metals were leaving Spain, the market for American silver. Commerce, with its demand for cheap and easy credit, brought finance in its train. The commercial companies and banking-houses of south Germany turned from the dwindling trade across the Alps, to make Antwerp the base for financial operations of unexampled magnitude and complexity.⁷

Antwerp owed much of its economic dominance to the industrial region behind it. A steady stream of goods from that region poured onto Antwerp’s docks. These included woollens and worsteds from Valenciennes and Tournai, tapestries from Brussels and Oudenarde, iron from Namur, and munitions from the Black Country around Liége.⁶ But Antwerp was a European city rather than a Flemish one. For a long time, it competed with Bruges for the two great flows of trade from the Mediterranean and the Baltic, which met in the Low Countries. By the last quarter of the fifteenth century, Antwerp had crushed its rival. The Hanse League maintained a depot in Antwerp, and growing numbers of Italian banking firms opened businesses there. The English Merchant Adventurers made Antwerp the trading center through which English cloth was distributed to northern Europe. Cloth had long been Antwerp’s main import. In the 1490s, the copper market moved from Venice to Antwerp. Then came the great Discoveries. Antwerp was the first city to draw on the wealth of the ocean rather than an inland sea. It rose to a position of undisputed dominance that was almost unique in European history. The long sea routes running east and west met and ended in its harbors. In 1503, the Portuguese Government made Antwerp the depot for the Eastern spice trade. From the accession of Charles V, Antwerp was the commercial capital of the Spanish Empire. It was also the market for American silver, despite protests that precious metals were leaving Spain. Trade brought finance with it, because merchants needed cheap and readily available credit. The commercial companies and banking houses of south Germany turned away from the dwindling trade across the Alps. They made Antwerp their base for financial operations of unprecedented size and complexity.⁷

In such an economic forcing-house new philosophies of society, like new religious creeds, found a congenial soil. Professor Pirenne has contrasted the outlook of the medieval middle class, intent on the conservation of corporate and local privileges, with that of the new plutocracy of the sixteenth century, with its international ramifications, its independence of merely local interests, its triumphant vindication of the power of the capitalist to dispense with the artificial protection of gild and borough and carve his own career.⁸ “No one can deny,” wrote the foreign merchants at Antwerp to Philip II, in protest against an attempt to interfere with the liberty of exchange transactions, “that the cause of the prosperity of this city is the freedom granted to those who trade there.”⁹ Swept into wealth on the crest of a wave of swiftly expanding enterprise, which a century before would have seemed the wildest of fantasies, the liberal bourgeoisie of Antwerp pursued, in the teeth of all precedents, a policy of practical individualism, which would have been met in any other city by rebellion, making terms with the levelling encroachments of the Burgundian monarchy, which were fought by their more conservative neighbors, lowering tariffs and extinguishing private tolls, welcoming the technical improvements which elsewhere were resisted, taming the turbulent independence of the gilds, and throwing open to alien and citizen alike the new Exchange, with its significant dedication: Ad usum mercatorum cuiusque gentis ac linguae.

In this economic hothouse, new philosophies of society found fertile ground, as did new religious creeds. Professor Pirenne contrasted the outlook of the medieval middle class with that of the new wealthy elite of the sixteenth century. The medieval middle class focused on preserving the privileges of its corporate groups and local communities. The new elite had international connections and was independent of purely local interests. It triumphantly showed that capitalists could do without the artificial protection of guild and borough and make their own way.⁸ “No one can deny,” the foreign merchants at Antwerp wrote to Philip II, “that the cause of the prosperity of this city is the freedom granted to those who trade there.”⁹ They were protesting against an attempt to interfere with freedom in exchange transactions. Antwerp’s liberal bourgeoisie had been swept into wealth by a wave of rapidly expanding enterprise. A century earlier, such enterprise would have seemed like the wildest fantasy. Defying all precedents, the bourgeoisie pursued a policy of practical individualism. In any other city, this policy would have provoked rebellion. Antwerp’s bourgeoisie came to terms with the Burgundian monarchy’s efforts to erode old privileges, which their more conservative neighbors resisted. They lowered tariffs and abolished private tolls. They welcomed technical improvements that were resisted elsewhere. They curbed the turbulent independence of the guilds. And they opened the new Exchange to foreigners and citizens alike, with its significant dedication: Ad usum mercatorum cuiusque gentis ac linguae.

For, if Antwerp was the microcosm which reflected the soul of commercial Europe, the heart of Antwerp was its Bourse. The causes which made financial capitalism as characteristic of the age of the Renaissance, as industrial capitalism was to be of the nineteenth century, consisted partly in the mere expansion in the scale of commercial enterprise. A steady flow of capital was needed to finance the movement of the produce handled on the world-market, such as the eastern spice crop—above all pepper, which the impecunious Portuguese Government sold in bulk, while it was still on the water, to German syndicates—copper, alum, the precious metals, and the cloth shipped by the English Merchant Adventurers. The cheapening of bullion and the rise in prices swelled the profits seeking investment; the growth of an international banking system mobilized immense resources at the strategic points; and, since Antwerp was the capital of the European money-market, the bill on Antwerp was the commonest form of international currency. Linked together by the presence in each of the great financial houses of the Continent, with liquid funds pouring in from mines in Hungary and the Tyrol, trading ventures in the East, taxes wrung from Spanish peasants, speculations on the part of financiers, and savings invested by the general public, Antwerp, Lyons, Frankfurt and Venice, and, in the second rank, Rouen, Paris, Strassburg, Seville and London, had developed by the middle of the century a considerable class of financial specialists, and a financial technique, identical, in all essentials, with that of the present day. They formed together the departments of an international clearing-house, where bills could be readily discounted, drafts on any important city could be obtained, and the paper of merchants of almost every nationality changed hands.¹⁰

For if Antwerp was a microcosm reflecting the soul of commercial Europe, its heart was the Bourse. Financial capitalism was as characteristic of the Renaissance as industrial capitalism would be of the nineteenth century. This was partly because commercial enterprise had grown in scale. A steady flow of capital was needed to finance the movement of goods traded on the world market. These included eastern spices, especially pepper. The cash-strapped Portuguese Government sold pepper in bulk to German syndicates while it was still at sea. Other goods included copper, alum, precious metals, and cloth shipped by the English Merchant Adventurers. As bullion became cheaper and prices rose, profits seeking investment grew. An expanding international banking system brought immense resources together at key locations. Antwerp was the capital of the European money market, so the bill on Antwerp was the most common form of international currency. The great financial houses of the Continent had a presence in each of the major financial cities, linking them together. Liquid funds poured in from mines in Hungary and the Tyrol and from trading ventures in the East. They also came from taxes wrung from Spanish peasants, financiers’ speculations, and savings invested by the general public. By the middle of the century, these cities had developed a substantial class of financial specialists. The leading cities were Antwerp, Lyons, Frankfurt and Venice. In the second rank were Rouen, Paris, Strassburg, Seville and London. Their financial techniques were identical in all essentials to those of the present day. Together, these cities formed the departments of an international clearing-house. There, bills could readily be discounted, drafts on any important city could be obtained, and merchants’ paper from almost every nation changed hands.¹⁰

Nourished by the growth of peaceful commerce, the financial capitalism of the age fared not less sumptuously, if more dangerously, at the courts of princes. Mankind, it seems, hates nothing so much as its own prosperity. Menaced with an accession of riches which would lighten its toil, it makes haste to redouble its labors, and to pour away the perilous stuff, which might deprive of plausibility the complaint that it is poor. Applied to the arts of peace, the new resources commanded by Europe during the first half of the sixteenth century might have done something to exorcise the specters of pestilence and famine, and to raise the material fabric of civilization to undreamed-of heights. Its rulers, secular and ecclesiastical alike, thought otherwise. When pestilence and famine were ceasing to be necessities imposed by nature, they reëstablished them by political art.

Fed by the growth of peaceful trade, the financial capitalism of the age flourished just as lavishly at the courts of princes, though more dangerously. It seems that humanity hates nothing so much as its own prosperity. Threatened with new wealth that would lighten its work, humanity hastens to work twice as hard. It pours away the dangerous stuff, which might make its complaints of poverty less believable. Europe gained new resources during the first half of the sixteenth century. Used for peaceful purposes, those resources might have helped banish the specters of disease and famine. They might also have raised the material foundations of civilization to undreamed-of heights. But Europe’s rulers, both secular and religious, thought otherwise. Just as disease and famine were ceasing to be unavoidable acts of nature, the rulers brought them back through political skill.

The sluice which they opened to drain away each new accession of superfluous wealth was war. “Of all birds,” wrote the sharpest pen of the age, “the eagle alone has seemed to wise men the type of royalty—not beautiful, not musical, not fit for food, but carnivorous, greedy, hateful to all, the curse of all, and, with its great powers of doing harm, surpassing them in its desire of doing it.”¹¹ The words of Erasmus, uttered in 1517, were only too prophetic. For approximately three-quarters both of the sixteenth and of the seventeenth centuries, Europe tore itself to pieces. In the course of the conflict the spiritual fires of Renaissance and Reformation alike were trampled out beneath the feet of bravos as malicious and mischievous as the vain, bloody-minded and futile generals who strut and posture, to the hateful laughter of Thersites, in the most despairing of Shakespeare’s tragedies. By the middle of the sixteenth century the English Government, after an orgy of debasement and confiscation, was in a state of financial collapse, and by the end of it Spain, the southern Netherlands including Antwerp, and a great part of France, including the financial capital of southern Europe, Lyons, were ruined. By the middle of the seventeenth century wide tracts of Germany were a desert, and by the end of it the French finances had relapsed into worse confusion than that from which they had been temporarily rescued by the genius of Colbert. The victors compared their position with that of the vanquished, and congratulated themselves on their spoils. It rarely occurred to them to ask what it would have been, had there been neither victors nor vanquished, but only peace.

War was the channel they opened to drain away each new increase in surplus wealth. “Of all birds,” wrote the sharpest writer of the age, “the eagle alone has seemed to wise men the symbol of royalty. It is not beautiful, not musical, and not fit for food. It is carnivorous, greedy, hateful to all, and a curse to all. Great as its power to do harm is, its desire to do harm is greater.”¹¹ Erasmus wrote those words in 1517, and they proved only too prophetic. For about three-quarters of both the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, Europe tore itself to pieces. During the conflict, the spiritual fires of both the Renaissance and the Reformation were trampled out. Those who trampled them were as malicious and destructive as the vain, bloodthirsty, and ineffectual generals in Shakespeare’s most despairing tragedy. Those generals strut and pose while Thersites laughs at them with hatred. By the middle of the sixteenth century, the English Government was financially ruined, after a frenzy of debasing currency and confiscating property. By the end of the century, Spain, the southern Netherlands including Antwerp, and much of France were ruined. The ruined parts of France included Lyons, the financial capital of southern Europe. By the middle of the seventeenth century, vast areas of Germany were a desert. By its end, French finances had fallen into even worse confusion than before Colbert’s genius had temporarily rescued them. The victors compared their position with that of the defeated and congratulated themselves on their spoils. They rarely thought to ask what their position would have been if there had been no victors or defeated, only peace.

It is possible that the bankruptcies of Governments have, on the whole, done less harm to mankind than their ability to raise loans, and the mobilization of economic power on a scale unknown before armed the fierce nationalism of the age with a weapon more deadly than gunpowder and cannon. The centralized States which were rising in the age of the Renaissance were everywhere faced with a desperate financial situation. It sprang from the combination of modern administrative and military methods with medieval systems of finance. They entrusted to bureaucracies work which, if done at all, had formerly been done as an incident of tenure, or by boroughs and gilds; officials had to be paid. They were constantly at war; and the new technique of war, involving the use of masses of professional infantry and artillery—which Rabelais said was invented by the inspiration of the devil, as a counterpoise to the invention of printing inspired by God—was making it, as after 1870, a highly capitalized industry. Government after Government, undeterred, with rare exceptions, by the disasters of its neighbors, trod a familiar round of expedients, each of which was more disastrous than the last. They hoarded treasure, only to see the accumulations of a thrifty Henry VII or Frederick III dissipated by a Henry VIII or a Maximilian. They debased the currency and ruined trade. They sold offices, or established monopolies, and crushed the taxpayer beneath a load of indirect taxation. They plundered the Church, and spent gorgeously as income property which should have been treated as capital. They parted with Crown estates, and left an insoluble problem to their successors.

It is possible that government bankruptcies have, on the whole, done less harm to humanity than governments’ ability to borrow. The gathering of economic power on an unprecedented scale gave the fierce nationalism of the age a weapon deadlier than gunpowder and cannon. The centralized states emerging during the Renaissance faced desperate financial problems everywhere. These arose from combining modern administrative and military methods with medieval systems of finance. Governments assigned bureaucracies work that, if done at all, had previously been a duty attached to landholding, or had been done by boroughs and guilds. Officials had to be paid. Governments were constantly at war, and new methods of warfare required large forces of professional infantry and artillery. As after 1870, war was becoming an industry requiring huge investments. Rabelais said artillery was invented at the devil’s inspiration, as a counterweight to printing, which God had inspired. Government after government followed the same familiar cycle of expedients, each more disastrous than the last. With rare exceptions, the disasters of neighboring governments did not deter them. They hoarded treasure, only to see the savings of a thrifty Henry VII or Frederick III squandered by a Henry VIII or a Maximilian. They debased the currency and ruined trade. They sold offices or established monopolies, and crushed taxpayers under a burden of indirect taxes. They plundered the Church and spent lavishly, treating property as income when they should have treated it as capital. They gave up Crown estates and left their successors with a problem that could not be solved.

These agreeable devices had, however, obvious limits. What remained, when they were exhausted, was the money-market, and to the rulers of the money-market sooner or later all States came. Their dependence on the financier was that of an Ismail or an Abdul, and its results were not less disastrous. Naturally, the City interest was one of the great Powers of Europe. Publicists might write that the new Messiah was the Prince, and reformers that the Prince was Pope. But behind Prince and Pope alike, financing impartially Henry VIII, Edward VI and Elizabeth, Francis, Charles and Philip, stood in the last resort a little German banker, with branches in every capital in Europe, who played in the world of finance the part of the condottieri in war, and represented in the economic sphere the morality typified in that of politics by Machiavelli’s Prince. Compared with these financial dynasties, Hapsburgs, Valois and Tudors were puppets dancing on wires held by a money-power to which political struggles were irrelevant except as an opportunity for gain.

These convenient methods had obvious limits, however. Once they were exhausted, only the money market remained. Sooner or later, all states came to its rulers. Their dependence on the financier was like that of an Ismail or an Abdul, and its results were no less disastrous. Naturally, the City’s financial interests were one of the great powers of Europe. Political writers might say that the new Messiah was the Prince, and reformers that the Prince was Pope. But behind Prince and Pope alike stood, in the end, a little German banker. He had branches in every capital in Europe and financed Henry VIII, Edward VI and Elizabeth, Francis, Charles and Philip without distinction. He played the same part in finance as the condottieri did in war. In economics, he represented the morality that Machiavelli’s Prince embodied in politics. Compared with these financial dynasties, the Hapsburgs, Valois and Tudors were puppets dancing on wires. The wires were held by a money power that cared about political struggles only as an opportunity for gain.

The financier received his payment partly in cash, partly in concessions, which still further elaborated the network of financial connections that were making Europe an economic unity. The range of interests in which the German banking-houses were involved is astonishing. The Welsers had invested in the Portuguese voyage of 1505 to the East Indies, financed an expedition, half commercial, half military, to Venezuela in 1527, were engaged in the spice trade between Lisbon, Antwerp and south Germany, were partners in silver and copper mines in the Tyrol and Hungary, and had establishments, not only at Lisbon and Antwerp, but in the principal cities of Germany, Italy and Switzerland. The careers of the Hochstetters, Haugs, Meutings and Imhofs were much the same. The Fuggers, thanks to judicious loans to Maximilian, had acquired enormous concessions of mineral property, farmed a large part of the receipts drawn by the Spanish Crown from its estates, held silver and quicksilver mines in Spain, and controlled banking and commercial businesses in Italy, and, above all, at Antwerp. They advanced the money which made Albrecht of Brandenburg archbishop of Mainz; repaid themselves by sending their agent to accompany Tetzel on his campaign to raise money by indulgences and taking half the proceeds; provided the funds with which Charles V bought the imperial crown, after an election conducted with the publicity of an auction and the morals of a gambling hell; browbeat him, when the debt was not paid, in the tone of a pawnbroker rating a necessitous client; and found the money with which Charles raised troops to fight the Protestants in 1552. The head of the firm built a church and endowed an almshouse for the aged poor in his native town of Augsburg. He died in the odor of sanctity, a good Catholic and a Count of the Empire, having seen his firm pay 54 per cent. for the preceding sixteen years.¹²

The financier received payment partly in cash and partly in concessions. These concessions further expanded the network of financial connections that was making Europe an economic unity. The range of interests involving German banking houses is astonishing. The Welsers had invested in the Portuguese voyage to the East Indies in 1505. In 1527, they financed an expedition to Venezuela that was half commercial and half military. They traded spices between Lisbon, Antwerp and south Germany. They were partners in silver and copper mines in the Tyrol and Hungary. They also had offices in Lisbon and Antwerp, as well as in the principal cities of Germany, Italy and Switzerland. The Hochstetters, Haugs, Meutings and Imhofs had much the same careers. The Fuggers had made well judged loans to Maximilian. Thanks to these loans, they had acquired enormous concessions over mineral properties. They collected a large part of the income from the Spanish Crown’s estates in return for payment to the Crown. They held silver and quicksilver mines in Spain. They also controlled banking and commercial businesses in Italy and, above all, in Antwerp. The Fuggers advanced the money that made Albrecht of Brandenburg archbishop of Mainz. They repaid themselves by sending an agent to accompany Tetzel on his campaign to raise money through indulgences. The Fuggers took half the proceeds. They provided the funds with which Charles V bought the imperial crown. The election was conducted with the publicity of an auction and the morals of a gambling den. When Charles did not pay his debt, they bullied him like a pawnbroker scolding a needy client. They also supplied the money Charles used to raise troops to fight the Protestants in 1552. The head of the firm built a church and endowed an almshouse for the elderly poor in his native town of Augsburg. He died with a reputation for holiness, a good Catholic and a Count of the Empire. He had seen his firm pay 54 per cent for the preceding sixteen years.¹²

Like the rise of the great industry three centuries later, the economic revolution which accompanied the Renaissance gave a powerful stimulus to speculation. Both in Germany and in England, the Humanists turned a stream of pungent criticism on the social evils of their age. Mercantilist thinkers resharpened an old economic weapon for the armory of princes. Objective economic analysis, still in its infancy, received a new impetus from the controversies of practical men on the rise in prices, on currency, and on the foreign exchanges.

The economic revolution that accompanied the Renaissance gave a powerful stimulus to thought, just as the rise of large-scale industry did three centuries later. In both Germany and England, the Humanists sharply criticized the social evils of their age. Mercantilist thinkers sharpened an old economic weapon for rulers to use. Objective economic analysis was still in its infancy. It gained new momentum from debates among practical men about rising prices, currency, and foreign exchange.

The question of the attitude which religious opinion would assume towards these new forces was momentous. It might hail the outburst of economic enterprise as an instrument of wealth and luxury, like the Popes who revelled in the rediscovery of classical culture. It might denounce it as a relapse into a pagan immorality, like the Fathers who had turned with a shudder from the material triumphs of Rome. It might attempt to harness the expanding energies to its own conception of man’s spiritual end, like the Schoolmen who had stretched old formulæ to cover the new forces of capital and commerce. It could hardly ignore them. For, in spite of Machiavelli, social theory was only beginning to emancipate itself from the stiff ecclesiastical framework of the Middle Ages. The most systematic treatment of economic questions was still that contained in the work of canonists, and divines continued to pronounce judgment on problems of property and contract with the same assurance as on problems of theology.

The question of how religious opinion would respond to these new forces was momentous. It might welcome the surge of economic enterprise as a source of wealth and luxury. The Popes had welcomed the rediscovery of classical culture in much the same way. Or religious opinion might condemn economic enterprise as a return to pagan immorality. The Church Fathers had similarly turned with a shudder from Rome’s material triumphs. Or religious opinion might try to direct the expanding energies toward its own idea of humanity’s spiritual purpose. The Schoolmen had done much the same, stretching old formulas to cover the new forces of capital and commerce. Religious opinion could hardly ignore these forces. For, despite Machiavelli, social theory was only beginning to free itself from the rigid religious framework of the Middle Ages. The most systematic treatment of economic questions was still found in the work of canon lawyers. Theologians continued to judge questions of property and contract with the same confidence they brought to questions of theology.

Laymen might dispute the content of their teaching and defy its conclusions. But it was rarely, as yet, that they attacked the assumption that questions of economic conduct belonged to the province of the ecclesiastical jurist. Bellarmin complained with some asperity of the intolerable complexity of the problems of economic casuistry which pious merchants propounded in the confessional. The Spanish dealers on the Antwerp Bourse, a class not morbidly prone to conscientious scruples, were sufficiently deferential to ecclesiastical authority to send their confessor to Paris in order to consult the theologians of the University as to the compatibility of speculative exchange business with the canon law.¹³ When Eck, later famous as the champion who crossed swords with Luther, travelled to Italy, in order to seek from the University of Bologna authoritative confirmation of his daring argument that interest could lawfully be charged in transactions between merchants, no less a group of capitalists than the great house of Fugger thought it worth while to finance an expedition undertaken in quest of so profitable a truth.¹⁴

Laypeople might dispute what church authorities taught and defy their conclusions. But they still rarely challenged the assumption that questions of economic conduct fell within the church lawyer's domain. Bellarmin complained rather bitterly about the intolerably complex questions of economic ethics that pious merchants raised in the confessional. The Spanish dealers on the Antwerp Bourse were not a group especially prone to pangs of conscience. Yet they respected church authority enough to send their confessor to Paris. There he was to ask the University's theologians whether speculative exchange trading was compatible with canon law.¹³ Eck later became famous as the champion who battled Luther. He traveled to Italy to seek authoritative confirmation from the University of Bologna for a bold argument. He argued that merchants could lawfully charge interest on transactions with one another. The great house of Fugger, no less, thought it worthwhile to finance his journey in search of such a profitable truth.¹⁴

Individualistic, competitive, swept forward by an immense expansion of commerce and finance, rather than of industry, and offering opportunities of speculative gain on a scale unknown before, the new economic civilization inevitably gave rise to passionate controversy; and inevitably, since both the friends and the enemies of the Reformation identified it with social change, the leaders in the religious struggle were the protagonists in the debate. In Germany, where social revolution had been fermenting for half a century, it seemed at last to have come. The rise in prices, an enigma which baffled contemporaries till Bodin published his celebrated tract in 1569,¹⁵ produced a storm of indignation against monopolists. Since the rising led by Hans Böheim in 1476, hardly a decade had passed without a peasants’ revolt. Usury, long a grievance with craftsman and peasant, had become a battle-cry. From city after city municipal authorities, terrified by popular demands for the repression of the extortioner, consulted universities and divines as to the legitimacy of interest, and universities and divines gave, as is their wont, a loud, but confused, response. Melanchthon expounded godly doctrine on the subject of money-lending and prices.¹⁶ Calvin wrote a famous letter on usury and delivered sermons on the same subject.¹⁷ Bucer sketched a scheme of social reconstruction for a Christian prince.¹⁸ Bullinger produced a classical exposition of social ethics in the Decades which he dedicated to Edward VI.¹⁹ Luther preached and pamphleteered against extortioners,²⁰ and said that it was time “to put a bit in the mouth of the holy company of the Fuggers.”²¹ Zwingli and Œcolampadius devised plans for the reorganization of poor relief.²² Above all, the Peasants’ War, with its touching appeal to the Gospel and its frightful catastrophe, not only terrified Luther into his outburst: “Whoso can, strike, smite, strangle, or stab, secretly or publicly ... such wonderful times are these that a prince can better merit Heaven with bloodshed than another with prayer”;²³ it also helped to stamp on Lutheranism an almost servile reliance on the secular authorities. In England there was less violence, but hardly less agitation, and a similar flood of writing and preaching. Latimer, Ponet, Crowley, Lever, Becon, Sandys and Jewel—to mention but the best-known names—all contributed to the debate.²⁴ Whatever the social practice of the sixteenth century may have been, it did not suffer for lack of social teaching on the part of men of religion. If the world could be saved by sermons and pamphlets, it would have been a Paradise.

The new economic civilization was individualistic and competitive. It was driven forward by an immense expansion of commerce and finance, rather than industry. It also offered opportunities for speculative gain on a scale never seen before. Inevitably, the new economy stirred passionate controversy. Both supporters and opponents of the Reformation identified it with social change. Inevitably, then, the leaders of the religious struggle were also the leading figures in the debate. In Germany, social revolution had been brewing for half a century, and at last it seemed to have come. Rising prices puzzled contemporaries until Bodin published his celebrated tract in 1569.¹⁵ The price increases stirred a storm of anger against monopolists. Since the uprising led by Hans Böheim in 1476, hardly a decade had passed without a peasants’ revolt. Usury, a long-standing grievance among craftsmen and peasants, had become a battle cry. In city after city, municipal authorities were terrified by popular demands to curb extortioners. They consulted universities and theologians about whether charging interest was legitimate. As usual, the universities and theologians gave a loud but confused response. Melanchthon explained godly doctrine on money-lending and prices.¹⁶ Calvin wrote a famous letter on usury and preached sermons on the subject.¹⁷ Bucer outlined a plan for social reconstruction for a Christian prince.¹⁸ Bullinger produced a classic account of social ethics in the Decades, which he dedicated to Edward VI.¹⁹ Luther preached and wrote pamphlets against extortioners.²⁰ He said that it was time “to put a bit in the mouth of the holy company of the Fuggers.”²¹ Zwingli and Œcolampadius drew up plans to reorganize poor relief.²² Above all, there was the Peasants’ War, with its moving appeal to the Gospel and its terrible catastrophe. The war so terrified Luther that he burst out: “Whoso can, strike, smite, strangle, or stab, secretly or publicly ... such wonderful times are these that a prince can better merit Heaven with bloodshed than another with prayer”.²³ It also helped to stamp on Lutheranism an almost servile reliance on secular authorities. In England there was less violence, but hardly less agitation, and a similar flood of writing and preaching. Latimer, Ponet, Crowley, Lever, Becon, Sandys and Jewel, to mention only the best-known names, all contributed to the debate.²⁴ Whatever social practice in the sixteenth century may have been, it did not lack social teaching from religious leaders. If sermons and pamphlets could save the world, it would have been a Paradise.

That the problems of a swiftly changing economic environment should have burst on Europe at a moment when it was torn by religious dissensions more acute than ever before, may perhaps be counted as not least among the tragedies of its history. But differences of social theory did not coincide with differences of religious opinion, and the mark of nearly all this body of teaching, alike in Germany and in England, is its conservatism. Where questions of social morality were involved, men whose names are a symbol of religious revolution stood, with hardly an exception, on the ancient ways, appealed to medieval authorities, and reproduced in popular language the doctrines of the Schoolmen.

Perhaps one of the greatest tragedies in European history was the timing of rapid economic change. Its problems burst upon Europe when religious divisions were more bitter than ever before. But differences in social theory did not match differences in religious opinion. Nearly all these teachings, in Germany and England alike, were conservative. On questions of social morality, men whose names symbolize religious revolution followed the old ways, with hardly an exception. They appealed to medieval authorities and restated the doctrines of the Schoolmen in language ordinary people could understand.

A view of the social history of the sixteenth century which has found acceptance in certain quarters has represented the Reformation as the triumph of the commercial spirit over the traditional social ethics of Christendom. Something like it is of respectable antiquity. As early as 1540 Cranmer wrote to Oziander protesting against the embarrassment caused to reformers in England by the indulgence to moral laxity, in the matter alike of economic transactions and of marriage, alleged to be given by reformers in Germany.²⁵ By the seventeenth century the hints had become a theory and an argument. Bossuet taunted Calvin and Bucer with being the first theologians to defend extortion,²⁶ and it only remained for a pamphleteer to adapt the indictment to popular consumption, by writing bluntly that “it grew to a proverb that usury was the brat of heresy.”²⁷ That the revolt from Rome synchronized, both in Germany and in England, with a period of acute social distress is undeniable, nor is any long argument needed to show that, like other revolutions, it had its seamy side. What is sometimes suggested, however, is not merely a coincidence of religious and economic movements, but a logical connection between changes in economic organization and changes in religious doctrines. It is implied that the bad social practice of the age was the inevitable expression of its religious innovations, and that, if the reformers did not explicitly teach a conscienceless individualism, individualism was, at least, the natural corollary of their teaching. In the eighteenth century, which had as little love for the commercial restrictions of the ages of monkish superstition as for their political theory, that view was advanced as eulogy. In our own day, the wheel seems almost to have come full circle. What was then a matter for congratulation is now often an occasion for criticism. There are writers by whom the Reformation is attacked, as inaugurating a period of unscrupulous commercialism, which had previously been held in check, it is suggested, by the teaching of the Church.

Some accounts of sixteenth-century social history portray the Reformation as the triumph of the commercial spirit over traditional Christian social ethics. A similar view has a long and respectable history. As early as 1540, Cranmer wrote to Oziander about an embarrassment facing reformers in England. He protested that reformers in Germany were said to allow moral laxity in both economic dealings and marriage.²⁵ By the seventeenth century, these hints had developed into a theory and an argument. Bossuet accused Calvin and Bucer of being the first theologians to defend extortion.²⁶ A pamphleteer then adapted the accusation for a popular audience, writing bluntly that “it grew to a proverb that usury was the brat of heresy.”²⁷ The break with Rome undeniably coincided with a period of acute social distress in both Germany and England. Nor does it take much argument to show that, like other revolutions, it had its ugly side. But some suggest more than a coincidence between religious and economic movements. They suggest a logical connection between changes in economic organization and changes in religious doctrines. They imply that the age’s bad social practices were the inevitable expression of its religious innovations. Even if the reformers did not explicitly teach a conscienceless individualism, individualism was, they suggest, a natural consequence of their teaching. In the eighteenth century, this view was offered as praise. That age had as little love for the commercial restrictions of the ages of monkish superstition as for their political theory. In our own day, the wheel seems almost to have come full circle. What was then a cause for congratulation is now often a reason for criticism. Some writers attack the Reformation for starting a period of unscrupulous commercialism. They suggest that the Church’s teaching had previously held such commercialism in check.

These attempts to relate changes in social theory to the grand religious struggles of the age have their significance. But the obiter dicta of an acrimonious controversy throw more light on the temper of the combatants than on the substance of their contentions, and the issues were too complex to be adequately expressed in the simple antitheses which appealed to partisans. If capitalism means the direction of industry by the owners of capital for their own pecuniary gain, and the social relationships which establish themselves between them and the wage-earning proletariat whom they control, then capitalism had existed on a grand scale both in medieval Italy and in medieval Flanders. If by the capitalist spirit is meant the temper which is prepared to sacrifice all moral scruples to the pursuit of profit, it had been only too familiar to the saints and sages of the Middle Ages. It was the economic imperialism of Catholic Portugal and Spain, not the less imposing, if more solid, achievements of the Protestant powers, which impressed contemporaries down to the Armada. It was predominantly Catholic cities which were the commercial capitals of Europe, and Catholic bankers who were its leading financiers.

These attempts to connect changes in social theory with the great religious struggles of the age are significant. But the passing remarks made in a bitter controversy tell us more about the combatants’ attitudes than about their arguments. The issues were too complex to be captured by the simple oppositions that appealed to partisans. If capitalism means industry controlled by owners of capital for their own financial gain, and the social relationships that develop between those owners and the wage earners they control, then capitalism had existed on a grand scale in both medieval Italy and medieval Flanders. If the capitalist spirit means a willingness to sacrifice all moral scruples in pursuit of profit, it was only too familiar to the saints and sages of the Middle Ages. Until the Armada, contemporaries were impressed by the economic imperialism of Catholic Portugal and Spain, rather than the less spectacular but more solid achievements of the Protestant powers. Europe’s commercial capitals were predominantly Catholic cities, and its leading financiers were Catholic bankers.

Nor is the suggestion that Protestant opinion looked with indulgence on the temper which attacked restraints on economic enterprise better founded. If it is true that the Reformation released forces which were to act as a solvent of the traditional attitude of religious thought to social and economic issues, it did so without design, and against the intention of most reformers. In reality, however sensational the innovations in economic practice which accompanied the expansion of financial capitalism in the sixteenth century, the development of doctrine on the subject of economic ethics was continuous, and, the more closely it is examined, the less foundation does there seem to be for the view that the stream plunged into vacancy over the precipice of the religious revolution. To think of the abdication of religion from its theoretical primacy over economic activity and social institutions as synchronizing with the revolt from Rome, is to antedate a movement which was not finally accomplished for another century and a half, and which owed as much to changes in economic and political organization, as it did to developments in the sphere of religious thought. In the sixteenth century religious teachers of all shades of opinion still searched the Bible, the Fathers and the Corpus Juris Canonici for light on practical questions of social morality, and, as far as the first generation of reformers was concerned, there was no intention, among either Lutherans, or Calvinists, or Anglicans, of relaxing the rules of good conscience, which were supposed to control economic transactions and social relations. If anything, indeed, their tendency was to interpret them with a more rigorous severity, as a protest against the moral laxity of the Renaissance, and, in particular, against the avarice which was thought to be peculiarly the sin of Rome. For the passion for regeneration and purification, which was one element in the Reformation, was directed against the corruptions of society as well as of the Church. Princes and nobles and business men conducted themselves after their kind, and fished eagerly in troubled waters. But the aim of religious leaders was to reconstruct, not merely doctrine and ecclesiastical government, but conduct and institutions, on a pattern derived from the forgotten purity of primitive Christianity.

The claim that Protestant opinion tolerated attacks on restraints on economic enterprise is no better founded. The Reformation may have released forces that would dissolve the traditional religious attitude toward social and economic questions. If so, it did so unintentionally and against the wishes of most reformers. In reality, the expansion of financial capitalism in the sixteenth century brought dramatic changes in economic practice. Yet teaching on economic ethics developed continuously. The closer we examine that development, the less reason there seems to be to think it broke off abruptly with the religious revolution. Religion did eventually give up its theoretical authority over economic activity and social institutions. But to think that this happened at the same time as the revolt from Rome is to place it too early. The process was not completed for another century and a half. It owed as much to changes in economic and political organization as to developments in religious thought. In the sixteenth century, religious teachers of all views still searched the Bible, the Church Fathers, and the Corpus Juris Canonici for guidance on practical questions of social morality. Among the first generation of reformers, neither Lutherans, Calvinists, nor Anglicans intended to relax the rules of conscience. These rules were supposed to govern economic transactions and social relations. If anything, the reformers tended to interpret them more strictly. This was a protest against the moral laxity of the Renaissance, especially against the greed thought to be particularly characteristic of Rome. The Reformation was driven in part by a passion for renewal and purification. This passion was directed against corruption in society as well as in the Church. Princes, nobles, and business people acted as they usually did and eagerly took advantage of the turmoil. But religious leaders aimed to rebuild not only doctrine and Church government, but also conduct and institutions. They wanted to base them on the forgotten purity of early Christianity.

The appeal from the depravity of the present to a golden age of pristine innocence found at once its most vehement, and its most artless, expression in the writings of the German reformers. Like the return to nature in the eighteenth century, it was the cry for spiritual peace of a society disillusioned with the material triumphs of a too complex civilization. The prosperity of Augsburg, Nürnberg, Regensburg, Ulm and Frankfurt, and even of lesser cities like Rotenburg and Freiburg, had long been the admiration of all observers. Commanding the great trade routes across the Alps and down the Rhine, they had held a central position, which they were to lose when the spice trade moved to Antwerp and Lisbon, and were not to recover till the creation of a railway system in the nineteenth century made Germany again the entrepôt between western Europe and Russia, Austria, Italy and the near East. But the expansion of commerce, which brought affluence to the richer bourgeoisie, had been accompanied by the growth of an acute social malaise, which left its mark on literature and popular agitation, even before the Discoveries turned Germany from a highway into a back-water. The economic aspect of the development was the rise to a position of overwhelming preëminence of the new interests based on the control of capital and credit. In the earlier Middle Ages capital had been the adjunct and ally of the personal labor of craftsman and artisan. In the Germany of the fifteenth century, as long before in Italy, it had ceased to be a servant and had become a master. Assuming a separate and independent vitality, it claimed the right of a predominant partner to dictate economic organization in accordance with its own exacting requirements.

The German reformers gave the most forceful and most naive expression to an appeal against the corruption of the present. They looked back to a golden age of original innocence. Like the eighteenth century’s return to nature, this was a cry for spiritual peace. It came from a society disillusioned with the material triumphs of an overly complex civilization. The prosperity of Augsburg, Nürnberg, Regensburg, Ulm and Frankfurt had long been admired by all observers. Even smaller cities like Rotenburg and Freiburg had earned the same admiration. These cities controlled the great trade routes across the Alps and down the Rhine. This gave them a central position, which they lost when the spice trade moved to Antwerp and Lisbon. They did not regain it until the nineteenth century, when railways again made Germany the trading hub between western Europe and Russia, Austria, Italy and the near East. But the growth of commerce, which brought wealth to the richer bourgeoisie, also brought acute social malaise. This discontent left its mark on literature and popular agitation, even before the Discoveries turned Germany from a highway into a backwater. Economically, this development meant the rise of new interests based on control of capital and credit. These interests gained an overwhelmingly dominant position. In the earlier Middle Ages, capital had supported and aided the personal labor of craftsmen and artisans. In fifteenth-century Germany, as long before in Italy, capital had stopped being a servant and become a master. It took on a separate life of its own. As the dominant partner, it claimed the right to dictate economic organization according to its own demanding requirements.

Under the impact of these new forces, while the institutions of earlier ages survived in form, their spirit and operation were transformed. In the larger cities the gild organization, once a barrier to the encroachments of the capitalist, became one of the instruments which he used to consolidate his power. The rules of fraternities masked a division of the brethren into a plutocracy of merchants, sheltered behind barriers which none but the wealthy craftsman could scale, and a wage-earning proletariat, dependent for their livelihood on capital and credit supplied by their masters, and alternately rising in revolt and sinking in an ever-expanding morass of hopeless pauperism.²⁸ The peasantry suffered equally from the spread of a commercial civilization into the rural districts and from the survival of ancient agrarian servitudes. As in England, the nouveaux riches of the towns invested money in land by purchase and loan, and drove up rents and fines by their competition. But, while in England the customary tenant was shaking off the onerous obligations of villeinage, and appealing, not without success, to the royal courts to protect his title, his brother in south Germany, where serfdom was to last till the middle of the nineteenth century, found corvées redoubled, money-payments increased, and common rights curtailed, for the benefit of an impoverished noblesse, which saw in the exploitation of the peasant the only means of maintaining its social position in face of the rapidly growing wealth of the bourgeoisie, and which seized on the now fashionable Roman law as an instrument to give legal sanction to its harshest exactions.²⁹

Under the impact of these new forces, older institutions survived in form, but their spirit and operation changed. In larger cities, guild organization had once been a barrier to capitalist encroachment. Now it became one of the instruments capitalists used to consolidate their power. The rules of the fraternities concealed a division among their members. On one side was a wealthy ruling class of merchants, protected by barriers that only wealthy craftspeople could overcome. On the other was a wage-earning working class, dependent on capital and credit from their masters for their livelihood. The workers alternated between revolt and sinking into an ever-expanding swamp of hopeless poverty.²⁸ The peasantry suffered equally from the spread of a commercial civilization into rural areas and from surviving feudal obligations. As in England, the nouveaux riches, or newly wealthy people, of the towns invested in land through purchases and loans. Their competition drove up rents and fees. But in England, customary tenants were freeing themselves from the burdensome obligations of villeinage. They were also appealing to the royal courts to protect their rights to their land, with some success. Their counterparts in south Germany faced a different situation. There, serfdom would last until the middle of the nineteenth century. Peasants found their corvées, or compulsory labor obligations, doubled, their money payments increased, and their rights to use common land reduced. These changes benefited an impoverished noblesse, or nobility. In the face of the rapidly growing wealth of the bourgeoisie, or middle class, the nobles saw exploiting peasants as their only means of maintaining their social position. They seized on the now fashionable Roman law to give legal sanction to their harshest demands.²⁹

On a society thus distracted by the pains of growth came the commercial revolution produced by the Discoveries. Their effect was to open a seemingly limitless field to economic enterprise, and to sharpen the edge of every social problem. Unable henceforward to tap through Venice the wealth of the East, the leading commercial houses of south Germany either withdrew from the trade across the Alps, to specialize, like the Fuggers, in banking and finance, or organized themselves into companies, which handled at Lisbon and Antwerp a trade too distant and too expensive to be undertaken by individual merchants using only their own resources. The modern world has seen in America the swift rise of combinations controlling output and prices by the power of massed capital. A somewhat similar movement took place on the narrower stage of European commerce in the generation before the Reformation. Its center was Germany, and it was defended and attacked by arguments almost identical with those which are familiar today. The exactions of rings and monopolies, which bought in bulk, drove weaker competitors out of the field, “as a great pike swallows up a lot of little fishes,” and plundered the consumer, were the commonplaces of the social reformer.³⁰ The advantages of large-scale organization and the danger of interfering with freedom of enterprise were urged by the companies. The problem was on several occasions brought before the Imperial Diet. But the discovery of the sage who observed that it is not possible to unscramble eggs had already been made, and its decrees, passed in the teeth of strenuous opposition from the interests concerned, do not seem to have been more effective than modern legislation on the same subject.

The commercial revolution brought about by the Discoveries came to a society already troubled by the pains of growth. It opened a seemingly limitless field for economic enterprise and made every social problem more acute. The leading commercial houses of south Germany could no longer draw on the wealth of the East through Venice. Some withdrew from trade across the Alps and, like the Fuggers, specialized in banking and finance. Others formed companies to handle trade at Lisbon and Antwerp. That trade was too distant and too expensive for individual merchants to undertake using only their own resources. In America, the modern world has seen the swift rise of combinations that control output and prices through concentrated capital. A somewhat similar movement took place on the narrower stage of European commerce in the generation before the Reformation. Germany was its center, and the arguments for and against it were almost identical to those familiar today. Social reformers commonly complained about the demands of rings and monopolies. These groups bought in bulk, drove weaker competitors out of business, “as a great pike swallows up a lot of little fishes,” and plundered consumers.³⁰ The companies argued for the advantages of large-scale organization and warned against interfering with freedom of enterprise. The problem was brought before the Imperial Diet on several occasions. But people had already discovered, as the sage observed, that it is impossible to unscramble eggs. The Diet passed decrees despite fierce opposition from the interests concerned. Those decrees seem to have been no more effective than modern legislation on the same subject.

The passionate anti-capitalist reaction which such conditions produced found expression in numerous schemes of social reconstruction, from the so-called Reformation of the Emperor Sigismund in the thirties of the fifteenth century, to the Twelve Articles of the peasants in 1525.³¹ In the age of the Reformation it was voiced by Hipler, who, in his Divine Evangelical Reformation, urged that all merchants’ companies, such as those of the Fuggers, Hochstetters and Welsers, should be abolished; by Hutten, who classed merchants with knights, lawyers and the clergy as public robbers; by Geiler von Kaiserberg, who wrote that the monopolists were more detestable than Jews, and should be exterminated like wolves; and, above all, by Luther.³²

These conditions produced a passionate anti-capitalist reaction, expressed in many plans for rebuilding society. These ranged from the so-called Reformation of the Emperor Sigismund in the 1430s to the peasants’ Twelve Articles in 1525.³¹ During the Reformation, Hipler expressed this reaction in his Divine Evangelical Reformation. He called for the abolition of all merchants’ companies, including those of the Fuggers, Hochstetters and Welsers. Hutten also expressed it, grouping merchants with knights, lawyers and clergy as people who robbed the public. Geiler von Kaiserberg wrote that monopolists were more detestable than Jews and should be exterminated like wolves. Above all, Luther gave voice to this reaction.³²

Luther’s utterances on social morality are the occasional explosions of a capricious volcano, with only a rare flash of light amid the torrent of smoke and flame, and it is idle to scan them for a coherent and consistent doctrine. Compared with the lucid and subtle rationalism of a thinker like St. Antonino, his sermons and pamphlets on social questions make an impression of naïveté, as of an impetuous but ill-informed genius, dispensing with the cumbrous embarrassments of law and logic, to evolve a system of social ethics from the inspired heat of his own unsophisticated consciousness.

Luther’s statements on social morality are like the occasional eruptions of an unpredictable volcano. Amid the torrent of smoke and flame, there is only a rare flash of light. It is pointless to search his statements for a coherent and consistent doctrine. Compared with the clear and subtle reasoning of a thinker like St. Antonino, Luther’s sermons and pamphlets on social questions seem naïve. They suggest an impetuous but ill-informed genius, brushing aside the burdensome complications of law and logic. Instead, he seems to draw a system of social ethics from the inspired heat of his own unsophisticated mind.

It was partly that they were pièces de circonstance, thrown off in the storm of a revolution, partly that it was precisely the refinements of law and logic which Luther detested. Confronted with the complexities of foreign trade and financial organization, or with the subtleties of economic analysis, he is like a savage introduced to a dynamo or a steam-engine. He is too frightened and angry even to feel curiosity. Attempts to explain the mechanism merely enrage him; he can only repeat that there is a devil in it, and that good Christians will not meddle with the mystery of iniquity. But there is a method in his fury. It sprang, not from ignorance, for he was versed in scholastic philosophy, but from a conception which made the learning of the schools appear trivial or mischievous.

This was partly because they were pièces de circonstance, works quickly written for the occasion amid the turmoil of a revolution. It was also partly because Luther hated the very refinements of law and logic involved. When faced with the complexities of foreign trade and financial organization, or the subtleties of economic analysis, he resembles a savage encountering a dynamo or a steam engine. He is too frightened and angry even to be curious. Attempts to explain how the machinery works only enrage him. He can only repeat that a devil is in it, and that good Christians will not meddle with the mystery of iniquity. But there is a method to his fury. It did not spring from ignorance, for he was well versed in scholastic philosophy. It sprang instead from a view that made the learning of the schools seem trivial or harmful.

“Gold,” wrote Columbus, as one enunciating a truism, “constitutes treasure, and he who possesses it has all he needs in this world, as also the means of rescuing souls from Purgatory, and restoring them to the enjoyment of Paradise.”³³ It was this doctrine that all things have their price—future salvation as much as present felicity—which scandalized men who could not be suspected of disloyalty to the Church, and which gave their most powerful argument to the reformers. Their outlook on society had this in common with their outlook on religion, that the essence of both was the arraignment of a degenerate civilization before the majestic bar of an uncorrupted past. Of that revolutionary conservatism Luther, who hated the economic individualism of the age not less than its spiritual laxity, is the supreme example. His attitude to the conquest of society by the merchant and financier is the same as his attitude towards the commercialization of religion. When he looks at the Church in Germany, he sees it sucked dry by the tribute which flows to the new Babylon. When he looks at German social life, he finds it ridden by a conscienceless money-power, which incidentally ministers, like the banking business of the Fuggers, to the avarice and corruption of Rome. The exploitation of the Church by the Papacy, and the exploitation of the peasant and the craftsman by the capitalist, are thus two horns of the beast which sits on the seven hills. Both are essentially pagan, and the sword which will slay both is the same. It is the religion of the Gospel. The Church must cease to be an empire, and become a congregation of believers. Renouncing the prizes and struggles which make the heart sick, society must be converted into a band of brothers, performing in patient cheerfulness the round of simple toil which is the common lot of the descendants of Adam.

“Gold,” Columbus wrote, as if stating an obvious truth, “is treasure. Whoever possesses it has all he needs in this world. He also has the means to rescue souls from Purgatory and restore them to the joys of Paradise.”³³ This belief held that everything has its price, from happiness in this life to salvation in the next. It shocked men whose loyalty to the Church could not be questioned. It also gave the reformers their strongest argument. Their views of society and religion had this in common: both judged a corrupt civilization against the majestic standard of an uncorrupted past. Luther was the supreme example of this revolutionary conservatism. He hated the economic individualism of his age as much as its spiritual laxity. He viewed the conquest of society by merchants and financiers just as he viewed the commercialization of religion. When he looked at the Church in Germany, he saw it drained dry by payments flowing to the new Babylon. When he looked at German social life, he found it oppressed by the power of money, without regard for conscience. That money power also served Rome’s greed and corruption, as the banking business of the Fuggers did. The Papacy exploited the Church, while the capitalist exploited the peasant and the craftsman. These are the two horns of the beast that sits on the seven hills. Both are essentially pagan, and the same sword will kill them both. That sword is the religion of the Gospel. The Church must stop being an empire and become a congregation of believers. Society must give up the rewards and struggles that make the heart sick. It must become a band of brothers, patiently and cheerfully doing the simple work that is the common lot of Adam’s descendants.

The children of the mind are like the children of the body. Once born, they grow by a law of their own being, and, if their parents could foresee their future development, it would sometimes break their hearts. Luther, who has earned eulogy and denunciation as the grand individualist, would have been horrified, could he have anticipated the remoter deductions to be derived from his argument. Wamba said that to forgive as a Christian is not to forgive at all, and a cynic who urged that the Christian freedom expounded by Luther imposed more social restraints than it removed would have more affinity with the thought of Luther himself, than the libertarian who saw in his teaching a plea for treating questions of economic conduct and social organization as spiritually indifferent. Luther’s revolt against authority was an attack, not on its rigor, but on its laxity and its corruption. His individualism was not the greed of the plutocrat, eager to snatch from the weakness of public authority an opportunity for personal gain. It was the ingenuous enthusiasm of the anarchist, who hungers for a society in which order and fraternity will reign without “the tedious, stale, forbidding ways of custom, law and statute,” because they well up in all their native purity from the heart.

Ideas are like children. Once born, they grow according to their own nature. If their parents could foresee how they would develop, it would sometimes break their hearts. Luther has been both praised and condemned as the great individualist. But he would have been horrified if he had foreseen the more distant conclusions people would draw from his argument. Wamba said that to forgive as a Christian is not to forgive at all. A cynic might similarly argue that the Christian freedom Luther explained imposed more social restraints than it removed. That cynic would be closer to Luther’s own thinking than the libertarian who interpreted Luther’s teaching differently. The libertarian saw it as an argument that economic conduct and social organization were matters of spiritual indifference. Luther’s revolt against authority attacked not its strictness, but its laxity and corruption. His individualism was not the greed of a wealthy powerful person, eager to exploit weak public authority for personal gain. It was the innocent enthusiasm of the anarchist, who longs for a society ruled by order and fellowship without “the tedious, stale, forbidding ways of custom, law and statute.” In that society, order and fellowship would arise in all their original purity from the heart.

Professor Troeltsch has pointed out that Protestants, not less than Catholics, emphasized the idea of a Church-civilization, in which all departments of life, the State and society, education and science, law, commerce and industry, were to be regulated in accordance with the law of God.³⁴ That conception dominates all the utterances of Luther on social issues. So far from accepting the view which was afterwards to prevail, that the world of business is a closed compartment with laws of its own, and that the religious teacher exceeds his commission when he lays down rules for the moral conduct of secular affairs, he reserves for that plausible heresy denunciations hardly less bitter than those directed against Rome. The text of his admonitions is always, “Unless your righteousness exceeds that of the Scribes and Pharisees,” and his appeal is from a formal, legalistic, calculated virtue to the natural kindliness which does not need to be organized by law, because it is the spontaneous expression of a habit of love. To restore is to destroy. The comment on Luther’s enthusiasm for the simple Christian virtues of an age innocent of the artificial chicaneries of ecclesiastical and secular jurisprudence came in the thunder of revolution. It was the declaration of the peasants, that “the message of Christ, the promised Messiah, the word of life, teaching only love, peace, patience and concord,” was incompatible with serfdom, corvées, and enclosures.³⁵

Professor Troeltsch has pointed out that Protestants, no less than Catholics, stressed the idea of a Church-civilization. In this civilization, all areas of life were to be governed by the law of God. These included the State and society, education and science, law, commerce and industry.³⁴ This idea dominates everything Luther says about social issues. He did not accept a view that would later prevail. According to that view, business is a separate sphere with laws of its own. A religious teacher, therefore, goes beyond his authority by setting moral rules for secular affairs. Luther denounces this plausible heresy almost as bitterly as he denounces Rome. The text of his warnings is always, “Unless your righteousness exceeds that of the Scribes and Pharisees.” He calls people away from formal, legalistic, calculated virtue toward natural kindness. This kindness does not need to be organized by law because it springs naturally from a habit of love. To restore is to destroy. Luther praised the simple Christian virtues of an age innocent of the artificial trickery of Church and secular law. The response to his enthusiasm came in the thunder of revolution. The peasants declared that “the message of Christ, the promised Messiah, the word of life, teaching only love, peace, patience and concord,” was incompatible with serfdom, corvées, and enclosures.³⁵

The practical conclusion to which such premises led was a theory of society more medieval than that held by many thinkers in the Middle Ages, since it dismissed the commercial developments of the last two centuries as a relapse into paganism. The foundation of it was partly the Bible, partly a vague conception of a state of nature in which men had not yet been corrupted by riches, partly the popular protests against a commercial civilization which were everywhere in the air, and which Luther, a man of the people, absorbed and reproduced with astonishing naïveté, even while he denounced the practical measures proposed to give effect to them. Like some elements in the Catholic reaction of the twentieth century, the Protestant reaction of the sixteenth sighed for a vanished age of peasant prosperity. The social theory of Luther, who hated commerce and capitalism, has its nearest modern analogy in the Distributive State of Mr. Belloc and Mr. Chesterton.

These premises led to a theory of society more medieval than that of many thinkers in the Middle Ages. It dismissed the commercial developments of the previous two centuries as a relapse into paganism. The theory rested partly on the Bible and partly on a vague idea of a state of nature where wealth had not yet corrupted people. It also drew on the widespread popular protests against a commercial civilization. Luther, a man of the people, absorbed and repeated these protests with astonishing naïveté. Yet he denounced the practical measures proposed to put them into effect. Like some elements of the Catholic reaction of the twentieth century, the Protestant reaction of the sixteenth longed for a vanished age of peasant prosperity. Luther hated commerce and capitalism. The closest modern parallel to his social theory is the Distributive State of Mr. Belloc and Mr. Chesterton.

For the arts by which men amass wealth and power, as for the anxious provision which accumulates for the future, Luther had all the distrust of a peasant and a monk. Christians should earn their living in the sweat of their brow, take no thought for the morrow, marry young and trust Heaven to provide for its own. Like Melanchthon, Luther thought that the most admirable life was that of the peasant, for it was least touched by the corroding spirit of commercial calculation, and he quoted Virgil to drive home the lesson to be derived from the example of the patriarchs.³⁶ The labor of the craftsman is honorable, for he serves the community in his calling; the honest smith or shoemaker is a priest. Trade is permissible, provided that it is confined to the exchange of necessaries, and that the seller demands no more than will compensate him for his labor and risk. The unforgivable sins are idleness and covetousness, for they destroy the unity of the body of which Christians are members. The grand author and maintainer of both is Rome. For, having ruined Italy, the successor of St. Peter, who lives in a worldly pomp that no king or emperor can equal, has fastened his fangs on Germany; while the mendicant orders, mischievous alike in their practice and by their example, cover the land with a horde of beggars. Pilgrimages, saints’ days and monasteries are an excuse for idleness and must be suppressed. Vagrants must be either banished or compelled to labor, and each town must organize charity for the support of the honest poor.³⁷

Luther distrusted the ways people amassed wealth and power as much as any peasant or monk. He felt the same distrust of anxious saving for the future. Christians should earn their living by the sweat of their brow and take no thought for tomorrow. They should marry young and trust Heaven to provide for its own. Like Melanchthon, Luther thought the life of a peasant was the most admirable. It was least affected by the corrupting spirit of commercial calculation. He quoted Virgil to reinforce the lesson drawn from the example of the patriarchs.³⁶ A craftsperson’s work is honorable because it serves the community. An honest blacksmith or shoemaker is a priest. Trade is permissible, provided it is limited to the exchange of necessities. The seller must also demand no more than enough to compensate for labor and risk. The unforgivable sins are idleness and greed, because they destroy the unity of the body to which Christians belong. Rome is chiefly responsible for creating and sustaining both sins. For the successor of St. Peter has ruined Italy and now has his fangs in Germany. He lives in worldly splendor that no king or emperor can match. Meanwhile, the mendicant orders spread a horde of beggars across the land. They do harm both through their practices and through their example. Pilgrimages, saints’ days and monasteries are excuses for idleness and must be abolished. Vagrants must either be banished or forced to work. Each town must organize charity to support the honest poor.³⁷

Luther accepted the social hierarchy, with its principles of status and subordination, though he knocked away the ecclesiastical rungs in the ladder. The combination of religious radicalism and economic conservatism is not uncommon, and in the traditional conception of society, as an organism of unequal classes with different rights and functions, the father of all later revolutions found an arsenal of arguments against change, which he launched with almost equal fury against revolting peasants and grasping monopolists. His vindication of the spiritual freedom of common men, and his outspoken abuse of the German princes, had naturally been taken at their face value by serfs groaning under an odious tyranny, and, when the inevitable rising came, the rage of Luther, like that of Burke in another age, was sharpened by embarrassment at what seemed to him a hideous parody of truths which were both sacred and his own. As fully convinced as any medieval writer that serfdom was the necessary foundation of society, his alarm at the attempt to abolish it was intensified by a political theory which exalted the absolutism of secular authorities, and a religious doctrine which drew a sharp antithesis between the external order and the life of the spirit. The demand of the peasants that villeinage should end, because “Christ has delivered and redeemed us all, the lowly as well as the great, without exception, by the shedding of His precious blood,”³⁸ horrified him, partly as portending an orgy of anarchy, partly because it was likely to be confused with and to prejudice, as in fact it did, the Reformation movement, partly because (as he thought) it degraded the Gospel by turning a spiritual message into a program of social reconstruction. “This article would make all men equal and so change the spiritual kingdom of Christ into an external worldly one. Impossible! An earthly kingdom cannot exist without inequality of persons. Some must be free, others serfs, some rulers, others subjects. As St. Paul says, ‘Before Christ both master and slave are one.’”³⁹ After nearly four centuries, Luther’s apprehensions of a too hasty establishment of the Kingdom of Heaven appear somewhat exaggerated.

Luther accepted the social hierarchy and its principles of rank and subordination, although he removed the Church’s ranks from the ladder. Religious radicalism combined with economic conservatism is not unusual. Society was traditionally seen as an organism made up of unequal classes with different rights and functions. In this view, the father of all later revolutions found an arsenal of arguments against change. He used them with almost equal fury against rebellious peasants and greedy monopolists. Luther defended the spiritual freedom of ordinary people and openly condemned the German princes. Serfs suffering under a hateful tyranny had naturally taken him at his word. When the inevitable uprising came, Luther was furious, just as Burke was in another age. His fury was sharpened by embarrassment at what seemed to him a hideous parody of truths that were both sacred and his own. Luther was as convinced as any medieval writer that serfdom was the necessary foundation of society. He was therefore alarmed by the attempt to abolish it. His alarm was intensified by a political theory that upheld the absolute power of secular authorities. It was also intensified by a religious doctrine that sharply separated the outward social order from the life of the spirit. The peasants demanded an end to villeinage, or serfdom, because “Christ has delivered and redeemed us all, the lowly as well as the great, without exception, by the shedding of His precious blood,”³⁸ Luther was horrified by their demand for several reasons. He feared it would lead to an orgy of anarchy. He also feared it would be confused with the Reformation movement and damage it, as indeed it did. And he thought it degraded the Gospel by turning a spiritual message into a program for rebuilding society. “This article would make all men equal and so change the spiritual kingdom of Christ into an external worldly one. Impossible! An earthly kingdom cannot exist without inequality of persons. Some must be free, others serfs, some rulers, others subjects. As St. Paul says, ‘Before Christ both master and slave are one.’”³⁹ After nearly four centuries, Luther’s fears that the Kingdom of Heaven would be established too quickly seem somewhat exaggerated.

A society may perish by corruption as well as by violence. Where the peasants battered, the capitalist mined; and Luther, whose ideal was the patriarchal ethics of a world which, if it ever existed, was visibly breaking up, had as little mercy for the slow poison of commerce and finance as for the bludgeon of revolt. No contrast could be more striking than that between his social theory and the outlook of Calvin. Calvin, with all his rigor, accepted the main institutions of a commercial civilization, and supplied a creed to the classes which were to dominate the future. The eyes of Luther were on the past. He saw no room in a Christian society for those middle classes whom an English statesman once described as the natural representatives of the human race. International trade, banking and credit, capitalist industry, the whole complex of economic forces, which, next to his own revolution, were to be the mightiest solvent of the medieval world, seem to him to belong in their very essence to the kingdom of darkness which the Christian will shun. He attacks the authority of the canon law, only to reaffirm more dogmatically the detailed rules which it had been used to enforce. When he discusses economic questions at length, as in his Long Sermon on Usury in 1520, or his tract On Trade and Usury in 1524, his doctrines are drawn from the straitest interpretation of ecclesiastical jurisprudence, unsoftened by the qualifications with which canonists themselves had attempted to adapt its rigors to the exigencies of practical life.

A society may be destroyed by corruption as well as by violence. The peasants battered society, while the capitalist undermined it. Luther’s ideal was the patriarchal ethics of an older world. If that world had ever existed, it was visibly breaking apart. Luther was no more forgiving of the slow poison of commerce and finance than of the blunt force of revolt. His social theory could hardly have been more different from Calvin’s outlook. Despite all his strictness, Calvin accepted the main institutions of a commercial civilization. He supplied a creed to the classes that would dominate the future. Luther looked to the past. He saw no place in a Christian society for the middle classes. An English statesman once described those classes as the natural representatives of the human race. International trade, banking and credit, capitalist industry, and the whole complex of economic forces seemed to Luther essentially part of the kingdom of darkness, which Christians would shun. Apart from his own revolution, these forces would do more than anything else to dissolve the medieval world. Luther attacked the authority of canon law, only to restate more dogmatically the detailed rules it had been used to enforce. He discussed economic questions at length in his Long Sermon on Usury in 1520 and his tract On Trade and Usury in 1524. In these works, his doctrines came from the strictest interpretation of church law. He left out the qualifications with which experts in canon law had tried to adapt its strict rules to the demands of practical life.

In the matter of prices he merely rehearses traditional doctrines. “A man should not say, ‘I will sell my wares as dear as I can or please,’ but ‘I will sell my wares as is right and proper.’ For thy selling should not be a work that is within thy own power or will, without all law and limit, as though thou wert a God, bounden to no one. But because thy selling is a work that thou performest to thy neighbor, it should be restrained within such law and conscience that thou mayest practice it without harm or injury to him.”⁴⁰ If a price is fixed by public authority, the seller must keep to it. If it is not, he must follow the price of common estimation. If he has to determine it himself, he must consider the income needed to maintain him in his station in life, his labor, and his risk, and must settle it accordingly. He must not take advantage of scarcity to raise it. He must not corner the market. He must not deal in futures. He must not sell dearer for deferred payments.

On prices, he simply repeats traditional teachings. “A man should not say, ‘I will sell my goods for as much as I can get or as I please,’ but ‘I will sell my goods at a fair and proper price.’ Your selling should not be governed by your own power or will, without any law or limit. You are not a God, bound to no one. Because you sell to your neighbor, your selling should be guided by law and conscience. That way, you can sell without harming or injuring him.”⁴⁰ If a public authority sets a price, the seller must keep to it. If not, he must follow the generally accepted price. If he must set the price himself, he must consider the income needed to maintain his position in life. He must also consider his labor and risk, and set the price accordingly. He must not take advantage of scarcity to raise the price. He must not corner the market. He must not deal in futures. He must not charge more for deferred payments.

On the subject of usury, Luther goes even further than the orthodox teaching. He denounces the concessions to practical necessities made by the canonists. “The greatest misfortune of the German nation is easily the traffic in interest.... The devil invented it, and the Pope, by giving his sanction to it, has done untold evil throughout the world.”⁴¹ Not content with insisting that lending ought to be free, he denounces the payment of interest as compensation for loss and the practice of investing in rent-charges, both of which the canon law in his day allowed, and would refuse usurers the sacrament, absolution, and Christian burial. With such a code of ethics, Luther naturally finds the characteristic developments of his generation—the luxury trade with the East, international finance, speculation on the exchanges, combinations and monopolies—shocking beyond measure. “Foreign merchandise which brings from Calicut and India and the like places wares such as precious silver and jewels and spices ... and drain the land and people of their money, should not be permitted.... Of combinations I ought really to say much, but the matter is endless and bottomless, full of mere greed and wrong.... Who is so stupid as not to see that combinations are mere outright monopolies, which even heathen civil laws—I will say nothing of divine right and Christian law—condemn as a plainly harmful thing in all the world?”⁴²

On usury, Luther goes even further than orthodox teaching. He condemns the concessions to practical needs made by the canonists. “The greatest misfortune of the German nation is surely the trade in interest.... The devil invented it, and the Pope, by approving it, has done untold evil throughout the world.”⁴¹ Luther insists that loans should be free of charge. But he also condemns charging interest as compensation for loss and investing in rent-charges. Canon law in his day allowed both practices. He would deny usurers the sacrament, absolution, and Christian burial. With such a code of ethics, Luther naturally finds the major developments of his generation shocking beyond measure. These include the luxury trade with the East, international finance, speculation on the exchanges, combinations, and monopolies. “Foreign trade that brings goods such as precious silver, jewels, and spices from Calicut, India, and similar places ... and drains the land and its people of their money should not be allowed.... I really ought to say much about combinations, but the subject is endless and bottomless, full of sheer greed and wrongdoing.... Who is so stupid as not to see that combinations are simply outright monopolies? Even heathen civil laws condemn monopolies as plainly harmful throughout the world, to say nothing of divine right and Christian law.”⁴²

So resolute an enemy of license might have been expected to be the champion of law. It might have been supposed that Luther, with his hatred of the economic appetites, would have hailed as an ally the restraints by which, at least in theory, those appetites had been controlled. In reality, of course, his attitude towards the mechanism of ecclesiastical jurisprudence and discipline was the opposite. It was one, not merely of indifference, but of repugnance. The prophet who scourged with whips the cupidity of the individual chastised with scorpions the restrictions imposed upon it by society; the apostle of an ideal ethic of Christian love turned a shattering dialectic on the corporate organization of the Christian Church. In most ages, so tragic a parody of human hopes are human institutions, there have been some who have loved mankind, while hating almost everything that men have done or made. Of that temper Luther, who lived at a time when the contrast between a sublime theory and a hideous reality had long been intolerable, is the supreme example. He preaches a selfless charity, but he recoils with horror from every institution by which an attempt had been made to give it a concrete expression. He reiterates the content of medieval economic teaching with a literalness rarely to be found in the thinkers of the later Middle Ages, but for the rules and ordinances in which it had received a positive, if sadly imperfect, expression, he has little but abhorrence. God speaks to the soul, not through the mediation of the priesthood or of social institutions built up by man, but solus cum solo, as a voice in the heart and in the heart alone. Thus the bridges between the worlds of spirit and of sense are broken, and the soul is isolated from the society of men, that it may enter into communion with its Maker. The grace that is freely bestowed upon it may overflow in its social relations; but those relations can supply no particle of spiritual nourishment to make easier the reception of grace. Like the primeval confusion into which the fallen Angel plunged on his fatal mission, they are a chaos of brute matter, a wilderness of dry bones, a desert unsanctified and incapable of contributing to sanctification. “It is certain that absolutely none among outward things, under whatever name they may be reckoned, has any influence in producing Christian righteousness or liberty.... One thing, and one alone, is necessary for life, justification and Christian liberty; and that is the most holy word of God, the Gospel of Christ.”⁴³

One might have expected such a determined enemy of license to champion the law. Given Luther’s hatred of economic appetites, one might suppose he would have welcomed the restraints that, at least in theory, controlled them. In reality, of course, his attitude toward the machinery of Church law and discipline was the opposite. He was not merely indifferent to it. He was repelled by it. The prophet who whipped individual greed attacked society’s restrictions on it with even greater fury. The apostle of an ideal ethic of Christian love used devastating arguments against the organized Christian Church. Human institutions are such tragic parodies of human hopes that, in most ages, some people have loved humanity while hating almost everything humans have done or made. Luther is the supreme example of this attitude. He lived at a time when the contrast between a sublime theory and a hideous reality had long been intolerable. He preached selfless charity. Yet he recoiled in horror from every institution that had tried to put it into practice. He repeated medieval economic teaching more literally than thinkers of the later Middle Ages rarely did. Yet he had little but hatred for the rules and ordinances that had given that teaching a practical, if sadly imperfect, form. God speaks to the soul, not through priests or human social institutions, but solus cum solo, as a voice in the heart and nowhere else. The bridges between the worlds of spirit and sense are thus broken. The soul is isolated from human society so that it may enter into communion with its Maker. The grace freely given to the soul may overflow into its social relations. But those relations can provide no spiritual nourishment at all to help the soul receive grace. They are like the primeval confusion into which the fallen Angel plunged on his fatal mission. They are a chaos of brute matter, a wilderness of dry bones, a desert that is not holy and cannot help make anything holy. “It is certain that absolutely none among outward things, whatever they may be called, has any influence in producing Christian righteousness or liberty.... One thing, and one alone, is necessary for life, justification and Christian liberty, and that is the most holy word of God, the Gospel of Christ.”⁴³

The difference between loving men as a result of first loving God, and learning to love God through a growing love for men, may not, at first sight, appear profound. To Luther it seemed an abyss, and Luther was right. It was, in a sense, nothing less than the Reformation itself. For carried, as it was not carried by Luther, to its logical result, the argument made, not only good works, but sacraments and the Church itself unnecessary. The question of the religious significance of that change of emphasis, and of the validity of the intellectual processes by which Luther reached his conclusions, is one for theologians. Its effects on social theory were staggering. Since salvation is bestowed by the operation of grace in the heart and by that alone, the whole fabric of organized religion, which had mediated between the individual soul and its Maker—divinely commissioned hierarchy, systematized activities, corporate institutions—drops away, as the blasphemous trivialities of a religion of works. The medieval conception of the social order, which had regarded it as a highly articulated organism of members contributing in their different degrees to a spiritual purpose, was shattered, and differences which had been distinctions within a larger unity were now set in irreconcilable antagonism to each other. Grace no longer completed nature: it was the antithesis of it. Man’s actions as a member of society were no longer the extension of his life as a child of God: they were its negation. Secular interests ceased to possess, even remotely, a religious significance: they might compete with religion, but they could not enrich it. Detailed rules of conduct—a Christian casuistry—are needless or objectionable: the Christian has a sufficient guide in the Bible and in his own conscience. In one sense, the distinction between the secular and the religious life vanished. Monasticism was, so to speak, secularized; all men stood henceforward on the same footing towards God; and that advance, which contained the germ of all subsequent revolutions, was so enormous that all else seems insignificant. In another sense, the distinction became more profound than ever before. For, though all might be sanctified, it was their inner life alone which could partake of sanctification. The world was divided into good and evil, light and darkness, spirit and matter. The division between them was absolute; no human effort could span the chasm.

At first glance, the difference may not seem profound. One view holds that people love others because they first love God. The other holds that people learn to love God through a growing love for others. To Luther, the difference seemed like an abyss, and Luther was right. In a sense, it was nothing less than the Reformation itself. For, taken to its logical conclusion, the argument made good works unnecessary. It also made the sacraments and the Church itself unnecessary. Luther did not take the argument that far. Theologians must decide what this change of emphasis meant for religion and whether Luther’s reasoning was valid. Its effects on social theory were staggering. Salvation comes through the action of grace in the heart, and through that alone. For that reason, the whole structure of organized religion falls away. It had stood between the individual soul and its maker, through a hierarchy commissioned by God, organized activities, and shared institutions. All these fall away as the blasphemous trivialities of a religion based on works. The medieval view of the social order was shattered. It had seen society as a complex organism whose members contributed in different degrees to a spiritual purpose. Differences that had been distinctions within a larger unity were now set in irreconcilable opposition to one another. Grace no longer completed nature. It was nature’s opposite. A person’s actions as a member of society no longer extended that person’s life as a child of God. They denied it. Secular interests ceased to have even a remote religious significance. They might compete with religion, but they could not enrich it. Detailed rules of conduct, a Christian casuistry, are unnecessary or objectionable. The Bible and the Christian’s own conscience provide enough guidance. In one sense, the distinction between secular and religious life vanished. Monasticism was, so to speak, secularized. From then on, all people stood on the same footing before God. That advance contained the seed of all later revolutions. It was so enormous that everything else seems insignificant. In another sense, the distinction became deeper than ever before. For, though all might be sanctified, only their inner lives could share in that sanctification. The world was divided into good and evil, light and darkness, spirit and matter. The division between them was absolute. No human effort could bridge the gap.

The remoter corollaries of the change remained to be stated by subsequent generations. Luther himself was not consistent. He believed that it was possible to maintain the content of medieval social teaching, while rejecting its sanctions, and he insisted that good works would be the fruit of salvation as vehemently as he denied that they could contribute to its attainment. In his writings on social questions emphasis on the traditional Christian morality is combined with a repudiation of its visible and institutional framework, and in the tragic struggle which results between spirit and letter, form and matter, grace and works, his intention, at least, is not to jettison the rules of good conscience in economic matters, but to purify them by an immense effort of simplification. His denunciation of medieval charity, fraternities, mendicant orders, festivals and pilgrimages, while it drew its point from practical abuses, sprang inevitably from his repudiation of the idea that merit could be acquired by the operation of some special machinery beyond the conscientious discharge of the ordinary duties of daily life. His demand for the abolition of the canon law was the natural corollary of his belief that the Bible was an all-sufficient guide to action. While not rejecting ecclesiastical discipline altogether, he is impatient of it. The Christian, he argues, needs no elaborate mechanism to teach him his duty or to correct him if he neglects it. He has the Scriptures and his own conscience; let him listen to them. “There can be no better instructions in ... all transactions in temporal goods than that every man who is to deal with his neighbor present to himself these commandments: ‘What ye would that others should do unto you, do ye also unto them,’ and ‘Love thy neighbor as thyself.’ If these were followed out, then everything would instruct and arrange itself; then no law books nor courts nor judicial actions would be required; all things would quietly and simply be set to rights, for every one’s heart and conscience would guide him.”⁴⁴

Later generations would have to spell out the more distant consequences of this change. Luther himself was not consistent. He believed he could preserve medieval social teaching while rejecting the authority that supported it. He insisted just as strongly that good works were the fruit of salvation as he denied that they could help achieve it. In his writings on social questions, Luther emphasized traditional Christian morality but rejected its visible and institutional framework. The result was a tragic struggle between spirit and letter, form and matter, grace and works. Yet his intention, at least, was not to abandon the rules of good conscience in economic matters. Rather, he sought to purify them through a great effort to simplify them. Luther condemned medieval charity, fraternities, mendicant orders, festivals, and pilgrimages. His criticism drew its force from actual abuses. But it also followed inevitably from his rejection of the idea that people could earn merit through special practices or institutions. He believed they could not earn merit beyond the conscientious performance of their ordinary daily duties. His call to abolish canon law followed naturally from his belief that the Bible was a completely sufficient guide to action. Although Luther did not reject church discipline altogether, he was impatient with it. He argued that a Christian needs no elaborate system to teach him his duty or correct him if he neglects it. He has the Scriptures and his own conscience. Let him listen to them. “There can be no better instructions for ... all dealings in material goods than for everyone dealing with a neighbor to remember these commandments: ‘Do to others what you would have them do to you,’ and ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ If people followed these commandments, everything would guide and arrange itself. Then no law books, courts, or legal actions would be needed. Everything would quietly and simply be put right, because each person’s heart and conscience would guide him.”⁴⁴

“Everything would arrange itself.” Few would deny it. But how if it does not? Is emotion really an adequate substitute for reason, and rhetoric for law? Is it possible to solve the problem which social duties present to the individual by informing him that no problem exists? If it is true that the inner life is the sphere of religion, does it necessarily follow that the external order is simply irrelevant to it? To wave aside the world of institutions and law as alien to that of the spirit—is not this to abandon, instead of facing, the task of making Christian morality prevail, for which medieval writers, with their conception of a hierarchy of values related to a common end, had attempted, however inadequately, to discover a formula? A Catholic rationalist had answered by anticipation Luther’s contemptuous dismissal of law and learning, when he urged that it was useless for the Church to prohibit extortion, unless it was prepared to undertake the intellectual labor of defining the transactions to which the prohibition applied.⁴⁵ It was a pity that Pecock’s douche of common sense was not of a kind which could be appreciated by Luther. He denounced covetousness in general terms, with a surprising exuberance of invective. But, confronted with a request for advice on the specific question whether the authorities of Dantzig shall put down usury, he retreats into the clouds. “The preacher shall preach only the Gospel rule, and leave it to each man to follow his own conscience. Let him who can receive it, receive it; he cannot be compelled thereto further than the Gospel leads willing hearts whom the spirit of God urges forward.”⁴⁶

“Everything would work itself out.” Few would deny it. But what if things do not work themselves out? Can emotion really replace reason, or rhetoric replace law? Can we solve the problem of an individual’s social duties by telling them that no problem exists? If religion concerns the inner life, does that necessarily mean the external order has nothing to do with religion? To dismiss institutions and law as foreign to the spirit is to abandon a task rather than face it. That task is to make Christian morality prevail. Medieval writers tried, however inadequately, to find a formula for it. They saw values as a hierarchy, all related to a common goal. A Catholic rationalist had already answered Luther’s contemptuous dismissal of law and learning. He argued that it was useless for the Church to prohibit extortion unless it was prepared to define the transactions covered by the ban.⁴⁵ That required intellectual labor. It was a pity that Pecock’s dose of common sense was not something Luther could appreciate. Luther denounced greed in general terms, with a surprising abundance of insults. But when asked for advice on whether the authorities of Dantzig should suppress usury, he retreats into the clouds. “The preacher should preach only the Gospel rule and leave each person to follow their own conscience. Let whoever can accept it, accept it. No one can be compelled beyond the way the Gospel leads willing hearts whom the spirit of God urges forward.”⁴⁶

Luther’s impotence was not accidental. It sprang directly from his fundamental conception that to externalize religion in rules and ordinances is to degrade it. He attacked the casuistry of the canonists, and the points in their teaching with regard to which his criticism was justified were only too numerous. But the remedy for bad law is good law, not lawlessness; and casuistry is merely the application of general principles to particular cases, which is involved in any living system of jurisprudence, whether ecclesiastical or secular. If the principles are not to be applied, on the ground that they are too sublime to be soiled by contact with the gross world of business and politics, what remains of them? Denunciations such as Luther launched against the Fuggers and the peasants; aspirations for an idyll of Christian charity and simplicity, such as he advanced in his tract On Trade and Usury. Pious rhetoric may be edifying, but it is hardly the panoply recommended by St. Paul.

Luther’s inability to act was not accidental. It followed directly from his basic belief that expressing religion through rules and ordinances degrades it. He attacked the case-by-case reasoning of the canon lawyers, and his criticism of their teaching was justified on all too many points. But the remedy for bad law is good law, not lawlessness. And this kind of reasoning simply applies general principles to particular cases. It is part of any living system of law, whether religious or secular. But suppose these principles are not to be applied because they are too lofty to be soiled by contact with the coarse world of business and politics. What remains of them? Condemnations like those Luther hurled at the Fuggers and the peasants. And visions of a peaceful world of Christian charity and simplicity, like the one he offered in his tract On Trade and Usury. Pious rhetoric may be uplifting, but it is hardly the armor recommended by St. Paul.

“As the soul needs the word alone for life and justification, so it is justified by faith alone, and not by any works.... Therefore the first care of every Christian ought to be to lay aside all reliance on works, and to strengthen his faith alone more and more.”⁴⁷ The logic of Luther’s religious premises was more potent for posterity than his attachment to the social ethics of the past, and evolved its own inexorable conclusions in spite of them. It enormously deepened spiritual experience, and sowed the seeds from which new freedoms, abhorrent to Luther, were to spring. But it riveted on the social thought of Protestantism a dualism which, as its implications were developed, emptied religion of its social content, and society of its soul. Between light and darkness a great gulf was fixed. Unable to climb upwards plane by plane, man must choose between salvation and damnation. If he despairs of attaining the austere heights where alone true faith is found, no human institution can avail to help him. Such, Luther thinks, will be the fate of only too many.

“Just as the soul needs only the word for life and justification, it is justified by faith alone, not by works.... Therefore, every Christian’s first concern should be to give up all reliance on works and strengthen his faith alone more and more.”⁴⁷ The logic of Luther’s religious beliefs had a greater influence on later generations than his attachment to the social ethics of the past. Despite that attachment, his beliefs led to their own unavoidable conclusions. They greatly deepened spiritual experience and planted the seeds of new freedoms that Luther would have found abhorrent. But they also imposed a division on Protestant social thought. As the implications of this division unfolded, it emptied religion of its social content and society of its soul. A great gulf separated light from darkness. Unable to climb upward step by step, people had to choose between salvation and damnation. If a person despairs of reaching the austere heights where alone true faith is found, no human institution can help him. Luther thinks that this will be the fate of only too many.

He himself was conscious that he had left the world of secular activities perilously divorced from spiritual restraints. He met the difficulty, partly with an admission that it was insuperable, as one who should exult in the majestic unreasonableness of a mysterious Providence, whose decrees might not be broken, but could not, save by a few, be obeyed; partly with an appeal to the State to occupy the province of social ethics, for which his philosophy could find no room in the Church. “Here it will be asked, ‘Who then can be saved, and where shall we find Christians? For in this fashion no merchandising would remain on earth.’... You see it is as I said, that Christians are rare people on earth. Therefore stern hard civil rule is necessary in the world, lest the world become wild, peace vanish, and commerce and common interests be destroyed.... No one need think that the world can be ruled without blood. The civil sword shall and must be red and bloody.”⁴⁸

He himself knew that he had left worldly activities dangerously free from spiritual restraints. He addressed the difficulty partly by admitting that it could not be overcome. He seemed to celebrate the majestic unreasonableness of a mysterious Providence. Its decrees could not be broken, yet only a few could obey them. He also appealed to the State to take charge of social ethics, which his philosophy left no room for in the Church. “Here people will ask, ‘Who then can be saved, and where shall we find Christians? For in this way no trade would remain on earth.’... You see, it is as I said: Christians are rare people on earth. Therefore, strict and harsh civil rule is necessary in the world. Without it, the world would become wild, peace would vanish, and trade and common interests would be destroyed.... No one should think that the world can be ruled without bloodshed. The civil sword shall and must be red and bloody.”⁴⁸

Thus the axe takes the place of the stake, and authority, expelled from the altar, finds a new and securer home upon the throne. The maintenance of Christian morality is to be transferred from the discredited ecclesiastical authorities to the hands of the State. Skeptical as to the existence of unicorns and salamanders, the age of Machiavelli and Henry VIII found food for its credulity in the worship of that rare monster, the God-fearing Prince.

Thus the axe replaces the stake. Authority, driven from the altar, finds a new and safer home on the throne. Responsibility for upholding Christian morality is to pass from the discredited church authorities to the State. The age of Machiavelli and Henry VIII doubted the existence of unicorns and salamanders. Yet it found a new object for its gullibility in the worship of that rare monster, the God-fearing Prince.

The most characteristic and influential form of Protestantism in the two centuries following the Reformation is that which descends, by one path or another, from the teaching of Calvin. Unlike the Lutheranism from which it sprang, Calvinism, assuming different shapes in different countries, became an international movement, which brought, not peace, but a sword, and the path of which was strewn with revolutions. Where Lutheranism had been socially conservative, deferential to established political authorities, the exponent of a personal, almost a quietistic, piety, Calvinism was an active and radical force. It was a creed which sought, not merely to purify the individual, but to reconstruct Church and State, and to renew society by penetrating every department of life, public as well as private, with the influence of religion.

In the two centuries after the Reformation, the most distinctive and influential form of Protestantism descended from Calvin’s teaching, by one path or another. Unlike the Lutheranism from which it sprang, Calvinism became an international movement, taking different forms in different countries. It brought not peace, but a sword, and left revolutions in its wake. Lutheranism had been socially conservative and respectful of established political authorities. It promoted a personal, almost passive form of religious devotion. Calvinism, by contrast, was an active and radical force. It sought not merely to purify the individual, but to rebuild Church and State. It also sought to renew society by bringing religious influence into every area of life, public and private.

Upon the immense political reactions of Calvinism, this is not the place to enlarge. As a way of life and a theory of society, it possessed from the beginning one characteristic which was both novel and important. It assumed an economic organization which was relatively advanced, and expounded its social ethics on the basis of it. In this respect the teaching of the Puritan moralists who derive most directly from Calvin is in marked contrast with that both of medieval theologians and of Luther. The difference is not merely one of the conclusions reached, but of the plane on which the discussion is conducted. The background, not only of most medieval social theory, but also of Luther and his English contemporaries, is the traditional stratification of rural society. It is a natural, rather than a money, economy, consisting of the petty dealings of peasants and craftsmen in the small market-town, where industry is carried on for the subsistence of the household and the consumption of wealth follows hard upon the production of it, and where commerce and finance are occasional incidents, rather than the forces which keep the whole system in motion. When they criticize economic abuses, it is precisely against departures from that natural state of things—against the enterprise, the greed of gain, the restless competition, which disturb the stability of the existing order with clamorous economic appetites—that their criticism is directed.

This is not the place to discuss the immense political effects of Calvinism. But from the beginning, Calvinism had one new and important feature as a way of life and a theory of society. It assumed a relatively advanced economic organization and based its social ethics on that assumption. In this respect, the Puritan moralists who drew most directly from Calvin differed sharply from both medieval theologians and Luther. They differed not just in their conclusions, but in the terms of the discussion. Most medieval social theory took the traditional hierarchy of rural society as its background. So did Luther and his English contemporaries. The economy was based on goods and labor rather than money. It consisted of small transactions among peasants and craftsmen in small market towns. People worked to support their households, and wealth was consumed soon after it was produced. Commerce and finance were occasional activities, not the forces that kept the whole system moving. When these writers criticized economic abuses, they attacked departures from that natural state of affairs. They opposed the enterprise, greed for gain, and restless competition that disturbed the stability of the existing order with their noisy demands for economic gain.

These ideas were the traditional retort to the evils of unscrupulous commercialism, and they left some trace on the writings of the Swiss reformers. Zwingli, for example, who, in his outlook on society, stood midway between Luther and Calvin, insists on the oft-repeated thesis that private property originates in sin; warns the rich that they can hardly enter the Kingdom of Heaven; denounces the Councils of Constance and Basel—“assembled, forsooth, at the bidding of the Holy Ghost”—for showing indulgence to the mortgaging of land on the security of crops; and, while emphasizing that interest must be paid when the State sanctions it, condemns it in itself as contrary to the law of God.⁴⁹ Of the attempts made at Zürich and Geneva to repress extortion something is said below. But these full-blooded denunciations of capitalism were not intended by their authors to supply a rule of practical life, since it was the duty of the individual to comply with the secular legislation by which interest was permitted, and already, when they were uttered, they had ceased to represent the conclusion of the left wing of the Reformed Churches.

These ideas were the traditional response to the evils of unscrupulous commercialism. They also left some mark on the writings of the Swiss reformers. Zwingli, for example, held social views midway between those of Luther and Calvin. He insisted on the often repeated claim that private property originated in sin. He warned the rich that they could hardly enter the Kingdom of Heaven. He condemned the Councils of Constance and Basel, “assembled, forsooth, at the bidding of the Holy Ghost”. They had been lenient about mortgages on land secured by crops. He also emphasized that interest had to be paid when the State allowed it. Yet he condemned interest itself as contrary to the law of God.⁴⁹ Some attempts to curb extortion in Zürich and Geneva are discussed below. But those who made these forceful denunciations of capitalism did not intend them as rules for daily life. Individuals were obliged to obey the secular laws that permitted interest. And by the time these denunciations were made, they no longer represented the conclusions of the left wing of the Reformed Churches.

For Calvin, and still more his later interpreters, began their voyage lower down the stream. Unlike Luther, who saw economic life with the eyes of a peasant and a mystic, they approached it as men of affairs, disposed neither to idealize the patriarchal virtues of the peasant community, nor to regard with suspicion the mere fact of capitalist enterprise in commerce and finance. Like early Christianity and modern socialism, Calvinism was largely an urban movement; like them, in its earlier days, it was carried from country to country partly by emigrant traders and workmen; and its stronghold was precisely in those social groups to which the traditional scheme of social ethics, with its treatment of economic interests as a quite minor aspect of human affairs, must have seemed irrelevant or artificial. As was to be expected in the exponents of a faith which had its headquarters at Geneva, and later its most influential adherents in great business centers, like Antwerp with its industrial hinterland, London, and Amsterdam, its leaders addressed their teaching, not of course exclusively, but none the less primarily, to the classes engaged in trade and industry, who formed the most modern and progressive elements in the life of the age.

Calvin, and even more so his later interpreters, began their journey farther downstream. Unlike Luther, who saw economic life through the eyes of a peasant and a mystic, they approached it as people of business. They were not inclined to idealize the patriarchal virtues of peasant communities. Nor did they regard capitalist enterprise in commerce and finance as suspicious simply because it was capitalist. Like early Christianity and modern socialism, Calvinism was largely an urban movement. Like them, in its early days, it was spread from country to country partly by traders and workers who emigrated. Its stronghold was among the very social groups who must have found traditional social ethics irrelevant or artificial. That tradition treated economic interests as a minor part of human affairs. Calvinism was based in Geneva. Later, its most influential followers were in great business centers such as Antwerp, with its surrounding industrial region, London, and Amsterdam. Given this, its leaders addressed their teaching primarily to people engaged in trade and industry, though of course not exclusively to them. These groups formed the most modern and progressive elements in the life of the age.

In doing so they naturally started from a frank recognition of the necessity of capital, credit and banking, large-scale commerce and finance, and the other practical facts of business life. They thus broke with the tradition which, regarding a preoccupation with economic interests “beyond what is necessary for subsistence” as reprehensible, had stigmatized the middleman as a parasite and the usurer as a thief. They set the profits of trade and finance, which to the medieval writer, as to Luther, only with difficulty escaped censure as turpe lucrum, on the same level of respectability as the earnings of the laborer and the rents of the landlord. “What reason is there,” wrote Calvin to a correspondent, “why the income from business should not be larger than that from land-owning? Whence do the merchant’s profits come, except from his own diligence and industry?”⁵⁰ It was quite in accordance with the spirit of those words that Bucer, even while denouncing the frauds and avarice of merchants, should urge the English Government to undertake the development of the woollen industry on mercantilist lines.⁵¹

In doing so, they naturally began by openly recognizing the need for capital, credit, banking, large-scale commerce and finance, and other practical facts of business life. They thus broke with an older tradition. That tradition condemned a concern with economic interests “beyond what is necessary for subsistence”. It had branded the middleman a parasite and the usurer a thief. They placed the profits of trade and finance on the same respectable level as workers' earnings and landlords' rents. Medieval writers, like Luther, had found it hard not to condemn such profits as turpe lucrum. “What reason is there,” Calvin wrote to a correspondent, “why the income from business should not be larger than that from land-owning? Where do the merchant’s profits come from, except his own diligence and industry?”⁵⁰ In keeping with the spirit of those words, Bucer urged the English Government to develop the woollen industry along mercantilist lines. He did so even while denouncing merchants' fraud and greed.⁵¹

Since it is the environment of the industrial and commercial classes which is foremost in the thoughts of Calvin and his followers, they have to make terms with its practical necessities. It is not that they abandon the claim of religion to moralize economic life, but that the life which they are concerned to moralize is one in which the main features of a commercial civilization are taken for granted, and that it is for application to such conditions that their teaching is designed. Early Calvinism, as we shall see, has its own rule, and a rigorous rule, for the conduct of economic affairs. But it no longer suspects the whole world of economic motives as alien to the life of the spirit, or distrusts the capitalist as one who has necessarily grown rich on the misfortunes of his neighbor, or regards poverty as in itself meritorious, and it is perhaps the first systematic body of religious teaching which can be said to recognize and applaud the economic virtues. Its enemy is not the accumulation of riches, but their misuse for purposes of self-indulgence or ostentation. Its ideal is a society which seeks wealth with the sober gravity of men who are conscious at once of disciplining their own characters by patient labor, and of devoting themselves to a service acceptable to God.

Calvin and his followers focus on the world of the industrial and commercial classes. They therefore have to accommodate its practical needs. They do not abandon religion’s claim to guide economic life according to moral principles. But the life they seek to guide takes the main features of a commercial civilization for granted. Their teaching is designed for those conditions. Early Calvinism, as we shall see, has its own strict rule for economic conduct. But it no longer regards all economic motives as foreign to spiritual life. Nor does it distrust capitalists as people who must have grown rich from their neighbors’ misfortunes. It no longer regards poverty as virtuous in itself. Perhaps it is the first systematic body of religious teaching to recognize and praise economic virtues. It opposes not the accumulation of wealth, but its misuse for self-indulgence or display. Its ideal is a society that seeks wealth with sober seriousness. Its members know that patient labor disciplines their characters and that their work is a service acceptable to God.

It is in the light of that change of social perspective that the doctrine of usury associated with the name of Calvin is to be interpreted. Its significance consisted, not in the phase which it marked in the technique of economic analysis, but in its admission to a new position of respectability of a powerful and growing body of social interests, which, however irrepressible in practice, had hitherto been regarded by religious theory as, at best, of dubious propriety, and, at worst, as frankly immoral. Strictly construed, the famous pronouncement strikes the modern reader rather by its rigor than by its indulgence. “Calvin,” wrote an English divine a generation after his death, “deals with usurie as the apothecarie doth with poyson.”⁵² The apologetic was just, for neither his letter to Œcolampadius, nor his sermon on the same subject, reveal any excessive tolerance for the trade of the financier. That interest is lawful, provided that it does not exceed an official maximum, that, even when a maximum is fixed, loans must be made gratis to the poor, that the borrower must reap as much advantage as the lender, that excessive security must not be exacted, that what is venial as an occasional expedient is reprehensible when carried on as a regular occupation, that no man may snatch economic gain for himself to the injury of his neighbor—a condonation of usury protected by such embarrassing entanglements can have offered but tepid consolation to the devout money-lender.

Calvin’s doctrine of usury must be understood in light of that change in social outlook. Its significance lay not in its contribution to economic analysis. Rather, it gave new respectability to a powerful and growing set of social interests. In practice, those interests could not be suppressed. Yet religious theory had until then regarded them as, at best, of doubtful propriety and, at worst, openly immoral. Read strictly, Calvin’s famous statement strikes a modern reader as rigorous rather than lenient. “Calvin,” wrote an English clergyman a generation after his death, “deals with usurie as the apothecarie doth with poyson.”⁵² This defense was fair. Neither Calvin’s letter to Œcolampadius nor his sermon on the same subject shows excessive tolerance for the financier’s trade. Calvin held that charging interest was lawful, provided it did not exceed an official maximum. Even when a maximum was set, loans to the poor had to be made gratis. The borrower had to benefit as much as the lender, and the lender could not demand excessive security. What was a pardonable occasional expedient was reprehensible as a regular occupation. No one could seize economic gain for himself at his neighbor’s expense. Such a qualified acceptance of usury, hedged about with inconvenient restrictions, can have offered the devout money-lender little comfort.

Contemporaries interpreted Calvin to mean that the debtor might properly be asked to concede some small part of his profits to the creditor with whose capital they had been earned, but that the exaction of interest was wrong if it meant that “the creditor becomes rich by the sweat of the debtor, and the debtor does not reap the reward of his labor.” There have been ages in which such doctrines would have been regarded as an attack on financial enterprise rather than as a defense of it. Nor were Calvin’s specific contributions to the theory of usury strikingly original. As a hard-headed lawyer, he was free both from the incoherence and from the idealism of Luther, and his doctrine was probably regarded by himself merely as one additional step in the long series of developments through which ecclesiastical jurisprudence on the subject had already gone. In emphasizing the difference between the interest wrung from the necessities of the poor and the interest which a prosperous merchant could earn with borrowed capital, he had been anticipated by Major; in his sanction of a moderate rate on loans to the rich, his position was the same as that already assumed, though with some hesitation, by Melanchthon. The picture of Calvin, the organizer and disciplinarian, as the parent of laxity in social ethics, is a legend. Like the author of another revolution in economic theory, he might have turned on his popularizers with the protest: “I am not a Calvinist.”

Calvin’s contemporaries understood him to mean that a debtor could properly be asked to give the creditor a small share of the profits earned with the creditor’s capital. But charging interest was wrong if it meant that “the creditor becomes rich by the sweat of the debtor, and the debtor does not reap the reward of his labor.” In some ages, such doctrines would have been seen as an attack on financial enterprise rather than a defense of it. Nor were Calvin’s specific contributions to the theory of usury strikingly original. As a practical lawyer, he was free from both Luther’s inconsistency and his idealism. Calvin probably saw his own doctrine as just one more step in the long development of church law on the subject. He emphasized the difference between interest extracted from the poor because of their need and interest a prosperous merchant could earn using borrowed capital. But Major had already made this distinction. Calvin also approved a moderate interest rate on loans to the rich. Melanchthon had already taken the same position, though with some hesitation. Calvin was an organizer and a disciplinarian. The picture of him as the father of lax social ethics is a legend. Like the author of another revolution in economic theory, he might have turned on those who popularized his ideas and protested: “I am not a Calvinist.”

Legends are apt, however, to be as right in substance as they are wrong in detail, and both its critics and its defenders were correct in regarding Calvin’s treatment of capital as a watershed. What he did was to change the plane on which the discussion was conducted, by treating the ethics of money-lending, not as a matter to be decided by an appeal to a special body of doctrine on the subject of usury, but as a particular case of the general problem of the social relations of a Christian community, which must be solved in the light of existing circumstances. The significant feature in his discussion of the subject is that he assumes credit to be a normal and inevitable incident in the life of society. He therefore dismisses the oft-quoted passages from the Old Testament and the Fathers as irrelevant, because designed for conditions which no longer exist, argues that the payment of interest for capital is as reasonable as the payment of rent for land, and throws on the conscience of the individual the obligation of seeing that it does not exceed the amount dictated by natural justice and the golden rule. He makes, in short, a fresh start, argues that what is permanent is, not the rule “non fœnerabis,” but “l’équité et la droiture,” and appeals from Christian tradition to commercial common sense, which he is sanguine enough to hope will be Christian. On such a view all extortion is to be avoided by Christians. But capital and credit are indispensable; the financier is not a pariah, but a useful member of society; and lending at interest, provided that the rate is reasonable and that loans are made freely to the poor, is not per se more extortionate than any other of the economic transactions without which human affairs cannot be carried on. That acceptance of the realities of commercial practice as a starting-point was of momentous importance. It meant that Calvinism and its off-shoots took their stand on the side of the activities which were to be most characteristic of the future, and insisted that it was not by renouncing them, but by untiring concentration on the task of using for the glory of God the opportunities which they offered, that the Christian life could and must be lived.

Legends are often right in substance, however, even when they are wrong in detail. Both Calvin’s critics and his defenders were right to see his treatment of capital as a turning point. He changed the terms of the discussion. He did not treat the ethics of money lending as a question to be settled by special teachings about usury. Instead, he treated it as one aspect of the broader problem of social relations in a Christian community. That problem had to be solved in light of existing circumstances. The important feature of his discussion is his assumption that credit is a normal and inevitable part of social life. He therefore dismisses the often quoted passages from the Old Testament and the Fathers as irrelevant. They were meant for conditions that no longer exist. He argues that paying interest on capital is as reasonable as paying rent for land. He leaves it to each person’s conscience to ensure that interest does not exceed what natural justice and the golden rule allow. In short, he makes a fresh start. He argues that what remains binding is not the rule “non fœnerabis,” but “l’équité et la droiture.” He appeals from Christian tradition to commercial common sense. He is optimistic enough to hope that commercial common sense will be Christian. On this view, Christians must avoid all extortion. But capital and credit are indispensable, and the financier is not an outcast but a useful member of society. Lending at interest is not per se more extortionate than any other economic transaction needed to carry on human affairs. This holds provided the interest rate is reasonable and loans are made freely to the poor. Taking the realities of commercial practice as a starting point was enormously important. It meant that Calvinism and its offshoots supported the activities that would be most characteristic of the future. They insisted that Christians could and must live a Christian life not by giving up those activities, but by concentrating tirelessly on using the opportunities they offered for the glory of God.

It was on this practical basis of urban industry and commercial enterprise that the structure of Calvinistic social ethics was erected. Upon their theological background it would be audacious to enter. But even an amateur may be pardoned, if he feels that there have been few systems in which the practical conclusions flow by so inevitable a logic from the theological premises. “God not only foresaw,” Calvin wrote, “the fall of the first man, ... but also arranged all by the determination of his own will.”⁵³ Certain individuals he chose as his elect, predestined to salvation from eternity by “his gratuitous mercy, totally irrespective of human merit”; the remainder have been consigned to eternal damnation, “by a just and irreprehensible, but incomprehensible, judgment.”⁵⁴ Deliverance, in short, is the work, not of man himself, who can contribute nothing to it, but of an objective Power. Human effort, social institutions, the world of culture, are at best irrelevant to salvation, and at worst mischievous. They distract man from the true aim of his existence and encourage reliance upon broken reeds.

Calvinistic social ethics was built on the practical foundation of urban industry and commercial enterprise. It would be bold to venture into its theological background. But even an amateur may be forgiven for sensing that few systems draw their practical conclusions so inevitably from their theological premises. “God not only foresaw,” Calvin wrote, “the fall of the first man, ... but also arranged all by the determination of his own will.”⁵³ God chose certain individuals as his elect, predestined to salvation from eternity by “his gratuitous mercy, totally irrespective of human merit”. He consigned the rest to eternal damnation, “by a just and irreprehensible, but incomprehensible, judgment.”⁵⁴ In short, salvation is the work of an objective Power, not of people themselves, who can contribute nothing to it. Human effort, social institutions, and the world of culture are at best irrelevant to salvation and at worst harmful. They distract people from the true aim of their existence and encourage them to rely on things that cannot support them.

That aim is not personal salvation, but the glorification of God, to be sought, not by prayer only, but by action—the sanctification of the world by strife and labor. For Calvinism, with all its repudiation of personal merit, is intensely practical. Good works are not a way of attaining salvation, but they are indispensable as a proof that salvation has been attained. The central paradox of religious ethics—that only those are nerved with the courage needed to turn the world upside down, who are convinced that already, in a higher sense, it is disposed for the best by a Power of which they are the humble instruments—finds in it a special exemplification. For the Calvinist the world is ordained to show forth the majesty of God, and the duty of the Christian is to live for that end. His task is at once to discipline his individual life, and to create a sanctified society. The Church, the State, the community in which he lives, must not merely be a means of personal salvation, or minister to his temporal needs. It must be a “Kingdom of Christ,” in which individual duties are performed by men conscious that they are “ever in their great Taskmaster’s eye,” and the whole fabric is preserved from corruption by a stringent and all-embracing discipline.

That aim is not personal salvation, but the glorification of God. It must be pursued not only through prayer, but through action: making the world holy through struggle and work. For Calvinism, despite its complete rejection of personal merit, is intensely practical. Good works are not a way to gain salvation, but they are essential as proof that salvation has been attained. Calvinism offers a special example of a central paradox of religious ethics. Only those who are convinced that the world is already arranged for the best, in a higher sense, have the courage to turn it upside down. They believe it has been arranged by a Power of which they are the humble instruments. For the Calvinist, the world is ordained to display the majesty of God, and the Christian’s duty is to live for that purpose. The Christian’s task is both to discipline his own life and to create a sanctified society. The Church, the State, and the community in which he lives must do more than help him attain personal salvation or meet his worldly needs. Each must be a “Kingdom of Christ.” There, people perform their individual duties knowing that they are “ever in their great Taskmaster’s eye.” Strict and comprehensive discipline keeps the whole social order free from corruption.

The impetus to reform or revolution springs in every age from the realization of the contrast between the external order of society and the moral standards recognized as valid by the conscience or reason of the individual. And naturally it is in periods of swift material progress, such as the sixteenth and eighteenth centuries, that such a contrast is most acutely felt. The men who made the Reformation had seen the Middle Ages close in the golden autumn which, amid all the corruption and tyranny of the time, still glows in the pictures of Nürnberg and Frankfurt drawn by Æneas Silvius and in the woodcuts of Dürer. And already a new dawn of economic prosperity was unfolding. Its promise was splendid, but it had been accompanied by a cynical materialism which seemed a denial of all that had been meant by the Christian virtues, and which was the more horrifying because it was in the capital of the Christian Church that it reached its height. Shocked by the gulf between theory and practice, men turned this way and that to find some solution of the tension which racked them. The German reformers followed one road and preached a return to primitive simplicity. But who could obliterate the achievements of two centuries, or blot out the new worlds which science had revealed? The Humanists took another, which should lead to the gradual regeneration of mankind by the victory of reason over superstition and brutality and avarice. But who could wait for so distant a consummation? Might there not be a third? Was it not possible that, purified and disciplined, the very qualities which economic success demanded—thrift, diligence, sobriety, frugality—were themselves, after all, the foundation, at least, of the Christian virtues? Was it not conceivable that the gulf which yawned between a luxurious world and the life of the spirit could be bridged, not by eschewing material interests as the kingdom of darkness, but by dedicating them to the service of God?

In every age, the drive for reform or revolution comes from recognizing a contrast. Society’s outward order conflicts with the moral standards that individual conscience or reason accepts as valid. Naturally, people feel this contrast most sharply during periods of rapid material progress, such as the sixteenth and eighteenth centuries. The people who made the Reformation had seen the Middle Ages end in a golden autumn. Despite all the corruption and tyranny of the time, that golden age still glows in Æneas Silvius’s descriptions of Nürnberg and Frankfurt and in Dürer’s woodcuts. A new dawn of economic prosperity was already unfolding. Its promise was splendid, but it had brought a cynical materialism that seemed to deny everything the Christian virtues stood for. This materialism was all the more horrifying because it reached its height in the capital of the Christian Church. Shocked by the gulf between theory and practice, people looked in every direction for a solution to the tension that tormented them. The German reformers took one path, preaching a return to the simplicity of early Christianity. But who could erase the achievements of two centuries or the new worlds revealed by science? The Humanists took another path. They hoped that reason would gradually defeat superstition, brutality, and greed, and so renew humanity. But who could wait for such a distant outcome? Could there be a third path? Perhaps the very qualities needed for economic success, once purified and disciplined, were at least the foundation of the Christian virtues. These qualities were thrift, diligence, sobriety, and frugality. Could the gulf between a luxurious world and the life of the spirit be bridged? Could people dedicate material interests to the service of God, rather than reject them as the kingdom of darkness?

It was that revolution in the traditional scale of ethical values which the Swiss reformers desired to achieve; it was that new type of Christian character that they labored to create. Not as part of any scheme of social reform, but as elements in a plan of moral regeneration, they seized on the aptitudes cultivated by the life of business and affairs, stamped on them a new sanctification, and used them as the warp of a society in which a more than Roman discipline should perpetuate a character the exact antithesis of that fostered by obedience to Rome. The Roman Church, it was held, through the example of its rulers, had encouraged luxury and ostentation: the members of the Reformed Church must be economical and modest. It had sanctioned the spurious charity of indiscriminate almsgiving: the true Christian must repress mendicancy and insist on the virtues of industry and thrift. It had allowed the faithful to believe that they could atone for a life of worldliness by the savorless formality of individual good works reduced to a commercial system, as though man could keep a profit and loss account with his Creator: the true Christian must organize his life as a whole for the service of his Master. It had rebuked the pursuit of gain as lower than the life of religion, even while it took bribes from those who pursued gain with success: the Christian must conduct his business with a high seriousness, as in itself a kind of religion.

The Swiss reformers wanted to overturn the traditional ranking of moral values. They worked to create a new kind of Christian character. They drew on the skills developed in business and public affairs, not as part of a social reform program, but as part of a plan for moral renewal. They gave these skills a new sacred purpose and made them the foundation of a society with a discipline stricter than Rome’s. This discipline would preserve a character exactly opposite to the one encouraged by obedience to Rome. The Roman Church, they believed, had encouraged luxury and showiness through the example of its leaders. Members of the Reformed Church, by contrast, must be economical and modest. The Roman Church had approved the false charity of giving alms without discrimination. The true Christian must discourage begging and insist on the virtues of hard work and thrift. The Roman Church had allowed believers to think they could make up for a worldly life through individual good deeds. These deeds had become an empty formality, reduced to a commercial system, as if people could keep a profit and loss account with their Creator. The true Christian, by contrast, must organize his whole life in service to his master. The Roman Church had condemned the pursuit of gain as inferior to the religious life, even while taking bribes from those who succeeded in making money. The Christian, by contrast, must conduct his business with great seriousness, as a kind of religion in itself.

Such teaching, whatever its theological merits or defects, was admirably designed to liberate economic energies, and to weld into a disciplined social force the rising bourgeoisie, conscious of the contrast between its own standards and those of a laxer world, proud of its vocation as the standard-bearer of the economic virtues, and determined to vindicate an open road for its own way of life by the use of every weapon, including political revolution and war, because the issue which was at stake was not merely convenience or self-interest, but the will of God. Calvinism stood, in short, not only for a new doctrine of theology and ecclesiastical government, but for a new scale of moral values and a new ideal of social conduct. Its practical message, it might perhaps be said, was la carrière ouverte—not aux talents, but au caractère.

Whatever its theological merits or defects, such teaching was admirably suited to unleash economic energies. It also helped unite the rising bourgeoisie into a disciplined social force. This class was aware of the contrast between its own standards and those of a less disciplined world. Its members were proud of their calling as champions of economic virtues. They were determined to clear the way for their own way of life, using every weapon available, including political revolution and war. For what was at stake was not merely convenience or self-interest, but the will of God. In short, Calvinism stood not only for a new doctrine of theology and church government, but also for a new set of moral values and a new ideal of social conduct. Its practical message, one might perhaps say, was a career open not to talent, but to character.

Once the world had been settled to their liking, the middle classes persuaded themselves that they were the convinced enemies of violence and the devotees of the principle of order. While their victories were still to win, they were everywhere the spear-head of revolution. It is not wholly fanciful to say that, on a narrower stage but with not less formidable weapons, Calvin did for the bourgeoisie of the sixteenth century what Marx did for the proletariat of the nineteenth, or that the doctrine of predestination satisfied the same hunger for an assurance that the forces of the universe are on the side of the elect as was to be assuaged in a different age by the theory of historical materialism. He set their virtues at their best in sharp antithesis with the vices of the established order at its worst, taught them to feel that they were a chosen people, made them conscious of their great destiny in the Providential plan and resolute to realize it. The new law was graven on tablets of flesh; it not merely rehearsed a lesson, but fashioned a soul. Compared with the quarrelsome, self-indulgent nobility of most European countries, or with the extravagant and half-bankrupt monarchies, the middle classes in whom Calvinism took root most deeply, were a race of iron. It was not surprising that they made several revolutions, and imprinted their conceptions of political and social expediency on the public life of half a dozen different States in the Old World and in the New.

Once the world had been arranged to their liking, the middle classes convinced themselves that they opposed violence and championed order. But while their victories were still to be won, they were everywhere at the forefront of revolution. It is not entirely fanciful to compare Calvin’s role for the sixteenth-century bourgeoisie with Marx’s role for the nineteenth-century proletariat. Calvin worked on a narrower stage, but with no less formidable weapons. The doctrine of predestination also answered a hunger that the theory of historical materialism would satisfy in a different age. Both offered assurance that the forces of the universe were on the side of the chosen. Calvin set the virtues of the middle classes at their best against the vices of the established order at its worst. He taught them to feel that they were a chosen people. He made them aware of their great destiny in God’s plan and determined to fulfill it. The new law was engraved on tablets of flesh. It did more than repeat a lesson. It shaped a soul. The middle classes in whom Calvinism took root most deeply were a people of iron. So they seemed beside the quarrelsome, self-indulgent nobility of most European countries, or the extravagant and half-bankrupt monarchies. It was no surprise that they made several revolutions. They also stamped their ideas of what was politically and socially expedient on public life in half a dozen states in the Old World and the New.

The two main elements in this teaching were the insistence on personal responsibility, discipline and asceticism, and the call to fashion for the Christian character an objective embodiment in social institutions. Though logically connected, they were often in practical discord. The influence of Calvinism was not simple, but complex, and extended far beyond the circle of Churches which could properly be called Calvinist. Calvinist theology was accepted where Calvinist discipline was repudiated. The bitter struggle between Presbyterians and Independents in England did not prevent men, to whom the whole idea of religious uniformity was fundamentally abhorrent, from drawing inspiration from the conception of a visible Christian society, in which, as one of them said, the Scripture was “really and materially to be fulfilled.”⁵⁵ Both an intense individualism and a rigorous Christian Socialism could be deduced from Calvin’s doctrine. Which of them predominated depended on differences of political environment and of social class. It depended, above all, on the question whether Calvinists were, as at Geneva and in Scotland, a majority, who could stamp their ideals on the social order, or, as in England, a minority, living on the defensive beneath the suspicious eyes of a hostile Government.

The two main elements of this teaching were its emphasis on personal responsibility, discipline, and asceticism, and its call to give Christian character concrete form in social institutions. Although logically connected, these elements often conflicted in practice. Calvinism had a complex influence that extended far beyond the Churches that could properly be called Calvinist. Calvinist theology was accepted in places where Calvinist discipline was rejected. In England, Presbyterians and Independents fought bitterly. Yet even people who found the whole idea of religious uniformity fundamentally abhorrent drew inspiration from the idea of a visible Christian society. In such a society, as one of them said, the Scripture was “really and materially to be fulfilled.”⁵⁵ Both intense individualism and rigorous Christian Socialism could be drawn from Calvin’s doctrine. Which predominated depended on differences in political environment and social class. Above all, it depended on whether Calvinists were a majority or a minority. As a majority, as in Geneva and Scotland, they could shape the social order according to their ideals. As a minority, as in England, they lived on the defensive under the suspicious eyes of a hostile Government.

In the version of Calvinism which found favor with the English upper classes in the seventeenth century, individualism in social affairs was, on the whole, the prevalent philosophy. It was only the fanatic and the agitator who drew inspiration from the vision of a New Jerusalem descending on England’s green and pleasant land, and the troopers of Fairfax soon taught them reason. But, if the theology of Puritanism was that of Calvin, its conception of society, diluted by the practical necessities of a commercial age, and softened to suit the conventions of a territorial aristocracy, was poles apart from that of the master who founded a discipline, compared with which that of Laud, as Laud himself dryly observed,⁵⁶ was a thing of shreds and patches. As both the teaching of Calvin himself, and the practice of some Calvinist communities, suggest, the social ethics of the heroic age of Calvinism savored more of a collectivist dictatorship than of individualism. The expression of a revolt against the medieval ecclesiastical system, it stood itself, where circumstances favored it, for a discipline far more stringent and comprehensive than that of the Middle Ages. If, as some historians have argued, the philosophy of laissez faire emerged as a result of the spread of Calvinism among the middle classes, it did so, like tolerance, by a route which was indirect. It was accepted, less because it was esteemed for its own sake, than as a compromise forced upon Calvinism at a comparatively late stage in its history, as a result of its modification by the pressure of commercial interests, or of a balance of power between conflicting authorities.

In the form of Calvinism favored by the English upper classes in the seventeenth century, individualism generally prevailed in social affairs. Only fanatics and agitators drew inspiration from the vision of a New Jerusalem descending on England’s green and pleasant land. The troopers of Fairfax soon taught them reason. But although Puritan theology was Calvin’s, the Puritan view of society was poles apart from his. It had been diluted by the practical needs of a commercial age and softened to suit the conventions of a landed aristocracy. Calvin had founded a system of discipline beside which Laud’s own discipline, as Laud himself dryly observed,⁵⁶ was a patchwork of scraps. Both Calvin’s teaching and the practices of some Calvinist communities suggest this. The social ethics of Calvinism’s heroic age had more in common with a collectivist dictatorship than with individualism. Calvinism expressed a revolt against the medieval church system. Yet, where circumstances favored it, Calvinism itself stood for a discipline far stricter and more comprehensive than that of the Middle Ages. Some historians have argued that the philosophy of laissez faire emerged as Calvinism spread among the middle classes. If so, it came about by an indirect route, as tolerance did. Laissez faire was accepted less because it was valued for its own sake than because it was a compromise. It was forced upon Calvinism relatively late in its history, as Calvinism was modified by commercial pressures or by a balance of power between competing authorities.

The spirit of the system is suggested by its treatment of the burning question of Pauperism. The reform of traditional methods of poor relief was in the air—Vives had written his celebrated book in 1526⁵⁷—and, prompted both by Humanists and by men of religion, the secular authorities all over Europe were beginning to bestir themselves to cope with what was, at best, a menace to social order, and, at worst, a moral scandal. The question was naturally one which appealed strongly to the ethical spirit of the Reformation. The characteristic of the Swiss reformers, who were much concerned with it, was that they saw the situation not, like the statesman, as a problem of police, nor, like the more intelligent Humanists, as a problem of social organization, but as a question of character. Calvin quoted with approval the words of St. Paul, “If a man will not work, neither shall he eat,” condemned indiscriminate almsgiving as vehemently as any Utilitarian, and urged that the ecclesiastical authorities should regularly visit every family to ascertain whether its members were idle, or drunken, or otherwise undesirable.⁵⁸ Œcolampadius wrote two tracts on the relief of the poor.⁵⁹ Bullinger lamented the army of beggars produced by monastic charity, and secured part of the emoluments of a dissolved abbey for the maintenance of a school and the assistance of the destitute.⁶⁰ In the plan for the reorganization of poor relief at Zürich, which was drafted by Zwingli in 1525, all mendicancy was strictly forbidden; travellers were to be relieved on condition that they left the town next day; provision was to be made for the sick and aged in special institutions; no inhabitant was to be entitled to relief who wore ornaments or luxurious clothes, who failed to attend church, or who played cards or was otherwise disreputable. The basis of his whole scheme was the duty of industry and the danger of relaxing the incentive to work. “With labor,” he wrote, “will no man now support himself.... And yet labor is a thing so good and godlike ... that makes the body hale and strong and cures the sicknesses produced by idleness.... In the things of this life, the laborer is most like to God.”⁶¹

The spirit of the system can be seen in how it treated the pressing question of poverty. Reform of traditional poor relief was already being discussed. Vives had written his celebrated book on the subject in 1526.⁵⁷ Humanists and religious leaders were urging secular authorities across Europe to act. These authorities were beginning to address a problem that was, at best, a threat to social order and, at worst, a moral scandal. The question naturally appealed to the ethical spirit of the Reformation. The Swiss reformers, who were deeply concerned with poverty, saw it as a question of character. Statesmen, by contrast, saw it as a problem of policing, and the more intelligent Humanists saw it as a problem of social organization. Calvin approved St. Paul’s words, “If a man will not work, neither shall he eat.” He condemned giving alms without discrimination as fiercely as any Utilitarian. He also urged church authorities to visit every family regularly to find out whether its members were idle, drunk, or otherwise undesirable.⁵⁸ Œcolampadius wrote two pamphlets on poor relief.⁵⁹ Bullinger lamented the army of beggars created by monastic charity. He also secured part of the income from a dissolved abbey to support a school and help the destitute.⁶⁰ Zwingli drafted a plan to reorganize poor relief in Zürich in 1525. Under the plan, all begging was strictly forbidden. Travellers were to receive help on condition that they left town the next day. Special institutions were to provide for the sick and elderly. No resident was entitled to relief if they wore ornaments or luxurious clothes, failed to attend church, played cards, or were otherwise disreputable. His whole scheme rested on the duty to work and the danger of weakening the incentive to do so. “With labor,” he wrote, “no man will now support himself.... And yet labor is so good and godlike ... that it makes the body healthy and strong and cures the sicknesses caused by idleness.... In the things of this life, the laborer is most like God.”⁶¹

In the assault on pauperism, moral and economic motives were not distinguished. The idleness of the mendicant was both a sin against God and a social evil; the enterprise of the thriving tradesman was at once a Christian virtue and a benefit to the community. The same combination of religious zeal and practical shrewdness prompted the attacks on gambling, swearing, excess in apparel and self-indulgence in eating and drinking. The essence of the system was not preaching or propaganda, though it was prolific of both, but the attempt to crystallize a moral ideal in the daily life of a visible society, which should be at once a Church and a State. Having overthrown monasticism, its aim was to turn the secular world into a gigantic monastery, and at Geneva, for a short time, it almost succeeded. “In other places,” wrote Knox of that devoted city, “I confess Christ to be truly preached, but manners and religion so sincerely reformed I have not yet seen in any place besides.”⁶² Manners and morals were regulated, because it is through the minutiæ of conduct that the enemy of mankind finds his way to the soul; the traitors to the Kingdom might be revealed by pointed shoes or golden ear-rings, as in 1793 those guilty of another kind of incivisme were betrayed by their knee-breeches. Regulation meant legislation, and, still more, administration. The word in which both were summarized was Discipline.

In the fight against poverty, moral and economic motives were not separated. The beggar’s idleness was both a sin against God and a social evil. The prosperous tradesman’s enterprise was both a Christian virtue and a benefit to the community. The same mixture of religious zeal and practical shrewdness drove attacks on gambling, swearing, extravagant dress, and overindulgence in food and drink. The heart of the system was not preaching or propaganda, though it produced plenty of both. Its aim was to make a moral ideal part of the daily life of an actual community, which would be both a Church and a State. Having overthrown monasticism, the system aimed to turn the secular world into a gigantic monastery. In Geneva, for a short time, it almost succeeded. “In other places,” wrote Knox of that devout city, “I confess Christ to be truly preached, but manners and religion so sincerely reformed I have not yet seen in any place besides.”⁶² Manners and morals were regulated because the enemy of mankind finds his way to the soul through the smallest details of conduct. Pointed shoes or gold earrings might reveal traitors to the Kingdom. In the same way, knee-breeches betrayed those guilty of another kind of incivisme in 1793. Regulation meant legislation, and even more, administration. The word that summed up both was Discipline.

Discipline Calvin himself described as the nerves of religion,⁶³ and the common observation that he assigned to it the same primacy as Luther had given to faith is just. As organized in the Calvinist Churches, it was designed primarily to safeguard the sacrament and to enforce a censorship of morals, and thus differed in scope and purpose from the canon law of the Church of Rome, as the rules of a private society may differ from the code of a State. Its establishment at Geneva, in the form which it assumed in the last half of the sixteenth century, was the result of nearly twenty years of struggle between the Council of the city and the Consistory, composed of ministers and laymen. It was only in 1555 that the latter finally vindicated its right to excommunicate, and only in the edition of the Institutes which appeared in 1559 that a scheme of church organization and discipline was set out. But, while the answer to the question of the constitution of the authority by whom discipline was to be exercised depended on political conditions, and thus differed in different places and periods, the necessity of enforcing a rule of life, which was the practical aspect of discipline, was from the start of the very essence of Calvinism. Its importance was the theme of a characteristic letter addressed by Calvin to Somerset in October 1548, the moment of social convulsion for which Bucer wrote his book, De Regno Christi. The Protector is reminded that it is not from lack of preaching, but from failure to enforce compliance with it, that the troubles of England have sprung. Though crimes of violence are punished, the licentious are spared, and the licentious have no part in the Kingdom of God. He is urged to make sure that “les hommes soient tenus en bonne et honneste discipline,” and to be careful “que ceulx qui oyent la doctrine de l’Evangile s’approuvent estre Chrestiens par sainctité de vie.”⁶⁴

Calvin himself described discipline as the nerves of religion.⁶³ It is commonly observed that he gave discipline the same importance Luther gave to faith, and the comparison is fair. In the Calvinist Churches, discipline was designed primarily to safeguard the sacrament and enforce moral standards. Its scope and purpose therefore differed from those of the canon law of the Church of Rome, much as the rules of a private society may differ from the laws of a state. At Geneva, discipline took the form it had in the second half of the sixteenth century after nearly twenty years of struggle. The struggle was between the city Council and the Consistory, which was made up of ministers and laymen. Only in 1555 did the Consistory finally establish its right to excommunicate. Only in the 1559 edition of the Institutes was a plan for church organization and discipline set out. Political conditions determined who held the authority to enforce discipline. The answer therefore differed across places and periods. But enforcing a rule of life, the practical aspect of discipline, was essential to Calvinism from the start. Calvin emphasized its importance in a characteristic letter to Somerset in October 1548. It was a moment of social upheaval, for which Bucer wrote his book, De Regno Christi. Calvin reminds the Protector that England’s troubles have arisen not from a lack of preaching, but from a failure to enforce obedience to it. Though violent crimes are punished, the licentious are spared, and the licentious have no part in the Kingdom of God. Calvin urges him to make sure that “people are kept under good and proper discipline,” and to take care “that those who hear the teaching of the Gospel show themselves to be Christians through the holiness of their lives.”⁶⁴

“Prove themselves Christians by holiness of life”—the words might be taken as the motto of the Swiss reformers, and their projects of social reconstruction are a commentary on the sense in which “holiness of life” was understood. It was in that spirit that Zwingli took the initiative in forming at Zürich a board of moral discipline, to be composed of the clergy, the magistrates and two elders; emphasized the importance of excommunicating offenders against Christian morals; and drew up a list of sins to be punished by excommunication, which included, in addition to murder and theft, unchastity, perjury and avarice, “especially as it discovers itself in usury and fraud.”⁶⁵ It was in that spirit that Calvin composed in the Institutes a Protestant Summa and manual of moral casuistry, in which the lightest action should be brought under the iron control of a universal rule. It was in that spirit that he drafted the heads of a comprehensive scheme of municipal government, covering the whole range of civic administration, from the regulations to be made for markets, crafts, buildings and fairs to the control of prices, interest and rents.⁶⁶ It was in that spirit that he made Geneva a city of glass, in which every household lived its life under the supervision of a spiritual police, and that for a generation Consistory and Council worked hand in hand, the former excommunicating drunkards, dancers and contemners of religion, the latter punishing the dissolute with fines and imprisonment and the heretic with death. “Having considered,” ran the preamble to the ordinances of 1576, which mark the maturity of the Genevese Church, “that it is a thing worthy of commendation above all others, that the doctrine of the Holy Gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ shall be preserved in its purity, and the Christian Church duly maintained by good government and policy, and also that youth in the future be well and faithfully instructed, and the Hospital well-ordered for the support of the poor: Which things can only be if there be established a certain rule and order of living, by which each man may be able to understand the duties of his position....”⁶⁷ The object of it all was so simple. “Each man to understand the duties of his position”—what could be more desirable, at Geneva or elsewhere? It is sad to reflect that the attainment of so laudable an end involved the systematic use of torture, the beheading of a child for striking its parents, and the burning of a hundred and fifty heretics in sixty years.⁶⁸ Tantum religio potuit suadere malorum.

“Prove themselves Christians by holiness of life.” These words could serve as the motto of the Swiss reformers. Their plans for rebuilding society show what they meant by “holiness of life.” In that spirit, Zwingli took the lead in forming a board of moral discipline in Zürich. It was to consist of clergy, magistrates, and two elders. He stressed the importance of excommunicating those who violated Christian morals. He also drew up a list of sins to be punished by excommunication. Besides murder and theft, the list included unchastity, perjury, and greed, “especially as it shows itself in usury and fraud.”⁶⁵ In the same spirit, Calvin wrote the Institutes, a Protestant Summa and manual of moral casuistry. In it, even the smallest action was to be subject to the iron control of a universal rule. In the same spirit, he drafted the outlines of a comprehensive plan for municipal government. It covered the whole range of civic administration, from rules for markets, crafts, buildings, and fairs to controls on prices, interest, and rents.⁶⁶ In the same spirit, he made Geneva a city of glass, where every household lived under the supervision of a spiritual police. For a generation, the Consistory and Council worked hand in hand. The Consistory excommunicated drunkards, dancers, and those who showed contempt for religion. The Council punished the dissolute with fines and imprisonment and heretics with death. The preamble to the ordinances of 1576, which mark the maturity of the Genevan Church, declared: “We have considered that, above all else, it deserves praise to preserve the doctrine of the Holy Gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ in its purity and to maintain the Christian Church through good government and policy. We have also considered that young people should in future be well and faithfully instructed, and the Hospital well managed to support the poor. These things can only be achieved if a definite rule and order of living is established, so that each person can understand the duties of their position....”⁶⁷ The aim of it all was so simple. “Each person to understand the duties of their position.” What could be more desirable, in Geneva or anywhere else? It is sad to reflect that achieving such a worthy aim involved the systematic use of torture, the beheading of a child for striking its parents, and the burning of a hundred and fifty heretics in sixty years.⁶⁸ Tantum religio potuit suadere malorum.

Torturing and burning were practised elsewhere by Governments which affected no excessive zeal for righteousness. The characteristic which was distinctive of Geneva—“the most perfect school of Christ that ever was on earth since the days of the Apostles”⁶⁹—was not its merciless intolerance, for no one yet dreamed that tolerance was possible. It was the attempt to make the law of God prevail even in those matters of pecuniary gain and loss which mankind, to judge by its history, is disposed to regard more seriously than wounds and deaths. “No member [of the Christian body],” wrote Calvin in his Institutes, “holds his gifts to himself, or for his private use, but shares them among his fellow members, nor does he derive benefit save from those things which proceed from the common profit of the body as a whole. Thus the pious man owes to his brethren all that it is in his power to give.”⁷⁰ It was natural that so remorseless an attempt to claim the totality of human interests for religion should not hesitate to engage even the economic appetites, before which the Churches of a later generation were to lower their arms. If Calvinism welcomed the world of business to its fold with an eagerness unknown before, it did so in the spirit of a conqueror organizing a new province, not of a suppliant arranging a compromise with a still powerful foe. A system of morals and a code of law lay ready to its hand in the Old Testament. Samuel and Agag, King of the Amalekites, Jonah and Nineveh, Ahab and Naboth, Elijah and the prophets of Baal, Micaiah the son of Imlah, the only true prophet of the Lord, and Jeroboam the son of Nebat, who made Israel to sin, worked on the tense imagination of the Calvinist as did Brutus and Cassius on the men of 1793. The first half-century of the Reformed Church at Geneva saw a prolonged effort to organize an economic order worthy of the Kingdom of Christ, in which the ministers played the part of Old Testament prophets to an Israel not wholly weaned from the fleshpots of Egypt.

Governments elsewhere practiced torture and burning without claiming any great zeal for righteousness. Geneva was “the most perfect school of Christ that ever was on earth since the days of the Apostles.”⁶⁹ Its distinctive feature was not its merciless intolerance, for no one yet imagined that tolerance was possible. What set Geneva apart was its attempt to make God’s law prevail even in matters of financial gain and loss. Judging by history, people are inclined to take these matters more seriously than wounds and deaths. “No member [of the Christian body],” Calvin wrote in his Institutes, “holds his gifts to himself, or for his private use, but shares them among his fellow members, nor does he derive benefit save from those things which proceed from the common profit of the body as a whole. Thus the pious man owes to his brethren all that it is in his power to give.”⁷⁰ This relentless attempt to claim all human interests for religion naturally confronted even the desire for wealth. Later generations of churches would surrender before that desire. If Calvinism welcomed the business world into its fold with unprecedented eagerness, it did so like a conqueror organizing a new province. It did not act like a petitioner seeking a compromise with a still powerful enemy. The Old Testament provided a ready-made system of morals and code of law. Its figures gripped the tense Calvinist imagination as Brutus and Cassius gripped the men of 1793. There were Samuel and Agag, King of the Amalekites, Jonah and Nineveh, Ahab and Naboth, Elijah and the prophets of Baal. There were also Micaiah the son of Imlah, the only true prophet of the Lord, and Jeroboam the son of Nebat, who made Israel sin. During its first half-century, the Reformed Church at Geneva made a sustained effort to organize an economic order worthy of the Kingdom of Christ. Its ministers played the part of Old Testament prophets to an Israel not yet fully weaned from the fleshpots of Egypt.

Apart from its qualified indulgence to interest, Calvinism made few innovations in the details of social policy, and the contents of the program were thoroughly medieval. The novelty consisted in the religious zeal which was thrown into its application. The organ of administration before which offenders were brought was the Consistory, a mixed body of laymen and ministers. It censures harsh creditors, punishes usurers, engrossers and monopolists, reprimands or fines the merchant who defrauds his clients, the cloth-maker whose stuff is an inch too narrow, the dealer who provides short measure of coal, the butcher who sells meat above the rates fixed by authority, the tailor who charges strangers excessive prices, the surgeon who demands an excessive fee for an operation.⁷¹ In the Consistory the ministers appear to have carried all before them, and they are constantly pressing for greater stringency. From the election of Beza in place of Calvin in 1564 to his death in 1605, hardly a year passes without a new demand for legislation from the clergy, a new censure on economic unrighteousness, a new protest against one form or another of the ancient sin of avarice. At one moment, it is excessive indulgence to debtors which rouses their indignation; at another, the advance of prices and rents caused by the influx of distressed brethren from the persecutions in France; at a third, the multiplication of taverns and the excessive charges demanded by the sellers of wine. Throughout there is a prolonged warfare against the twin evils of extortionate interest and extortionate prices.

Apart from allowing interest under certain conditions, Calvinism made few changes to the details of social policy. Its program was thoroughly medieval. What was new was the religious zeal brought to enforcing it. Offenders were brought before the Consistory, an administrative body made up of laymen and ministers. The Consistory condemns harsh creditors and punishes usurers, hoarders and monopolists. It reprimands or fines merchants who cheat their customers and cloth-makers whose cloth is an inch too narrow. It also reprimands or fines dealers who supply less coal than they claim, and butchers who sell meat above official prices. Tailors who overcharge strangers and surgeons who charge excessive fees for operations face the same penalties.⁷¹ In the Consistory, the ministers seem to have prevailed in everything, and they constantly pressed for stricter measures. Beza was elected in Calvin’s place in 1564. From then until Beza’s death in 1605, hardly a year passed without a new demand for legislation from the clergy. Hardly a year passed without a new condemnation of economic wrongdoing or a new protest against some form of the ancient sin of greed. At one moment, the clergy were outraged by excessive leniency toward debtors. At another, they protested rising prices and rents caused by an influx of distressed fellow believers fleeing persecution in France. At yet another, they objected to the growing number of taverns and the excessive prices charged by wine sellers. Throughout, the clergy waged a prolonged war against the twin evils of extortionate interest and extortionate prices.

Credit was an issue of moment at Geneva, not merely for the same reasons which made it a burning question everywhere to the small producer of the sixteenth century, but because, especially after the ruin of Lyons in the French wars of religion, the city was a financial center of some importance. It might be involved in war at any moment. In order to secure command of the necessary funds, it had borrowed heavily from Basle and Berne, and the Council used the capital to do exchange business and make advances, the rate of interest being fixed at 10, and later at 12, per cent. To the establishment of a bank the ministers, who had been consulted, agreed; against the profitable business of advancing money at high rates of interest to private persons they protested, especially when the loans were made to spendthrifts who used them to ruin themselves. When, ten years later, in 1580, the Council approved the project advanced by some company promoters of establishing a second bank in the city, the ministers led the opposition to it, pointed to the danger of covetousness as revealed by the moral corruption of financial cities such as Paris, Venice and Lyons, and succeeded in getting the proposal quashed. Naturally, however, the commoner issue was a more simple one. The capitalist who borrowed in order to invest and make a profit could take care of himself, and the ministers explained that they had no objection to those “qui baillent leur argent aux marchands pour emploier en marchandise.” The crucial issue was that of the money-lender who makes advances “simplement à un qui aura besoin,” and who thereby exploits the necessities of his poorer neighbors.⁷²

Credit was an important issue in Geneva, as it was for small producers everywhere in the sixteenth century. But it mattered in Geneva for another reason too. The city was a financial center of some importance, especially after the ruin of Lyons during the French wars of religion. Geneva might be drawn into war at any moment. To secure the funds it would need, the city had borrowed heavily from Basle and Berne. The Council used the capital to conduct exchange business and make loans, with interest fixed at 10 percent and later at 12 percent. The ministers were consulted and agreed to the establishment of a bank. But they protested against the profitable business of lending money to private individuals at high interest rates. They especially objected to loans made to spendthrifts who used the money to ruin themselves. Ten years later, in 1580, the Council approved a proposal from some company promoters to establish a second bank in Geneva. The ministers led the opposition to the proposal. They warned of the danger of greed, as shown by the moral corruption of financial cities such as Paris, Venice and Lyons. They succeeded in having the proposal rejected. More commonly, however, the issue was simpler. A capitalist who borrowed to invest and make a profit could look after himself. The ministers explained that they had no objection to those who “give their money to merchants to use in trade.” The crucial issue was the moneylender who made loans “simply to someone in need” and thereby exploited the needs of his poorer neighbors.⁷²

Against monsters of this kind the ministers rage without ceasing. They denounce them from the pulpit in the name of the New Testament, in language drawn principally from the less temperate portions of the Old, as larrons, brigands, loups et tigres, who ought to be led out of the city and stoned to death. “The poor cry and the rich pocket their gains; but what they are heaping up for themselves is the wrath of God.... One has cried in the market-place, ‘a curse on those who bring us dearth.’... The Lord has heard that cry ... and yet we are asking the cause of the pestilence!... A cut-purse shall be punished, but the Lord declares by his prophet Amos ... ‘Famine is come upon my people of Israel, O ye who devour the poor.’ The threats there uttered have been executed against his people.”⁷³ They demand that for his second offense the usurer shall be excommunicated, or that, if such a punishment be thought too severe, he shall at least be required to testify his repentance publicly in church, before being admitted to the sacrament. They remind their fellow-citizens of the fate of Tyre and Sidon, and, momentarily despairing of controlling the money-lender directly, they propose to deprive him of his victims by removing the causes which create them. Pour tarir les ruisseaux il faut escouper la source. Men borrow because of “idleness, foolish extravagance, foolish sins, and law suits.” Let censors be established at Geneva, as in Republican Rome, to inquire, among rich as well as among poor, how each household earns its livelihood, to see that all children of ten to twelve are taught some useful trade, to put down taverns and litigation, and to “bridle the insatiable avarice of those who are such wretches that they seek to enrich themselves by the necessities of their poor neighbors.”⁷⁴

The ministers never stop raging against monsters like these. They denounce them from the pulpit in the name of the New Testament. But their language comes mainly from the less restrained parts of the Old Testament. They call them thieves, robbers, wolves and tigers, who should be led out of the city and stoned to death. “The poor cry out and the rich pocket their profits, but what they are piling up for themselves is God’s wrath.... Someone cried out in the marketplace, ‘a curse on those who bring us scarcity.’... The Lord heard that cry ... and yet we ask what causes the plague!... A pickpocket will be punished, but the Lord declares through his prophet Amos ... ‘Famine has come upon my people of Israel, you who devour the poor.’ The threats made there have been carried out against his people.”⁷³ The ministers demand that a usurer be excommunicated for a second offense. If that punishment is considered too severe, they demand that he at least declare his repentance publicly in church. Only then should he be admitted to the sacrament. They remind their fellow citizens of the fate of Tyre and Sidon. For the moment, they despair of controlling the moneylender directly. So they propose to deprive him of his victims by removing the causes that create them. To dry up the streams, you must cut off the source. People borrow because of “idleness, foolish extravagance, foolish sins, and lawsuits.” Let censors be appointed in Geneva, as they were in Republican Rome. They should investigate how every household, rich or poor, earns its living. They should ensure that all children between ten and twelve are taught a useful trade. They should suppress taverns and lawsuits. And they should “restrain the insatiable greed of those wretches who seek to enrich themselves through their poor neighbors’ needs.”⁷⁴

The Venerable Company advanced their program, but they were not sanguine that it would be carried out, and they concluded it by expressing to the City Fathers the pious hope, not wholly free from irony, that “none of your honorable fellowship may be found spotted with such vices.” Their apprehensions were justified. The Council of Geneva endured many things at the hands of its preachers, till, on the death of Beza, it brought them to heel. But there were limits to its patience, and it was in the field of business ethics that they were most quickly reached. It did not venture to question the right of the clergy to be heard on matters of commerce and finance. The pulpit was press and platform in one; ministers had the public behind them, and, conscious of their power, would in the last resort compel submission by threatening to resign en masse. Profuse in expressions of sympathy, its strategy was to let the cannon balls of Christian Socialism spend themselves on the yielding down of official procrastination, and its first reply was normally qu’on y pense un peu. To the clergy its inactivity was a new proof of complicity with Mammon, and they did not hesitate to declare their indignation from the pulpit. In 1574 Beza preached a sermon in which he accused members of the Council of having intelligence with speculators who had made a corner in wheat. Throughout 1577 the ministers were reproaching the Council with laxity in administration, and they finally denounced it as the real author of the rise in the prices of bread and wine. In 1579 they addressed to it a memorandum, setting out a new scheme of moral discipline and social reform.

The Venerable Company put forward its program, but its members were not confident that it would be carried out. They ended by expressing a pious hope to the City Fathers. It was not entirely free of irony: “none of your honorable fellowship may be found spotted with such vices.” Their fears were justified. The Council of Geneva put up with much from its preachers until Beza died. Then it brought them under control. But its patience had limits, and those limits were reached most quickly over business ethics. The Council did not dare question the clergy’s right to speak on matters of commerce and finance. The pulpit served as both press and public platform. The ministers had public support and knew how powerful they were. As a last resort, they would force the Council to submit by threatening to resign en masse. The Council expressed abundant sympathy, but its strategy was to let official delay cushion the cannonballs of Christian Socialism until they lost their force. Its usual first response was qu’on y pense un peu, or “let us think about it a little.” The clergy saw the Council’s inaction as further proof of its complicity with Mammon. They did not hesitate to express their indignation from the pulpit. In 1574 Beza preached a sermon accusing Council members of being in league with speculators who had cornered the wheat market. Throughout 1577 the ministers criticized the Council for lax administration. They finally denounced it as the real cause of rising bread and wine prices. In 1579 they sent the Council a memorandum setting out a new plan for moral discipline and social reform.

The prosperous bourgeoisie who governed Geneva had no objection to discouraging extravagance in dress, or to exhorting the public to attend sermons and to send their children to catechism. But they heard denunciations of covetousness without enthusiasm, and on two matters they were obdurate. They refused to check, as the ministers concerned to lower prices had demanded, the export of wine, on the ground that it was needed in order to purchase imports of wheat; and, as was natural in a body of well-to-do creditors, they would make no concession to the complaint that debtors were subjected to a “double usury,” since they were compelled to repay loans in an appreciating currency. Money fell as well as rose, they replied, and even the late M. Calvin, by whom the ordinance now criticized had been approved, had never pushed his scruples to such lengths. Naturally, the ministers were indignant at these evasions. They informed the Council that large sums were being spent by speculators in holding up supplies of corn, and launched a campaign of sermons against avarice, with appropriate topical illustrations. Equally naturally, the Council retorted by accusing Beza of stirring up class hatred against the rich.⁷⁵

The prosperous bourgeoisie who governed Geneva had no objection to discouraging extravagant dress. They were also happy to urge people to attend sermons and send their children to catechism. But they were less enthusiastic about condemnations of greed, and on two matters they refused to budge. The ministers wanted to lower prices and demanded restrictions on wine exports. The governors refused, saying that wine exports were needed to pay for wheat imports. And, as one would expect from a group of wealthy creditors, they would make no concession to debtors. The debtors complained that they faced “double usury” because they had to repay loans in a currency that was increasing in value. The governors replied that money fell in value as well as rose. Even the late M. Calvin, who had approved the ordinance now being criticized, had never taken his scruples so far. Naturally, the ministers were indignant at these evasions. They told the Council that speculators were spending large sums to hold back supplies of grain. They also launched a campaign of sermons against greed, with suitable examples drawn from current events. Just as naturally, the Council responded by accusing Beza of stirring up class hatred against the rich.⁷⁵

The situation was aggravated by an individual scandal. One of the magistrates, who regarded Beza’s remarks as a personal reflection, was rash enough to demand to be heard before the Council, with the result that he was found guilty, condemned to pay a fine, and compelled to forfeit fifty crowns which he had lent at 10 per cent. interest. Evidently, when matters were pushed to such lengths as this, no one, however respectable, could feel sure that he was safe. The Council and the ministers had already had words over the sphere of their respective functions, and were to fall out a year or two later over the administration of the local hospital. On this occasion the Council complained that the clergy were interfering with the magistrates’ duties, and implied politely that they would be well advised to mind their own business.

The situation was made worse by a scandal involving one magistrate. He took Beza’s remarks as a personal criticism and rashly demanded a hearing before the Council. As a result, he was found guilty and ordered to pay a fine. He was also forced to forfeit fifty crowns he had lent at 10 percent interest. Clearly, when matters went this far, no one, however respectable, could feel safe. The Council and the ministers had already argued over the limits of their respective duties. A year or two later, they would quarrel over the management of the local hospital. On this occasion, the Council complained that the clergy were interfering with the magistrates’ duties. It politely suggested that the clergy would be wise to mind their own business.

So monstrous a suggestion—as though there were any human activity which was not the business of the Church!—evoked a counter-manifesto on the part of the ministers, in which the full doctrine of the earthly Jerusalem was set forth in all its majesty. They declined to express regret for having cited before the Consistory those who sold corn at extortionate prices, and for refusing the sacrament to one of them. Did not Solomon say, “Cursed is he who keeps his corn in time of scarcity”? To the charge of intemperate language Chauvet replied that the Council had better begin by burning the books of the Prophets, for he had done no more than follow the example set by Hosea. “If we should be silent,” said Beza, “what would the people say? That they are dumb dogs.... As to the question of causing scandals, for the last two years there has been unceasing talk of usury, and, for all that, no more than three or four usurers have been punished.... It is notorious everywhere that the city is full of usurers, and that the ordinary rate is 10 per cent. or more.”⁷⁶ The magistrates renewed their remonstrances. They had seen without a shudder an adulterer condemned to be hanged, and had mercifully commuted his sentence to scourging through the town, followed by ten years’ imprisonment in chains.⁷⁷ But at the godly proposal to make capitalists die the death of Achan their humanity blenched. Besides, the punishment was not only cruel, but dangerous. In Geneva, “most men are debtors.” If they are allowed to taste blood, who can say where their fury will end? Yet, such is the power of the spoken word, the magistrates did not venture on a blunt refusal, but gave scripture for scripture. They informed the ministers that they proposed to follow the example of David, who, when rebuked by Nathan, confessed his fault. Whether the ministers replied in the language of Nathan, we are not informed.

Such a monstrous suggestion prompted the ministers to issue a counter-manifesto. As if there were any human activity that was not the Church’s business! Their manifesto set out the full doctrine of the earthly Jerusalem in all its majesty. They refused to express regret for having summoned before the Consistory those who sold corn at extortionate prices. Nor would they regret refusing the sacrament to one of them. Had Solomon not said, “Cursed is he who keeps his corn in time of scarcity”? Chauvet was accused of using intemperate language. He replied that the Council had better begin by burning the books of the Prophets. He had only followed the example set by Hosea. “If we should be silent,” said Beza, “what would the people say? That they are dumb dogs.... As to the question of causing scandals, for the last two years there has been unceasing talk of usury, and, for all that, no more than three or four usurers have been punished.... It is notorious everywhere that the city is full of usurers, and that the ordinary rate is 10 per cent. or more.”⁷⁶ The magistrates again protested. They had seen an adulterer condemned to be hanged without a shudder. They had mercifully reduced his sentence to a flogging through the town, followed by ten years’ imprisonment in chains.⁷⁷ But their humanity recoiled at the godly proposal to make capitalists die the death of Achan. Besides, the punishment was not only cruel but dangerous. In Geneva, “most men are debtors.” If the debtors were allowed to taste blood, who could say where their fury would end? Yet such is the power of the spoken word that the magistrates did not dare refuse outright. Instead, they answered scripture with scripture. They told the ministers that they proposed to follow David’s example. When Nathan rebuked David, he confessed his fault. We are not told whether the ministers replied in Nathan’s words.

Recent political theory has been prolific in criticisms of the omnicompetent State. The principle on which the collectivism of Geneva rested may be described as that of the omnicompetent Church.⁷⁸ The religious community formed a closely organized society, which, while using the secular authorities as police officers to enforce its mandates, not only instructed them as to the policy to be pursued, but was itself a kind of State, prescribing by its own legislation the standard of conduct to be observed by its members, putting down offences against public order and public morals, providing for the education of youth and for the relief of the poor. The peculiar relations between the ecclesiastical and secular authorities, which for a short time made the system possible at Geneva, could not exist to the same degree when Calvinism was the creed, not of a single city, but of a minority in a national State organized on principles quite different from its own. Unless the State itself were captured, rebellion, civil war or the abandonment of the pretension to control society was the inevitable consequence. But the last result was long delayed. In the sixteenth century, whatever the political conditions, the claim of the Calvinist Churches is everywhere to exercise a collective responsibility for the moral conduct of their members in all the various relations of life, and to do so, not least, in the sphere of economic transactions, which offer peculiarly insidious temptations to a lapse into immorality.

Recent political theory has produced many criticisms of the State that claims authority over everything. The collectivism of Geneva rested on what may be called the principle of the Church that claims authority over everything.⁷⁸ The religious community was a closely organized society. It used the secular authorities as police officers to enforce its orders and told them what policies to pursue. But the religious community was also a kind of State. Through its own laws, it prescribed standards of conduct for its members. It suppressed offences against public order and public morals, educated the young, and provided relief for the poor. The distinctive relationship between Church and secular authorities made the system possible at Geneva for a short time. But the same relationship could not exist to the same degree when Calvinism was no longer the faith of a single city. Instead, it was the faith of a minority in a national State organized on quite different principles. Unless the Calvinists took control of the State itself, rebellion, civil war, or the abandonment of their claim to control society was inevitable. But the abandonment of that claim was long delayed. In the sixteenth century, whatever the political conditions, Calvinist Churches everywhere claimed collective responsibility for their members’ moral conduct in all areas of life. This claim extended especially to economic transactions, which offered particularly insidious temptations to immoral conduct.

The mantle of Calvin’s system fell earliest upon the Reformed Churches of France. At their first Synod, held in 1559 at Paris, where a scheme of discipline was adopted, certain difficult matters of economic casuistry were discussed, and similar questions continued to receive attention at subsequent Synods for the next half-century, until, as the historian of French Calvinism remarks, “they began to lax the reins, yielding too much to the iniquity of the time.”⁷⁹ Once it is admitted that membership of the Church involves compliance with a standard of economic morality which the Church must enforce, the problems of interpretation which arise are innumerable, and the religious community finds itself committed to developing something like a system of case law, by the application of its general principles to a succession of varying situations. The elaboration of such a system was undertaken; but it was limited in the sixteenth century both by the comparative simplicity of the economic structure, and by the fact that the Synods, except at Geneva, being concerned not to reform society, but merely to repress the grosser kinds of scandal, dealt only with matters on which specific guidance was demanded by the Churches.

The Reformed Churches of France were the first to inherit Calvin’s system. At their first Synod, held in Paris in 1559, they adopted a plan for church discipline. They also discussed certain difficult cases concerning economic morality. Similar questions continued to receive attention at later Synods for the next half-century. Then, as the historian of French Calvinism remarks, “they began to lax the reins, yielding too much to the iniquity of the time.”⁷⁹ Once it is accepted that Church members must follow a standard of economic morality, and that the Church must enforce it, countless questions of interpretation arise. The religious community must then develop something like a system of case law. It must apply its general principles to a series of different situations. The Churches undertook to develop such a system. But its development in the sixteenth century was limited by the relative simplicity of the economy. It was also limited by the aims of the Synods, except at Geneva. They sought not to reform society, but merely to suppress the worst kinds of scandal. They therefore dealt only with matters on which the Churches asked for specific guidance.

Even so, however, the riddles to be solved were not a few. What is to be the attitude of the Churches towards those who have grown rich on ill-gotten wealth? May pirates and fraudulent tradesmen be admitted to the Lord’s Supper? May the brethren trade with such persons, or do they share their sin if they buy their goods? The law of the State allows moderate interest: what is to be the attitude of the Church? What is to be done to prevent craftsmen cheating the consumer with shoddy wares, and tradesmen oppressing him with extortionate profits? Are lotteries permissible? Is it legitimate to invest at interest monies bequeathed for the benefit of the poor? The answers which the French Synods made to such questions show the persistence of the idea that the transactions of business are the province of the Church, combined with a natural desire to avoid an impracticable rigor. All persons who have wrung wealth unjustly from others must make restitution before they be admitted to communion, but their goods may be bought by the faithful, provided that the sale is public and approved by the civil authorities. Makers of fraudulent wares are to be censured, and tradesmen are to seek only “indifferent gain.” On the question of usury, the same division of opinion is visible in the French Reformed Church as existed at the same time in England and Holland, and Calvin’s advice on the subject was requested. The stricter school would not hear of confining the prohibition of usury to “excessive and scandalous” exactions, or of raising money for the poor by interest on capital. In France, however, as elsewhere, the day for these heroic rigors had passed, and the common-sense view prevailed. The brethren were required to demand no more than the law allowed and than was consistent with charity. Within these limits interest was not to be condemned.⁸⁰

Even so, there were still many questions to solve. How should the Churches treat those who had grown rich through dishonest means? Could pirates and dishonest traders be admitted to the Lord’s Supper? Could fellow believers trade with such people, or would buying their goods make them share in their sin? State law allowed moderate interest. What should the Church’s position be? How could craftsmen be prevented from cheating consumers with poor-quality goods? How could traders be stopped from exploiting consumers with excessive profits? Were lotteries permissible? Was it legitimate to invest money left for the poor and earn interest on it? The answers given by the French Synods show that business dealings were still considered a matter for the Church. They also show a natural desire to avoid impractical strictness. All who had unjustly taken wealth from others had to make restitution before being admitted to communion. But the faithful could buy their goods, provided the sale was public and approved by the civil authorities. Makers of deceptive goods were to be censured, and traders were to seek only “moderate profit.” On usury, the French Reformed Church was divided, just as opinion was divided in England and Holland at the time. Calvin’s advice on the subject was requested. The stricter school would not hear of limiting the ban on usury to “excessive and scandalous” charges. Nor would it accept raising money for the poor through interest on capital. In France, however, as elsewhere, the time for such heroic strictness had passed. The common-sense view prevailed. Fellow believers were required to demand no more than the law allowed and than was consistent with charity. Within these limits, interest was not to be condemned.⁸⁰

Of the treatment of questions of this order by English Puritanism something is said in a subsequent chapter. In Scotland the views of the reformers as to economic ethics did not differ in substance from those of the Church before the Reformation, and the Scottish Book of Discipline denounced covetousness with the same vehemence as did the “accursed Popery” which it had overthrown. Gentlemen are exhorted to be content with their rents, and the Churches are required to make provision for the poor. “Oppression of the poor by exactions,” it is declared, “[and] deceiving of them in buying or selling by wrong mete or measure ... do properly appertain to the Church of God, to punish the same as God’s word commandeth.”⁸¹ The interpretation given to these offences is shown by the punishment of a usurer and of a defaulting debtor before the Kirk Sessions of St. Andrews.⁸² The relief of the poor was in 1579 made the statutory duty of ecclesiastical authorities in Scotland, seven years after it had in England been finally transferred to the State. The arrangement under which in rural districts it reposed down to 1846 on the shoulders of ministers, elders and deacons, was a survival from an age in which the real State in Scotland had been represented, not by Parliament or Council, but by the Church of Knox.

A later chapter says something about how English Puritanism treated questions of this kind. In Scotland, the reformers’ views on economic ethics did not differ substantially from those of the Church before the Reformation. The Scottish Book of Discipline denounced greed just as fiercely as the “accursed Popery” it had overthrown. Gentlemen are urged to be content with their rents, and the Churches are required to provide for the poor. It declares that “oppression of the poor by excessive demands, and cheating them in buying or selling by using false weights or measures ... properly belong to the Church of God to punish, as God’s word commands.”⁸¹ The punishment of a usurer and a debtor who failed to pay before the Kirk Sessions of St. Andrews shows how these offences were understood.⁸² In 1579, Scottish law made relief of the poor the duty of church authorities. This was seven years after responsibility for poor relief had finally been transferred to the State in England. In rural Scotland, poor relief remained the responsibility of ministers, elders, and deacons until 1846. This arrangement survived from an age when Scotland’s real State was represented not by Parliament or Council, but by the Church of Knox.

Of English-speaking communities, that in which the social discipline of the Calvinist Church-State was carried to the furthest extreme was the Puritan theocracy of New England. Its practice had more affinity with the iron rule of Calvin’s Geneva than with the individualistic tendencies of contemporary English Puritanism. In that happy, bishopless Eden, where men desired only to worship God “according to the simplicitie of the gospel and to be ruled by the laws of God’s word,”⁸³ not only were “tobacco and immodest fashions and costly apparel,” and “that vain custom of drinking one to another,” forbidden to true professors, but the Fathers adopted towards that “notorious evil ... whereby most men walked in all their commerce—to buy as cheap and sell as dear as they can,”⁸⁴ an attitude which possibly would not be wholly congenial to their more business-like descendants. At an early date in the history of Massachusetts a minister had called attention to the recrudescence of the old Adam—“profit being the chief aim and not the propagation of religion”—and Governor Bradford, observing uneasily how men grew “in their outward estates,” remarked that the increase in material prosperity “will be the ruin of New England, at least of the Churches of God there.”⁸⁵ Sometimes Providence smote the exploiter. The immigrant who organized the first American Trust—he owned the only milch cow on board and sold the milk at 2d. a quart—“being after at a sermon wherein oppression was complained of ... fell distracted.”⁸⁶ Those who escaped the judgment of Heaven had to face the civil authorities and the Church, which, in the infancy of the colony, were the same thing.

Among English-speaking communities, the Puritan theocracy of New England carried the social discipline of the Calvinist Church-State furthest. Its practices had more in common with the iron rule of Calvin’s Geneva than with the individualistic tendencies of English Puritanism at the time. In that happy Eden without bishops, men wanted only to worship God “according to the simplicity of the gospel and to be ruled by the laws of God’s word.”⁸³ True believers were forbidden not only “tobacco and immodest fashions and costly clothing,” but also “that vain custom of drinking to one another.” The Fathers also took a stand against a “notorious evil” that guided most men in all their business: “to buy as cheaply and sell as dearly as they can.”⁸⁴ Their attitude might not be entirely congenial to their more business-minded descendants. Early in Massachusetts history, a minister had noticed the return of the old Adam. “Profit was the chief aim, not the spread of religion.” Governor Bradford uneasily observed how men grew in wealth. He remarked that growing material prosperity “will be the ruin of New England, at least of the Churches of God there.”⁸⁵ Sometimes Providence struck down the exploiter. One immigrant organized the first American Trust. He owned the only milch cow on board and sold its milk for 2d. a quart. Later, after hearing a sermon that condemned oppression, he “lost his mind.”⁸⁶ Those who escaped the judgment of Heaven had to face the civil authorities and the Church. In the colony’s early days, the two were the same thing.

Naturally the authorities regulated prices, limited the rate of interest, fixed a maximum wage, and whipped incorrigible idlers; for these things had been done even in the house of bondage from which they fled. What was more distinctive of the children of light was their attempt to apply the same wholesome discipline to the elusive category of business profits. The price of cattle, the Massachusetts authorities decreed, was to be determined, not by the needs of the buyer, but so as to yield no more than a reasonable return to the seller.⁸⁷ Against those who charged more, their wrath was that of Moses descending to find the chosen people worshipping a golden calf. What little emotion they had to spare from their rage against religious freedom, they turned against economic license. Roger Williams touched a real affinity when, in his moving plea for tolerance, he argued that, though extortion was an evil, it was an evil the treatment of which should be left to the discretion of the civil authorities.⁸⁸

Naturally, the authorities regulated prices, limited interest rates, set a maximum wage, and whipped stubborn idlers. After all, these things had been done even in the house of bondage they had fled. What was more distinctive about the children of light was their attempt to impose the same healthy discipline on the elusive category of business profits. The Massachusetts authorities decreed that cattle prices were not to be determined by what buyers needed. Instead, prices were to give sellers no more than a reasonable return.⁸⁷ They were furious with anyone who charged more, like Moses coming down to find the chosen people worshipping a golden calf. What little emotion they could spare from their rage against religious freedom, they directed against economic license. Roger Williams recognized a real connection in his moving plea for tolerance. He argued that, although extortion was an evil, its treatment should be left to the discretion of the civil authorities.⁸⁸

Consider the case of Mr. Robert Keane. His offence, by general consent, was black. He kept a shop in Boston, in which he took “in some ... above 6d. in the shilling profit; in some above 8d.; and in some small things above two for one”; and this, though he was “an ancient professor of the gospel, a man of eminent parts, wealthy and having but one child, having come over for conscience’ sake and for the advancement of the gospel.” The scandal was terrible. Profiteers were unpopular—“the cry of the country was great against oppression”—and the grave elders reflected that a reputation for greed would injure the infant community, lying as it did “under the curious observation of all Churches and civil States in the world.” In spite of all, the magistrates were disposed to be lenient. There was no positive law in force limiting profits; it was not easy to determine what profits were fair; the sin of charging what the market could stand was not peculiar to Mr. Keane; and, after all, the law of God required no more than double restitution. So they treated him mercifully, and fined him only £200.

Consider the case of Mr. Robert Keane. Everyone agreed that his offense was shameful. He kept a shop in Boston. On some goods, he took “above 6d. in the shilling profit.” On others, he took “above 8d.,” and on some small items, “above two for one.” Yet he was “a longtime follower of the gospel, a man of exceptional abilities, wealthy and with only one child.” He had also come over “for conscience’s sake and to advance the gospel.” The scandal was terrible. Profiteers were unpopular, and “the country’s outcry against oppression was great.” The solemn elders also reflected that a reputation for greed would harm the young community. After all, it was “under the close scrutiny of all Churches and civil States in the world.” Even so, the magistrates were inclined to be lenient. No law in force limited profits, and fair profits were hard to determine. Mr. Keane was not the only one guilty of charging what the market would bear. Besides, the law of God required no more than double restitution. So the magistrates treated him mercifully and fined him only £200.

Here, if he had been wise, Mr. Keane would have let the matter drop. But, like some others in a similar position, he damned himself irretrievably by his excuses. Summoned before the church of Boston, he first of all “did with tears acknowledge and bewail his covetous and corrupt heart,” and then was rash enough to venture on an explanation, in which he argued that the tradesman must live, and how could he live, if he might not make up for a loss on one article by additional profit on another? Here was a text on which no faithful pastor could refrain from enlarging. The minister of Boston pounced on the opportunity, and took occasion “in his public exercise the next lecture day to lay open the error of such false principles, and to give some rules of direction in the case. Some false principles were these:— “1. That a man might sell as dear as he can, and buy as cheap as he can. “2. If a man lose by casualty of sea, etc., in some of his commodities, he may raise the price of the rest. “3. That he may sell as he bought, though he paid too dear, and though the commodity be fallen, etc. “4. That, as a man may take the advantage of his own skill or ability, so he may of another’s ignorance or necessity. “5. Where one gives time for payment, he is to take like recompence of one as of another.”

Here, if he had been wise, Mr. Keane would have dropped the matter. But, like some others in a similar position, he damned himself beyond recovery with his excuses. Summoned before the church of Boston, he first “acknowledged and mourned his greedy and corrupt heart with tears.” Then he was rash enough to offer an explanation. He argued that a tradesman had to live. How could he live if he could not make up for a loss on one item by charging more for another? No faithful pastor could resist expanding on such a point. The minister of Boston seized the opportunity. “At the next lecture day, he publicly exposed the error of such false principles and gave some rules for guidance in the matter. Some of the false principles were: “1. That a man may sell for as much as he can and buy for as little as he can. “2. If a man loses some of his goods through an accident at sea, etc., he may raise the price of the rest. “3. That he may sell goods at the price he paid, though he paid too much and their value has fallen, etc. “4. That, just as a man may take advantage of his own skill or ability, he may also take advantage of another’s ignorance or need. “5. When a man allows time for payment, he should charge everyone the same compensation for the delay.”

The rules for trading were not less explicit:— “1. A man may not sell above the current price, i.e., such a price as is usual in the time and place, and as another (who knows the worth of the commodity) would give for it if he had occasion to use it; as that is called current money which every man will take, etc. “2. When a man loseth in his commodity for want of skill, etc., he must look at it as his own fault or cross, and therefore must not lay it upon another. “3. Where a man loseth by casualty of sea, etc., it is a loss cast upon himself by Providence, and he may not ease himself of it by casting it upon another; for so a man should seem to provide against all providences, etc., that he should never lose; but where there is a scarcity of the commodity, there men may raise their price; for now it is a hand of God upon the commodity, and not the person. “4. A man may not ask any more for his commodity than his selling price, as Ephron to Abraham: the land is worth thus much.”

The rules for trading were just as explicit: “1. A man may not sell above the current price. This means the usual price at that time and place. It is what another person who knows the goods’ value would pay if he needed them. Similarly, money is called current when everyone will accept it, etc. “2. When a man loses money on his goods through lack of skill, etc., he must see it as his own fault or hardship. Therefore, he must not pass the loss on to another person. “3. When a man suffers a loss through an accident at sea, etc., Providence has placed that loss on him. He may not relieve himself of the loss by passing it on to another person. If he did, he would seem to be guarding against every act of Providence, so that he would never lose, etc. But when goods are scarce, men may raise their price. For then the hand of God is upon the goods, not the person. “4. A man may not ask more for his goods than the price he will sell them for. He should be like Ephron speaking to Abraham: the land is worth this much.”

It is unfortunate that the example of Ephron was not remembered in the case of transactions affecting the lands of Indians, to which it might have appeared peculiarly appropriate. In negotiating with these children of the devil, however, the saints of God considered the dealings of Israel with Gibeon a more appropriate precedent.

Unfortunately, the example of Ephron was not remembered in land transactions involving Indians. It might have seemed especially appropriate in those cases. However, when negotiating with these children of the devil, the saints of God considered Israel’s dealings with Gibeon a more appropriate precedent.

The sermon was followed by an animated debate within the church. It was moved, amid quotations from 1 Cor. v. 11, that Mr. Keane should be excommunicated. That he might be excommunicated, if he were a covetous person within the meaning of the text, was doubted as little as that he had recently given a pitiable exhibition of covetousness. The question was only whether he had erred through ignorance or careless, or whether he had acted “against his conscience or the very light of nature”—whether, in short, his sin was accidental or a trade. In the end he escaped with his fine and admonition.⁸⁹

The sermon was followed by a lively debate in the church. Amid quotations from 1 Cor. v. 11, someone proposed that Mr. Keane should be excommunicated. No one doubted that he could be excommunicated if he was a covetous person in the sense meant by the passage. Nor did anyone doubt that he had recently given a pitiable display of greed. The only question was whether he had done wrong through ignorance or carelessness. Had he instead acted “against his conscience or the very light of nature”? In short, was his sin accidental, or was it his trade? In the end, he escaped with a fine and a warning.⁸⁹

If the only Christian documents which survived were the New Testament and the records of the Calvinist Churches in the age of the Reformation, to suggest a connection between them more intimate than a coincidence of phraseology would appear, in all probability, a daring extravagance. Legalistic, mechanical, without imagination or compassion, the work of a jurist and organizer of genius, Calvin’s system was more Roman than Christian, and more Jewish than either. That it should be as much more tyrannical than the medieval Church, as the Jacobin Club was than the ancien régime, was inevitable. Its meshes were finer, its zeal and its efficiency greater. And its enemies were not merely actions and writings, but thoughts.

Suppose the only surviving Christian documents were the New Testament and the records of the Calvinist Churches during the Reformation. Any suggestion that they shared more than similar wording would probably seem wildly daring. Calvin’s system was legalistic, mechanical, and without imagination or compassion. It was the work of a brilliant jurist and organizer. It was more Roman than Christian, and more Jewish than either. It was bound to be as much more tyrannical than the medieval Church as the Jacobin Club was than the ancien régime. Its net was finer, and its zeal and efficiency were greater. And its enemies were not just actions and writings, but thoughts.

The tyranny with which it is reproached by posterity would have been regarded by its champions as a compliment. In the struggle between liberty and authority, Calvinism sacrificed liberty, not with reluctance, but with enthusiasm. For the Calvinist Church was an army marching back to Canaan, under orders delivered once for all from Sinai, and the aim of its leaders was the conquest of the Promised Land, not the consolation of stragglers or the encouragement of laggards. In war the classical expedient is a dictatorship. The dictatorship of the ministry appeared as inevitable to the whole-hearted Calvinist as the Committee of Public Safety to the men of 1793, or the dictatorship of the proletariat to an enthusiastic Bolshevik. If it reached its zenith where Calvin’s discipline was accepted without Calvin’s culture and intellectual range, in the orgies of devil worship with which a Cotton and an Endicott shocked at last even the savage superstition of New England, that result was only to be expected.

Later generations accused Calvinism of tyranny, but its champions would have taken that as a compliment. In the struggle between liberty and authority, Calvinism sacrificed liberty, not reluctantly, but enthusiastically. The Calvinist Church was an army marching back to Canaan, under orders delivered once and for all from Sinai. Its leaders aimed to conquer the Promised Land, not to comfort stragglers or encourage those who fell behind. In war, the classic solution is a dictatorship. To a wholehearted Calvinist, rule by the ministry seemed as inevitable as the Committee of Public Safety did to the men of 1793, or the dictatorship of the proletariat to an enthusiastic Bolshevik. Calvinist rule reached its height where Calvin’s discipline was accepted without his culture and intellectual range. It led to orgies of devil worship under figures such as Cotton and Endicott. These finally shocked even the savage superstition of New England. If that was the result, it was only to be expected.

The best that can be said of the social theory and practice of early Calvinism is that they were consistent. Most tyrannies have contented themselves with tormenting the poor. Calvinism had little pity for poverty; but it distrusted wealth, as it distrusted all influences that distract the aim or relax the fibers of the soul, and, in the first flush of its youthful austerity, it did its best to make life unbearable for the rich. Before the Paradise of earthly comfort it hung a flaming brand, waved by the implacable shades of Moses and Aaron.⁹⁰

The best that can be said of early Calvinism’s social theory and practice is that they were consistent. Most tyrannies have been content to torment the poor. Calvinism had little pity for poverty, but it also distrusted wealth. It distrusted all influences that divert the soul from its purpose or weaken its resolve. And in the first surge of its youthful austerity, Calvinism did its best to make life unbearable for the rich. Before the Paradise of earthly comfort, it placed a flaming torch, waved by the pitiless spirits of Moses and Aaron.⁹⁰