The Puritan Movement

By the end of the sixteenth century the divorce between religious theory and economic realities had long been evident. But in the meantime, within the bosom of religious theory itself, a new system of ideas was being matured, which was destined to revolutionize all traditional values, and to turn on the whole field of social obligations a new and penetrating light. On a world heaving with expanding energies, and on a Church uncertain of itself, rose, after two generations of premonitory mutterings, the tremendous storm of the Puritan movement. The forest bent; the oaks snapped; the dry leaves were driven before a gale, neither all of winter nor all of spring, but violent and life-giving, pitiless and tender, sounding strange notes of yearning and contrition, as of voices wrung from a people dwelling in Meshec, which signifies Prolonging, in Kedar, which signifies Blackness; while amid the blare of trumpets, and the clash of arms, and the rending of the carved work of the Temple, humble to God and haughty to man, the soldier-saints swept over battlefield and scaffold their garments rolled in blood.

By the end of the sixteenth century, the divide between religious theory and economic reality had long been clear. But meanwhile, within religious theory itself, a new system of ideas was taking shape. It was destined to revolutionize all traditional values and cast a new, penetrating light on the whole field of social obligations. After two generations of warning rumbles, the immense storm of the Puritan movement broke. It swept over a world bursting with growing energy and a Church uncertain of itself. The forest bent, the oaks snapped, and dry leaves were driven before the gale. It was neither wholly winter nor wholly spring, but violent and life-giving, pitiless and tender. It sounded strange notes of longing and remorse. They were like voices forced from a people living in Meshec, meaning Prolonging, and in Kedar, meaning Blackness. Meanwhile, trumpets blared, weapons clashed, and the Temple’s carved work was torn apart. Amid all this, the soldier-saints swept across battlefields and scaffolds, their garments rolled in blood. They were humble before God and proud before men.

In the great silence which fell when the Titans had turned to dust, in the Augustan calm of the eighteenth century, a voice was heard to observe that religious liberty was a considerable advantage, regarded “merely in a commercial view.”¹ A new world, it was evident, had arisen. And this new world, born of the vision of the mystic, the passion of the prophet, the sweat and agony of heroes famous and unknown, as well as of mundane ambitions and commonplace cupidities, was one in which, since “Thorough” was no more, since property was secure, and contracts inviolable, and the executive tamed, the judicious investments of business men were likely to yield a profitable return. So the epitaph, which crowns the life of what is called success, mocks the dreams in which youth hungered, not for success, but for the glorious failure of the martyr or the saint.

A great silence fell after the Titans had turned to dust. In the Augustan calm of the eighteenth century, a voice observed that religious liberty was a considerable advantage, viewed “merely in a commercial view.”¹ Clearly, a new world had arisen. It was born of the mystic’s vision, the prophet’s passion, and the sweat and agony of heroes, famous and unknown. It was also born of everyday ambitions and ordinary greed. In this new world, “Thorough” was no more, property was secure, contracts could not be broken, and the executive had been tamed. So business people could expect wise investments to bring profitable returns. In the same way, the epitaph that crowns a life of so-called success mocks the dreams of youth. For in those dreams, youth longed not for success, but for the glorious failure of the martyr or the saint.

The principal streams which descended in England from the teaching of Calvin were three—Presbyterianism, Congregationalism, and a doctrine of the nature of God and man, which, if common to both, was more widely diffused, more pervasive and more potent than either. Of these three off-shoots from the parent stem, the first and eldest, which had made some stir under Elizabeth, and which it was hoped, with judicious watering from the Scotch, might grow into a State Church, was to produce a credal statement carved in bronze, but was to strike, at least in its original guise, but slender roots. The second, with its insistence on the right of every Church to organize itself, and on the freedom of all Churches from the interference of the State, was to leave, alike in the Old World and in the New, an imperishable legacy of civil and religious liberty. The third was Puritanism. Straitened to no single sect, and represented in the Anglican Church hardly, if at all, less fully than in those which afterwards separated from it, it determined, not only conceptions of theology and church government, but political aspirations, business relations, family life and the minutiæ of personal behavior.

Three main currents in England flowed from Calvin’s teaching. They were Presbyterianism, Congregationalism, and a doctrine about the nature of God and man. This doctrine was shared by both movements, but spread more widely and was more pervasive and powerful than either. Of these three branches, the first and oldest was Presbyterianism. It had caused some stir under Elizabeth. Some hoped that, with careful watering from the Scots, it might grow into a State Church. Presbyterianism would produce a statement of belief carved in bronze. But, at least in its original form, it would put down only shallow roots. The second branch was Congregationalism. It insisted that every Church had the right to organize itself and that all Churches should be free from State interference. In both the Old World and the New, it would leave a lasting legacy of civil and religious liberty. The third was Puritanism. It was not confined to any single sect. It was represented in the Anglican Church hardly less fully, if at all, than in the Churches that later separated from it. Puritanism shaped not only ideas about theology and church government, but also political aspirations, business relations, family life, and the smallest details of personal behavior.

The growth, triumph and transformation of the Puritan spirit was the most fundamental movement of the seventeenth century. Puritanism, not the Tudor secession from Rome, was the true English Reformation, and it is from its struggle against the old order that an England which is unmistakably modern emerges. But, immense as were its accomplishments on the high stage of public affairs, its achievements in that inner world, of which politics are but the squalid scaffolding, were mightier still. Like an iceberg, which can awe the traveller by its towering majesty only because sustained by a vaster mass which escapes his eye, the revolution which Puritanism wrought in Church and State was less than that which it worked in men’s souls, and the watchwords which it thundered, amid the hum of Parliaments and the roar of battles, had been learned in the lonely nights, when Jacob wrestled with the angel of the Lord to wring a blessing before he fled.

The rise, triumph, and transformation of the Puritan spirit was the most fundamental movement of the seventeenth century. Puritanism, not the Tudor break with Rome, was the true English Reformation. An unmistakably modern England emerged from Puritanism’s struggle against the old order. But though its accomplishments in public affairs were immense, its achievements in the inner world were greater still. Politics are merely the grim scaffolding around that inner world. An iceberg awes travelers with its towering majesty only because a far larger mass supports it out of sight. In the same way, the revolution Puritanism brought about in Church and State was smaller than the one it worked in people’s souls. Its slogans thundered amid the clamor of Parliaments and the roar of battles. But they had been learned on lonely nights, when Jacob wrestled with the angel of the Lord to force a blessing from him before he fled.

In the mysticism of Bunyan and Fox, in the brooding melancholy and glowing energy of Cromwell, in the victorious tranquillity of Milton, “unshaken, unseduced, unterrified,” amid a world of self-seekers and apostates, there are depths of light and darkness which posterity can observe with reverence or with horror, but which its small fathom-line cannot plumb.

Bunyan and Fox were mystics. Cromwell was deeply melancholy and full of burning energy. Milton had a victorious calm, “unshaken, unseduced, unterrified,” in a world of self-seekers and people who had abandoned their beliefs. In all of them, there are depths of light and darkness. Later generations can regard those depths with reverence or horror, but their short measuring line cannot reach the bottom.

There are types of character which are like a prism, whose various and brilliant colors are but broken reflections of a single ray of concentrated light. If the inward and spiritual grace of Puritanism eludes the historian, its outward and visible signs meet him at every turn, and not less in market-place and counting-house and camp than in the student’s chamber and the gathering of the elect for prayer. For to the Puritan, a contemner of the vain shows of sacramentalism, mundane toil becomes itself a kind of sacrament. Like a man who strives by unresting activity to exorcise a haunting demon, the Puritan, in the effort to save his own soul, sets in motion every force in heaven above or in the earth beneath. By the mere energy of his expanding spirit, he remakes, not only his own character and habits and way of life, but family and church, industry and city, political institutions and social order. Conscious that he is but a stranger and pilgrim, hurrying from this transitory life to a life to come, he turns with almost physical horror from the vanities which lull into an awful indifference souls dwelling on the borders of eternity, to pore with anguish of spirit on the grand facts, God, the soul, salvation and damnation. “It made the world seem to me,” said a Puritan of his conversion, “as a carkass that had neither life nor loveliness. And it destroyed those ambitious desires after literate fame, which was the sin of my childhood.... It set me upon that method of my studies which since then I have found the benefit of.... It caused me first to seek God’s Kingdom and his Righteousness, and most to mind the One thing needful, and to determine first of my Ultimate End.”²

Some types of character are like a prism. Their varied, brilliant colors are only refracted reflections of a single ray of concentrated light. The inward and spiritual grace of Puritanism may elude the historian. But its outward and visible signs meet him everywhere. They are as apparent in the marketplace, counting house, and military camp as in the scholar’s study or the gathering of the elect for prayer. For the Puritan despises the empty displays of sacramentalism, yet everyday work itself becomes a kind of sacrament. In his effort to save his own soul, the Puritan sets in motion every force in heaven above or on earth below. He is like a man who tries to drive away a haunting demon through relentless activity. Through the sheer energy of his growing spirit, he remakes not only his own character, habits, and way of life. He also remakes the family and the church, industry and the city, political institutions and the social order. The Puritan knows he is only a stranger and pilgrim, hurrying from this brief life to the life to come. He turns with almost physical horror from the vanities that lull souls on the brink of eternity into dreadful indifference. Instead, he reflects in anguish on the great realities: God, the soul, salvation, and damnation. “It made the world seem to me,” said a Puritan of his conversion, “like a corpse with neither life nor beauty. And it destroyed my ambitious desire for literary fame, which was the sin of my childhood.... It set me on the course of study that I have found beneficial ever since.... It led me first to seek God’s kingdom and his righteousness, to give the most attention to the one thing needful, and to decide first on my ultimate goal.”²

Overwhelmed by a sense of his “Ultimate End,” the Puritan cannot rest, nevertheless, in reflection upon it. The contemplation of God, which the greatest of the Schoolmen described as the supreme blessedness, is a blessedness too great for sinners, who must not only contemplate God, but glorify him by their work in a world given over to the powers of darkness. “The way to the Celestial City lies just through this town, where this lusty fair is kept; and he that will go to the City, and yet not go through this town, must needs go out of the world.”³ For that awful journey, girt with precipices and beset with fiends, he sheds every encumbrance, and arms himself with every weapon. Amusements, books, even intercourse with friends, must, if need be, be cast aside; for it is better to enter into eternal life halt and maimed than having two eyes to be cast into eternal fire. He scours the country, like Baxter and Fox, to find one who may speak the word of life to his soul. He seeks from his ministers, not absolution, but instruction, exhortation and warning. Prophesyings—that most revealing episode in early Puritanism—were the cry of a famished generation for enlightenment, for education, for a religion of the intellect; and it was because much “preaching breeds faction, but much praying causes devotion”⁴ that the powers of this world raised their parchment shutters to stem the gale that blew from the Puritan pulpit. He disciplines, rationalizes, systematizes, his life; “method” was a Puritan catchword a century before the world had heard of Methodists. He makes his very business a travail of the spirit, for that too is the Lord’s vineyard, in which he is called to labor.

Though overwhelmed by a sense of his “Ultimate End,” the Puritan cannot be content simply to reflect on it. The greatest of the Schoolmen called the contemplation of God the highest blessedness. But that blessedness is too great for sinners. They must not only contemplate God, but glorify him through their work in a world given over to the powers of darkness. “The way to the Celestial City leads right through this town, where this lively fair is held. Anyone who wants to reach the City without going through the town must leave the world altogether.”³ For that fearsome journey, surrounded by cliffs and beset by demons, the Puritan casts off every burden and takes up every weapon. If necessary, he must give up amusements, books, and even the company of friends. For it is better to enter eternal life lame and maimed than to be cast into eternal fire with two eyes. He searches the country, like Baxter and Fox, for someone who can speak the word of life to his soul. He looks to his ministers not for absolution, but for instruction, encouragement, and warning. Prophesyings were the cry of a starving generation for enlightenment, education, and a religion of the intellect. They were the most revealing episode in early Puritanism. The powers of this world raised their parchment shutters to hold back the gale blowing from the Puritan pulpit. They did so because, as the saying went, “much preaching breeds faction, but much praying causes devotion.”⁴ The Puritan disciplines, rationalizes, and systematizes his life. “Method” was a Puritan catchword a century before the world had heard of Methodists. He makes even his business a spiritual struggle. For business, too, is the Lord’s vineyard, where he is called to labor.

Feeling in him that which “maketh him more fearful of displeasing God than all the world,”⁵ he is a natural republican, for there is none on earth that he can own as master. If powers and principalities will hear and obey, well; if not, they must be ground into dust, that on their ruins the elect may build the Kingdom of Christ. And, in the end, all these—prayer, and toil, and discipline, mastery of self and mastery of others, wounds, and death—may be too little for the salvation of a single soul. “Then I saw that there was a way to Hell even from the Gates of Heaven, as well as from the City of Destruction”⁶—those dreadful words haunt him as he nears his end. Sometimes they break his heart. More often, for grace abounds even to the chief of sinners, they nerve his will. For it is will—will organized and disciplined and inspired, will quiescent in rapt adoration or straining in violent energy, but always will—which is the essence of Puritanism, and for the intensification and organization of will every instrument in that tremendous arsenal of religious fervour is mobilized. The Puritan is like a steel spring compressed by an inner force, which shatters every obstacle by its rebound. Sometimes the strain is too tense, and, when its imprisoned energy is released, it shatters itself.

He feels within himself something that “makes him more afraid of displeasing God than anyone in the world.”⁵ He is a natural republican, because he can recognize no one on earth as his master. If rulers and authorities will listen and obey, good. If not, they must be ground into dust, so that the elect may build the Kingdom of Christ on their ruins. And in the end, all of this may be too little to save a single soul: prayer and work, discipline, mastery of himself and others, wounds, and death. “Then I saw that there was a way to Hell even from the Gates of Heaven, as well as from the City of Destruction”⁶. Those dreadful words haunt him as he nears his end. Sometimes they break his heart. More often they strengthen his will, for grace abounds even to the worst of sinners. For will is the essence of Puritanism. It is will organized, disciplined, and inspired. It may be still in rapt worship or strained in violent action, but it is always will. Every instrument in that tremendous arsenal of religious fervor is mobilized to intensify and organize the will. The Puritan is like a steel spring compressed by an inner force. As it springs back, it shatters every obstacle. Sometimes the strain is too great, and when its trapped energy is released, the spring shatters itself.

The spirit bloweth where it listeth, and men of every social grade had felt their hearts lifted by its breath, from aristocrats and country gentlemen to weavers who, “as they stand in their loom, can set a book before them or edifie one another.”⁷ But, if religious zeal and moral enthusiasm are not straitened by the vulgar categories of class and income, experience proves, nevertheless, that there are certain kinds of environment in which they burn more bravely than in others, and that, as man is both spirit and body, so different types of religious experience correspond to the varying needs of different social and economic milieux. To contemporaries the chosen seat of the Puritan spirit seemed to be those classes in society which combined economic independence, education and a certain decent pride in their status, revealed at once in a determination to live their own lives, without truckling to earthly superiors, and in a somewhat arrogant contempt for those who, either through weakness of character or through economic helplessness, were less resolute, less vigorous and masterful, than themselves. Such, where the feudal spirit had been weakened by contact with town life and new intellectual currents, were some of the gentry. Such, conspicuously, were the yeomen, “mounted on a high spirit, as being slaves to none,”⁸ especially in the freeholding counties of the east. Such, above all, were the trading classes of the towns, and of those rural districts which had been partially industrialized by the decentralization of the textile and iron industries.

The spirit blows where it chooses, and people of every social rank had felt their hearts lifted by its breath. They ranged from aristocrats and country gentlemen to weavers who, “as they stand in their loom, can set a book before them or edifie one another.”⁷ Religious zeal and moral enthusiasm are not confined by crude categories of class and income. But experience shows that they burn more brightly in some environments than in others. Just as people are both spirit and body, different kinds of religious experience answer the varying needs of different social and economic milieux. To people at the time, the Puritan spirit seemed most at home among certain classes. These combined economic independence, education, and a respectable pride in their status. This pride showed in their determination to live their own lives without bowing to earthly superiors. It also showed in a somewhat arrogant contempt for those less resolute, vigorous, and capable of taking charge. Those people were held back either by weakness of character or by economic helplessness. Some of the gentry belonged to these classes, where contact with town life and new intellectual currents had weakened the feudal spirit. The yeomen were a particularly clear example. They were “mounted on a high spirit, as being slaves to none,”⁸ especially in the eastern counties where they owned their land outright. Above all, the trading classes belonged to these classes. They lived in towns and in rural districts partly industrialized as the textile and iron industries spread beyond the towns.

“The King’s cause and party,” wrote one who described the situation in Bristol in 1645, “were favored by two extremes in that city; the one, the wealthy and powerful men, the other, of the basest and lowest sort; but disgusted by the middle rank, the true and best citizens.”⁹ That it was everywhere these classes who were the standard-bearers of Puritanism is suggested by Professor Usher’s statistical estimate of the distribution of Puritan ministers in the first decade of the seventeenth century, which shows that, of 281 ministers whose names are known, 35 belonged to London and Middlesex, 96 to the three manufacturing counties of Norfolk, Suffolk and Essex, 29 to Northamptonshire, 17 to Lancashire, and only 104 to the whole of the rest of the country.¹⁰ The phenomenon was so striking as to evoke the comments of contemporaries absorbed in matters of profounder spiritual import than sociological generalization. “Most of the tenants of these gentlemen,” wrote Baxter, “and also most of the poorest of the people, whom the other called the Rabble, did follow the gentry, and were for the King. On the Parliament’s side were (besides themselves) the smaller part (as some thought) of the gentry in most of the counties, and freeholders, and the middle sort of men; especially in those corporations and counties which depend on cloathing and such manufactures.” He explained the fact by the liberalizing effect of constant correspondence with the greater centers of trade, and cited the example of France, where it was “the merchants and middle sort of men that were Protestants.”¹¹

“The King’s cause and party,” wrote an observer describing Bristol in 1645, “were favored by two extremes in the city. One was the wealthy and powerful. The other was the most despised and lowest class. But the middle rank, the true and best citizens, were opposed to them.”⁹ Professor Usher’s statistical estimate suggests that these classes led Puritanism throughout the country. His estimate covers the distribution of Puritan ministers in the first decade of the seventeenth century. Of the 281 ministers whose names are known, 35 belonged to London and Middlesex. Another 96 belonged to the three manufacturing counties of Norfolk, Suffolk and Essex. Northamptonshire had 29, Lancashire had 17, and the whole of the rest of the country had only 104.¹⁰ The pattern was striking. It even drew comment from contemporaries who were absorbed in spiritual matters deeper than sociological generalizations. “Most of the tenants of these gentlemen,” wrote Baxter, “and also most of the poorest people followed the gentry and supported the King. The other side called these poor people the Rabble. On Parliament’s side, besides its own members, were the smaller part of the gentry in most counties, so some thought, along with freeholders and the middle sort of people. This was especially true in towns and counties that depended on cloth and similar manufactures.” Baxter attributed this pattern to the liberalizing effect of constant contact with the greater centers of trade. He cited France as an example, where “the merchants and middle sort of people were Protestants.”¹¹

The most conspicuous example was, of course, London, which had financed the Parliamentary forces, and which continued down to the Revolution to be par excellence “the rebellious city,” returning four Dissenters to the Royalist Parliament of 1661, sending its mayor and aldermen to accompany Lord Russell when he carried the Exclusion Bill from the Commons to the Lords, patronizing Presbyterian ministers long after Presbyterianism was proscribed, nursing the Whig Party, which stood for tolerance, and sheltering the Whig leaders against the storm which broke in 1681. But almost everywhere the same fact was to be observed. The growth of Puritanism, wrote a hostile critic, was “by meanes of the City of London (the nest and seminary of the seditious faction) and by reason of its universall trade throughout the kingdome, with its commodities conveying and deriving this civill contagion to all our cities and corporations, and thereby poysoning whole counties.”¹² In Lancashire, the clothing towns—“the Genevas of Lancashire”—rose like Puritan islands from the surrounding sea of Roman Catholicism. In Yorkshire, Bradford, Leeds and Halifax; in the midlands, Birmingham and Leicester; in the west, Gloucester, Taunton and Exeter, the capital of the west of England textile industry, were all centers of Puritanism.

The clearest example was, of course, London. The city had financed the Parliamentary forces and remained par excellence “the rebellious city” until the Revolution. It elected four Dissenters to the Royalist Parliament of 1661. Its mayor and aldermen accompanied Lord Russell when he carried the Exclusion Bill from the Commons to the Lords. London supported Presbyterian ministers long after Presbyterianism was outlawed. It nurtured the Whig Party, which stood for tolerance, and sheltered Whig leaders from the storm that broke in 1681. But much the same thing could be seen almost everywhere. A hostile critic wrote that Puritanism grew “through the City of London (the nest and breeding ground of the seditious faction). Through its trade throughout the kingdom, London spread this civil contagion with its goods to all our cities and corporations, poisoning whole counties.”¹² In Lancashire, the clothing towns, “the Genevas of Lancashire”, rose like Puritan islands from the surrounding sea of Roman Catholicism. In Yorkshire, Bradford, Leeds and Halifax were all centers of Puritanism. So were Birmingham and Leicester in the midlands, and Gloucester, Taunton and Exeter in the west. Exeter was the capital of the west of England textile industry.

The identification of the industrial and commercial classes with religious radicalism was, indeed, a constant theme of Anglicans and Royalists, who found in the vices of each an additional reason for distrusting both. Clarendon commented bitterly on the “factious humor which possessed most corporations, and the pride of their wealth”;¹³ and, after the Civil War, both the politics and the religion of the boroughs were suspect for a generation. The bishop of Oxford warned Charles II’s Government against showing them any favor, on the ground that “trading combinations” were “so many nests of faction and sedition,” and that “our late miserable distractions” were “chiefly hatched in the shops of tradesmen.”¹⁴ Pepys commented dryly on the black looks which met the Anglican clergy as they returned to their City churches. It was even alleged that the courtiers hailed with glee the fire of London, as a providential instrument for crippling the center of disaffection.¹⁵

Anglicans and Royalists often linked the industrial and commercial classes with religious radicalism. They saw the vices of each as another reason to distrust both. Clarendon wrote bitterly of the “factious spirit that possessed most corporations, and their pride in their wealth.”¹³ After the Civil War, the politics and religion of the boroughs remained suspect for a generation. The bishop of Oxford warned Charles II’s government not to favor the boroughs. He argued that “trading combinations” were “nests of faction and sedition,” and that “our recent miserable conflicts” had been “chiefly hatched in tradesmen’s shops.”¹⁴ Pepys commented dryly on the hostile looks that greeted Anglican clergy returning to their City churches. It was even alleged that courtiers welcomed the fire of London with glee. They supposedly saw the fire as a providential means of crippling the center of disaffection.¹⁵

When, after 1660, Political Arithmetic became the fashion, its practitioners were moved by the experience of the last half-century and by the example of Holland—the economic schoolmaster of seventeenth-century Europe—to inquire, in the manner of any modern sociologist, into the relations between economic progress and other aspects of the national genius. Cool, dispassionate, very weary of the drum ecclesiastic, they confirmed, not without some notes of gentle irony, the diagnosis of bishop and presbyterian, but deduced from it different conclusions. The question which gave a topical point to their analysis was the rising issue of religious tolerance. Serenely indifferent to its spiritual significance, they found a practical reason for applauding it in the fact that the classes who were in the van of the Puritan movement, and in whom the Clarendon Code found its most prominent victims, were also those who led commercial and industrial enterprise. The explanation, they thought, was simple. A society of peasants could be homogeneous in its religion, as it was already homogeneous in the simple uniformity of its economic arrangements. A many-sided business community could escape constant friction and obstruction only if it were free to absorb elements drawn from a multitude of different sources, and if each of those elements were free to pursue its own way of life, and—in that age the same thing—to practice its own religion.

After 1660, Political Arithmetic became fashionable. Its practitioners drew on the experience of the previous half century and the example of Holland, the economic teacher of seventeenth-century Europe. Like modern sociologists, they investigated the relationship between economic progress and other aspects of a nation's character. Cool and detached, and thoroughly tired of religious strife, they confirmed the diagnosis of bishops and Presbyterians, with a touch of gentle irony. But they drew different conclusions from it. The rising issue of religious tolerance gave their analysis its immediate relevance. They were serenely indifferent to the spiritual meaning of tolerance. But they found a practical reason to welcome it. The classes at the forefront of the Puritan movement were also leaders in trade and industry. They were also the most prominent victims of the Clarendon Code. The explanation, the practitioners thought, was simple. A society of peasants could share one religion, just as its economic arrangements were already simple and uniform. But a diverse business community could avoid constant friction and obstruction only if it could freely absorb people from many different sources. Each group also had to be free to pursue its own way of life and, in that age, its own religion. The two were the same thing.

Englishmen, as Defoe remarked, improved everything and invented nothing, and English economic organization had long been elastic enough to swallow Flemish weavers flying from Alva, and Huguenots driven from France. But the traditional ecclesiastical system was not equally accommodating. It found not only the alien refugee, but its home-bred sectaries, indigestible. Laud, reversing the policy of Elizabethan Privy Councils, which characteristically thought diversity of trades more important than unity of religion, had harassed the settlements of foreign artisans at Maidstone, Sandwich and Canterbury,¹⁶ and the problem recurred in every attempt to enforce conformity down to 1689. “The gaols were crowded with the most substantial tradesmen and inhabitants, the clothiers were forced from their houses, and thousands of workmen and women whom they employed set to starving.”¹⁷ The Whig indictment of the disastrous effects of Tory policy recalls the picture drawn by French intendants of the widespread distress which followed the revocation of the Edict of Nantes.¹⁸

As Defoe remarked, Englishmen improved everything and invented nothing. English economic organization had long been flexible enough to absorb Flemish weavers fleeing Alva and Huguenots driven from France. But the traditional church system was less accommodating. It could not digest foreign refugees or homegrown members of religious sects. Laud reversed the policy of Elizabethan Privy Councils, which typically considered a diversity of trades more important than religious unity. He harassed the settlements of foreign artisans at Maidstone, Sandwich and Canterbury.¹⁶ The problem arose again in every attempt to enforce religious conformity down to 1689. “The prisons were crowded with the most substantial tradesmen and residents, the clothiers were forced from their homes, and thousands of the men and women they employed were left to starve.”¹⁷ This Whig indictment of the disastrous effects of Tory policy recalls the picture drawn by French intendants. They described the widespread distress that followed the revocation of the Edict of Nantes.¹⁸

When the collision between economic interests and the policy of compulsory conformity was so flagrant, it is not surprising that the economists of the age should have enunciated the healing principle that persecution was incompatible with prosperity, since it was on the pioneers of economic progress that persecution principally fell. “Every law of this nature,” wrote the author of a pamphlet on the subject, is not only “expressly against the very principles and rules of the Gospel of Christ,” but is also “destructive to the trade and well-being of our nation by oppressing and driving away the most industrious working hands, and depopulating, and thereby impoverishes our country, which is capable of employing ten times the number of people we now have.”¹⁹

Economic interests clashed openly with a policy of forced conformity. So it is not surprising that economists of the time put forward a remedy: persecution was incompatible with prosperity. After all, persecution fell mainly on the pioneers of economic progress. As the author of a pamphlet on the subject wrote, “Every law of this kind” is not only “directly against the very principles and rules of the Gospel of Christ,” but also “harms the trade and well-being of our nation by oppressing and driving away the most industrious workers. It reduces our population and thus impoverishes our country, which could employ ten times as many people as it has now.”¹⁹

Temple, in his calm and lucid study of the United Netherlands, found one reason of their success in the fact that, Roman Catholicism excepted, every man might practise what religion he pleased.²⁰ De la Court, whose striking book passed under the name of John de Witt, said the same.²¹ Petty, after pointing out that in England the most thriving towns were those where there was most nonconformity, cited the evidence, not only of Europe, but of India and the Ottoman Empire, to prove that, while economic progress is compatible with any religion, the class which is its vehicle will always consist of the heterodox minority, who “profess opinions different from what are publicly established.”²² “There is a kind of natural unaptness,” wrote a pamphleteer in 1671, “in the Popish religion to business, whereas on the contrary among the Reformed, the greater their zeal, the greater their inclination to trade and industry, as holding idleness unlawful.... The domestic interest of England lieth in the advancement of trade by removing all obstructions both in city and country, and providing such laws as may help it, and make it most easy, especially in giving liberty of conscience to all Protestant Nonconformists, and denying it to Papists.”²³

In his calm and clear study of the United Netherlands, Temple found one reason for their success in religious freedom. Except for Roman Catholics, everyone could practise the religion they pleased.²⁰ De la Court said the same in his striking book, which was published under the name of John de Witt.²¹ Petty pointed out that England’s most prosperous towns were those with the most religious nonconformity. He then cited evidence from Europe, India and the Ottoman Empire. He argued that economic progress is compatible with any religion. But the class that drives such progress will always consist of the religious minority who “hold opinions different from those publicly established.”²² A pamphleteer wrote in 1671: “The Catholic religion has a kind of natural unsuitability for business. Among the Reformed, by contrast, the greater their zeal, the greater their inclination toward trade and industry, since they consider idleness unlawful.... England’s domestic interest lies in advancing trade by removing all obstacles in town and country. It also lies in providing laws that help trade and make it as easy as possible. Above all, it lies in giving freedom of conscience to all Protestant Nonconformists and denying it to Catholics.”²³

If the economists applauded tolerance because it was good for trade, the Tory distrust of the commercial classes was aggravated by the fact that it was they who were most vocal in the demand for tolerance. Swift denounced, as part of the same odious creed, the maxim that “religion ought to make no distinction between Protestants” and the policy “of preferring, on all occasions, the monied interests before the landed.”²⁴ Even later in the eighteenth century, the stale gibe of “the Presbyterians, the Bank and the other corporations” still figured in the pamphlets of the statesman whom Lord Morley describes as the prince of political charlatans, Bolingbroke.²⁵

If economists praised tolerance because it was good for trade, Tories had even more reason to distrust the commercial classes. Those classes were the most vocal in demanding tolerance. Swift denounced two ideas as parts of the same hateful creed. One was the principle that “religion ought to make no distinction between Protestants”. The other was the policy “of preferring, on all occasions, the monied interests before the landed.”²⁴ Even later in the eighteenth century, the stale jibe about “the Presbyterians, the Bank and the other corporations” still appeared in Bolingbroke’s pamphlets. Lord Morley describes Bolingbroke as the prince of political charlatans.²⁵

“The middle ranks,” “the middle class of men,” “the middle sort”—such social strata included, of course, the widest variety of economic interest and personal position. But in the formative period of Puritanism, before the Civil War, two causes prevented the phrase from being merely the vapid substitute for thought which it is today. In the first place, outside certain exceptional industries and districts, there was little large-scale production and no massed proletariat of propertyless wage-earners. As a result, the typical workman was still normally a small master, who continued himself to work at the loom or at the forge, and whose position was that described in Baxter’s Kidderminster, where “there were none of the tradesmen very rich ... the magistrates of the town were few of them worth £40 per annum, and most not half so much; three or four of the richest thriving masters of the trade got but about £500 to £600 in twenty years, and it may be lost £100 of it at once by an ill debtor.”²⁶ Differing in wealth from the prosperous merchant or clothier, such men resembled them in economic and social habits, and the distinction between them was one of degree, not of kind. In the world of industry vertical divisions between district and district still cut deeper than horizontal fissures between class and class. The number of those who could reasonably be described as independent, since they owned their own tools and controlled their own businesses, formed a far larger proportion of the population than is the case in capitalist societies.

“The middle ranks,” “the middle class of men,” “the middle sort”: these groups included people with widely different economic interests and personal positions. But in the formative period of Puritanism, before the Civil War, two causes kept these phrases from being the empty substitutes for thought they are today. First, apart from certain exceptional industries and districts, there was little large-scale production and no mass of propertyless wage earners. As a result, the typical worker was still normally a small master who worked at the loom or forge himself. His position was like that described in Baxter’s Kidderminster, where “none of the tradesmen were very rich ... few of the town’s magistrates were worth £40 per annum, and most were not worth half that much. Three or four of the richest and most successful masters in the trade earned only about £500 to £600 in twenty years, and might lose £100 of it at once because a debtor failed to pay.”²⁶ Though less wealthy than the prosperous merchant or clothier, these men shared their economic and social habits. The difference between them was one of degree, not of kind. In industry, vertical divisions between districts still cut deeper than horizontal divisions between classes. Those who could reasonably be called independent formed a far larger share of the population than they do in capitalist societies, since they owned their own tools and controlled their own businesses.

The second fact was even more decisive. The business classes, as a power in the State, were still sufficiently young to be conscious of themselves as something like a separate order, with an outlook on religion and politics peculiarly their own, distinguished, not merely by birth and breeding, but by their social habits, their business discipline, the whole bracing atmosphere of their moral life, from a Court which they believed to be godless and an aristocracy which they knew to be spendthrift. The estrangement—for it was no more—was of shorter duration in England than in any other European country, except Switzerland and Holland. By the latter part of the seventeenth century, partly as a result of the common struggles which made the Revolution, still more perhaps through the redistribution of wealth by commerce and finance, the former rivals were on the way to be compounded in the gilded clay of a plutocracy embracing both. The landed gentry were increasingly sending their sons into business; “the tradesman meek and much a liar” looked forward, as a matter of course, to buying an estate from a bankrupt noble. Georgian England was to astonish foreign observers, like Voltaire and Montesquieu, as the Paradise of the bourgeoisie, in which the prosperous merchant shouldered easily aside the impoverished bearers of aristocratic names.²⁷

The second fact was even more decisive. The business classes were still relatively new as a power in the State. They saw themselves as something like a separate order, with their own distinctive outlook on religion and politics. Birth and upbringing set them apart from the Court, which they believed was godless, and the aristocracy, which they knew to be wasteful. So did their social habits, their business discipline, and the whole invigorating atmosphere of their moral life. This estrangement was no more than that. It lasted for less time in England than in any other European country except Switzerland and Holland. By the later seventeenth century, the former rivals were on their way to being molded together in the gilded clay of a plutocracy. This happened partly because of the struggles they shared in bringing about the Revolution. Perhaps even more important was the redistribution of wealth through commerce and finance. The landed gentry increasingly sent their sons into business. “the tradesman meek and much a liar” naturally expected to buy an estate from a bankrupt noble. Georgian England would astonish foreign observers like Voltaire and Montesquieu as the Paradise of the bourgeoisie. There, the prosperous merchant easily pushed aside the impoverished bearers of aristocratic names.²⁷

That consummation, however, was subsequent to the great divide of the Civil War, and, in the main, to the tamer glories of the Revolution. In the germinating period of Puritanism, the commercial classes, though powerful, were not yet the dominant force which a century later they were to become. They could look back on a not distant past, in which their swift rise to prosperity had been regarded with suspicion, as the emergence of an alien interest, which applied sordid means to the pursuit of anti-social ends—an interest for which in a well-ordered commonwealth there was little room, and which had been rapped on the knuckles by conservative statesmen. They lived in a present, where a Government, at once interfering, inefficient and extravagant, cultivated, with an intolerable iteration of grandiloquent principles, every shift and artifice most repugnant to the sober prudence of plain-dealing men. The less reputable courtiers and the more feather-pated provincial gentry, while courting them to raise a mortgage or renew a loan, reviled them as parvenus, usurers and blood-suckers. Even in the latter part of the seventeenth century, the influence of the rentier and of the financier still continued to cause apprehension and jealousy, both for political and for economic reasons. “By this single stratagem,” wrote an indignant pamphleteer of the Puritan capitalists who specialized in money-lending, “they avoyd all contributions of tithes and taxes to the King, Church, Poor (a soverain cordial to tender consciences); they decline all services and offices of burthen incident to visible estates; they escape all oaths and ties of publick allegiance or private fealty.... They enjoy both the secular applause of prudent conduct, and withal the spiritual comfort of thriving easily and devoutly ... leaving their adversaries the censures of improvidence, together with the misery of decay. They keep many of the nobility and gentry in perfect vassalage (as their poor copyholders), which eclipses honour, enervates justice and oft-times protects them in their boldest conceptions. By engrossing cash and credit, they in effect give the price to land and law to markets. By commanding ready money, they likewise command such offices as they widely affect ... they feather and enlarge their own nests, the corporations.”²⁸

That culmination, however, came after the great divide of the Civil War and, for the most part, after the milder glories of the Revolution. In the early days of Puritanism, the commercial classes were powerful, but not yet the dominant force they would become a century later. In their not too distant past, their rapid rise to prosperity had been viewed with suspicion. They had been seen as an alien interest, using sordid means to pursue aims harmful to society. There was little room for such an interest in a well-ordered commonwealth, and conservative statesmen had rebuked it. The commercial classes now lived under a government that was interfering, inefficient, and extravagant. It pursued every scheme and trick most repugnant to the sober prudence of honest men, while endlessly repeating its grand principles. The less respectable courtiers and more foolish provincial gentry sought them out for mortgages or renewed loans. Yet these same courtiers and gentry denounced them as parvenus, usurers, and bloodsuckers. Even in the later seventeenth century, the influence of the rentier and the financier continued to cause anxiety and jealousy for political and economic reasons. An indignant pamphleteer wrote of the Puritan capitalists who specialized in money-lending: “By this one trick, they avoid all payments of tithes and taxes to the King, Church, and Poor (a soothing comfort to tender consciences). They avoid all the burdensome duties and offices that come with owning visible property. They escape all oaths and obligations of public allegiance or private loyalty.... They enjoy both worldly praise for their prudent conduct and the spiritual comfort of prospering easily and devoutly ... while leaving their adversaries to be condemned as improvident and to suffer the misery of decline. They keep many nobles and gentry in complete servitude, like their poor copyholders. This diminishes honor, weakens justice, and often protects the money-lenders in their boldest schemes. By monopolizing cash and credit, they effectively set the price of land and dictate terms to markets. By controlling ready money, they also control the offices they so widely seek ... they feather and expand their own nests, the corporations.”²⁸

Such lamentations, the protest of senatorial dignity against equestrian upstarts or of the noblesse against the roturier, were natural in a conservative aristocracy, which for a century had felt authority and prestige slipping from its grasp, and which could only maintain its hold on them by resigning itself, as ultimately it did, to sharing them with its rival. In return, the business world, which had its own religious and political ideology, steadily gathered the realities of power into its own hands; asked with a sneer, “how would merchants thrive if gentlemen would not be unthriftes”;²⁹ and vented the indignant contempt felt by an energetic, successful and, according to its lights, not too unscrupulous, generation for a class of fainéants, unversed in the new learning of the City and incompetent to the verge of immorality in the management of business affairs. Their triumphs in the past, their strength in the present, their confidence in the future, their faith in themselves, and their difference from their feebler neighbours—a difference as of an iron wedge in a lump of clay—made them, to use a modern phrase, class-conscious. Like the modern proletarian, who feels that, whatever his personal misery and his present disappointments, the Cause is rolled forward to victory by the irresistible force of an inevitable evolution, the Puritan bourgeoisie knew that against the chosen people the gates of hell could not prevail. The Lord prospered their doings.

Such complaints were natural for a conservative aristocracy. They were like the protests of proud senators against upstart knights, or of the noblesse against the roturier. For a century, the aristocracy had felt its authority and prestige slipping away. It could hold on to them only by accepting that it must share them with its rival, as it eventually did. Meanwhile, the business world had its own religious and political ideology and steadily took real power into its own hands. Businessmen sneered, “how would merchants thrive if gentlemen would not be unthriftes”.²⁹ They were energetic and successful, and by their own standards, not too unscrupulous. They expressed their indignant contempt for a class of fainéants. These idlers knew nothing of the City’s new learning and were so incompetent in business as to be almost immoral. The businessmen became, to use a modern phrase, class-conscious. They had triumphed in the past, were strong in the present, and were confident about the future. They believed in themselves and saw themselves as different from their weaker neighbours, like an iron wedge in a lump of clay. The modern proletarian feels that, whatever his personal misery and present disappointments, an irresistible force of inevitable evolution carries the Cause forward to victory. In the same way, the Puritan bourgeoisie knew that the gates of hell could not prevail against the chosen people. The Lord prospered their doings.

There is a magic mirror in which each order and organ of society, as the consciousness of its character and destiny dawns upon it, looks for a moment, before the dust of conflict or the glamour of success obscures its vision. In that enchanted glass, it sees its own lineaments reflected with ravishing allurements; for what it sees is not what it is, but what in the eyes of mankind and of its own heart it would be. The feudal noblesse had looked, and had caught a glimpse of a world of fealty and chivalry and honor. The monarchy looked, or Laud and Strafford looked for it; they saw a nation drinking the blessings of material prosperity and spiritual edification from the cornucopia of a sage and paternal monarchy—a nation “fortified and adorned ... the country rich ... the Church flourishing ... trade increased to that degree that we were the exchange of Christendom ... all foreign merchants looking upon nothing as their own but what they laid up in the warehouses of this Kingdom.”³⁰ In a far-off day the craftsman and laborer were to look, and see a band of comrades, where fellowship should be known for life and lack of fellowship for death. For the middle classes of the early seventeenth century, rising but not yet triumphant, that enchanted mirror was Puritanism. What it showed was a picture grave to sternness, yet not untouched with a sober exaltation—an earnest, zealous, godly generation, scorning delights, punctual in labor, constant in prayer, thrifty and thriving, filled with a decent pride in themselves and their calling, assured that strenuous toil is acceptable to Heaven, a people like those Dutch Calvinists whose economic triumphs were as famous as their iron Protestantism—“thinking, sober, and patient men, and such as believe that labor and industry is their duty towards God.”³¹ Then an air stirred and the glass was dimmed. It was long before any questioned it again.

There is a magic mirror in which every order and part of society looks as it begins to recognize its character and destiny. Each looks for a moment, before the dust of conflict or the glamour of success clouds its vision. In that enchanted glass, each sees its own features reflected with captivating beauty. For what each sees is not what it is, but what it wants to be, both in its own heart and in the eyes of humanity. The feudal noblesse had looked and glimpsed a world of loyalty, chivalry, and honor. The monarchy looked, or Laud and Strafford looked on its behalf. They saw a nation drawing the blessings of material prosperity and spiritual growth from the cornucopia of a wise, fatherly monarchy. It was a nation “fortified and adorned ... the country rich ... the Church flourishing ... trade increased to that degree that we were the exchange of Christendom ... all foreign merchants looking upon nothing as their own but what they laid up in the warehouses of this Kingdom.”³⁰ Much later, the craftsman and laborer would look and see a band of comrades, where fellowship would mean life and its absence would mean death. For the middle classes of the early seventeenth century, rising but not yet triumphant, that enchanted mirror was Puritanism. It showed a picture that was grave to the point of sternness, yet touched with a sober sense of exaltation. It showed an earnest, zealous, godly generation, scorning pleasures, diligent in work, constant in prayer, thrifty and prosperous. These people felt a respectable pride in themselves and their calling. They were sure that hard work was pleasing to Heaven. They were like those Dutch Calvinists whose economic triumphs were as famous as their iron Protestantism: “thinking, sober, and patient men, and such as believe that labor and industry is their duty towards God.”³¹ Then a breeze stirred, and the glass grew dim. A long time passed before anyone consulted it again.

Puritanism was the schoolmaster of the English middle classes. It heightened their virtues, sanctified, without eradicating, their convenient vices, and gave them an inexpugnable assurance that, behind virtues and vices alike, stood the majestic and inexorable laws of an omnipotent Providence, without whose foreknowledge not a hammer could beat upon the forge, not a figure could be added to the ledger. But it is a strange school which does not teach more than one lesson, and the social reactions of Puritanism, trenchant, permanent and profound, are not to be summarized in the simple formula that it fostered individualism. Weber, in a celebrated essay, expounded the thesis that Calvinism, in its English version, was the parent of capitalism, and Troeltsch, Schulze-Gaevernitz and Cunningham have lent to the same interpretation the weight of their considerable authority.³² But the heart of man holds mysteries of contradiction which live in vigorous incompatibility together. When the shriveled tissues lie in our hand, the spiritual bond still eludes us.

Puritanism was the teacher of the English middle classes. It strengthened their virtues and gave a sacred standing to their convenient vices, without eliminating them. It gave them an unshakable assurance that majestic and relentless laws lay behind both their virtues and their vices. These were the laws of an all-powerful Providence. Without its foreknowledge, no hammer could strike the forge, and no figure could be added to the ledger. But it is a strange school that teaches only one lesson. Puritanism had sharp, lasting, and profound effects on society. These cannot be summed up in the simple claim that it encouraged individualism. In a celebrated essay, Weber argued that Calvinism, in its English form, gave birth to capitalism. Troeltsch, Schulze-Gaevernitz and Cunningham have lent their considerable authority to the same interpretation.³² But the human heart holds mysteries of contradiction, with opposing impulses living vigorously together despite their incompatibility. Even when we hold the shriveled tissues in our hand, the spiritual bond still escapes us.

In every human soul there is a socialist and an individualist, an authoritarian and a fanatic for liberty, as in each there is a Catholic and a Protestant. The same is true of the mass movements in which men marshal themselves for common action. There was in Puritanism an element which was conservative and traditionalist, and an element which was revolutionary; a collectivism which grasped at an iron discipline, and an individualism which spurned the savorless mess of human ordinances; a sober prudence which would garner the fruits of this world, and a divine recklessness which would make all things new. For long nourished together, their discords concealed, in the furnace of the Civil War they fell apart, and Presbyterian and Independent, aristocrat and Leveller, politician and merchant and utopian, gazed with bewildered eyes on the strange monsters with whom they had walked as friends. Then the splendors and illusions vanished; the force of common things prevailed; the metal cooled in the mould; and the Puritan spirit, shorn of its splendors and its illusions, settled finally into its decent bed of equable respectability. But each element in its social philosophy had once been as vital as the other, and the battle was fought, not between a Puritanism solid for one view and a State committed to another, but between rival tendencies in the soul of Puritanism itself. The problem is to grasp their connection, and to understand the reasons which caused this to wax and that to wane.

In every human soul there is a socialist and an individualist, an authoritarian and a fanatic for liberty. Just as surely, there is a Catholic and a Protestant in each soul. The same is true of the mass movements people join to act together. Puritanism contained a conservative, traditionalist element and a revolutionary one. It had a collectivism that sought iron discipline and an individualism that rejected the tasteless mess of human rules. It had a sober prudence that would gather the fruits of this world, and a divine recklessness that would make everything new. For a long time, these elements grew together, their conflicts concealed. But in the furnace of the Civil War, they fell apart. Presbyterians and Independents, aristocrats and Levellers, politicians, merchants, and utopians looked on in bewilderment. Those they had walked with as friends now seemed like strange monsters. Then the splendors and illusions vanished. Ordinary forces prevailed, and the metal cooled in the mold. The Puritan spirit, stripped of its splendors and illusions, finally settled into a decent bed of steady respectability. But each element of its social philosophy had once been as vital as the others. The battle was not between a Puritanism united behind one view and a State committed to another. It was a battle between rival tendencies within the soul of Puritanism itself. The problem is to grasp how those tendencies were connected and why one grew stronger while another weakened.

“The triumph of Puritanism,” it has been said, “swept away all traces of any restriction or guidance in the employment of money.”³³ That it swept away the restrictions imposed by the existing machinery is true; neither ecclesiastical courts, nor High Commission, nor Star Chamber, could function after 1640. But, if it broke the discipline of the Church of Laud and the State of Strafford, it did so but as a step towards erecting a more rigorous discipline of its own. It would have been scandalized by economic individualism as much as by religious tolerance, and the broad outlines of its scheme of organization favored unrestricted liberty in matters of business as little as in the things of the spirit. To the Puritan of any period in the century between the accession of Elizabeth and the Civil War, the suggestion that he was the friend of economic or social license would have seemed as wildly inappropriate as it would have appeared to most of his critics, who taunted him, except in the single matter of usury, with an intolerable meticulousness.

“The triumph of Puritanism,” it has been said, “swept away all traces of any restriction or guidance in the employment of money.”³³ It is true that Puritanism swept away the restrictions imposed by the existing system. Neither ecclesiastical courts, nor the High Commission, nor the Star Chamber could function after 1640. But if Puritanism broke the discipline of Laud’s Church and Strafford’s State, it did so only to establish a stricter discipline of its own. Puritanism would have been as scandalized by economic individualism as by religious tolerance. Its general plan for organizing society favored unrestricted freedom in business no more than in spiritual matters. Any Puritan in the century between Elizabeth’s accession and the Civil War would have found it wildly inappropriate to be called a friend of economic or social license. Most of his critics would have agreed. Except on the single issue of usury, they mocked him for being intolerably strict about details.

A godly discipline was, indeed, the very ark of the Puritan covenant. Delivered in thunder to the Moses of Geneva, its vital necessity had been the theme of the Joshuas of Scotland, England and France. Knox produced a Scottish edition of it; Cartwright, Travers and Udall composed treatises expounding it. Bancroft exposed its perils for the established ecclesiastical order.³⁴ The word “discipline” implied essentially “a directory of Church government,” established in order that “the wicked may be corrected with ecclesiastical censures, according to the quality of the fault”;³⁵ and the proceedings of Puritan classes in the sixteenth century show that the conception of a rule of life, to be enforced by the pressure of the common conscience, and in the last resort by spiritual penalties, was a vital part of their system. When, at the beginning of Elizabeth’s reign, the sectaries in London described their objects as not merely the “free and pure” preaching of the Gospel, nor the pure ministration of the sacraments, but “to have, not the fylthye cannon lawe, but disciplyne onelye and altogether agreeable to the same heavenlye and Allmightye word of our good Lorde Jesus Chryste,”³⁶ the antithesis suggests that something more than verbal instruction is intended. Bancroft noted that it was the practice, when a sin was committed by one of the faithful, for the elders to apply first admonishment and then excommunication. The minute-book of one of the few classes whose records survive confirms his statement.³⁷

Godly discipline was, indeed, the very ark of the Puritan covenant. It had been delivered in thunder to the Moses of Geneva. Its vital necessity had been the theme of the Joshuas of Scotland, England and France. Knox produced a Scottish edition of it. Cartwright, Travers and Udall wrote treatises explaining it. Bancroft exposed its dangers to the established Church order.³⁴ The word “discipline” meant essentially “a guide to Church government.” This was established so that “the wicked may be corrected with Church penalties, according to the nature of the offense.”³⁵ The proceedings of Puritan classes in the sixteenth century show that a rule of life was vital to their system. It was to be enforced by the pressure of the shared conscience and, as a last resort, by spiritual penalties. At the beginning of Elizabeth’s reign, the sectaries in London described their aims. These were not merely the “free and pure” preaching of the Gospel or the pure administration of the sacraments. They also wanted “not the filthy canon law, but discipline entirely in keeping with the same heavenly and almighty word of our good Lord Jesus Christ.”³⁶ This contrast suggests that they meant something more than verbal instruction. Bancroft noted that, when one of the faithful committed a sin, the elders first gave a warning and then excommunicated the offender. The minute-book of one of the few classes whose records survive confirms his statement.³⁷

All this early movement had almost flickered out before the end of the sixteenth century. But the conception lay at the very root of Presbyterianism, and it reëmerged in the system of church government which the supercilious Scotch Commissioners at the Westminster Assembly steered to inconclusive victory, between Erastians on the right and Independents on the left. The destruction of the Court of High Commission, of the temporal jurisdiction of all persons in Holy Orders, and finally, with the abolition of episcopacy, of the ecclesiastical courts themselves, left a vacuum. “Mr. Henderson,” wrote the insufferable Baillie, “has ready now a short treatise, much called for, of our church discipline.”³⁸ In June 1646 an unenthusiastic Parliament accepted the ordinance which, after a three years’ debate of intolerable tedium, emerged from the Assembly’s Committee on the Discipline and Government of the Church, and which provided for the suspension by the elders of persons guilty of scandalous offences. Detested by the Independents and cold-shouldered by Parliament, which had no intention of admitting the divine right of presbyteries, the system never took deep root, and in London, at least, there appears to be no evidence of any exercise of jurisdiction by elders or classes. In parts of Lancashire, on the other hand, it seems to have been actively at work, down, at any rate, to 1649. The change in the political situation, in particular the triumph of the army, prevented it, Mr. Shaw thinks, from functioning longer.³⁹

This early movement had almost died out before the end of the sixteenth century. But the idea lay at the very root of Presbyterianism. It reappeared in a system of church government that the haughty Scottish Commissioners steered to an inconclusive victory at the Westminster Assembly. They faced Erastians on the right and Independents on the left. The destruction of the Court of High Commission left a vacuum. So did the destruction of the temporal jurisdiction of all people in Holy Orders. Finally, the abolition of episcopacy brought the destruction of the ecclesiastical courts themselves. “Mr. Henderson,” wrote the unbearable Baillie, “now has ready a short treatise on our church discipline, which has been much called for.”³⁸ In June 1646, an unenthusiastic Parliament accepted an ordinance from the Assembly’s Committee on the Discipline and Government of the Church. The ordinance had emerged after three years of intolerably tedious debate. It allowed the elders to suspend people guilty of scandalous offences. The Independents hated the system, and Parliament gave it a cool reception. Parliament had no intention of accepting the divine right of presbyteries. The system never took deep root. In London, at least, there seems to be no evidence that elders or classes exercised any jurisdiction. In parts of Lancashire, on the other hand, the system seems to have been active until at least 1649. Mr. Shaw thinks that the change in the political situation, especially the army’s triumph, prevented it from operating any longer.³⁹

“Discipline” included all questions of moral conduct, and of these, in an age when a great mass of economic relations were not the almost automatic reactions of an impersonal mechanism, but a matter of human kindliness or meanness between neighbors in village or borough, economic conduct was naturally part. Calvin and Beza, perpetuating with a new intensity the medieval idea of a Church-civilization, had sought to make Geneva a pattern, not only of doctrinal purity, but of social righteousness and commercial morality. Those who had drunk from their spring continued, in even less promising environments, the same tradition. Bucer, who wrote when something more fundamental than a politician’s reformation seemed possible to enthusiasts with their eyes on Geneva, had urged the reconstruction of every side of the economic life of a society which was to be Church and State in one.⁴⁰ English Puritanism, while accepting after some hesitation Calvin’s much qualified condonation of moderate interest, did not intend in other respects to countenance a laxity welcome only to worldlings. Knewstub appealed to the teaching of “that worthy instrument of God, Mr. Calvin,” to prove that the habitual usurer ought to be “thrust out of the society of men.” Smith embroidered the same theme. Baro, whose Puritanism lost him his professorship, denounced the “usual practice amongst rich men, and some of the greater sort, who by lending, or by giving out their money to usury, are wont to snare and oppress the poor and needier sort.” Cartwright, the most famous leader of Elizabethan Puritanism, described usury as “a hainous offence against God and his Church,” and laid down that the offender should be excluded from the sacraments until he satisfied the congregation of his penitence.⁴¹ The ideal of all was that expressed in the apostolic injunction to be content with a modest competence and to shun the allurements of riches. “Every Christian man is bound in conscience before God,” wrote Stubbes, “to provide for his household and family, but yet so as his immoderate care surpasse not the bands, nor yet transcend the limits, of true Godlynes.... So farre from covetousnes and from immoderate care would the Lord have us, that we ought not this day to care for tomorrow, for (saith he) sufficient to the day is the travail of the same.”⁴²

“Discipline” covered all questions of moral conduct, and economic conduct was naturally among them. In that age, many economic relationships were not the almost automatic responses of an impersonal system. Instead, they depended on kindness or meanness between neighbors in a village or town. Calvin and Beza gave new intensity to the medieval idea of a society shaped by the Church. They sought to make Geneva a model of doctrinal purity, social righteousness, and commercial morality. Those who drew inspiration from them continued the same tradition in even less promising surroundings. Bucer wrote at a time when enthusiasts looking to Geneva thought a more fundamental change than a politician’s reformation was possible. He had urged the reconstruction of every aspect of economic life in a society that would be Church and State in one.⁴⁰ After some hesitation, English Puritanism accepted Calvin’s carefully qualified approval of moderate interest. But in other respects, it did not intend to tolerate laxity that appealed only to the worldly. Knewstub appealed to the teaching of “that worthy instrument of God, Mr. Calvin” to prove that the habitual usurer should be “thrown out of human society.” Smith elaborated on the same theme. Baro, whose Puritanism cost him his professorship, denounced a common practice among rich men and some people of higher rank. By lending money at interest, they would “trap and oppress the poor and those most in need.” Cartwright, the most famous leader of Elizabethan Puritanism, described usury as “a heinous offense against God and his Church.” He declared that the offender should be excluded from the sacraments until he convinced the congregation that he was repentant.⁴¹ All shared the ideal expressed in the apostolic command to be content with a modest livelihood and avoid the temptations of riches. “Every Christian man is bound in conscience before God,” wrote Stubbes, “to provide for his household and family. But he must not let excessive concern go beyond the bounds and limits of true godliness.... The Lord would have us so free from greed and excessive concern that we should not worry today about tomorrow. For, he says, each day has enough trouble of its own.”⁴²

The most influential work on social ethics written in the first half of the seventeenth century from the Puritan standpoint was Ames’ De Conscientia, a manual of Christian conduct which was intended to supply the brethren with the practical guidance which had been offered in the Middle Ages by such works as Dives et Pauper. It became a standard authority, quoted again and again by subsequent writers. Forbidden to preach by the bishop of London, Ames spent more than twenty years in Holland, where he held a chair of theology at the University of Franeker, and his experience of social life in the country which was then the business capital of Europe makes the remorseless rigor of his social doctrine the more remarkable. He accepts, as in his day was inevitable, the impossibility of distinguishing between interest on capital invested in business, and interest on capital invested in land, since men put money indifferently into both, and, like Calvin, he denies that interest is forbidden in principle by Scripture or natural reason. But, like Calvin, he surrounds his indulgence with qualifications; he requires that no interest shall be charged on loans to the needy, and describes as the ideal investment for Christians one in which the lender shares risks with the borrower, and demands only “a fair share of the profits, according to the degree in which God has blessed him by whom the money is used.” His teaching with regard to prices is not less conservative. “To wish to buy cheap and to sell dear is common (as Augustine observes), but it is a common vice.” Men must not sell above the maximum fixed by public authority, though they may sell below it, since it is fixed to protect the buyer; when there is no legal maximum, they must follow the market price and “the judgment of prudent and good men.” They must not take advantage of the necessities of individual buyers, must not overpraise their wares, must not sell them dearer merely because they have cost them much to get.⁴³ Puritan utterances on the subject of enclosing were equally trenchant.⁴⁴

The most influential work on social ethics written from the Puritan standpoint in the first half of the seventeenth century was Ames’ De Conscientia. This manual of Christian conduct was intended to give the brethren practical guidance, as works such as Dives et Pauper had done in the Middle Ages. It became a standard authority, quoted again and again by later writers. The bishop of London forbade Ames to preach, so Ames spent more than twenty years in Holland, where he held a chair of theology at the University of Franeker. Holland was then the business capital of Europe. Ames’ experience of its social life makes the relentless rigor of his social doctrine all the more remarkable. As was inevitable in his day, Ames accepts that interest on capital invested in business cannot be distinguished from interest on capital invested in land. People put money into both without distinction. Like Calvin, Ames denies that Scripture or natural reason forbids interest in principle. But, also like Calvin, he places limits on this permission. He requires that no interest be charged on loans to the needy. For Christians, he describes the ideal investment as one in which the lender shares risks with the borrower and demands only “a fair share of the profits, according to the degree in which God has blessed him by whom the money is used.” His teaching on prices is no less conservative. “To wish to buy cheap and to sell dear is common (as Augustine observes), but it is a common vice.” People must not sell above the maximum price set by public authority. They may sell below it, though, because the maximum is set to protect the buyer. When there is no legal maximum, they must follow the market price and “the judgment of prudent and good men.” They must not take advantage of individual buyers’ need, overpraise their goods, or charge more merely because the goods cost them much to obtain.⁴³ Puritan statements on the subject of enclosing land were equally forceful.⁴⁴

Nor was such teaching merely the pious pedantry of the pulpit. It found some echo in contrite spirits; it left some imprint on the conduct of congregations. If D’Ewes was the unresisting victim of a more than ordinarily aggressive conscience, he was also a man of the world who played a not inconspicuous part in public affairs; and D’Ewes not only ascribed the fire which destroyed his father’s house to the judgment of Heaven on ill-gotten gains, but expressly prescribed in his will that, in order to avoid the taint of the accursed thing, provision should be made for his daughters, not by investing his capital at a fixed—and therefore usurious—rate of interest, but by the purchase either of land or of annuities.⁴⁵ The classis which met at Dedham in the eighties of the sixteenth century was concerned partly with questions of ceremony, of church government, of the right use of Sunday, and with the weighty problems whether boys of sixteen might wear their hats in church, and by what marks one might detect a witch. But it discussed also what provision could be made to check vagrancy; advised the brethren to confine their dealings to “the godliest of that trade” (of cloth making); recommended the establishment in the township of a scheme of universal education, that of children of parents too poor to meet the cost being defrayed from collections made in church; and urged that each well-to-do householder should provide in his home for two (or, if less able, one) of his impoverished neighbors who “walke christianly and honestlie in their callinges.”⁴⁶ In the ever-lengthening list of scandalous and notorious sins to be punished by exclusion from the sacrament, which was elaborated by the Westminster Assembly, a place was found, not only for drunkards, swearers, and blasphemers, worshippers and makers of images, senders or carriers of challenges, persons dancing, gaming, attending plays on the Lord’s day, or resorting to witches, wizards, and fortune-tellers, but for the more vulgar vices of those who fell into extortion, barratry and bribery.⁴⁷ The classis of Bury in Lancashire (quantum mutatus!) took these economic lapses seriously. It decided in 1647, after considerable debate, that “usury is a scandalous sin, deserving suspention upon obstinacy.”⁴⁸

Such teaching was not merely pious pedantry from the pulpit. It found some response among repentant people and left some mark on the conduct of congregations. D’Ewes may have yielded helplessly to an unusually aggressive conscience, but he was also a man of the world. He played a prominent part in public affairs. D’Ewes attributed the fire that destroyed his father’s house to Heaven’s judgment on ill-gotten gains. He also gave explicit instructions in his will for providing for his daughters. To avoid the taint of that accursed thing, his capital was to be used to purchase land or annuities. It was not to be invested at a fixed, and therefore usurious, rate of interest.⁴⁵ The classis that met at Dedham in the 1580s dealt partly with questions of ceremony, church government, and the proper use of Sunday. It also considered the weighty questions of whether sixteen-year-old boys might wear hats in church and how to identify a witch. But it also discussed how to curb vagrancy. It advised the brethren to deal only with “the godliest of that trade” in cloth making. It recommended a plan for universal education in the township. Church collections would pay for the education of children whose parents were too poor to afford it. It also urged every well-to-do householder to provide at home for two impoverished neighbors, or one if the householder had fewer means. These neighbors were to be people who “walke christianly and honestlie in their callinges.”⁴⁶ The Westminster Assembly drew up an ever-growing list of scandalous and notorious sins to be punished by exclusion from the sacrament. The list included drunkenness, swearing, and blasphemy, as well as worshipping or making images and sending or carrying challenges. It included dancing, gaming, attending plays on the Lord’s day, and turning to witches, wizards, or fortune-tellers. But it also included the more vulgar vices of extortion, barratry, and bribery.⁴⁷ The classis of Bury in Lancashire (quantum mutatus!) took these economic lapses seriously. After considerable debate in 1647, it decided that “usury is a scandalous sin, deserving suspention upon obstinacy.”⁴⁸

It was a moment when good men were agog to cast the money-changers from the temple and to make straight the way of the Lord. “God hath honnored you in callinge you to a place of power and trust, and hee expects that you should bee faithfull to that trust. You are postinge to the grave every day; you dwell uppon the borders of eternity; your breath is in your nostrells; therfore duble and treble your resolutions to bee zealous in a good thinge.... How dreadfull will a dieinge bed bee to a negligent magistrate! What is the reward of a slothfull servant? Is it not to bee punished with everlastinge destruction from the presence of the Lord?”⁴⁹ Such, in that singular age, was the language in which the mayor of Salisbury requested the justices of Wiltshire to close four public-houses. Apparently they closed them.

It was a time when good men were eager to drive the money changers from the temple and prepare the way of the Lord. “God has honored you by calling you to a position of power and trust. He expects you to be faithful to that trust. Every day you hurry toward the grave. You live on the borders of eternity. Your breath is in your nostrils. Therefore, double and triple your determination to be zealous in a good cause.... How dreadful a deathbed will be for a negligent magistrate! What is the reward of a lazy servant? Is it not everlasting destruction, away from the presence of the Lord?”⁴⁹ In that extraordinary age, the mayor of Salisbury used these words to ask the justices of Wiltshire to close four public houses. Apparently, they closed them.

The attempt to crystallize social morality in an objective discipline was possible only in a theocracy; and, still eloquent in speech, theocracy had abdicated in fact, even before the sons of Belial returned to cut down its groves and lay waste its holy places. In an age when the right to dissent from the State Church was still not fully established, its defeat was fortunate, for it was the victory of tolerance. It meant, however, that the discipline of the Church gave place to the attempt to promote reform through the action of the State, which reached its height in the Barebones Parliament. Projects for law reform, marriage reform and financial reform, the reform of prisons and the relief of debtors, jostled each other on its committees; while outside it there were murmurs among radicals against social and economic privilege, which were not to be heard again till the days of the Chartists, and which to the conservative mind of Cromwell seemed to portend mere anarchy. The transition from the idea of a moral code enforced by the Church, which had been characteristic of early Calvinism, to the economic individualism of the later Puritan movement took place, in fact, by way of the democratic agitation of the Independents. Abhorring the whole mechanism of ecclesiastical discipline and compulsory conformity, they endeavored to achieve the same social and ethical ends by political action.

The attempt to establish social morality as an objective system of discipline was possible only in a theocracy. But theocracy had already given up its power in practice, though its voice was still eloquent. It had done so even before the sons of Belial returned to cut down its groves and destroy its holy places. In an age when the right to dissent from the State Church was still not fully established, theocracy’s defeat was fortunate. It was a victory for tolerance. The defeat meant, however, that the Church’s discipline gave way to efforts to promote reform through the State. These efforts reached their height in the Barebones Parliament. Its committees were crowded with plans to reform law, marriage, finance, and prisons, and to relieve debtors. Outside Parliament, radicals also voiced complaints against social and economic privilege. Such complaints would not be heard again until the days of the Chartists. To Cromwell’s conservative mind, they seemed to threaten nothing but anarchy. The transition from early Calvinism’s idea of a moral code enforced by the Church to the later Puritan movement’s economic individualism took place, in fact, through the democratic agitation of the Independents. The Independents hated the whole system of Church discipline and compulsory conformity. They tried instead to achieve the same social and ethical ends through political action.

The change was momentous. If the English Social Democratic movement has any single source, that source is to be found in the New Model Army. But the conception implied in the attempt to formulate a scheme of economic ethics—the theory that every department of life falls beneath the same all-encompassing arch of religion—was too deeply rooted to be exorcised merely by political changes, or even by the more corroding march of economic development. Expelled from the world of fact, where it had always been a stranger and a sojourner, it survived in the world of ideas, and its champions in the last half of the century labored it the more, precisely because they knew that it must be conveyed to their audiences by teaching and preaching or not at all. Of those champions the most learned, the most practical, and the most persuasive was Richard Baxter.

The change was momentous. If the English Social Democratic movement has a single source, it is the New Model Army. But the attempt to formulate a system of economic ethics rested on a deeply rooted belief. This was the belief that every area of life falls under the same all-encompassing authority of religion. Political changes could not simply erase this belief, nor could the more corrosive progress of economic development. Driven out of the world of fact, where it had always been a stranger and a temporary resident, the belief survived in the world of ideas. Its champions in the second half of the century worked all the harder to promote it. They knew that they could convey it to their audiences only through teaching and preaching. Of these champions, the most learned, the most practical, and the most persuasive was Richard Baxter.

How Baxter endeavored to give practical instruction to his congregation at Kidderminster, he himself has told us. “Every Thursday evening my neighbours that were most desirous and had opportunity met at my house, and there one of them repeated the sermon, and afterwards they proposed what doubts any of them had about the sermon, or any other case of conscience, and I resolved their doubts.”⁵⁰ Both in form and in matter, his Christian Directory, or a Summ of Practical Theologie and Cases of Conscience⁵¹ is a remarkable book. It is, in essence, a Puritan Summa Theologica and Summa Moralis in one; its method of treatment descends directly from that of the medieval Summæ, and it is, perhaps, the last important English specimen of a famous genus. Its object, as Baxter explains in his introduction, is “the resolving of practical cases of conscience, and the reducing of theoretical knowledge into serious Christian practice.” Divided into four parts, Ethics, Economics, Ecclesiastics, and Politics, it has as its purpose to establish the rules of a Christian casuistry, which may be sufficiently detailed and precise to afford practical guidance to the proper conduct of men in the different relations of life, as lawyer, physician, schoolmaster, soldier, master and servant, buyer and seller, landlord and tenant, lender and borrower, ruler and subject. Part of its material is derived from the treatment of similar questions by previous writers, both before and after the Reformation, and Baxter is conscious of continuing a great tradition. But it is, above all things, realistic, and its method lends plausibility to the suggestion that it originated in an attempt to answer practical questions put to its author by members of his congregation. Its aim is not to overwhelm by authority, but to convince by an appeal to the enlightened common sense of the Christian reader. It does not overlook, therefore, the practical facts of a world in which commerce is carried on by the East India Company in distant markets, trade is universally conducted on credit, the iron manufacture is a large-scale industry demanding abundant supplies of capital and offering a profitable opening to the judicious investor, and the relations of landlords and tenants have been thrown into confusion by the fire of London. Nor does it ignore the moral qualities for the cultivation of which an opportunity is offered by the life of business. It takes as its starting-point the commercial environment of the Restoration, and its teaching is designed for “Rome or London, not Fools’ Paradise.”

Baxter himself described how he tried to give practical instruction to his congregation at Kidderminster. “Every Thursday evening, my neighbours who were most eager and had the opportunity met at my house. One of them repeated the sermon, and afterward they raised any questions about it or any other matter of conscience. I then resolved their doubts.”⁵⁰ In both form and content, his Christian Directory, or a Summ of Practical Theologie and Cases of Conscience⁵¹ is a remarkable book. It is, in essence, a Puritan Summa Theologica and Summa Moralis in one. Its method comes directly from that of the medieval Summæ. It is perhaps the last important English example of a famous genus. As Baxter explains in his introduction, its aim is “to resolve practical questions of conscience and turn theoretical knowledge into serious Christian practice.” The book is divided into four parts: Ethics, Economics, Ecclesiastics, and Politics. It seeks to establish rules for Christian casuistry that are detailed and precise enough to give practical guidance. They are meant to guide people in their conduct in the different roles of life. These include lawyer, physician, schoolmaster, soldier, master and servant, buyer and seller, landlord and tenant, lender and borrower, ruler and subject. Some of the book’s material comes from earlier writers who addressed similar questions, both before and after the Reformation. Baxter is aware that he is continuing a great tradition. But above all, the book is realistic. Its method makes it plausible that the book grew out of Baxter’s attempts to answer practical questions from his congregation. It aims not to overwhelm readers with authority, but to convince them by appealing to their enlightened Christian common sense. The book therefore does not overlook the practical facts of the world. The East India Company trades in distant markets, and trade is everywhere conducted on credit. Iron manufacture is a large-scale industry that needs ample capital and offers profitable opportunities to the wise investor. The fire of London has thrown relations between landlords and tenants into confusion. Nor does the book ignore the moral qualities that business life offers opportunities to develop. It takes the commercial world of the Restoration as its starting point. Its teaching is intended for “Rome or London, not Fools’ Paradise.”

Baxter’s acceptance of the realities of his age makes the content of his teaching the more impressive. The attempt to formulate a casuistry of economic conduct obviously implies that economic relations are to be regarded merely as one department of human behavior, for which each man is morally responsible, not as the result of an impersonal mechanism, to which ethical judgments are irrelevant. Baxter declines, therefore, to admit the convenient dualism, which exonerates the individual by representing his actions as the outcome of uncontrollable forces. The Christian, he insists, is committed by his faith to the acceptance of certain ethical standards, and these standards are as obligatory in the sphere of economic transactions as in any other province of human activity. To the conventional objection that religion has nothing to do with business—that “every man will get as much as he can have and that caveat emptor is the only security”—he answers bluntly that this way of dealing does not hold among Christians. Whatever the laxity of the law, the Christian is bound to consider first the golden rule and the public good. Naturally, therefore, he is debarred from making money at the expense of other persons, and certain profitable avenues of commerce are closed to him at the outset. “It is not lawful to take up or keep up any oppressing monopoly or trade, which tends to enrich you by the loss of the Commonwealth or of many.”

Baxter’s acceptance of the realities of his time makes his teaching all the more impressive. He tries to set out moral principles for economic conduct. This attempt clearly implies that economic relations are simply one part of human behavior, for which each person is morally responsible. They are not the result of an impersonal mechanism to which moral judgments do not apply. Baxter therefore rejects the convenient division that excuses individuals by treating their actions as the result of forces beyond their control. He insists that a Christian’s faith commits him to certain moral standards. Those standards are as binding in economic transactions as in any other area of human activity. Some people object that religion has nothing to do with business. They say that “every man will get as much as he can have and that caveat emptor is the only security”. Baxter answers bluntly that Christians cannot deal with one another in this way. However lenient the law may be, a Christian must put the golden rule and the public good first. A Christian is therefore naturally forbidden to make money at other people’s expense. Certain profitable lines of trade are closed to him from the start. “It is not lawful to start or maintain any oppressive monopoly or trade that enriches you at the expense of the Commonwealth or of many people.”

But the Christian must not only eschew the obvious extortion practiced by the monopolist, the engrosser, the organizer of a corner or a combine. He must carry on his business in the spirit of one who is conducting a public service; he must order it for the advantage of his neighbor as much as, and, if his neighbor be poor, more than, for his own. He must not desire “to get another’s goods or labour for less than it is worth.” He must not secure a good price for his own wares “by extortion working upon men’s ignorance, error, or necessity.” When prices are fixed by law, he must strictly observe the legal maximum; when they are not, he must follow the price fixed by common estimation. If he finds a buyer who is willing to give more, he “must not make too great an advantage of his convenience or desire, but be glad that [he] can pleasure him upon equal, fair, and honest terms,” for “it is a false rule of them that think their commodity is worth as much as any one will give.” If the seller foresees that in the future prices are likely to fall, he must not make profit out of his neighbour’s ignorance, but must tell him so. If he foresees that they will rise, he may hold his wares back, but only—a somewhat embarrassing exception—if it be not “to the hurt of the Commonwealth, as if ... keeping it in be the cause of the dearth, and ... bringing it forth would help to prevent it.” If he is buying from the poor, “charity must be exercised as well as justice”; the buyer must pay the full price that the goods are worth to himself, and, rather than let the seller suffer because he cannot stand out for his price, should offer him a loan or persuade some one else to do so. In no case may a man doctor his wares in order to get for them a higher price than they are really worth, and in no case may he conceal any defects of quality; if he was so unlucky as to have bought an inferior article, he “may not repair [his] loss by doing as [he] was done by, ... no more than [he] may cut another’s purse because [his] was cut.” Rivalry in trade, Baxter thinks, is inevitable. But the Christian must not snatch a good bargain “out of greedy covetousness, nor to the injury of the poor ... nor ... so as to disturb that due and civil order which should be among moderate men in trading.” On the contrary, if “a covetous oppressor” offer a poor man less than his goods are worth, “it may be a duty to offer the poor man the worth of his commodity and save him from the oppressor.”

But a Christian must not merely avoid the obvious extortion practiced by monopolists, hoarders, and organizers of market corners or combines. He must conduct his business as a public service. He must run it as much for his neighbor’s benefit as for his own, and more so if his neighbor is poor. He must not desire “to get another person’s goods or labor for less than they are worth.” He must not get a good price for his own goods “by exploiting people’s ignorance, mistakes, or need.” When prices are fixed by law, he must strictly observe the legal maximum. When they are not, he must follow the price generally considered fair. If he finds a buyer willing to pay more, he “must not take too much advantage of the buyer’s needs or desires. Instead, he should be glad to serve him on equal, fair, and honest terms.” For “those who think their goods are worth whatever anyone will pay are following a false rule.” If a seller foresees that prices are likely to fall, he must not profit from his neighbor’s ignorance. He must tell his neighbor about the expected fall. If he foresees that prices will rise, he may hold back his goods, but only under certain conditions. This is a somewhat embarrassing exception. He may hold them back only if doing so does not “harm the Commonwealth, as when ... withholding goods causes a shortage, and ... releasing them would help prevent it.” If a man buys from the poor, “he must show charity as well as justice.” He must pay the full price the goods are worth to him. The seller may be unable to hold out for his price. Rather than let the seller suffer for that reason, the buyer should offer him a loan or persuade someone else to do so. No one may alter his goods to get a higher price than they are really worth. Nor may anyone conceal any defects in their quality. If he was unlucky enough to buy an inferior article, he “may not make up for his loss by doing to another person what was done to him, ... any more than he may steal another person’s purse because his own was stolen.” Baxter thinks rivalry in trade is inevitable. But a Christian must not seize a good bargain “out of greedy desire, or to the harm of the poor ... or ... in a way that disturbs the proper and civil order that should prevail among moderate people in trade.” On the contrary, if “a greedy oppressor” offers a poor man less than his goods are worth, “it may be a duty to offer the poor man the value of his goods and save him from the oppressor.”

The principles which should determine the contract between buyer and seller are applied equally to all other economic relations. Usury, in the sense of payment for a loan, is not in itself unlawful for Christians. But it becomes so, when the lender does not allow the borrower “such a proportion of the gain as his labour, hazard, or poverty doth require, but ... will live at ease upon his labours”; or when, in spite of the borrower’s misfortune, he rigorously exacts his pound of flesh; or when interest is demanded for a loan which charity would require to be free. Masters must discipline their servants for their good; but it is “an odious oppression and injustice to defraud a servant or labourer of his wages, yea, or to give him less than he deserveth.” As the descendant of a family of yeomen, “free,” as he says, “from the temptations of poverty and riches,”⁵² Baxter had naturally strong views as to the ethics of landowning. Significantly enough, he deals with them under the general rubric of “Cases of oppression, especially of tenants,” oppression being defined as the “injuring of inferiors who are unable to resist or to right themselves.” “It is too common a sort of oppression for the rich in all places to domineer too insolently over the poor, and force them to follow their wills and to serve their interest, be it right or wrong.... Especially unmerciful landlords are the common and sore oppressors of the countrymen. If a few men can but get money enough to purchase all the land in a county, they think that they may do with their own as they list, and set such hard bargains of it to their tenants, that they are all but as their servants.... An oppressor is an Anti-Christ and an Anti-God ... not only the agent of the Devil, but his image.” As in his discussion of prices, the gist of Baxter’s analysis of the cases of conscience which arise in the relations of landlord and tenant is that no man may secure pecuniary gain for himself by injuring his neighbor. Except in unusual circumstances, a landlord must not let his land at the full competitive rent which it would fetch in the market: “Ordinarily the common sort of tenants in England should have so much abated of the fullest worth that they may comfortably live on it, and follow their labours with cheerfulness of mind and liberty to serve God in their families, and to mind the matters of their salvation, and not to be necessitated to such toil and care and pinching want as shall make them liker slaves than free men.” He must not improve (i.e., enclose) his land without considering the effect on the tenants, or evict his tenants without compensating them, and in such a way as to cause depopulation; nor must a newcomer take a holding over the sitting tenant’s head by offering “a greater rent than he can give or than the landlord hath just cause to require of him.” The Christian, in short, while eschewing “causeless, perplexing, melancholy scruples, which would stop a man in the course of his duty,” must so manage his business as to “avoid sin rather than loss,” and seek first to keep his conscience in peace.

The principles that should govern contracts between buyers and sellers apply equally to all other economic relationships. Usury, meaning payment for a loan, is not in itself unlawful for Christians. But it becomes unlawful when the lender does not allow the borrower “a share of the gain that his labor, risk, or poverty requires, but ... lives at ease on the borrower’s labor.” It is also unlawful when the lender ruthlessly demands his pound of flesh despite the borrower’s misfortune. So too is demanding interest on a loan that charity would require to be free. Masters must discipline their servants for their own good. But it is “a hateful act of oppression and injustice to cheat a servant or laborer of his wages, or even to give him less than he deserves.” Baxter came from a family of yeomen, “free,” as he says, “from the temptations of poverty and wealth.”⁵² He naturally had strong views on the ethics of landownership. Significantly, he discusses these under the general heading “Cases of oppression, especially of tenants.” He defines oppression as “harming those below one who cannot resist or defend their rights.” “It is all too common for the rich everywhere to domineer insolently over the poor. They force the poor to do their bidding and serve their interests, whether right or wrong.... In particular, merciless landlords commonly and severely oppress country people. If a few men can get enough money to buy all the land in a county, they think they can do as they please with their property. They impose such harsh terms on their tenants that the tenants are little better than their servants.... An oppressor is an Anti-Christ and an Anti-God ... not only the Devil’s agent, but his image.” As in his discussion of prices, Baxter examines questions of conscience between landlords and tenants. The heart of his argument is that no one may profit by harming a neighbor. Except in unusual circumstances, a landlord must not charge the full competitive rent his land would fetch on the market. “Ordinarily, most tenants in England should pay enough less than the full rental value to live comfortably on the land. They should be able to work cheerfully, to serve God with their families, and to attend to their salvation. They should not be forced into such hard work, worry, and crushing want that they become more like slaves than free men.” A landlord must not improve (that is, enclose) his land without considering the effect on his tenants. Nor must he evict tenants without compensating them, and in a way that causes depopulation. A newcomer must not displace a sitting tenant by offering “a higher rent than the tenant can pay, or than the landlord has just cause to demand from him.” In short, a Christian must avoid “groundless, troubling, gloomy scruples that would keep a person from doing his duty.” But he must also conduct his business so as to “avoid sin rather than loss” and seek first to keep his conscience at peace.

The first characteristic to strike the modern reader in all this teaching is its conservatism. In spite of the economic and political revolutions of the past two centuries, how small, after all, the change in the presentation of the social ethics of the Christian faith! A few months after the appearance of the Christian Directory, the Stop of the Exchequer tore a hole in the already intricate web of London finance, and sent a shiver through the money-markets of Europe. But Baxter, though no mere antiquarian, discourses of equity in bargaining, of just prices, of reasonable rents, of the sin of usury, in the same tone, if not with quite the same conclusions, as a medieval Schoolman, and he differs from one of the later Doctors, like St. Antonino, hardly more than St. Antonino himself had differed from Aquinas. Seven years later Bunyan published The Life and Death of Mr. Badman. Among the vices which it pilloried were the sin of extortion, “most commonly committed by men of trade, who without all conscience, when they have an advantage, will make a prey of their neighbour,” the covetousness of “hucksters, that buy up the poor man’s victual wholesale and sell it to him again for unreasonable gains,” the avarice of usurers, who watch till “the poor fall into their mouths,” and “of those vile wretches called pawnbrokers, that lend money and goods to poor people, who are by necessity forced to such an inconvenience, and will make by one trick or another the interest of what they so lend amount to thirty and forty, yea, sometimes fifty pounds by the year.” As Christian and Christiana watched Mr. Badman thus bite and pinch the poor in his shop in Bedford, before they took staff and scrip for their journey to a more distant City, they remembered that the Lord himself will plead the cause of the afflicted against them that oppress them, and reflected, taught by the dealings of Ephron the son of Zohar, and of David with Ormon the Jebusite, that there is a “wickedness, as in selling too dear, so in buying too cheap.”⁵³ Brother Berthold of Regensburg had said the same four centuries before in his racy sermons in Germany. The emergence of the idea that “business is business,” and that the world of commercial transactions is a closed compartment with laws of its own, if more ancient than is often supposed, did not win so painless a triumph as is sometimes suggested. Puritan as well as Catholic accepted without demur the view which set all human interests and activities within the compass of religion. Puritans, as well as Catholics, essayed the formidable task of formulating a Christian casuistry of economic conduct.

The first thing that strikes a modern reader about all this teaching is its conservatism. Despite the economic and political revolutions of the past two centuries, how little had the presentation of Christian social ethics changed! A few months after the Christian Directory appeared, the Stop of the Exchequer tore a hole in London’s already intricate financial network. It sent a shiver through Europe’s money markets. Yet Baxter was no mere student of the past. He wrote about fairness in bargaining, just prices, reasonable rents, and the sin of usury in the same tone as a medieval Schoolman, though he did not reach quite the same conclusions. His views differed from those of a later Doctor like St. Antonino hardly more than St. Antonino’s had differed from Aquinas’s. Seven years later, Bunyan published The Life and Death of Mr. Badman. Among the vices it condemned was extortion, “most commonly committed by men of trade, who without any conscience take advantage of their neighbours and make them their prey.” It condemned the greed of “hucksters, who buy up poor people’s food wholesale and sell it back to them at unreasonable profits.” It condemned the greed of usurers, who wait until “the poor fall into their mouths.” It also condemned the greed “of those vile wretches called pawnbrokers, who lend money and goods to poor people forced by necessity into such a hardship, and by one trick or another make the interest on their loans amount to thirty, forty, or even fifty pounds a year.” Christian and Christiana watched Mr. Badman thus cheat and squeeze the poor in his shop in Bedford. Before they took their walking sticks and travel bags for their journey to a more distant City, they remembered that the Lord himself will plead the cause of the afflicted against those who oppress them. They also reflected on the lessons of Ephron the son of Zohar, and of David’s dealings with Ormon the Jebusite. These taught them that “buying too cheaply is just as wicked as selling too dearly.”⁵³ Brother Berthold of Regensburg had said the same thing four centuries earlier in his lively sermons in Germany. The idea that “business is business” is older than people often suppose. So is the idea that commercial transactions belong in a separate compartment with laws of its own. Yet these ideas did not win so painless a triumph as is sometimes suggested. Puritans as well as Catholics accepted without question the view that all human interests and activities fell within the scope of religion. Puritans, like Catholics, attempted the formidable task of developing Christian rules for judging economic conduct.

They essayed it. But they succeeded even less than the Popes and Doctors whose teaching, not always unwittingly, they repeated. And their failure had its roots, not merely in the obstacles offered by the ever more recalcitrant opposition of a commercial environment, but, like all failures which are significant, in the soul of Puritanism itself. Virtues are often conquered by vices, but their rout is most complete when it is inflicted by other virtues, more militant, more efficient, or more congenial, and it is not only tares which choke the ground where the good seed is sown. The fundamental question, after all, is not what kind of rules a faith enjoins, but what type of character it esteems and cultivates. To the scheme of Christian ethics which offered admonitions against the numberless disguises assumed by the sin which sticketh fast between buying and selling, the Puritan character offered, not direct opposition, but a polished surface on which these ghostly admonitions could find no enduring foothold. The rules of Christian morality elaborated by Baxter were subtle and sincere. But they were like seeds carried by birds from a distant and fertile plain, and dropped upon a glacier. They were at once embalmed and sterilized in a river of ice.

They tried. But they succeeded even less than the Popes and Doctors whose teaching they repeated, sometimes knowingly. Their failure arose partly from the increasingly stubborn resistance of a commercial environment. But, like all significant failures, it also had its roots in the soul of Puritanism itself. Virtues are often defeated by vices. But they are most completely defeated by other virtues that are more militant, more effective, or more appealing. It is not only weeds that choke the ground where good seed is sown. The fundamental question, after all, is not what rules a faith prescribes, but what kind of character it values and cultivates. Christian ethics warned against the countless disguises assumed by the sin that clings to buying and selling. The Puritan character did not directly oppose those warnings. Instead, it presented a polished surface on which these spiritual warnings could find no lasting hold. The rules of Christian morality worked out by Baxter were subtle and sincere. But they were like seeds carried by birds from a distant, fertile plain and dropped on a glacier. They were preserved and made sterile at once in a river of ice.

“The capitalist spirit” is as old as history, and was not, as has sometimes been said, the offspring of Puritanism. But it found in certain aspects of later Puritanism a tonic which braced its energies and fortified its already vigorous temper. At first sight, no contrast could be more violent than that between the iron collectivism, the almost military discipline, the remorseless and violent rigors practiced in Calvin’s Geneva, and preached elsewhere, if in a milder form, by his disciples, and the impatient rejection of all traditional restrictions on economic enterprise which was the temper of the English business world after the Civil War. In reality, the same ingredients were present throughout, but they were mixed in changing proportions, and exposed to different temperatures at different times. Like traits of individual character which are suppressed till the approach of maturity releases them, the tendencies in Puritanism, which were to make it later a potent ally of the movement against the control of economic relations in the name either of social morality or of the public interest, did not reveal themselves till political and economic changes had prepared a congenial environment for their growth. Nor, once those conditions were created, was it only England which witnessed the transformation. In all countries alike, in Holland, in America, in Scotland, in Geneva itself, the social theory of Calvinism went through the same process of development. It had begun by being the very soul of authoritarian regimentation. It ended by being the vehicle of an almost Utilitarian individualism. While social reformers in the sixteenth century could praise Calvin for his economic rigor, their successors in Restoration England, if of one persuasion, denounced him as the parent of economic license, if of another, applauded Calvinist communities for their commercial enterprise and for their freedom from antiquated prejudices on the subject of economic morality. So little do those who shoot the arrows of the spirit know where they will light.

“The capitalist spirit” is as old as history. It was not, as some have said, the offspring of Puritanism. But certain aspects of later Puritanism gave the capitalist spirit a tonic. They strengthened its energies and reinforced its already vigorous character. At first glance, no contrast could be sharper. On one side was the iron collectivism and almost military discipline of Calvin’s Geneva. Its people endured relentless, violent harshness. Calvin’s followers preached the same discipline elsewhere, though in a milder form. On the other side was the English business world after the Civil War. Its spirit was one of impatient rejection of all traditional restrictions on economic enterprise. In reality, the same ingredients were present throughout. But they were mixed in different proportions and exposed to different temperatures at different times. Some traits of individual character remain suppressed until approaching maturity releases them. In the same way, certain tendencies in Puritanism did not emerge until political and economic changes prepared a favorable environment for them. Later, those tendencies would make Puritanism a powerful ally of the movement against controlling economic relations. That movement opposed controls imposed in the name of either social morality or the public interest. Once those conditions existed, the transformation took place not only in England. In all countries alike, in Holland, in America, in Scotland, and in Geneva itself, Calvinist social theory developed in the same way. It began as the very soul of authoritarian regimentation. It ended as a vehicle for an almost Utilitarian individualism. In the sixteenth century, social reformers could praise Calvin for his economic strictness. But their successors in Restoration England took different views. Some denounced him as the father of economic license. Others praised Calvinist communities for their commercial enterprise and their freedom from outdated prejudices about economic morality. So little do those who shoot the arrows of the spirit know where they will land.

“One beam in a dark place,” wrote one who knew the travail of the spirit, “hath exceeding much refreshment in it. Blessed be His name for shining upon so dark a heart as mine.”⁵⁴ While the revelation of God to the individual soul is the center of all religion, the essence of Puritan theology was that it made it, not only the center, but the whole circumference and substance, dismissing as dross and vanity all else but this secret and solitary communion. Grace alone can save, and this grace is the direct gift of God, unmediated by any earthly institution. The elect cannot by any act of their own evoke it; but they can prepare their hearts to receive it, and cherish it when received. They will prepare them best, if they empty them of all that may disturb the intentness of their lonely vigil. Like an engineer, who, to canalize the rush of the oncoming tide, dams all channels save that through which it is to pour, like a painter who makes light visible by plunging all that is not light in gloom, the Puritan attunes his heart to the voice from Heaven by an immense effort of concentration and abnegation. To win all, he renounces all. When earthly props have been cast down, the soul stands erect in the presence of God. Infinity is attained by a process of subtraction.

“One ray of light in a dark place,” wrote someone who knew the struggles of the spirit, “brings great comfort. Blessed be his name for shining on a heart as dark as mine.”⁵⁴ God’s revelation to the individual soul is the center of all religion. But Puritan theology made this revelation not only the center, but the whole of religion. It dismissed everything else as worthless and vain, leaving only this secret, solitary communion. Grace alone can save, and grace is a direct gift from God, received without the help of any earthly institution. The elect cannot bring it about by anything they do. But they can prepare their hearts to receive it and cherish it once received. They prepare best by emptying their hearts of anything that might distract them from their solitary vigil. An engineer channels an incoming tide by damming every passage except the one through which the water must flow. A painter makes light visible by placing everything else in darkness. In much the same way, the Puritan tunes his heart to the voice from Heaven through intense concentration and self-denial. To gain everything, he gives up everything. When all earthly supports have been cast aside, the soul stands upright in the presence of God. Infinity is reached by taking things away.

To a vision thus absorbed in a single intense experience, not only religious and ecclesiastical systems, but the entire world of human relations, the whole fabric of social institutions, witnessing in all the wealth of their idealism and their greed to the infinite creativeness of man, reveal themselves in a new and wintry light. The fire of the spirit burns brightly on the hearth; but through the windows of his soul the Puritan, unless a poet or a saint, looks on a landscape touched by no breath of spring. What he sees is a forbidding and frost-bound wilderness, rolling its snow-clad leagues towards the grave—a wilderness to be subdued with aching limbs beneath solitary stars. Through it he must take his way, alone. No aid can avail him: no preacher, for only the elect can apprehend with the spirit the word of God; no Church, for to the visible Church even reprobates belong; no sacrament, for sacraments are ordained to increase the glory of God, not to minister spiritual nourishment to man; hardly God himself, for Christ died for the elect, and it may well be that the majesty of the Creator is revealed by the eternal damnation of all but a remnant of the created.⁵⁵

For a mind absorbed in a single intense experience, religious and church systems appear in a new and wintry light. So do all human relationships and the whole fabric of social institutions. In all their idealism and greed, these institutions testify to humanity’s infinite creativity. The fire of the spirit burns brightly on the hearth. But through the windows of his soul, the Puritan sees a landscape untouched by spring, unless he is a poet or a saint. He sees a forbidding, frozen wilderness, stretching for snow-covered miles toward the grave. He must subdue the wilderness with aching limbs beneath solitary stars. He must make his way through it alone. Nothing can help him. No preacher can help him, because only the elect can grasp the word of God with their spirits. No Church can help him, because even the condemned belong to the visible Church. No sacrament can help him, because sacraments are meant to increase the glory of God, not to nourish people spiritually. Even God himself can hardly help him, because Christ died for the elect. The Creator’s majesty may well be revealed by the eternal damnation of all but a remnant of those he created.⁵⁵

His life is that of a soldier in hostile territory. He suffers in spirit the perils which the first settlers in America endured in body, the sea behind, the untamed desert in front, a cloud of inhuman enemies on either hand. Where Catholic and Anglican had caught a glimpse of the invisible, hovering like a consecration over the gross world of sense, and touching its muddy vesture with the unearthly gleam of a divine, yet familiar, beauty, the Puritan mourned for a lost Paradise and a creation sunk in sin. Where they had seen society as a mystical body, compact of members varying in order and degree, but dignified by participation in the common life of Christendom, he saw a bleak antithesis between the spirit which quickeneth and an alien, indifferent or hostile world. Where they had reverenced the decent order whereby past was knit to present, and man to man, and man to God, through fellowship in works of charity, in festival and fast, in the prayers and ceremonies of the Church, he turned with horror from the filthy rags of human righteousness. Where they, in short, had found comfort in a sacrament, he started back from a snare set to entrap his soul.

His life is like that of a soldier in enemy territory. In spirit, he faces the dangers that the first settlers in America faced in body. The sea lies behind him, the untamed wilderness ahead, and a cloud of inhuman enemies surrounds him. Catholics and Anglicans had glimpsed the invisible hovering over the coarse world of the senses, as if making it sacred. It touched the world’s muddy clothing with the unearthly glow of a beauty that was both divine and familiar. The Puritan, by contrast, mourned a lost Paradise and a creation sunk in sin. Catholics and Anglicans had seen society as a mystical body, made up of members of different ranks and degrees. Each was given dignity by sharing in the common life of Christendom. The Puritan saw a bleak opposition between the spirit that gives life and a world that was alien, indifferent, or hostile. Catholics and Anglicans had revered the proper order that bound past to present, person to person, and people to God. These bonds were formed through shared acts of charity, festivals and fasts, and the prayers and ceremonies of the Church. The Puritan turned in horror from the filthy rags of human righteousness. In short, where Catholics and Anglicans had found comfort in a sacrament, the Puritan recoiled from a trap set to capture his soul.

Too often, contemning the external order as unspiritual, he made it, and ultimately himself, less spiritual by reason of his contempt.

Too often, he despised the external order as unspiritual. Because of his contempt, he made it less spiritual and ultimately made himself less spiritual too.

Those who seek God in isolation from their fellowmen, unless trebly armed for the perils of the quest, are apt to find, not God, but a devil, whose countenance bears an embarrassing resemblance to their own. The moral self-sufficiency of the Puritan nerved his will, but it corroded his sense of social solidarity. For, if each individual’s destiny hangs on a private transaction between himself and his Maker, what room is left for human intervention? A servant of Jehovah more than of Christ, he revered God as a Judge rather than loved him as a Father, and was moved less by compassion for his erring brethren than by impatient indignation at the blindness of vessels of wrath who “sinned their mercies.” A spiritual aristocrat, who sacrificed fraternity to liberty, he drew from his idealization of personal responsibility a theory of individual rights, which, secularized and generalized, was to be among the most potent explosives that the world has known. He drew from it also a scale of ethical values, in which the traditional scheme of Christian virtues was almost exactly reversed, and which, since he was above all things practical, he carried as a dynamic into the routine of business and political life.

Those who seek God apart from their fellow human beings are likely to find a devil instead, unless they are very well armed against the dangers of the search. Embarrassingly, that devil’s face looks much like their own. The Puritan’s moral self-reliance strengthened his will, but it weakened his sense of solidarity with others. For if each person’s destiny depends on a private transaction between that person and their Maker, what room is left for human intervention? The Puritan served Jehovah more than Christ. He revered God as a Judge rather than loved him as a Father. He felt less compassion for his fellow believers who had gone astray than impatient anger at the blindness of those vessels of wrath who “sinned their mercies.” The Puritan was a spiritual aristocrat who sacrificed fellowship for liberty. From his ideal of personal responsibility, he developed a theory of individual rights. Once made secular and applied more widely, that theory would become one of the most powerful explosives the world has known. From the same ideal, he also developed a scale of ethical values that almost exactly reversed the traditional order of Christian virtues. And because he was above all practical, he brought that scale of values into everyday business and politics as a driving force.

For, since conduct and action, though availing nothing to attain the free gift of salvation, are a proof that the gift has been accorded, what is rejected as a means is resumed as a consequence, and the Puritan flings himself into practical activities with the dæmonic energy of one who, all doubts allayed, is conscious that he is a sealed and chosen vessel. Once engaged in affairs, he brings to them both the qualities and limitations of his creed in all their remorseless logic. Called by God to labor in his vineyard, he has within himself a principle at once of energy and of order, which makes him irresistible both in war and in the struggles of commerce. Convinced that character is all and circumstances nothing, he sees in the poverty of those who fall by the way, not a misfortune to be pitied and relieved, but a moral failing to be condemned, and in riches, not an object of suspicion—though like other gifts they may be abused—but the blessing which rewards the triumph of energy and will. Tempered by self-examination, self-discipline, self-control, he is the practical ascetic, whose victories are won not in the cloister, but on the battlefield, in the counting-house, and in the market.

Actions and conduct do nothing to win the freely given gift of salvation. But they do prove that the gift has been granted. So what is rejected as a means returns as a consequence. With all doubts put to rest, the Puritan knows he is a sealed and chosen vessel. He throws himself into practical work with a demonic energy. Once involved in worldly affairs, he brings both the strengths and the limitations of his creed to them. He follows its logic relentlessly. Called by God to labor in his vineyard, he has within himself a source of both energy and order. This makes him irresistible in both war and the struggles of commerce. He is convinced that character is everything and circumstances nothing. So when others fall behind and become poor, he sees their poverty as a moral failing to condemn, not a misfortune to pity and relieve. He sees riches not as something to suspect, but as the blessing that rewards the triumph of energy and will. Yet riches, like other gifts, can be abused. Shaped by self-examination, self-discipline, and self-control, he is a practical ascetic. His victories are won not in the cloister, but on the battlefield, in the counting-house, and in the market.

This temper, of course with infinite varieties of quality and emphasis, found its social organ in those middle and commercial classes who were the citadel of the Puritan spirit, and whom, “ennobled by their own industry and virtue,”⁵⁶ Milton described as the standard-bearers of progress and enlightenment. We are so accustomed to think of England as par excellence the pioneer of economic progress, that we are apt to forget how recently that rôle has been assumed. In the Middle Ages it belonged to the Italians, in the sixteenth century to the Netherland dominions of the Spanish Empire, in the seventeenth to the United Provinces and, above all, to the Dutch.

This outlook, of course, varied endlessly in character and emphasis. It found its social expression in the middle and commercial classes, who were the stronghold of the Puritan spirit. Milton described them as the standard-bearers of progress and enlightenment, “ennobled by their own industry and virtue.”⁵⁶ We are so used to thinking of England as the par excellence pioneer of economic progress that we tend to forget how recently it took on that role. In the Middle Ages, the Italians were the pioneers. In the sixteenth century, the role belonged to the Netherland dominions of the Spanish Empire. In the seventeenth century, it belonged to the United Provinces and, above all, to the Dutch.

The England of Shakespeare and Bacon was still largely medieval in its economic organization and social outlook, more interested in maintaining customary standards of consumption than in accumulating capital for future production, with an aristocracy contemptuous of the economic virtues, a peasantry farming for subsistence amid the organized confusion of the open-field village, and a small, if growing, body of jealously conservative craftsmen. In such a society Puritanism worked like the yeast which sets the whole mass fermenting. It went through its slack and loosely knit texture like a troop of Cromwell’s Ironsides through the disorderly cavalry of Rupert. Where, as in Ireland, the elements were so alien that assimilation was out of the question, the result was a wound that festered for three centuries. In England the effect was that at once of an irritant and of a tonic. Puritanism had its own standards of social conduct, derived partly from the obvious interests of the commercial classes, partly from its conception of the nature of God and the destiny of man. These standards were in sharp antithesis, both to the considerable surviving elements of feudalism in English society, and to the policy of the authoritarian State, with its ideal of an ordered and graded society, whose different members were to be maintained in their traditional status by the pressure and protection of a paternal monarchy. Sapping the former by its influence and overthrowing the latter by direct attack, Puritanism became a potent force in preparing the way for the commercial civilization which finally triumphed at the Revolution.

In the England of Shakespeare and Bacon, economic organization and social outlook were still largely medieval. People were more interested in maintaining customary standards of consumption than in accumulating capital for future production. The aristocracy looked down on economic virtues. Peasants farmed to survive amid the organized confusion of the open-field village. Craftsmen were few, though growing in number, and fiercely protective of their traditional ways. In such a society, Puritanism acted like yeast, setting the whole mass fermenting. It swept through the loose and unstructured society like a troop of Cromwell’s Ironsides through Rupert’s disorderly cavalry. Where the elements were too different to be assimilated, as in Ireland, the result was a wound that festered for three centuries. In England, Puritanism acted both as an irritant and as a tonic. Puritanism had its own standards of social conduct. These came partly from the obvious interests of the commercial classes. They also came from its understanding of the nature of God and the destiny of humanity. These standards sharply opposed both the substantial remnants of feudalism in English society and the policy of the authoritarian State. That State’s ideal was an ordered, graded society. In it, a paternal monarchy would use pressure and protection to keep different groups in their traditional positions. Puritanism weakened the remnants of feudalism through its influence and overthrew the State’s policy by direct attack. In doing so, it became a powerful force in preparing the way for the commercial civilization that finally triumphed at the Revolution.

The complaint that religious radicalism, which aimed at upsetting the government of the Church, went hand in hand with an economic radicalism, which resented the restraints on individual self-interest imposed in the name of religion or of social policy, was being made by the stricter school of religious opinion quite early in the reign of Elizabeth.⁵⁷ Seventeenth-century writers repeated the charge that the Puritan conscience lost its delicacy where matters of business were concerned, and some of them were sufficiently struck by the phenomenon to attempt an historical explanation of it. The example on which they usually seized—the symbol of a supposed general disposition to laxity—was the indulgence shown by Puritan divines in the particular matter of moderate interest. It was the effect, so the picturesque story ran,⁵⁸ of the Marian persecution. The refugees who fled to the Continent could not start business in a foreign country. If, driven by necessity, they invested their capital and lived on the proceeds, who could quarrel with so venial a lapse in so good a cause? Subsequent writers embellished the picture. The redistribution of property at the time of the Dissolution, and the expansion of trade in the middle of the century, had led, one of them argued, to a great increase in the volume of credit transactions. The opprobrium which attached to loans at interest—“a sly and forbid practice”—not only among Romanists and Anglicans, but among honest Puritans, played into the hands of the less scrupulous members of “the faction.” Disappointed in politics, they took to money-lending, and, without venturing to justify usury in theory, defended it in practice. “Without the scandal of a recantation, they contrived an expedient, by maintaining that, though usury for the name were stark naught, yet for widows, orphans and other impotents (therein principally comprising the saints under persecution) it was very tolerable, because profitable, and in a manner necessary.” Naturally, Calvin’s doctrine as to the legitimacy of moderate interest was hailed by these hypocrites with a shout of glee. “It took with the brethren like polygamy with the Turks, recommended by the example of divers zealous ministers, who themselves desired to pass for orphans of the first rank.”⁵⁹ Nor was it only as the apologist of moderate interest that Puritanism was alleged to reveal the cloven hoof. Puritans themselves complained of a mercilessness in driving hard bargains, and of a harshness to the poor, which contrasted unfavorably with the practice of followers of the unreformed religion. “The Papists,” wrote a Puritan in 1653, “may rise up against many of this generation. It is a sad thing that they should be more forward upon a bad principle than a Christian upon a good one.”⁶⁰

Early in Elizabeth’s reign, the stricter school of religious opinion was already making a complaint.⁵⁷ Religious radicalism aimed to overturn the government of the Church. It went hand in hand, the critics said, with an economic radicalism that resented restraints on individual self-interest imposed in the name of religion or social policy. Seventeenth-century writers repeated the charge that the Puritan conscience became less sensitive in business matters. Some were struck enough by this to attempt a historical explanation. The example they usually chose, as a symbol of a supposed general tendency toward laxity, was the tolerance Puritan divines showed toward moderate interest. According to the colorful story,⁵⁸ this tolerance was a result of the Marian persecution. Refugees who fled to the Continent could not start businesses in a foreign country. If necessity forced them to invest their capital and live on the proceeds, who could object to so minor a lapse in so good a cause? Later writers embellished the picture. One argued that the redistribution of property at the time of the Dissolution, together with the expansion of trade in the middle of the century, had greatly increased the volume of credit transactions. Loans at interest were condemned as “a sly and forbidden practice.” This was true not only among Romanists and Anglicans, but also among honest Puritans. Such condemnation played into the hands of the less scrupulous members of “the faction.” Disappointed in politics, they turned to money-lending. Without daring to justify usury in theory, they defended it in practice. “Without the scandal of a recantation, they found a way around it. They maintained that, although usury was utterly wicked in name, it was quite tolerable for widows, orphans, and other helpless people (especially including the saints under persecution), because it was profitable and, in a way, necessary.” Naturally, these hypocrites greeted Calvin’s doctrine that moderate interest was legitimate with a shout of glee. “It caught on among the brethren like polygamy among the Turks. It was recommended by the example of various zealous ministers, who themselves wished to pass as orphans of the first rank.”⁵⁹ Nor was Puritanism accused of showing its cloven hoof only by defending moderate interest. Puritans themselves complained that some of their number drove hard bargains mercilessly and treated the poor harshly. They compared unfavorably in these respects with followers of the unreformed religion. “The Papists,” wrote a Puritan in 1653, “may rise up against many of this generation. It is a sad thing that they should be more eager to act on a bad principle than a Christian is to act on a good one.”⁶⁰

Such, in all ages, is history as seen by the political pamphleteer. The real story was less dramatic, but more significant. From the very beginning, Calvinism had comprised two elements, which Calvin himself had fused, but which contained the seeds of future discord. It had at once given a whole-hearted imprimatur to the life of business enterprise, which most earlier moralists had regarded with suspicion, and had laid upon it the restraining hand of an inquisitorial discipline. At Geneva, where Calvinism was the creed of a small and homogeneous city, the second aspect had predominated; in the many-sided life of England, where there were numerous conflicting interests to balance it, and where it was long politically weak, the first. Then, in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, had come the wave of commercial and financial expansion—companies, colonies, capitalism in textiles, capitalism in mining, capitalism in finance—on the crest of which the English commercial classes, in Calvin’s day still held in leading-strings by conservative statesmen, had climbed to a position of dignity and affluence.

In every age, this is how the political pamphleteer sees history. The real story was less dramatic, but more significant. From the beginning, Calvinism had two elements. Calvin himself had fused them, but they contained the seeds of future conflict. Calvinism had given its wholehearted imprimatur to business enterprise, which most earlier moralists had viewed with suspicion. At the same time, it had imposed strict, intrusive discipline on business. In Geneva, Calvinism was the creed of a small, uniform city, and discipline had been the stronger element. In England's more varied society, however, approval of business had been stronger. Many conflicting interests counterbalanced the discipline, and Calvinism remained politically weak there for a long time. Then, in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, came a wave of commercial and financial expansion. There were companies, colonies, and capitalism in textiles, mining, and finance. On the crest of this wave, the English commercial classes rose to a position of dignity and wealth. In Calvin's day, conservative statesmen had still kept them under close control.

Naturally, as the Puritan movement came to its own, these two elements flew apart. The collectivist, half-communistic aspect, which had never been acclimatized in England, quietly dropped out of notice, to crop up once more, and for the last time, to the disgust and terror of merchant and landowner, in the popular agitation under the Commonwealth. The individualism congenial to the world of business became the distinctive characteristic of a Puritanism which had arrived, and which, in becoming a political force, was at once secularized and committed to a career of compromise. Its note was not the attempt to establish on earth a “Kingdom of Christ,” but an ideal of personal character and conduct, to be realized by the punctual discharge both of public and private duties. Its theory had been discipline; its practical result was liberty.

Naturally, as the Puritan movement came into its own, these two elements split apart. The collectivist, partly communist aspect had never taken root in England and quietly faded from view. It appeared once more, and for the last time, in popular agitation under the Commonwealth, to the disgust and terror of merchants and landowners. Individualism, which suited the business world, became the defining feature of a Puritanism that had established itself. As Puritanism became a political force, it became more secular and embarked on a course of compromise. Its aim was not to establish a “Kingdom of Christ” on earth. Instead, it held up an ideal of personal character and conduct, to be achieved through the faithful performance of public and private duties. Its theory had been discipline, but its practical result was liberty.

Given the social and political conditions of England, the transformation was inevitable. The incompatibility of Presbyterianism with the stratified arrangement of English society had been remarked by Hooker.⁶¹ If the City Fathers of Geneva had thrown off by the beginning of the seventeenth century the religious collectivism of Calvin’s régime, it was not to be expected that the landowners and bourgeoisie of an aristocratic and increasingly commercial nation, however much Calvinist theology might appeal to them, would view with favor the social doctrines implied in Calvinist discipline. In the reign of the first two Stuarts, both economic interests and political theory pulled them hard in the opposite direction. “Merchants’ doings,” the man of business in Wilson’s Discourse upon Usury had observed, “must not thus be overthwarted by preachers and others that cannot skill of their dealings.”⁶² Behind the elaborate façade of Tudor State control, which has attracted the attention of historians, an individualist movement had been steadily developing, which found expression in opposition to the traditional policy of stereotyping economic relations by checking enclosure, controlling food supplies and prices, interfering with the money-market, and regulating the conditions of the wage contract and of apprenticeship. In the first forty years of the seventeenth century, on grounds both of expediency and of principle, the commercial and propertied classes were becoming increasingly restive under the whole system, at once ambitious and inefficient, of economic paternalism. It was in the same sections of the community that both religious and economic dissatisfaction were most acute. Puritanism, with its idealization of the spiritual energies which found expression in the activities of business and industry, drew the isolated rivulets of discontent together, and swept them forward with the dignity and momentum of a religious and a social philosophy.

Given England’s social and political conditions, the transformation was inevitable. Hooker had noted that Presbyterianism was incompatible with the class structure of English society.⁶¹ By the early seventeenth century, the City Fathers of Geneva had abandoned the religious collectivism of Calvin’s rule. If they had done so, England’s landowners and bourgeoisie could not be expected to favor the social doctrines implied by Calvinist discipline. This was true however much Calvinist theology appealed to them. England was an aristocratic nation, increasingly focused on commerce. Under the first two Stuarts, both economic interests and political theory pulled these groups strongly in the opposite direction. As the businessman in Wilson’s Discourse upon Usury had observed, “Merchants’ dealings must not be obstructed like this by preachers and others who understand nothing of their business.”⁶² Historians have paid close attention to the elaborate facade of Tudor State control. But behind it, an individualist movement had been steadily developing. The movement opposed the traditional policy of fixing economic relations in place. That policy involved checking enclosure, controlling food supplies and prices, interfering with the money market, and regulating wage contracts and apprenticeships. During the first forty years of the seventeenth century, the commercial and propertied classes grew increasingly restless under economic paternalism. They objected on grounds of both practical advantage and principle. The whole system was both ambitious and inefficient. Religious and economic dissatisfaction were most acute among the same groups. Puritanism idealized the spiritual energies expressed in business and industry. It drew these separate streams of discontent together and carried them forward with the dignity and momentum of a religious and social philosophy.

For it was not merely as the exponent of certain tenets as to theology and church government, but as the champion of interests and opinions embracing every side of the life of society, that the Puritan movement came into collision with the Crown. In reality, as is the case with most heroic ideologies, the social and religious aspects of Puritanism were not disentangled; they presented themselves, both to supporters and opponents, as different facets of a single scheme. “All that crossed the views of the needy courtiers, the proud encroaching priests, the thievish projectors, the lewd nobility and gentry ... whoever could endure a sermon, modest habit or conversation, or anything good—all these were Puritans.”⁶³ The clash was not one of theories—a systematic and theoretical individualism did not develop till after the Restoration—but of contradictory economic interests and incompatible conceptions of social expediency.

The Puritan movement came into conflict with the Crown not merely because it defended certain beliefs about theology and church government. It also championed interests and opinions that touched every part of social life. In reality, as with most heroic ideologies, the social and religious aspects of Puritanism were inseparable. Supporters and opponents alike saw them as different sides of a single vision. “All who opposed the aims of the needy courtiers, the proud, overreaching priests, the thieving schemers, the immoral nobility and gentry ... whoever could tolerate a sermon, modest dress or conversation, or anything good, all these were Puritans.”⁶³ The conflict was not between theories. A systematic, theoretical individualism did not develop until after the Restoration. Rather, the conflict arose from opposing economic interests and incompatible ideas about what was best for society.

The economic policy haltingly pursued by the Government of Charles I bore some resemblance to the system of which a more uncompromising version was developed between 1661 and 1685 by Colbert in France. It was one which favored an artificial and State-promoted capitalism—a capitalism resting on the grant of privileges and concessions to company promoters who would pay for them, and accompanied by an elaborate system of State control, which again, if partly inspired by a genuine solicitude for the public interest, was too often smeared with an odious trail of finance. It found its characteristic expression in the grant of patents, in the revival of the royal monopoly of exchange business, against which the City had fought under Elizabeth, in attempts to enforce by administrative action compliance with the elaborate and impracticable code controlling the textile trades and to put down speculation in foodstuffs, and in raids on enclosing landlords, on employers who paid in truck or evaded the rates fixed by assessment, and on justices who were negligent in the administration of the Poor Laws. Such measures were combined with occasional plunges into even more grandiose schemes for the establishment of county granaries, for taking certain industries into the hands of the Crown, and even for the virtual nationalization of the cloth manufacture.⁶⁴

The government of Charles I pursued an economic policy that resembled, in some ways, the system Colbert later developed in France. Colbert’s version, developed between 1661 and 1685, was more uncompromising. Charles’s government pursued its policy hesitantly. The policy favored an artificial, state promoted capitalism. It depended on granting privileges and concessions to company promoters who would pay for them. It also involved an elaborate system of state control. This control was partly inspired by genuine concern for the public interest, but it was too often tainted by the odious influence of finance. The policy found its characteristic expression in grants of patents and the revival of the royal monopoly over exchange business. The City had fought that monopoly under Elizabeth. The government also tried to enforce, through administrative action, the elaborate and impractical rules governing the textile trades. It tried to suppress speculation in foodstuffs and took action against landlords who enclosed land. It also targeted employers who paid workers in goods rather than money or avoided paying officially assessed wage rates. Justices who neglected to administer the Poor Laws were targeted too. Alongside these measures, the government occasionally plunged into even more grandiose schemes. These included plans to establish county granaries, bring certain industries under Crown control, and even virtually nationalize cloth manufacture.⁶⁴

“The very genius of that nation of people,” wrote Strafford to Laud of the Puritans, “leads them always to oppose, as well civilly as ecclesiastically, all that ever authority ordains for them.”⁶⁵ Against this whole attempt to convert economic activity into an instrument of profit for the Government and its hangers-on—against, no less, the spasmodic attempts of the State to protect peasants against landlords, craftsmen against merchants, and consumers against middlemen—the interests which it thwarted and curbed revolted with increasing pertinacity. Questions of taxation, on which attention has usually been concentrated, were in reality merely one element in a quarrel which had its deeper cause in the collision of incompatible social philosophies. The Puritan tradesman had seen his business ruined by a monopoly granted to a needy courtier, and cursed Laud and his Popish soap. The Puritan goldsmith or financier had found his trade as a bullion-broker hampered by the reëstablishment of the ancient office of Royal Exchanger, and secured a resolution from the House of Commons, declaring that the patent vesting it in Lord Holland and the proclamation forbidding the exchanging of gold and silver by unauthorized persons were a grievance. The Puritan money-lender had been punished by the Court of High Commission, and railed at the interference of bishops in temporal affairs. The Puritan clothier, who had suffered many things at the hands of interfering busy-bodies despatched from Whitehall to teach him his business, averted discreet eyes when the Wiltshire workmen threw a more than usually obnoxious Royal Commissioner into the Avon, and, when the Civil War came, rallied to the Parliament. The Puritan country gentleman had been harried by Depopulation Commissions, and took his revenge with the meeting of the Long Parliament. The Puritan merchant had seen the Crown both squeeze money out of his company, and threaten its monopoly by encouraging courtly interlopers to infringe its charter. The Puritan member of Parliament had invested in colonial enterprises, and had ideas as to commercial policy which were not those of the Government. Confident in their own energy and acumen, proud of their success, and regarding with profound distrust the interference both of Church and of State with matters of business and property rights, the commercial classes, in spite of their attachment to a militant mercantilism in matters of trade, were, even before the Civil War, more than half converted to the administrative nihilism which was to be the rule of social policy in the century following it. Their demand was the one which is usual in such circumstances. It was that business affairs should be left to be settled by business men, unhampered by the intrusions of an antiquated morality or by misconceived arguments of public policy.⁶⁶

“The very nature of that people,” Strafford wrote to Laud about the Puritans, “always leads them to oppose everything authority orders for them, in civil affairs as well as in the Church.”⁶⁵ The Government tried to turn economic activity into a source of profit for itself and its hangers-on. It also made occasional attempts to protect peasants from landlords, craftsmen from merchants, and consumers from middlemen. Against both, the interests these policies obstructed and restrained revolted with growing persistence. Historians have usually focused on questions of taxation. In reality, taxation was only one part of a quarrel rooted in a clash between incompatible social philosophies. The Puritan tradesman had seen his business ruined by a monopoly granted to a courtier in need of money. He cursed Laud and his Popish soap. The Puritan goldsmith or financier had found his bullion-broking business hampered by the revival of the ancient office of Royal Exchanger. He secured a resolution from the House of Commons. It declared a grievance both the patent granting the office to Lord Holland and the proclamation forbidding unauthorized people to exchange gold and silver. The Puritan money-lender had been punished by the Court of High Commission. He denounced the interference of bishops in worldly affairs. The Puritan clothier had suffered much from meddlesome busybodies sent from Whitehall to teach him his business. He discreetly looked away when Wiltshire workmen threw a particularly obnoxious Royal Commissioner into the Avon. When the Civil War came, he rallied to Parliament. The Puritan country gentleman had been harassed by Depopulation Commissions. He took his revenge when the Long Parliament met. The Puritan merchant had seen the Crown squeeze money out of his company. The Crown had also threatened its monopoly by encouraging courtly interlopers to violate its charter. The Puritan member of Parliament had invested in colonial enterprises. His ideas about commercial policy differed from the Government’s. The commercial classes were confident in their own energy and shrewdness and proud of their success. They deeply distrusted interference by both Church and State in business and property rights. They remained attached to a militant mercantilism in matters of trade. Even so, before the Civil War, they were already more than half converted to the administrative nihilism that would govern social policy in the following century. Their demand was the usual one in such circumstances. Business affairs should be left to business men, free from the intrusion of an outdated morality or misguided arguments about public policy.⁶⁶

The separation of economic from ethical interests, which was the note of all this movement, was in sharp opposition to religious tradition, and it did not establish itself without a struggle. Even in the very capital of European commerce and finance, an embittered controversy was occasioned by the refusal to admit usurers to communion or to confer degrees upon them; it was only after a storm of pamphleteering, in which the theological faculty of the University of Utrecht performed prodigies of zeal and ingenuity, that the States of Holland and West Friesland closed the agitation by declaring that the Church had no concern with questions of banking.⁶⁷ In the French Calvinist Churches, the decline of discipline had caused lamentations a generation earlier.⁶⁸ In America, the theocracy of Massachusetts, merciless alike to religious liberty and to economic license, was about to be undermined by the rise of new States like Rhode Island and Pennsylvania, whose tolerant, individualist and utilitarian temper was destined to find its greatest representative in the golden common sense of Benjamin Franklin.⁶⁹ “The sin of our too great fondness for trade, to the neglecting of our more valuable interests,” wrote a Scottish divine in 1709, when Glasgow was on the eve of a triumphant outburst of commercial enterprise, “I humbly think will be written upon our judgment.... I am sure the Lord is remarkably frowning upon our trade ... since it was put in the room of religion.”⁷⁰

The separation of economic interests from ethical concerns was the defining feature of this whole movement. It sharply opposed religious tradition and did not take hold without a struggle. Even in the very capital of European commerce and finance, a bitter controversy arose. Usurers were refused communion and denied degrees. This provoked a storm of pamphlets, in which the theological faculty of the University of Utrecht showed extraordinary zeal and ingenuity. Only then did the States of Holland and West Friesland end the dispute by declaring that the Church had no concern with banking.⁶⁷ In the French Calvinist Churches, the decline of discipline had caused lamentations a generation earlier.⁶⁸ In America, the Massachusetts theocracy showed no mercy to either religious liberty or economic license. It was about to be undermined by the rise of new States like Rhode Island and Pennsylvania. Their tolerant, individualist and utilitarian spirit would find its greatest representative in the golden common sense of Benjamin Franklin.⁶⁹ A Scottish clergyman wrote in 1709, just as Glasgow was on the brink of a triumphant surge of commercial enterprise: “I humbly think the sin of our excessive love of trade, at the expense of our more valuable interests, will be reflected in our judgment.... I am sure the Lord is clearly frowning on our trade ... since it has taken the place of religion.”⁷⁰

In England, the growing disposition to apply exclusively economic standards to social relations evoked from Puritan writers and divines vigorous protests against usurious interest, extortionate prices and the oppression of tenants by landlords. The faithful, it was urged, had interpreted only too literally the doctrine that the sinner was saved, not by works, but by faith. Usury, “in time of Popery an odious thing,”⁷¹ had become a scandal. Professors, by their covetousness, caused the enemies of the reformed religion to blaspheme.⁷² The exactions of the forestaller and regrater were never so monstrous or so immune from interference. The hearts of the rich were never so hard, nor the necessities of the poor so neglected. “The poor able to work are suffered to beg; the impotent, aged and sick are not sufficiently provided for, but almost starved with the allowance of 3d. and 4d. a piece a week.... These are the last times indeed. Men generally are all for themselves. And some would set up such, having a form of religion, without the power of it.”⁷³

In England, people were increasingly inclined to judge social relations solely by economic standards. Puritan writers and clergy vigorously protested against usurious interest, excessive prices, and landlords’ oppression of tenants. They argued that the faithful had taken the doctrine of salvation only too literally. According to that doctrine, sinners were saved by faith, not by good works. Usury, “a hateful thing in the time of Popery,”⁷¹ had become a scandal. By their greed, those who professed the reformed faith caused its enemies to blaspheme.⁷² The excessive charges of forestallers and regraters had never been so outrageous or so free from interference. The hearts of the rich had never been so hard, nor the needs of the poor so neglected. “The poor who can work are allowed to beg. The disabled, elderly, and sick are not adequately provided for. Instead, they are nearly starved on an allowance of 3d. or 4d. each a week.... These are indeed the last times. Men are generally all for themselves. And some would set up such men, who have the outward form of religion without its power.”⁷³

These utterances came, however, from that part of the Puritan mind which looked backward. That which looked forward found in the rapidly growing spirit of economic enterprise something not uncongenial to its own temper, and went out to welcome it as an ally. What in Calvin had been a qualified concession to practical exigencies appeared in some of his later followers as a frank idealization of the life of the trader, as the service of God and the training-ground of the soul. Discarding the suspicion of economic motives, which had been as characteristic of the reformers as of medieval theologians, Puritanism in its later phases added a halo of ethical sanctification to the appeal of economic expediency, and offered a moral creed, in which the duties of religion and the calls of business ended their long estrangement in an unanticipated reconciliation. Its spokesmen pointed out, it is true, the peril to the soul involved in a single-minded concentration on economic interests. The enemy, however, was not riches, but the bad habits sometimes associated with them, and its warnings against an excessive preoccupation with the pursuit of gain wore more and more the air of after-thoughts, appended to teaching the main tendency and emphasis of which were little affected by these incidental qualifications. It insisted, in short, that money-making, if not free from spiritual dangers, was not a danger and nothing else, but that it could be, and ought to be, carried on for the greater glory of God.

These statements, however, came from the side of Puritan thought that looked backward. The side that looked forward found the rapidly growing spirit of economic enterprise compatible with its own outlook. It welcomed that spirit as an ally. Calvin had made a qualified concession to practical needs. Some of his later followers openly idealized the life of the trader as service to God and training for the soul. The reformers, like medieval theologians, had been suspicious of economic motives. Later Puritanism cast aside that suspicion and gave moral approval to the practical appeal of economic gain. It offered a moral creed in which religious duties and business demands ended their long separation in an unexpected reconciliation. Puritan spokesmen did, of course, point out the danger to the soul of focusing solely on economic interests. But the enemy was not wealth itself. It was the bad habits sometimes associated with wealth. Warnings against too much concern with making money increasingly sounded like afterthoughts. They were added to teachings whose main direction and emphasis were little affected by these incidental qualifications. In short, Puritanism insisted that making money was not merely a spiritual danger, though it was not free from such dangers. It could and should be pursued for the greater glory of God.

The conception to which it appealed to bridge the gulf sprang from the very heart of Puritan theology. It was that expressed in the characteristic and oft-used phrase, “a Calling.”⁷⁴ The rational order of the universe is the work of God, and its plan requires that the individual should labor for God’s glory. There is a spiritual calling, and a temporal calling. It is the first duty of the Christian to know and believe in God; it is by faith that he will be saved. But faith is not a mere profession, such as that of Talkative of Prating Row, whose “religion is to make a noise.” The only genuine faith is the faith which produces works. “At the day of Doom men shall be judged according to their fruits. It will not be said then, Did you believe? but, Were you doers, or talkers only?”⁷⁵ The second duty of the Christian is to labor in the affairs of practical life, and this second duty is subordinate only to the first. “God,” wrote a Puritan divine, “doth call every man and woman ... to serve him in some peculiar employment in this world, both for their own and the common good.... The Great Governour of the world hath appointed to every man his proper post and province, and let him be never so active out of his sphere, he will be at a great loss, if he do not keep his own vineyard and mind his own business.”⁷⁶

The idea used to bridge the gulf came from the heart of Puritan theology. It was expressed in the characteristic and often-used phrase, “a Calling.”⁷⁴ God created the rational order of the universe. Its plan requires each person to work for God’s glory. There is a spiritual calling and a worldly calling. A Christian’s first duty is to know and believe in God. It is through faith that a Christian will be saved. But faith is not merely something one professes, as Talkative of Prating Row does. His “religion is to make a noise.” The only genuine faith is faith that produces good works. “On Judgment Day, people will be judged by their fruits. The question will not be, Did you believe? but, Did you act, or did you only talk?”⁷⁵ A Christian’s second duty is to work in the affairs of practical life. This duty is second only to the duty of knowing and believing in God. “God,” wrote a Puritan theologian, “calls every man and woman ... to serve him in some particular occupation in this world, both for their own good and for the common good.... The Great Governor of the world has assigned every person a proper post and sphere. However active someone may be outside that sphere, they will suffer a great loss if they do not tend their own vineyard and mind their own business.”⁷⁶

From this reiterated insistence on secular obligations as imposed by the divine will, it follows that, not withdrawal from the world, but the conscientious discharge of the duties of business, is among the loftiest of religious and moral virtues. “The begging friars and such monks as live only to themselves and to their formal devotion, but do employ themselves in no one thing to further their own subsistence or the good of mankind ... yet have the confidence to boast of this their course as a state of perfection; which in very deed, as to the worthiness of it, falls short of the poorest cobbler, for his is a calling of God, and theirs is none.”⁷⁷ The idea was not a new one. Luther had advanced it as a weapon against monasticism. But for Luther, with his patriarchal outlook on economic affairs, the calling means normally that state of life in which the individual has been set by Heaven, and against which it is impiety to rebel. On the lips of Puritan divines, it is not an invitation to resignation, but the bugle-call which summons the elect to the long battle which will end only with their death. “The world is all before them.” They are to hammer out their salvation, not merely in vocatione, but per vocationem. The calling is not a condition in which the individual is born, but a strenuous and exacting enterprise, to be undertaken, indeed, under the guidance of Providence, but to be chosen by each man for himself, with a deep sense of his solemn responsibilities. “God hath given to man reason for this use, that he should first consider, then choose, then put in execution; and it is a preposterous and brutish thing to fix or fall upon any weighty business, such as a calling or condition of life, without a careful pondering it in the balance of sound reason.”⁷⁸

The repeated insistence that divine will imposes worldly obligations leads to a conclusion. One of the highest religious and moral virtues is not withdrawing from the world, but conscientiously fulfilling the duties of business. “Begging friars and monks who live only for themselves and their formal devotions do nothing to support themselves or benefit mankind ... Yet they have the confidence to boast that their way of life is a state of perfection. In truth, it falls short of even the poorest cobbler’s way of life. His is a calling from God, and theirs is no calling at all.”⁷⁷ The idea was not new. Luther had used it as a weapon against monasticism. But Luther had a patriarchal outlook on economic affairs. For him, a calling normally meant the station in life where Heaven had placed a person. To rebel against it was impious. For Puritan divines, however, a calling was not an invitation to accept one’s lot. It was a bugle call summoning the elect to a long battle that would end only with their death. “The world is all before them.” They were to work out their salvation not merely in vocatione (in a calling), but per vocationem (through a calling). A calling was not a condition into which a person was born. It was a strenuous and demanding undertaking, pursued under the guidance of Providence. But each man had to choose his calling for himself, with a deep sense of his solemn responsibilities. “God has given man reason so that he should first consider, then choose, then act. It is absurd and brutish to choose or stumble into any important undertaking, such as a calling or a station in life, without carefully weighing it by sound reason.”⁷⁸

Laborare est orare. By the Puritan moralist the ancient maxim is repeated with a new and intenser significance. The labor which he idealizes is not simply a requirement imposed by nature, or a punishment for the sin of Adam. It is itself a kind of ascetic discipline, more rigorous than that demanded of any order of mendicants—a discipline imposed by the will of God, and to be undergone, not in solitude, but in the punctual discharge of secular duties. It is not merely an economic means, to be laid aside when physical needs have been satisfied. It is a spiritual end, for in it alone can the soul find health, and it must be continued as an ethical duty long after it has ceased to be a material necessity. Work thus conceived stands at the very opposite pole from “good works,” as they were understood, or misunderstood, by Protestants. They, it was thought, had been a series of single transactions, performed as compensation for particular sins, or out of anxiety to acquire merit. What is required of the Puritan is not individual meritorious acts, but a holy life—a system in which every element is grouped round a central idea, the service of God, from which all disturbing irrelevances have been pruned, and to which all minor interests are subordinated.

Laborare est orare. The Puritan moralist repeats the ancient saying with a new and stronger meaning. The work he idealizes is not simply something nature demands or a punishment for Adam’s sin. Work is itself a kind of ascetic discipline, stricter than that required of any order of mendicants. God’s will imposes this discipline. It is to be practiced not in solitude, but through the prompt fulfillment of everyday duties. Work is not merely an economic means to be set aside once physical needs are met. It is a spiritual end, for only through work can the soul find health. Work must continue as an ethical duty long after it has stopped being a material necessity. Work understood in this way is the exact opposite of “good works,” as Protestants understood, or misunderstood, them. Protestants thought of good works as a series of separate acts. People performed these acts to compensate for particular sins or out of a desire to earn merit. The Puritan is required not to perform individual acts of merit, but to lead a holy life. Such a life is a system in which every part is organized around one central idea: the service of God. All distracting irrelevances have been removed, and all lesser interests are subordinate to the service of God.

His conception of that life was expressed in the words, “Be wholly taken up in diligent business of your lawful callings, when you are not exercised in the more immediate service of God.”⁷⁹ In order to deepen his spiritual life, the Christian must be prepared to narrow it. He “is blind in no man’s cause, but best sighted in his own. He confines himself to the circle of his own affairs and thrusts not his fingers in needless fires.... He sees the falseness of it [the world] and therefore learns to trust himself ever, others so far as not to be damaged by their disappointment.”⁸⁰ There must be no idle leisure: “those that are prodigal of their time despise their own souls.”⁸¹ Religion must be active, not merely contemplative. Contemplation is, indeed, a kind of self-indulgence. “To neglect this [i.e., bodily employment and mental labor] and say, ‘I will pray and meditate,’ is as if your servant should refuse your greatest work, and tye himself to some lesser, easie part.... God hath commanded you some way or other to labour for your daily bread.”⁸² The rich are no more excused from work than the poor, though they may rightly use their riches to select some occupation specially serviceable to others. Covetousness is a danger to the soul, but it is not so grave a danger as sloth. “The standing pool is prone to putrefaction: and it were better to beat down the body and to keep it in subjection by a laborious calling, than through luxury to become a cast-away.”⁸³ So far from poverty being meritorious, it is a duty to choose the more profitable occupation. “If God show you a way in which you may lawfully get more than in another way (without wrong to your soul or to any other), if you refuse this, and choose the less gainful way, you cross one of the ends of your Calling, and you refuse to be God’s steward.” Luxury, unrestrained pleasure, personal extravagance, can have no place in a Christian’s conduct, for “every penny which is laid out ... must be done as by God’s own appointment.” Even excessive devotion to friends and relations is to be avoided. “It is an irrational act, and therefore not fit for a rational creature, to love any one farther than reason will allow us.... It very often taketh up men’s minds so as to hinder their love to God.”⁸⁴ The Christian life, in short, must be systematic and organized, the work of an iron will and a cool intelligence. Those who have read Mill’s account of his father must have been struck by the extent to which Utilitarianism was not merely a political doctrine, but a moral attitude. Some of the links in the Utilitarian coat of mail were forged, it may be suggested, by the Puritan divines of the seventeenth century.

He expressed his view of that life in these words: “Devote yourself entirely to diligent work in your lawful calling, except when you are engaged in more direct service to God.”⁷⁹ To deepen his spiritual life, the Christian must be prepared to narrow it. He “is not blind to other people’s concerns, but sees his own most clearly. He stays within the bounds of his own affairs and does not put his fingers into fires needlessly.... He sees how false the world is, and so learns always to trust himself. He trusts others only so far that their failure to meet his expectations will not harm him.”⁸⁰ There must be no idle leisure: “those who waste their time despise their own souls.”⁸¹ Religion must be active, not merely contemplative. Indeed, contemplation is a kind of self-indulgence. “To neglect bodily work and mental labor and say, ‘I will pray and meditate,’ is like a servant refusing your most important work and committing himself to some lesser, easier task.... God has commanded you to work in one way or another for your daily bread.”⁸² The rich are no more excused from work than the poor. But they may rightly use their wealth to choose an occupation that is especially useful to others. Covetousness is a danger to the soul, but not so great a danger as laziness. “A stagnant pool is likely to rot. It would be better to discipline the body and keep it under control through hard work in a calling than to be ruined by luxury.”⁸³ Far from poverty being a virtue, it is a duty to choose the more profitable occupation. “If God shows you a way to earn more lawfully than you could another way, without harming your soul or anyone else, you should not refuse it. If you choose the less profitable way, you go against one of the purposes of your calling, and you refuse to be God’s steward.” Luxury, unrestrained pleasure, and personal extravagance have no place in a Christian’s conduct. For “every penny that is spent ... must be spent as God himself directs.” Even excessive devotion to friends and relatives must be avoided. “It is irrational, and therefore not fitting for a rational creature, to love anyone more than reason allows.... Such love very often occupies people’s minds so much that it stands in the way of their love for God.”⁸⁴ In short, the Christian life must be systematic and organized, shaped by an iron will and a cool intelligence. Those who have read Mill’s account of his father must have been struck by how much Utilitarianism was a moral attitude, not merely a political doctrine. One might suggest that the Puritan divines of the seventeenth century forged some of the links in the Utilitarian coat of mail.

The practical application of these generalities to business is set out in the numerous works composed to expound the rules of Christian conduct in the varied relations of life. If one may judge by their titles—Navigation Spiritualized, Husbandry Spiritualized, The Religious Weaver⁸⁵—there must have been a considerable demand for books conducive to professional edification. A characteristic specimen is The Tradesman’s Calling,⁸⁶ by Richard Steele. The author, after being deprived of a country living under the Act of Uniformity, spent his declining years as minister of a congregation at Armourers Hall in London, and may be presumed to have understood the spiritual requirements of the City in his day, when the heroic age of Puritanism was almost over and enthusiasm was no longer a virtue. No one who was writing a treatise on economic ethics today would address himself primarily to the independent shopkeeper, as the figure most representative of the business community, and Steele’s book throws a flood of light on the problems and outlook of the bourgeoisie, in an age before the center of economic gravity had shifted from the substantial tradesman to the exporting merchant, the industrial capitalist and the financier.

Many books explained how to apply these general principles to business and other areas of life, according to Christian rules of conduct. If their titles are any guide, there must have been considerable demand for books offering spiritual guidance for different professions. These titles include Navigation Spiritualized, Husbandry Spiritualized, and The Religious Weaver⁸⁵. A typical example is The Tradesman’s Calling,⁸⁶ by Richard Steele. After losing his position as a country minister under the Act of Uniformity, Steele spent his later years as minister of a congregation at Armourers Hall in London. We may assume that he understood the spiritual needs of the City in his day. By then, the heroic age of Puritanism was almost over, and enthusiasm was no longer a virtue. No one writing a treatise on economic ethics today would address it mainly to the independent shopkeeper as the most representative figure in business. Steele’s book sheds a great deal of light on the problems and outlook of the bourgeoisie in an earlier age. At the time, the substantial tradesman had not yet given way to the exporting merchant, the industrial capitalist, and the financier as the center of economic gravity.

Like Baxter, he is acquainted with the teaching of earlier authorities as to equity in bargaining. He is doubtful, however, of its practical utility. Obvious frauds in matters of quality and weight are to be avoided; an honest tradesman ought not to corner the market, or “accumulate two or three callings merely to increase his riches,” or oppress the poor; nor should he seek more than “a reasonable proportion of gain,” or “lie on the catch to make [his] markets of others’ straits.” But Steele rejects as useless in practice the various objective standards of a reasonable profit—cost of production, standard of life, customary prices—which had been suggested in earlier ages, and concludes that the individual must judge for himself. “Here, as in many other cases, an upright conscience must be the clerk of the market.”

Like Baxter, Steele knows what earlier authorities taught about fairness in bargaining. But he doubts how useful their teaching is in practice. An honest tradesman should avoid obvious fraud involving quality or weight. He should not corner the market, “take up two or three trades merely to increase his wealth,” or oppress the poor. He should seek no more than “a reasonable share of profit.” He should not “look for chances to profit from others’ hardship.” Earlier thinkers had proposed various objective standards for a reasonable profit, including production costs, standard of living, and customary prices. But Steele rejects these standards as useless in practice. He concludes that each person must judge for himself. “Here, as in many other cases, an upright conscience must act as the market’s inspector.”

In reality, however, the characteristic of The Tradesman’s Calling, as of the age in which it was written, is not the relics of medieval doctrine which linger embalmed in its guileless pages, but the robust common sense, which carries the author lightly over traditional scruples on a tide of genial, if Philistine, optimism. For his main thesis is a comfortable one—that there is no necessary conflict between religion and business. “Prudence and Piety were always very good friends.... You may gain enough of both worlds if you would mind each in its place.” His object is to show how that agreeable result may be produced by dedicating business—with due reservations—to the service of God, and he has naturally little to say on the moral casuistry of economic conduct, because he is permeated by the idea that trade itself is a kind of religion. A tradesman’s first duty is to get a full insight into his calling, and to use his brains to improve it. “He that hath lent you talents hath also said, ‘Occupy till I come!’ Your strength is a talent, your parts are talents, and so is your time. How is it that ye stand all the day idle?... Your trade is your proper province.... Your own vineyard you should keep.... Your fancies, your understandings, your memories ... are all to be laid out therein.” So far from their being an inevitable collision between the requirements of business and the claims of religion, they walk hand in hand. By a fortunate dispensation, the virtues enjoined on Christians—diligence, moderation, sobriety, thrift—are the very qualities most conducive to commercial success. The foundation of all is prudence; and prudence is merely another name for the “godly wisdom [which] comes in and puts due bounds” to his expenses, “and teaches the tradesman to live rather somewhat below than at all above his income.” Industry comes next, and industry is at once expedient and meritorious. It will keep the tradesman from “frequent and needless frequenting of taverns,” and pin him to his shop, “where you may most confidently expect the presence and blessing of God.”

In reality, however, the defining feature of The Tradesman’s Calling, as of the age in which it was written, is not its lingering traces of medieval doctrine. These lie preserved in its innocent pages. Its defining feature is its robust common sense. This carries the author easily past traditional scruples on a tide of cheerful, if culturally narrow, optimism. His main argument is a comforting one: religion and business need not conflict. “Prudence and piety have always been good friends.... You can gain enough of both worlds if you attend to each in its proper place.” He aims to show how this agreeable result can be achieved by dedicating business, with certain reservations, to the service of God. He naturally has little to say about the fine points of right and wrong in economic conduct. This is because he is thoroughly convinced that trade itself is a kind of religion. A tradesman’s first duty is to gain a full understanding of his calling and use his brains to improve it. “He who has lent you talents has also said, ‘Do business until I come!’ Your strength is a talent, your abilities are talents, and so is your time. Why do you stand idle all day?... Your trade is your proper field.... You should tend your own vineyard.... Your imagination, your understanding, your memory ... should all be put to work in it.” Far from inevitably clashing, the demands of business and religion go hand in hand. By a fortunate arrangement, the virtues required of Christians are precisely those most likely to bring commercial success: diligence, moderation, sobriety, and thrift. The foundation of all these virtues is prudence. Prudence is simply another name for the “godly wisdom that comes in and sets proper limits” on a tradesman’s expenses. This wisdom “teaches the tradesman to live somewhat below his income rather than at all above it.” Industry comes next, and industry is both practical and worthy of praise. It will keep the tradesman from “frequent and unnecessary visits to taverns” and keep him in his shop, “where you can most confidently expect the presence and blessing of God.”

If virtue is advantageous, vice is ruinous. Bad company, speculation, gambling, politics, and “a preposterous zeal” in religion—it is these things which are the ruin of tradesmen. Not, indeed, that religion is to be neglected. On the contrary, it “is to be exercised in the frequent use of holy ejaculations.” What is deprecated is merely the unbusinesslike habit of “neglecting a man’s necessary affairs upon pretence of religious worship.” But these faults, common and uncommon alike, are precisely those to be avoided by the sincere Christian, who must not, indeed, deceive or oppress his neighbor, but need not fly to the other extreme, be righteous over-much, or refuse to “take the advantage which the Providence of God puts into his hands.” By a kind of happy, preëstablished harmony, such as a later age discovered between the needs of society and the self-interest of the individual, success in business is in itself almost a sign of spiritual grace, for it is a proof that a man has labored faithfully in his vocation, and that “God has blessed his trade.” “Nothing will pass in any man’s account except it be done in the way of his calling.... Next to the saving his soul, [the tradesman’s] care and business is to serve God in his calling, and to drive it as far as it will go.”

If virtue brings rewards, vice brings ruin. Bad company, speculation, gambling, politics, and “absurd zeal” in religion ruin tradesmen. This does not mean that religion should be neglected. On the contrary, it “should be practiced through frequent short prayers.” What is discouraged is merely the unbusinesslike habit of “neglecting necessary affairs under the pretense of religious worship.” But a sincere Christian must avoid these faults, both common and uncommon. He must not deceive or oppress his neighbor. But he need not go to the other extreme and be too righteous. Nor need he refuse to “take the advantage that God’s providence puts into his hands.” There is a kind of happy, preestablished harmony here, like the harmony a later age found between society’s needs and individual self-interest. Business success is in itself almost a sign of spiritual grace. It shows that a man has worked faithfully in his calling and that “God has blessed his trade.” “Nothing will count in anyone’s favor unless it is done in the course of his calling.... After saving his soul, the tradesman’s duty and business is to serve God in his calling and pursue it as far as he can.”

When duty was so profitable, might not profit-making be a duty? Thus argued the honest pupils of Mr. Gripeman, the schoolmaster of Love-gain, a market-town in the county of Coveting in the north.⁸⁷ The inference was illogical, but how attractive! When the Rev. David Jones was so indiscreet as to preach at St. Mary Woolnoth in Lombard Street a sermon against usury on the text, “The Pharisees who were covetous heard all these things and they derided Christ,” his career in London was brought to an abrupt conclusion.⁸⁸

When doing one’s duty was so profitable, might making a profit be a duty too? That was the argument of Mr. Gripeman’s honest pupils. He was the schoolmaster of Love-gain, a market town in the county of Coveting in the north.⁸⁷ The conclusion was illogical, but how attractive! The Rev. David Jones was unwise enough to preach against usury at St. Mary Woolnoth in Lombard Street. His sermon was based on the text, “The Pharisees who were covetous heard all these things and they derided Christ.” As a result, his career in London came to an abrupt end.⁸⁸

The springs of economic conduct lie in regions rarely penetrated by moralists, and to suggest a direct reaction of theory on practice would be paradoxical. But, if the circumstances which determine that certain kinds of conduct shall be profitable are economic, those which decide that they shall be the object of general approval are primarily moral and intellectual. For conventions to be adopted with whole-hearted enthusiasm, to be not merely tolerated, but applauded, to become the habit of a nation and the admiration of its philosophers, the second condition must be present as well as the first. The insistence among men of pecuniary motives, the strength of economic egotism, the appetite for gain—these are the commonplaces of every age and need no emphasis. What is significant is the change of standards which converted a natural frailty into a resounding virtue. After all, it appears, a man can serve two masters, for—so happily is the world disposed—he may be paid by one, while he works for the other. Between the old-fashioned denunciation of uncharitable covetousness and the new-fashioned applause of economic enterprise, a bridge is thrown by the argument which urges that enterprise itself is the discharge of a duty imposed by God.

The motives behind economic behavior lie in areas that moralists rarely explore. It would be surprising to suggest that theory directly shapes practice. But economic circumstances determine whether certain kinds of behavior are profitable. Moral and intellectual attitudes chiefly determine whether such behavior wins general approval. Profitability alone is not enough for people to embrace practices wholeheartedly, rather than merely tolerate them. Moral and intellectual approval is also needed for people to applaud those practices, for a nation to make them habitual, and for its philosophers to admire them. People’s pursuit of money, the strength of economic self-interest, and the desire for profit are common in every age. They need no emphasis. What matters is the change in standards that turned a natural weakness into a loudly praised virtue. After all, it seems, a man can serve two masters. The world is so fortunately arranged that one master may pay him while he works for the other. An argument bridges the gap between the old-fashioned condemnation of selfish greed and the modern praise of economic enterprise. It holds that enterprise itself is the fulfillment of a duty imposed by God.

In the year 1690 appeared a pamphlet entitled A Discourse of Trade, by N. B., M.D.⁸⁹ Notable for its enlightened discussion of conventional theories of the balance of trade, it is a good specimen of an indifferent genus. But its authorship was more significant than its argument. For N. B. was Dr. Nicholas Barbon; and Dr. Nicholas Barbon, currency expert, pioneer of insurance, and enthusiast for land-banks, was the son of that Praise-God Barebones, by the parody of whose alluring surname a cynical posterity recorded its verdict on the brief comedy of the Rule of the Saints over Laodicean Englishmen. The reaction from Puritan rigor to Restoration license is the most familiar of platitudes. The reaction to a mundane materialism was more gradual, more general, and ultimately of greater significance. The profligacy of the courtier had its decorous counterpart in the economic orgies of the tradesman and the merchant. Votaries, not of Bacchus, but of a more exacting and more profitable divinity, they celebrated their relief at the discredit of a too arduous idealism, by plunging with redoubled zest into the agreeable fever of making and losing money.

In 1690, a pamphlet appeared entitled A Discourse of Trade, by N. B., M.D.⁸⁹ It offered an enlightened discussion of conventional theories about the balance of trade. It was a good example of an otherwise undistinguished kind of writing. But its author was more significant than its argument. N. B. was Dr. Nicholas Barbon, a currency expert, an insurance pioneer, and an enthusiast for land-banks. He was the son of Praise-God Barebones. Later generations cynically made a parody of that appealing surname to record their verdict on the brief comedy of the Rule of the Saints over Laodicean Englishmen. The reaction from Puritan rigor to Restoration license is a familiar cliché. The reaction toward worldly materialism was more gradual, more widespread, and ultimately more significant. The excesses of the courtier had their respectable counterpart in the economic orgies of the tradesman and the merchant. These men were devotees not of Bacchus, but of a more demanding and profitable god. Relieved that an overly demanding idealism had fallen into disrepute, they plunged with renewed enthusiasm into the pleasurable fever of making and losing money.

The transition from the anabaptist to the company promoter was less abrupt than might at first sight be supposed. It had been prepared, however unintentionally, by Puritan moralists. In their emphasis on the moral duty of untiring activity, on work as an end in itself, on the evils of luxury and extravagance, on foresight and thrift, on moderation and self-discipline and rational calculation, they had created an ideal of Christian conduct, which canonized as an ethical principle the efficiency which economic theorists were preaching as a specific for social disorders. It was as captivating as it was novel. To countless generations of religious thinkers, the fundamental maxim of Christian social ethics had seemed to be expressed in the words of St. Paul to Timothy: “Having food and raiment, let us be therewith content. For the love of money is the root of all evil.” Now, while, as always, the world battered at the gate, a new standard was raised within the citadel by its own defenders. The garrison had discovered that the invading host of economic appetites was, not an enemy, but an ally. Not sufficiency to the needs of daily life, but limitless increase and expansion, became the goal of the Christian’s efforts. Not consumption, on which the eyes of earlier sages had been turned, but production, became the pivot of his argument. Not an easy-going and open-handed charity, but a systematic and methodical accumulation, won the meed of praise that belongs to the good and faithful servant. The shrewd, calculating commercialism which tries all human relations by pecuniary standards, the acquisitiveness which cannot rest while there are competitors to be conquered or profits to be won, the love of social power and hunger for economic gain—these irrepressible appetites had evoked from time immemorial the warnings and denunciations of saints and sages. Plunged in the cleansing waters of later Puritanism, the qualities which less enlightened ages had denounced as social vices emerged as economic virtues. They emerged as moral virtues as well. For the world exists not to be enjoyed, but to be conquered. Only its conqueror deserves the name of Christian. For such a philosophy, the question, “What shall it profit a man?” carries no sting. In winning the world, he wins the salvation of his own soul as well.

The transition from the anabaptist to the company promoter was less abrupt than it might first appear. Puritan moralists had helped prepare the way, though unintentionally. They emphasized the moral duty of tireless activity and the value of work for its own sake. They condemned luxury and extravagance and praised foresight, thrift, moderation, self-discipline, and rational calculation. In doing so, they created an ideal of Christian conduct that made efficiency an ethical principle. Economic theorists were preaching the same efficiency as a cure for social ills. The ideal was as captivating as it was new. For countless generations of religious thinkers, St. Paul’s words to Timothy had expressed the basic rule of Christian social ethics: “Having food and clothing, let us be content with them. For the love of money is the root of all evil.” Now, as always, the world battered at the gate. But inside the fortress, its own defenders raised a new standard. The garrison had discovered that the invading army of economic desires was not an enemy, but an ally. The goal of Christian effort became not having enough for daily needs, but unlimited growth and expansion. The focus of Christian argument shifted from consumption, which earlier thinkers had considered central, to production. Generous, easygoing charity no longer won the praise due to the good and faithful servant. Systematic, methodical accumulation won it instead. Saints and sages had long warned against and condemned shrewd, calculating commercialism, which judges all human relationships by financial standards. They had also condemned the drive to acquire, which cannot rest while there are competitors to conquer or profits to win. They had condemned the love of social power and the hunger for economic gain. But these irrepressible desires were plunged into the cleansing waters of later Puritanism. Qualities that less enlightened ages had condemned as social vices emerged as economic virtues. They emerged as moral virtues too. For the world exists not to be enjoyed, but to be conquered. Only its conqueror deserves to be called a Christian. For such a philosophy, the question, “What shall it profit a man?” has no sting. By winning the world, he also wins the salvation of his own soul.

The idea of economic progress as an end to be consciously sought, while ever receding, had been unfamiliar to most earlier generations of Englishmen, in which the theme of moralists had been the danger of unbridled cupidity, and the main aim of public policy had been the stability of traditional relationships. It found a new sanction in the identification of labor and enterprise with the service of God. The magnificent energy which changed in a century the face of material civilization was to draw nourishment from that temper. The worship of production and ever greater production—the slavish drudgery of the millionaire and his unhappy servants—was to be hallowed by the precepts of the same compelling creed.

Most earlier generations of English people had not thought of economic progress as a goal to be actively pursued, though always receding. Moralists had warned instead of the danger of unchecked greed. Public policy had mainly aimed to keep traditional relationships stable. The idea of economic progress gained new authority when work and enterprise came to be seen as service to God. This outlook would nourish the magnificent energy that transformed material civilization within a century. The same compelling creed would also sanctify the worship of production and ever greater production. It would sanctify the slavish drudgery of the millionaire and his unhappy servants.

Social development moves with a logic whose inferences are long delayed, and the day of these remoter applications had not yet dawned. The version of Christian ethics expounded by Puritanism in some of its later phases was still only in its vigorous youth. But it sailed forward on a flowing tide. It had an unconscious ally in the preoccupation with economic interests which found expression in the enthusiasm of business politicians for a commercial Machtpolitik. The youthful Commonwealth, a rival of Holland “for the fairest mistress in the world—trade,”⁹⁰ was not two years old when it made its own essay in economic imperialism. “A bare-faced war” for commerce, got up by the Royal African Company, was Clarendon’s verdict⁹¹ on the Dutch war of 1665-7. Five years later, Shaftesbury hounded the City against Holland with the cry of Delenda est Carthago. The war finance of the Protectorate had made it necessary for Cromwell to court Dutch and Jewish, as well as native, capitalists, and the impecunious Government of the Restoration was in the hands of those syndicates of goldsmiths whose rapacity the Chancellor, a survivor from the age before the deluge, when aristocrats still despised the upstart plutocracy, found not a little disgusting.⁹²

Social development follows a logic whose conclusions take a long time to emerge. The time for these more distant applications had not yet come. The version of Christian ethics taught by Puritanism in some of its later phases was still only in its vigorous youth. But it was sailing forward on a rising tide. Its unconscious ally was the preoccupation with economic interests. This preoccupation found expression in business politicians’ enthusiasm for a commercial Machtpolitik. The young Commonwealth was a rival of Holland “for the fairest mistress in the world, trade,”⁹⁰ and was not yet two years old when it made its own attempt at economic imperialism. Clarendon’s verdict⁹¹ on the Dutch war of 1665-7 was that it was “A bare-faced war” for commerce, got up by the Royal African Company. Five years later, Shaftesbury roused the City against Holland with the cry of Delenda est Carthago. To finance the Protectorate’s wars, Cromwell had had to court Dutch and Jewish capitalists as well as native ones. The cash-strapped Government of the Restoration was in the hands of syndicates of goldsmiths. Their greed disgusted the Chancellor, a survivor from the age before the deluge, when aristocrats still despised the upstart plutocracy.⁹²

The contemporary progress of economic thought fortified no less the mood which glorified the economic virtues. Economic science developed in England, not, as in Germany, as the handmaid of public administration, nor, as in France, through the speculations of philosophers and men of letters, but as the interpreter of the practical interests of the City. With the exception of Petty and Locke, its most eminent practitioners were business men, and the questions which excited them were those, neither of production nor of social organization, but of commerce and finance—the balance of trade, tariffs, interest, currency and credit. The rise of Political Arithmetic after the Restoration, profoundly influenced, as it was, by the Cartesian philosophy and by the progress of natural science, stamped their spontaneous and doctrineless individualism with the seal of theoretical orthodoxy. “Knowledge,” wrote the author of the preface to a work by one of the most eminent exponents of the new science, “in great measure is become mechanical.”⁹³ The exact analysis of natural conditions, the calculations of forces and strains, the reduction of the complex to the operation of simple, constant and measurable forces, was the natural bias of an age interested primarily in mathematics and physics. Its object was “to express itself in terms of number, weight or measure, to use only arguments of sense, and to consider only such causes as have visible foundations in nature; leaving those that depend upon the mutable minds, opinions, appetites and passions of particular men to the consideration of others.”⁹⁴

The progress of economic thought at the time also strengthened the outlook that glorified economic virtues. In Germany, economics developed as an aid to public administration. In France, it developed through the ideas of philosophers and writers. But in England, it developed to interpret the practical interests of the City. With the exception of Petty and Locke, its most prominent practitioners were business people. The questions that interested them concerned commerce and finance, not production or social organization. These included the balance of trade, tariffs, interest, currency and credit. Political Arithmetic rose after the Restoration, profoundly influenced by Cartesian philosophy and advances in natural science. It gave the business people’s spontaneous individualism, which had no formal doctrine, the stamp of accepted theory. “Knowledge,” wrote the author of the preface to a work by one of the leading figures in the new science, “has become largely mechanical.”⁹³ The age was primarily interested in mathematics and physics. So it naturally favored exact analysis of natural conditions, calculations of forces and stresses, and the explanation of complex things through simple, constant and measurable forces. Its aim was “to express itself in terms of number, weight or measure, to use only arguments based on the senses, and to consider only causes with visible foundations in nature. It left causes that depend on the changing minds, opinions, appetites and passions of particular people for others to consider.”⁹⁴

In such an atmosphere, the moral casuistry, which had occupied so large a place in the earlier treatment of social and economic subjects, seemed the voice of an antiquated superstition. Moreover, the main economic dogma of the mercantilist had an affinity with the main ethical dogma of the Puritan, which was the more striking because the coincidence was undesigned. To the former, production, not consumption, was the pivot of the economic system, and, by what seems to the modern reader a curious perversion, consumption is applauded only because it offers a new market for productive energies. To the latter, the cardinal virtues are precisely those which find in the strenuous toils of industry and commerce their most natural expression. The typical qualities of the successful business life, in the days before the rise of joint-stock enterprise, were intensity and earnestness of labor, concentration, system and method, the initiative which broke with routine and the foresight which postponed the present to the future. Advice like that of the Reverend Mr. Steele to his City congregation was admirably calculated to give these arduous excellences a heightened status and justification. The lean goddess, Abstinence, whom Mr. Keynes, in a passage of brilliant indiscretion, has revealed as the tutelary divinity of Victorian England, was inducted to the austere splendors of her ascetic shrine by the pious hands of Puritan moralists.

In such an atmosphere, the moral casuistry that had dominated earlier discussions of social and economic questions sounded like outdated superstition. Moreover, the mercantilist’s main economic belief resembled the Puritan’s main ethical belief. The resemblance was all the more striking because it was unintentional. For the mercantilist, production, not consumption, was the center of the economic system. In a reversal that seems curious to modern readers, consumption was praised only because it offered a new market for productive energies. For the Puritan, the chief virtues were precisely those most naturally expressed through hard work in industry and commerce. Before the rise of joint-stock enterprise, successful business life had typical qualities. These included intense, earnest work, concentration, system and method, the initiative to break with routine, and the foresight to put the future before the present. Advice like the Reverend Mr. Steele’s to his City congregation was well suited to give these demanding virtues greater standing and justification. Mr. Keynes, in a passage of brilliant indiscretion, has revealed the lean goddess Abstinence as the guardian deity of Victorian England. It was the pious hands of Puritan moralists that installed her in the austere splendor of her ascetic shrine.

Such teaching fell upon willing ears. Excluded by legislation from a direct participation in public affairs, Dissenters of means and social position threw themselves into the alternative career offered by commerce and finance, and did so the more readily because religion itself had blessed their choice. If they conformed, the character given them by their critics—“opinionating, relying much upon their own judgment ... ungrateful, as not holding themselves beholden to any man ... proud, as thinking themselves the only favorites of God, and the only wise or virtuous among men”⁹⁵—disposed them to the left in questions of Church and State. The names of the commercial magnates of the day lend some confirmation to the suggestion of that affinity between religious radicalism and business acumen which envious contemporaries expressed in their sneers at the “Presbyterian old usurer,” “devout misers,” and “extorting Ishban.”⁹⁶ The four London members elected in 1661 had not only filled the ordinary civic offices, but had held between them the governorship of the East India Company, the deputy-governorship of the Levant Company, and the masterships of the Salters and Drapers Companies; two of them were said to be Presbyterians, and two Independents.⁹⁷ Of the committee of leading business men who advised Charles II’s Government on questions of commercial policy, some, like Sir Patience Ward and Michael Godfrey, represented the ultra-Protestantism of the City, while others, like Thomas Papillon and the two Houblons, were members of the French Huguenot church in London.⁹⁸ In spite of the bitter commercial rivalry with Holland, both Dutch capital and Dutch ideas found an enthusiastic welcome in London.⁹⁹ Sir George Downing, Charles II’s envoy at the Hague, who endeavored to acclimatize Dutch banking methods in England, and who, according to Clarendon, was one of the intriguers who prepared the war of 1665-7, had been reared in the Puritan severity of Salem and Harvard, and had been a preacher in the regiment of Colonel Okey.¹⁰⁰ Paterson, who supplied the idea of a joint-stock banking corporation, which Michael Godfrey popularized in the City and Montagu piloted through Parliament, was, like the magnificent Law, a Scotch company promoter, who had haunted the Hague in the days when it was the home of disconsolate Whigs.¹⁰¹ Yarranton, most ingenious of projectors, had been an officer in the Parliamentary army, and his book was a long sermon on the virtues of the Dutch.¹⁰² Defoe, who wrote the idyll of the bourgeoisie in his Complete English Tradesman, was born of nonconformist parents, and was intended for the ministry before, having failed in trade, he took up politics and literature.¹⁰³ In his admirable study of the iron industry, Mr. Ashton has shown that the most eminent iron-masters of the eighteenth century belonged as a rule to the Puritan connection.¹⁰⁴ They had their prototype in the seventeenth century in Baxter’s friend, Thomas Foley, “who from almost nothing did get about £5,000 per annum or more by iron works.”¹⁰⁵

Such teaching found a receptive audience. Laws excluded Dissenters from direct participation in public affairs. Those with wealth and social standing therefore turned to the alternative careers of commerce and finance. They did so all the more readily because religion itself had blessed their choice. If they fitted their critics’ description, they were inclined toward radical views on Church and State. Their critics called them “opinionated, relying heavily on their own judgment ... ungrateful, because they felt indebted to no one ... proud, because they thought themselves God’s only favorites, and the only wise or virtuous people among men.”⁹⁵ The names of the leading merchants and financiers of the day offer some support for a suggested affinity between religious radicalism and business acumen. Envious contemporaries expressed this idea in their sneers at the “Presbyterian old usurer,” “devout misers,” and “extorting Ishban.”⁹⁶ The four members elected for London in 1661 had all held the usual civic offices. Between them, they had also been governor of the East India Company, deputy governor of the Levant Company, and masters of the Salters and Drapers Companies. Two were said to be Presbyterians, and two Independents.⁹⁷ A committee of leading businessmen advised Charles II’s Government on commercial policy. Some, like Sir Patience Ward and Michael Godfrey, represented the City’s ultra-Protestantism. Others, like Thomas Papillon and the two Houblons, belonged to the French Huguenot church in London.⁹⁸ Despite bitter commercial rivalry with Holland, London enthusiastically welcomed both Dutch capital and Dutch ideas.⁹⁹ Sir George Downing, Charles II’s envoy at the Hague, tried to introduce Dutch banking methods in England. According to Clarendon, he was one of the plotters who prepared the war of 1665-7. Downing had been raised amid the strict Puritanism of Salem and Harvard. He had also been a preacher in Colonel Okey’s regiment.¹⁰⁰ Paterson supplied the idea for a joint-stock banking corporation. Michael Godfrey popularized the idea in the City, and Montagu guided it through Parliament. Paterson, like the magnificent Law, was a Scottish company promoter. He had spent much time at the Hague when it was home to disconsolate Whigs.¹⁰¹ Yarranton, the most ingenious of projectors, had been an officer in the Parliamentary army. His book was a long sermon on the virtues of the Dutch.¹⁰² Defoe wrote an idealized portrait of the bourgeoisie in his Complete English Tradesman. He was born to nonconformist parents and was intended for the ministry. After failing in trade, he turned to politics and literature.¹⁰³ In his admirable study of the iron industry, Mr. Ashton has shown that the most eminent ironmasters of the eighteenth century generally belonged to Puritan circles.¹⁰⁴ They had a seventeenth-century forerunner in Baxter’s friend Thomas Foley, “who started with almost nothing and earned about £5,000 a year or more from ironworks.”¹⁰⁵

To such a generation, a creed which transformed the acquisition of wealth from a drudgery or a temptation into a moral duty was the milk of lions. It was not that religion was expelled from practical life, but that religion itself gave it a foundation of granite. In that keen atmosphere of economic enterprise, the ethics of the Puritan bore some resemblance to those associated later with the name of Smiles. The good Christian was not wholly dissimilar from the economic man.

For that generation, a belief that turned making money from drudgery or temptation into a moral duty was the milk of lions. Religion was not driven out of practical life. Rather, religion itself gave practical life a foundation of granite. In that energetic atmosphere of economic enterprise, Puritan ethics resembled some of the ideas later associated with Smiles. The good Christian was not entirely unlike the economic man.

To applaud certain qualities is by implication to condemn the habits and institutions which appear to conflict with them. The recognition accorded by Puritan ethics to the economic virtues, in an age when such virtues were rarer than they are today, gave a timely stimulus to economic efficiency. But it naturally, if unintentionally, modified the traditional attitude towards social obligations. For the spontaneous, doctrineless individualism, which became the rule of English public life a century before the philosophy of it was propounded by Adam Smith, no single cause was responsible. But, simultaneously with the obvious movements in the world of affairs—the discrediting of the ideal of a paternal, authoritarian Government, the breakdown of central control over local administration, the dislocation caused by the Civil War, the expansion of trade and the shifting of industry from its accustomed seats—it is perhaps not fanciful to detect in the ethics of Puritanism one force contributing to the change in social policy which is noticeable after the middle of the century.

Praising certain qualities implies condemning habits and institutions that seem to conflict with them. Puritan ethics recognized economic virtues at a time when they were rarer than they are today. This recognition gave economic efficiency a timely boost. But it also naturally, though unintentionally, changed traditional attitudes toward social obligations. No single cause was responsible for the instinctive individualism that became the rule in English public life. This individualism had no formal doctrine, and it became the rule a century before Adam Smith set out its philosophy. But several obvious developments were taking place at the same time. The ideal of a paternal, authoritarian Government had lost credibility. Central control over local administration had broken down, and the Civil War had caused disruption. Trade was expanding, and industry was moving away from its usual centers. Alongside these developments, it is perhaps reasonable to see Puritan ethics as one force contributing to the change in social policy that can be seen after the middle of the century.

The loftiest teaching cannot escape from its own shadow. To urge that the Christian life must be lived in a zealous discharge of private duties—how necessary! Yet how readily perverted to the suggestion that there are no vital social obligations beyond and above them! To insist that the individual is responsible, that no man can save his brother, that the essence of religion is the contact of the soul with its Maker, how true and indispensable! But how easy to slip from that truth into the suggestion that society is without responsibility, that no man can help his brother, that the social order and its consequences are not even the scaffolding by which men may climb to greater heights, but something external, alien and irrelevant—something, at best, indifferent to the life of the spirit, and, at worse, the sphere of the letter which killeth and of the reliance on works which ensnares the soul into the slumber of death! In emphasizing that God’s Kingdom is not of this world, Puritanism did not always escape the suggestion that this world is no part of God’s Kingdom. The complacent victim of that false antithesis between the social mechanism and the life of the spirit, which was to tyrannize over English religious thought for the next two centuries, it enthroned religion in the privacy of the individual soul, not without some sighs of sober satisfaction at its abdication from society. Professor Dicey has commented on the manner in which “the appeal of the Evangelicals to personal religion corresponds with the appeal of Benthamite Liberals to individual energy.”¹⁰⁶ The same affinity between religious and social interests found an even clearer expression in the Puritan movement of the seventeenth century. Individualism in religion led insensibly, if not quite logically, to an individualist morality, and an individualist morality to a disparagement of the significance of the social fabric as compared with personal character.

Even the highest teaching cannot escape its own shadow. It is necessary to urge Christians to carry out their private duties with zeal. Yet how easily this becomes the suggestion that there are no vital social obligations beyond and above those duties! It is true and indispensable to insist that each person is responsible, that no one can save another, and that the essence of religion is the soul’s contact with its maker. But how easy it is to slip from that truth into a very different suggestion. Society, it is suggested, has no responsibility, and no one can help another. The social order and its consequences are not even the scaffolding people may use to climb to greater heights. Instead, they are external, alien, and irrelevant. At best, they are indifferent to the life of the spirit. At worst, they are the realm of the letter that kills and of reliance on works, which lulls the soul into the sleep of death. In emphasizing that God’s Kingdom is not of this world, Puritanism did not always avoid suggesting that this world is no part of God’s Kingdom. Puritanism was a complacent victim of a false opposition between the workings of society and the life of the spirit. This opposition would dominate English religious thought for the next two centuries. Puritanism placed religion on a throne in the privacy of the individual soul. It did so not without some sighs of sober satisfaction that religion had given up its place in society. Professor Dicey has commented on how “the appeal of the Evangelicals to personal religion corresponds with the appeal of Benthamite Liberals to individual energy.”¹⁰⁶ The same affinity between religious and social interests appeared even more clearly in the Puritan movement of the seventeenth century. Individualism in religion led almost unnoticed, if not quite logically, to an individualist morality. An individualist morality, in turn, led people to regard the structure of society as less important than personal character.

A practical example of that change of emphasis is given by the treatment accorded to the questions of Enclosure and of Pauperism. For a century and a half the progress of enclosing had been a burning issue, flaring up, from time to time, into acute agitation. During the greater part of that period, from Latimer in the thirties of the sixteenth century to Laud in the thirties of the seventeenth, the attitude of religious teachers had been one of condemnation. Sermon after sermon and pamphlet after pamphlet—not to mention Statutes and Royal Commissions—had been launched against depopulation. The appeal had been, not merely to public policy, but to religion. Peasant and lord, in their different degrees, are members of one Christian commonwealth, within which the law of charity must bridle the corroding appetite for economic gain. In such a mystical corporation, knit together by mutual obligations, no man may press his advantage to the full, for no man may seek to live “outside the body of the Church.”

A practical example of this change in emphasis can be seen in the treatment of enclosure and pauperism. For 150 years, the spread of enclosure had been a burning issue. From time to time, it had sparked intense agitation. For most of that period, religious teachers had condemned enclosure, from Latimer in the 1530s to Laud in the 1630s. Sermon after sermon and pamphlet after pamphlet had denounced depopulation. Statutes and Royal Commissions had also been directed against it. The appeal had been based not only on public policy, but also on religion. Peasant and lord, each in their own rank, are members of one Christian commonwealth. Within that commonwealth, the law of charity must restrain the corrosive desire for economic gain. In such a spiritual community, bound together by mutual obligations, no one may pursue their advantage to the fullest. For no one may seek to live “outside the body of the Church.”

Sabotaged by the unpaid magistracy of country gentlemen, who had been the obstructive agents of local administration, the practical application of such doctrines had always been intermittent, and, when the Long Parliament struck the weapon of administrative law from the hands of the Crown, it had ceased altogether. But the politics of Westminster were not those of village and borough. The events which seemed to aristocratic Parliamentarians to close the revolution seemed to the left wing of the victorious army only to begin it. In that earliest and most turbulent of English democracies, where buff-coat taught scripture politics to his general, the talk was not merely of political, but of social, reconstruction. The program of the Levellers, who more than any other party could claim to express the aspirations of the unprivileged classes, included a demand, not only for annual or biennial Parliaments, manhood suffrage, a redistribution of seats in proportion to population, and the abolition of the veto of the House of Lords, but also that “you would have laid open all enclosures of fens and other commons, or have them enclosed only or chiefly for the benefit of the poor.”¹⁰⁷ Theoretical communism, repudiated by the leading Levellers, found its expression in the agitation of the Diggers, on whose behalf Winstanley argued that, “seeing the common people of England, by joynt consent of person and purse, have caste out Charles, our Norman oppressour ... the land now is to returne into the joynt hands of those who have conquered, that is the commonours,” and that the victory over the King was incomplete, as long as “wee ... remayne slaves still to the kingly power in the hands of lords of manors.”¹⁰⁸

The unpaid magistrates, drawn from the country gentry, obstructed local administration and undermined the enforcement of such doctrines. As a result, the doctrines had always been applied only intermittently. Their enforcement ceased altogether when the Long Parliament stripped the Crown of its power to enforce them through administrative law. But Westminster politics were different from those of villages and boroughs. Events that seemed to aristocratic Parliamentarians to end the revolution seemed to the victorious army’s left wing only to begin it. In that earliest and most turbulent of English democracies, ordinary soldiers taught their general politics drawn from scripture. The talk was not merely of political reconstruction, but of social reconstruction too. More than any other party, the Levellers could claim to express the aspirations of the unprivileged classes. Their program called for annual or biennial Parliaments, suffrage for all men, and a redistribution of seats in proportion to population. It also called for abolishing the House of Lords’ veto. But it also demanded that “you open up all enclosed fens and other commons, or enclose them only or chiefly for the benefit of the poor.”¹⁰⁷ The leading Levellers rejected communism in theory, but it found expression in the Diggers’ agitation. Speaking for the Diggers, Winstanley argued that “the common people of England, by joining their efforts and money, have cast out Charles, our Norman oppressor ... so the land must now return to the joint possession of those who have conquered, that is, the commoners.” He also argued that victory over the King was incomplete as long as “we ... remain slaves to kingly power in the hands of lords of manors.”¹⁰⁸

Nor was it only from the visionary and the zealot that the pressure for redress proceeded. When the shattering of traditional authority seemed for a moment to make all things new, local grievances, buried beneath centuries of dull oppression, started to life, and in several Midland counties the peasants rose to pull down the hated hedges. At Leicester, where in 1649 there were rumors of a popular movement to throw down the enclosures of the neighboring forest, the City Council took the matter up. A petition was drafted, setting out the economic and social evils attending enclosure, and proposing the establishment of machinery to check it, consisting of a committee without whose assent enclosing was not to be permitted. A local minister was instructed to submit the petition to Parliament, “which hath still a watchful eye and open ear to redress the common grievances of the nation.”¹⁰⁹ The agent selected to present the city’s case was the Rev. John Moore, a prolific pamphleteer, who for several years attacked the depopulating landlord with all the fervor of Latimer, though with even less than Latimer’s success.

The pressure to correct these wrongs did not come only from visionaries and zealots. For a moment, the collapse of traditional authority seemed to make all things new. Local grievances, buried under centuries of dreary oppression, came to life. In several Midland counties, peasants rose up to tear down the hated hedges. In 1649, rumors spread in Leicester of a popular movement to tear down the enclosures in the nearby forest. The City Council took up the matter. It drafted a petition describing the economic and social evils caused by enclosure. The petition proposed a way to check enclosure: a committee whose approval would be required for any new enclosure. A local minister was instructed to submit the petition to Parliament, “which still watches and listens carefully to redress the common grievances of the nation.”¹⁰⁹ The agent chosen to present the city’s case was the Rev. John Moore, a prolific pamphleteer. For several years, Moore attacked landlords who drove people from the land. He did so with all the fervor of Latimer, though with even less success.

Half a century before, such commotions would have been followed by the passing of Depopulation Acts and the issue of a Royal Commission. But, in the ten years since the meeting of the Long Parliament, the whole attitude of public policy towards the movement had begun to change. Confiscations, compositions and war taxation had effected a revolution in the distribution of property, similar, on a smaller scale, to that which had taken place at the Reformation. As land changed hands, customary relations were shaken and new interests were created. Enclosure, as Moore complained,¹¹⁰ was being pushed forward by means of law suits ending in Chancery decrees. It was not to be expected that City merchants and members of the Committee for Compounding, some of whom had found land speculation a profitable business, should hear with enthusiasm a proposal to revive the old policy of arresting enclosures by State interference, at which the gentry had grumbled for more than a century.

Half a century earlier, such unrest would have led to new Depopulation Acts and a Royal Commission. But in the ten years since the Long Parliament first met, public policy toward enclosure had begun to change completely. Confiscations, compositions and wartime taxes had transformed the distribution of property. This change was like the one that had taken place at the Reformation, though on a smaller scale. As land changed hands, customary relationships were disrupted and new interests emerged. As Moore complained,¹¹⁰ enclosure was being pushed forward through lawsuits that ended in Chancery decrees. Some City merchants and members of the Committee for Compounding had found land speculation profitable. They could hardly be expected to welcome a proposal to revive the old policy of using state intervention to stop enclosures. The gentry had grumbled about that policy for more than a century.

In these circumstances, it is not surprising that reformers should have found the open ear of Parliament impenetrably closed to agrarian grievances. Nor was it only the political and economic environment which had changed. The revolution in thought was equally profound. The theoretical basis of the policy of protecting the peasant by preventing enclosure had been a conception of landownership which regarded its rights and its duties as inextricably interwoven. Property was not merely a source of income, but a public function, and its use was limited by social obligations and necessities of State. With such a doctrine the classes who had taken the lead in the struggle against the monarchy could make no truce. Its last vestiges finally disappeared when the Restoration Parliament swept away military tenures, and imposed on the nation, in the shape of an excise, the financial burden previously borne by themselves.

In these circumstances, it is not surprising that reformers found Parliament’s supposedly open ear closed to complaints about land. But the political and economic environment was not all that had changed. Thinking had changed just as profoundly. The policy of protecting peasants by preventing enclosure rested on a particular view of landownership. This view held that the rights and duties of landowners were inseparable. Property was not merely a source of income. It also served a public purpose, and social obligations and the needs of the State limited its use. The classes that had led the struggle against the monarchy could not accept this doctrine. Its last traces disappeared when the Restoration Parliament abolished military tenures. Parliament placed the financial burden previously borne by those classes on the nation through an excise tax.

The theory which took its place, and which was to become in the eighteenth century almost a religion, was that expressed by Locke, when he described property as a right anterior to the existence of the State, and argued that “the supreme power cannot take from any man any part of his property without his own consent.” But Locke merely poured into a philosophical mould ideas which had been hammered out in the stress of political struggles, and which were already the commonplace of landowner and merchant. The view of society held by that part of the Puritan movement which was socially and politically influential had been expressed by Ireton and Cromwell in their retort to the democrats in the army. It was that only the freeholders really constituted the body politic, and that they could use their property as they pleased, uncontrolled by obligations to any superior, or by the need of consulting the mass of men, who were mere tenants at will, with no fixed interest or share in the land of the kingdom.¹¹¹ Naturally, this change of ideas had profound reactions on agrarian policy. Formerly a course commending itself to all public-spirited persons, the prevention of enclosure was now discredited as the program of a sect of religious and political radicals. When Major-General Whalley in 1656 introduced a measure to regulate and restrict the enclosure of commons, framed, apparently, on the lines proposed by the authorities of Leicester, there was an instant outcry from members that it would “destroy property,” and the bill was refused a second reading.¹¹² After the Restoration the tide began to run more strongly in the same direction. Enclosure had already become the hobby of the country gentleman. Experts advocated it on economic grounds, and legislation to facilitate it was introduced into Parliament. Though its technique still remained to be elaborated, the attitude which was to be decisive in the eighteenth century had already been crystallized.

The theory that replaced it would become almost a religion in the eighteenth century. Locke expressed it when he described property as a right that existed before the State. He argued that “the supreme power cannot take from any man any part of his property without his own consent.” But Locke merely gave philosophical form to ideas forged in the heat of political struggles. These ideas were already commonplace among landowners and merchants. Ireton and Cromwell expressed the social views of the influential Puritan movement in their reply to the democrats in the army. They held that only freeholders truly made up the body politic. Freeholders could use their property as they pleased, without obligations to any superior. Nor did they need to consult the mass of men. These men were mere tenants at will, with no fixed interest or share in the land of the kingdom.¹¹¹ Naturally, this change in ideas had profound effects on agrarian policy. Previously, preventing enclosure had appealed to all public-spirited people. Now it was discredited as the program of a group of religious and political radicals. In 1656, Major-General Whalley introduced a measure to regulate and restrict the enclosure of commons. It was apparently modeled on proposals from the authorities of Leicester. Members immediately protested that it would “destroy property,” and the bill was refused a second reading.¹¹² After the Restoration, the tide ran even more strongly in the same direction. Enclosure had already become a favorite pursuit of country gentlemen. Experts advocated it on economic grounds, and legislation to make it easier was introduced into Parliament. The methods of enclosure still needed to be worked out. But the attitude that would be decisive in the eighteenth century had already taken shape.

The change of policy was striking. The reason of it was not merely that political conditions made the landed gentry omnipotent, and that the Royalist squirearchy, who streamed back to their plundered manors in 1660, were in no mood to countenance a revival, by the Government of Charles II, of the administrative interference with the rights of property which had infuriated them in the Government of Charles I. It was that opinion as to social policy had changed, and changed not least among men of religion themselves. The pursuit of economic self-interest, which is the law of nature, is already coming to be identified by the pious with the operation of the providential plan, which is the law of God. Enclosures will increase the output of wool and grain. Each man knows best what his land is suited to produce, and the general interest will be best served by leaving him free to produce it. “It is an undeniable maxim that every one by the light of nature and reason will do that which makes for his greatest advantage.... The advancement of private persons will be the advantage of the public.”¹¹³

The change in policy was striking. Political conditions had made the landed gentry all-powerful. In 1660, Royalist landowners returned in great numbers to their plundered manors. Under Charles I, government interference with property rights had infuriated them. They were in no mood to let Charles II's government revive it. But this was not the only reason for the change. Views on social policy had changed, especially among religious people themselves. The pursuit of economic self-interest is the law of nature. Religious people were already beginning to identify that pursuit with the workings of God's providential plan, which is the law of God. Enclosures will increase the output of wool and grain. Each person knows best what their land is suited to produce. The public interest will be best served by leaving each person free to produce it. “It is an undeniable principle that everyone, guided by nature and reason, will do what brings the greatest advantage to themselves.... The advancement of private individuals will benefit the public.”¹¹³

It is significant that such considerations were adduced, not by an economist, but by a minister. For the argument was ethical as well as economic, and, when Moore appealed to the precepts of traditional morality to bridle pecuniary interests, he provoked the retort that a judicious attention to pecuniary interests was an essential part of an enlightened morality. What the poor need for their spiritual health is—to use the favorite catchword of the age—“regulation,” and regulation is possible only if they work under the eye of an employer. In the eyes of the austere moralists of the Restoration, the first, and most neglected, virtue of the poor is industry. Common rights encourage idleness by offering a precarious and demoralizing livelihood to men who ought to be at work for a master. It is not surprising, therefore, that the admonitions of religious teachers against the wickedness of joining house to house and field to field should almost entirely cease. Long the typical example of uncharitable covetousness, enclosure is now considered, not merely economically expedient, but morally beneficial. Baxter, with all his scrupulousness—partly, perhaps, because of his scrupulousness—differs from most earlier divines in giving a qualified approval to enclosure “done in moderation by a pious man,” for the characteristic reason that a master can establish a moral discipline among his employees, which they would miss if they worked for themselves. What matters, in short, is not their circumstances, but their character. If they lose as peasants, they will gain as Christians. Opportunities for spiritual edification are more important than the mere material environment. If only the material environment were not itself among the forces determining men’s capacity to be edified!

It is significant that these arguments came from a minister, not an economist. The argument was moral as well as economic. Moore appealed to the principles of traditional morality to restrain financial interests. In response, others argued that careful attention to financial interests was an essential part of an enlightened morality. For their spiritual health, the poor need “regulation,” to use a favorite catchword of the age. And regulation is possible only if they work under an employer’s eye. In the eyes of the stern moralists of the Restoration, the foremost and most neglected virtue among the poor is hard work. Common rights encourage idleness. They offer an insecure and demoralizing living to men who ought to be working for a master. It is therefore no surprise that religious teachers almost entirely stop warning against the wickedness of joining house to house and field to field. Enclosure was long the typical example of selfish greed. Now it is considered not only economically practical but morally beneficial. Baxter, despite all his scruples, gives qualified approval to enclosure “done in moderation by a pious man.” Perhaps he does so partly because of those scruples. In this he differs from most earlier theologians. His characteristic reason is that a master can establish moral discipline among his employees. They would miss out on that discipline if they worked for themselves. In short, what matters is not their circumstances but their character. If they lose as peasants, they will gain as Christians. Opportunities for spiritual growth are more important than the mere material conditions of life. If only those material conditions were not themselves among the forces determining people’s capacity for spiritual growth!

The temper which deplored that the open-field village was not a school of the severer virtues turned on pauperism and poor relief an even more shattering criticism. There is no province of social life in which the fashioning of a new scale of ethical values on the Puritan anvil is more clearly revealed. In the little communities of peasants and craftsmen which composed medieval England, all, when Heaven sent a bad harvest, had starved together, and the misery of the sick, the orphan and the aged had appeared as a personal calamity, not as a social problem. Apart from a few precocious theorists, who hinted at the need for a universal and secular system of provision for distress, the teaching most characteristic of medieval writers had been that the relief of the needy was a primary obligation on those who had means. St. Thomas, who in this matter is typical, quotes with approval the strong words of St. Ambrose about those who cling to the bread of the starving, insists on the idea that property is stewardship, and concludes—a conclusion not always drawn from that well-worn phrase—that to withhold alms when there is evident and urgent necessity is mortal sin.¹¹⁴ Popular feeling had lent a half-mystical glamour both to poverty and to the compassion by which poverty was relieved, for poor men were God’s friends. At best, the poor were thought to represent our Lord in a peculiarly intimate way—“in that sect,” as Langland said, “our Saviour saved all mankind”—and it was necessary for the author of a religious manual to explain that the rich, as such, were not necessarily hateful to God.¹¹⁵ At worst, men reflected that the prayers of the poor availed much, and that the sinner had been saved from hell by throwing a loaf of bread to a beggar, even though a curse went with it. The alms bestowed today would be repaid a thousandfold, when the soul took its dreadful journey amid rending briars and scorching flames.

The same outlook that regretted that the open-field village did not teach stricter virtues criticized poverty and poor relief even more harshly. Nowhere in social life is the shaping of a new scale of moral values on the Puritan anvil more clearly revealed. Medieval England was made up of small communities of peasants and craftsmen. When Heaven sent a bad harvest, all had starved together. The suffering of the sick, the orphaned, and the aged had seemed a personal calamity, not a social problem. A few thinkers ahead of their time suggested the need for a universal, secular system to provide for people in distress. But medieval writers most often taught that helping the needy was a primary duty of those who had means. St. Thomas, whose views on this matter are typical, quotes with approval St. Ambrose’s harsh words about those who hold on to bread while others starve. He insists that property is held in stewardship. He also concludes that withholding alms when there is clear and urgent need is a mortal sin. That conclusion does not always follow from the familiar phrase about stewardship.¹¹⁴ Popular feeling had given both poverty and the compassion that relieved it an almost mystical glow, for poor people were God’s friends. At best, the poor were thought to represent our Lord in a particularly intimate way. As Langland said, “in that sect our Saviour saved all mankind.” A religious manual even had to explain that the rich, simply because they were rich, were not necessarily hateful to God.¹¹⁵ At worst, people reasoned that the prayers of the poor were powerful. They also reflected that a sinner had been saved from hell by throwing a loaf of bread to a beggar, even though he cursed the beggar as he did so. The alms given today would be repaid a thousand times over when the soul made its dreadful journey among tearing briars and scorching flames.

The social character of wealth, which had been the essence of the medieval doctrine, was asserted by English divines in the sixteenth century with redoubled emphasis, precisely because the growing individualism of the age menaced the traditional conception. “The poor man,” preached Latimer, “hath title to the rich man’s goods; so that the rich man ought to let the poor man have part of his riches to help and to comfort him withal.”¹¹⁷ Nor had that sovereign indifference to the rigors of the economic calculus disappeared, when, under the influence partly of humanitarian representatives of the Renaissance like Vives, partly of religious reformers, partly of their own ambition to gather all the threads of social administration into their own hands, the statesmen of the sixteenth century set themselves to organize a secular system of poor relief. In England, after three generations in which the attempt was made to stamp out vagrancy by police measures of hideous brutality, the momentous admission was made that its cause was economic distress, not merely personal idleness, and that the whip had no terrors for the man who must either tramp or starve. The result was the celebrated Acts imposing a compulsory poor-rate and requiring the able-bodied man to be set on work. The Privy Council, alert to prevent disorder, drove lethargic justices hard, and down to the Civil War the system was administered with fair regularity. But the Elizabethan Poor Law was never designed to be what, with disastrous results, it became in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, the sole measure for coping with economic distress. While it provided relief, it was but the last link in a chain of measures—the prevention of evictions, the control of food supplies and prices, the attempt to stabilize employment and to check unnecessary dismissals of workmen—intended to mitigate the forces which made relief necessary. Apart from the Poor Law, the first forty years of the seventeenth century were prolific in the private charity which founded alms-houses and hospitals, and established funds to provide employment or to aid struggling tradesmen. The appeal was still to religion, which owed to poverty a kind of reverence.

The social character of wealth had been central to medieval teaching. English theologians in the sixteenth century asserted it even more strongly because the age’s growing individualism threatened this traditional view. “The poor man,” Latimer preached, “has a claim to the rich man’s goods. So the rich man ought to give him a share of his wealth to help and comfort him.”¹¹⁷ This complete indifference to strict economic calculations had not disappeared when sixteenth-century statesmen set out to organize a secular system of poor relief. They were influenced partly by humanitarian figures of the Renaissance, such as Vives, and partly by religious reformers. They were also driven partly by their own ambition to bring all aspects of social administration under their control. In England, authorities had spent three generations trying to stamp out vagrancy through police measures of horrific brutality. Then came the momentous admission that vagrancy was caused by economic hardship, not merely personal idleness. They also admitted that the whip held no terror for a man who had to wander or starve. The result was the famous Acts imposing a compulsory poor-rate and requiring that able-bodied men be given work. The Privy Council, eager to prevent disorder, pushed sluggish justices hard. Until the Civil War, the system was administered fairly regularly. But the Elizabethan Poor Law was never intended to be the only measure for dealing with economic hardship. In the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, it became just that, with disastrous results. Although the Poor Law provided relief, it was only the last link in a chain of measures. These included preventing evictions, controlling food supplies and prices, trying to stabilize employment, and checking unnecessary dismissals of workers. The measures were intended to soften the forces that made relief necessary. Apart from the Poor Law, the first forty years of the seventeenth century saw abundant private charity. It founded almshouses and hospitals and established funds to provide employment or help struggling tradesmen. The appeal was still to religion, which owed poverty a kind of reverence.

“What, speak you of such things?” said Nicholas Ferrar on his death-bed to one who commended his charities. “It would have been but a suitable return for me to have given all I had, and not to have scattered a few crumbs of alms here and there.”¹¹⁹

“Why do you speak of such things?” Nicholas Ferrar said on his deathbed to someone who praised his charitable giving. “Giving all I had would have been a fitting return, not scattering a few crumbs of charity here and there.”¹¹⁹

It was inevitable that, in the anarchy of the Civil War, both private charity and public relief should fall on evil days. In London, charitable endowments seem to have suffered from more than ordinary malversation, and there were complaints that the income both of Bridewell and of the Hospitals was seriously reduced.¹²⁰ In the country, the records of Quarter Sessions paint a picture of confusion, in which the machinery of presentment by constables to justices has broken down, and a long wail arises, that thieves are multiplied, the poor are neglected, and vagrants wander to and fro at their will.¹²¹ The administrative collapse of the Elizabethan Poor Law continued after the Restoration, and twenty-three years later Sir Matthew Hale complained that the sections in it relating to the provision of employment were a dead letter.¹²² Always unpopular with the local authorities, whom they involved in considerable trouble and expense, it is not surprising that, with the cessation of pressure by the Central Government, they should, except here and there, have been neglected. What is more significant, however, than the practical deficiencies in the administration of relief, was the rise of a new school of opinion, which regarded with repugnance the whole body of social theory of which both private charity and public relief had been the expression.

It was inevitable that both private charity and public relief would suffer in the chaos of the Civil War. In London, charitable endowments seem to have suffered more than usual from mismanagement and misuse of funds. There were complaints that the income of both Bridewell and the Hospitals had fallen sharply.¹²⁰ In the country, the records of Quarter Sessions describe a scene of confusion. The system by which constables reported cases to justices had broken down. A long chorus of complaints arose that thieves were multiplying, the poor were being neglected, and vagrants wandered freely from place to place.¹²¹ The administration of the Elizabethan Poor Law remained in disarray after the Restoration. Twenty-three years later, Sir Matthew Hale complained that its provisions for providing employment were no longer enforced.¹²² These provisions had always been unpopular with local authorities, who found them troublesome and expensive. So it is not surprising that, once the Central Government stopped applying pressure, they were neglected almost everywhere. More significant than these practical failures in the administration of relief, however, was the rise of a new school of thought. Its followers viewed with disgust the entire body of social theory expressed by both private charity and public relief.

“The generall rule of all England,” wrote a pamphleteer in 1646, “is to whip and punish the wandring beggars ... and so many justices execute one branch of that good Statute (which is the point of justice), but as for the point of charitie, they leave [it] undone, which is to provide houses and convenient places to set the poore to work.”¹²³ The House of Commons appears to have been conscious that the complaint had some foundation; in 1649 it ordered that the county justices should be required to see that stocks of material were provided as the law required,¹²⁴ and the question of preparing new legislation to ensure that persons in distress should be found employment was on several occasions referred to committees of the House.¹²⁵ Nothing seems, however, to have come of these proposals, nor was the Elizabethan policy of “setting the poor on work” that which was most congenial to the temper of the time. Upon the admission that distress was the result, not of personal deficiencies, but of economic causes, with its corollary that its victims had a legal right to be maintained by society, the growing individualism of the age turned the same frigid scepticism as was later directed against the Speenhamland policy by the reformers of 1834. Like the friends of Job, it saw in misfortune, not the chastisement of love, but the punishment for sin. The result was that, while the penalties on the vagrant were redoubled, religious opinion laid less emphasis on the obligation of charity than upon the duty of work, and that the admonitions which had formerly been turned upon uncharitable covetousness were now directed against improvidence and idleness. The characteristic sentiment was that of Milton’s friend, Hartlib: “The law of God saith, ‘he that will not work, let him not eat.’ This would be a sore scourge and smart whip for idle persons if ... none should be suffered to eat till they had wrought for it.”¹²⁶

“The general rule throughout England,” wrote a pamphleteer in 1646, “is to whip and punish wandering beggars ... And so many justices carry out one part of that good statute, the part concerned with justice. But they leave the charitable part undone. That part requires them to provide houses and suitable places where the poor can be put to work.”¹²³ The House of Commons seems to have recognized that the complaint had some basis. In 1649, it ordered that county justices be required to ensure that stocks of materials were provided, as the law required.¹²⁴ On several occasions, the House also referred proposals for new legislation to its committees. The proposed legislation was to ensure that people in distress were found employment.¹²⁵ Nothing seems to have come of these proposals, however. Nor was the Elizabethan policy of “setting the poor to work” well suited to the spirit of the time. The age was becoming more individualistic. It was coldly skeptical of the idea that distress resulted from economic causes rather than personal failings. It was equally skeptical of the conclusion that followed, namely, that those in distress had a legal right to support from society. Later, the reformers of 1834 would show the same cold skepticism toward the Speenhamland policy. Like the friends of Job, the individualism of the age saw misfortune not as a loving rebuke, but as punishment for sin. As a result, penalties for vagrants were made harsher. At the same time, religious opinion placed less emphasis on the obligation to give to charity than on the duty to work. Warnings once directed against uncharitable greed were now aimed at a lack of foresight and idleness. A characteristic view was that of Milton’s friend Hartlib: “The law of God says, ‘he that will not work, let him not eat.’ This would be a harsh punishment and a sharp whip for idle people if ... no one were allowed to eat until they had worked for it.”¹²⁶

The new attitude found expression in the rare bursts of public activity provoked by the growth of pauperism between 1640 and 1660. The idea of dealing with it on sound business principles, by means of a corporation which would combine profit with philanthropy, was being sedulously preached by a small group of reformers.¹²⁷ Parliament took it up, and in 1649 passed an Act for the relief and employment of the poor and the punishment of beggars, under which a company was to be established with power to apprehend vagrants, to offer them the choice between work and whipping, and to set to compulsory labor all other poor persons, including children without means of maintenance.¹²⁸ Eight years later the prevalence of vagrancy produced an Act of such extreme severity as almost to recall the suggestion made a generation later by Fletcher of Saltoun, that vagrants should be sent to the galleys. It provided that, since offenders could rarely be taken in the act, any vagrant who failed to satisfy the justices that he had a good reason for being on the roads should be arrested and punished as a sturdy beggar, whether actually begging or not.¹²⁹

The new attitude appeared in the rare bursts of public action prompted by growing poverty between 1640 and 1660. A small group of reformers worked hard to promote a businesslike solution. They proposed a corporation that would combine profit with charity.¹²⁷ Parliament took up the idea. In 1649, it passed an Act to relieve and employ the poor and punish beggars. Under the Act, a company would be established with power to arrest vagrants and offer them a choice between work and whipping. It could also force all other poor people to work, including children with no means of support.¹²⁸ Eight years later, widespread vagrancy led to an Act of extreme severity. It almost recalled a suggestion made a generation later by Fletcher of Saltoun, that vagrants should be sent to the galleys. The Act noted that offenders could rarely be caught in the act. It therefore provided for the arrest and punishment of any vagrant who could not convince the justices that he had a good reason to be on the roads. He would be punished as a sturdy beggar, whether he was actually begging or not.¹²⁹

The protest against indiscriminate almsgiving, as the parade of a spurious religion, which sacrificed character to a formal piety, was older than the Reformation, but it had been given a new emphasis by the reformers. Luther had denounced the demands of beggars as blackmail, and the Swiss reformers had stamped out the remnants of monastic charity, as a bribe ministered by Popery to dissoluteness and demoralization. “I conclude that all the large givings of the papists,” preached an English divine in the reign of Elizabeth, “of which at this day many make so great brags, because they be not done in a reverent regard of the commandment of the Lord, in love, and of an inward being touched with the calamities of the needy, but for to be well reported of before men whilst they are alive, and to be prayed for after they are dead ... are indeed no alms, but pharisaical trumpets.”¹³⁰ The rise of a commercial civilization, the reaction against the authoritarian social policy of the Tudors, and the progress of Puritanism among the middle classes, all combined in the next half-century to sharpen the edge of that doctrine. Nurtured in a tradition which made the discipline of character by industry and self-denial the center of its ethical scheme, the Puritan moralist was undisturbed by any doubts as to whether even the seed of the righteous might not sometimes be constrained to beg its bread, and met the taunt that the repudiation of good works was the cloak for a conscienceless egoism with the retort that the easy-going open-handedness of the sentimentalist was not less selfish in its motives and was more corrupting to its objects. “As for idle beggars,” wrote Steele, “happy for them if fewer people spent their foolish pity upon their bodies, and if more shewed some wise compassion upon their souls.”¹³¹ That the greatest of evils is idleness, that the poor are the victims, not of circumstances, but of their own “idle, irregular and wicked courses,” that the truest charity is not to enervate them by relief, but so to reform their characters that relief may be unnecessary—such doctrines turned severity from a sin into a duty, and froze the impulse of natural pity with the assurance that, if indulged, it would perpetuate the suffering which it sought to allay.

The protest against giving alms indiscriminately was older than the Reformation, but the reformers gave it new emphasis. They saw such giving as a display of false religion that sacrificed character to outward piety. Luther had condemned beggars’ demands as blackmail. The Swiss reformers had put an end to the remnants of monastic charity. They saw that charity as a bribe by which Popery encouraged loose living and moral decay. An English clergyman preached during Elizabeth’s reign: “I conclude that all the large gifts of the papists are not really alms, but pharisaical trumpets. Many people today boast about these gifts, but they are not given out of reverent regard for the Lord’s commandment, or out of love and heartfelt concern for the sufferings of the needy. Instead, they are given so that the donors will be praised while alive and prayed for after death ... ”¹³⁰ Over the next half-century, several developments sharpened this doctrine. They included the rise of a commercial civilization, the reaction against the Tudors’ authoritarian social policy, and the spread of Puritanism among the middle classes. Puritan moralists were raised in a tradition that placed character-building through industry and self-denial at the center of its ethics. They had no doubts about whether even the children of the righteous might sometimes be forced to beg for bread. Critics charged that rejecting good works was a cover for selfishness without conscience. The Puritan moralists replied that the sentimentalist’s easy generosity was just as selfish in its motives and more corrupting to those who received it. “As for idle beggars,” wrote Steele, “they would be fortunate if fewer people wasted their foolish pity on their bodies, and if more showed wise compassion for their souls.”¹³¹ These doctrines held that idleness was the greatest evil. They held that the poor were victims not of circumstances, but of their own “idle, disorderly, and wicked ways.” They also held that the truest charity was not to weaken the poor through relief, but to reform their characters so that relief would be unnecessary. Such beliefs turned severity from a sin into a duty. They froze the impulse of natural pity with the assurance that, if indulged, it would prolong the suffering it sought to relieve.

Few tricks of the unsophisticated intellect are more curious than the naïve psychology of the business man, who ascribes his achievements to his own unaided efforts, in bland unconsciousness of a social order without whose continuous support and vigilant protection he would be as a lamb bleating in the desert. That individualist complex owes part of its self-assurance to the suggestion of Puritan moralists, that practical success is at once the sign and the reward of ethical superiority. “No question,” argued a Puritan pamphleteer, “but it [riches] should be the portion rather of the godly than of the wicked, were it good for them; for godliness hath the promises of this life as well as of the life to come.”¹³² The demonstration that distress is a proof of demerit, though a singular commentary on the lives of Christian saints and sages, has always been popular with the prosperous. By the lusty plutocracy of the Restoration, roaring after its meat, and not indisposed, if it could not find it elsewhere, to seek it from God, it was welcomed with a shout of applause.

Few habits of the unsophisticated mind are more curious than the businessman's naive view of his own success. He credits his achievements entirely to his own efforts. He is serenely unaware of the social order that constantly supports and vigilantly protects him. Without it, he would be like a lamb bleating in the desert. This individualist outlook owes some of its confidence to the suggestion of Puritan moralists that practical success is both the sign and the reward of moral superiority. “There is no question,” argued a Puritan pamphleteer, “that riches should belong to the godly rather than the wicked, if riches were good for them. For godliness holds promises for this life as well as for the life to come.”¹³² The argument that hardship proves a person's unworthiness has always been popular with the prosperous. Yet it is a strange way to explain the lives of Christian saints and sages. The vigorous plutocrats of the Restoration welcomed the argument with a shout of applause. They roared in pursuit of their wealth, and were quite willing to seek it from God if they could not find it elsewhere.

A society which reverences the attainment of riches as the supreme felicity will naturally be disposed to regard the poor as damned in the next world, if only to justify itself for making their life a hell in this. Advanced by men of religion as a tonic for the soul, the doctrine of the danger of pampering poverty was hailed by the rising school of Political Arithmeticians as a sovereign cure for the ills of society. For, if the theme of the moralist was that an easy-going indulgence undermined character, the theme of the economist was that it was economically disastrous and financially ruinous. The Poor Law is the mother of idleness, “men and women growing so idle and proud that they will not work, but lie upon the parish wherein they dwell for maintenance.” It discourages thrift; “if shame or fear of punishment makes him earn his dayly bread, he will do no more; his children are the charge of the parish and his old age his recess from labour or care.” It keeps up wages, since “it encourages wilful and evil-disposed persons to impose what wages they please upon their labours; and herein they are so refractory to reason and the benefit of the nation that, when corn and provisions are cheap, they will not work for less wages than when they were dear.”¹³³ To the landowner who cursed the poor-rates, and the clothier who grumbled at the high cost of labor, one school of religious thought now brought the comforting assurance that morality itself would be favored by a reduction of both.

A society that worships the pursuit of wealth as the highest happiness will naturally tend to regard the poor as damned in the next world. If nothing else, this justifies making their lives a hell in this world. Religious thinkers put forward the idea that helping the poor too generously was dangerous, as a tonic for the soul. The rising school of Political Arithmeticians welcomed this idea as a sure cure for society’s ills. The moralist argued that easy indulgence weakened character. The economist argued that it was economically disastrous and financially ruinous. The Poor Law is the mother of idleness. “Men and women become so idle and proud that they will not work, but depend on their parish to support them.” It discourages thrift. “If shame or fear of punishment makes a man earn his daily bread, he will do no more. His children are the parish’s responsibility, and his old age is his release from work or worry.” It keeps wages high, since “it encourages willful and ill-disposed people to demand whatever wages they please for their labor. They are so resistant to reason and the good of the nation that, when grain and provisions are cheap, they will not work for less than when they were expensive.”¹³³ Landowners cursed the poor-rates, and clothiers grumbled at the high cost of labor. One school of religious thought now offered them a comforting assurance: reducing both would help morality itself.

As the history of the Poor Law in the nineteenth century was to prove, there is no touchstone, except the treatment of childhood, which reveals the true character of a social philosophy more clearly than the spirit in which it regards the misfortunes of those of its members who fall by the way. Such utterances on the subject of poverty were merely one example of a general attitude, which appeared at times to consign to collective perdition almost the whole of the wage-earning population. It was partly that, in an age which worshiped property as the foundation of the social order, the mere laborer seemed something less than a full citizen. It was partly the result of the greatly increased influence on thought and public affairs acquired at the Restoration by the commercial classes, whose temper was a ruthless materialism, determined at all costs to conquer world-markets from France and Holland, and prepared to sacrifice every other consideration to their economic ambitions. It was partly that, in spite of a century of large-scale production in textiles, the problems of capitalist industry and of a propertyless proletariat were still too novel for their essential features to be appreciated. Even those writers, like Baxter and Bunyan, who continued to insist on the wickedness of extortionate prices and unconscionable interest, rarely thought of applying their principles to the subject of wages. Their social theory had been designed for an age of petty agriculture and industry, in which personal relations had not yet been superseded by the cash nexus, and the craftsman or peasant farmer was but little removed in economic status from the half-dozen journeymen or laborers whom he employed. In a world increasingly dominated by great clothiers, iron-masters and mine-owners, they still adhered to the antiquated categories of master and servant, with the same obstinate indifference to economic realities as leads the twentieth century to talk of employers and employed, long after the individual employer has been converted into an impersonal corporation.

The history of the Poor Law in the nineteenth century would prove this point. Except for its treatment of children, nothing reveals a social philosophy’s true character more clearly than its attitude toward members who fall on hard times. Such statements about poverty were only one example of a general attitude. At times, this attitude seemed to condemn almost the entire wage-earning population to collective ruin. There were several reasons for this attitude. In an age that worshiped property as the foundation of social order, a mere laborer seemed less than a full citizen. Another reason was the greatly increased influence over thought and public affairs gained by the commercial classes at the Restoration. Their outlook was ruthlessly materialistic. They were determined to win world markets from France and Holland at all costs. They were prepared to sacrifice every other consideration to their economic ambitions. There was another reason too. A century of large-scale textile production had already passed. Yet the problems of capitalist industry and a propertyless proletariat were still too new for their essential features to be understood. Even writers like Baxter and Bunyan rarely thought to apply their principles to wages. They continued to insist that excessive prices and unconscionable interest were wicked. Their social theory had been designed for an age of small-scale farming and industry. Personal relationships had not yet been replaced by the cash nexus. Craftsmen and peasant farmers were not much better off than the half-dozen journeymen or laborers they employed. But the world was increasingly dominated by great clothiers, iron-masters, and mine-owners. Even so, these writers clung to the outdated categories of master and servant. They showed the same stubborn disregard for economic reality that leads the twentieth century to speak of employers and the employed. It does so long after the individual employer has become an impersonal corporation.

In a famous passage of the Communist Manifesto, Marx observes that “the bourgeoisie, wherever it got the upper hand, put an end to all feudal, patriarchal, idyllic relations, pitilessly tore asunder the motley feudal ties that bound man to his ‘natural superiors,’ and left remaining no other bond between man and man than naked self-interest and callous cash payment.”¹³⁴ An interesting illustration of his thesis might be found in the discussions of the economics of employment by English writers of the period between 1660 and 1760. Their characteristic was an attitude towards the new industrial proletariat noticeably harsher than that general in the first half of the seventeenth century, and which has no modern parallel except in the behavior of the less reputable of white colonists towards colored labor. The denunciations of the “luxury, pride and sloth”¹³⁵ of the English wage-earners of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries are, indeed, almost exactly identical with those directed against African natives today. It is complained that, compared with the Dutch, they are self-indulgent and idle; that they want no more than a bare subsistence, and will cease work the moment they obtain it; that, the higher their wages, the more—“so licentious are they”¹³⁶—they spend upon drink; that high prices, therefore, are not a misfortune, but a blessing, since they compel the wage-earner to be more industrious; and that high wages are not a blessing, but a misfortune, since they merely conduce to “weekly debauches.”

In a famous passage of the Communist Manifesto, Marx describes the rise of the bourgeoisie. He observes that “wherever it gained the upper hand, it ended all feudal, patriarchal, idyllic relations. It ruthlessly tore apart the varied feudal ties that bound people to their ‘natural superiors.’ It left no bond between people except naked self-interest and callous cash payment.”¹³⁴ English writers discussed the economics of employment between 1660 and 1760. Their discussions might provide an interesting illustration of Marx’s argument. These writers typically treated the new industrial proletariat much more harshly than was common in the first half of the seventeenth century. The only modern parallel is the behavior of less reputable white colonists towards colored laborers. Indeed, their attacks on the “luxury, pride and sloth”¹³⁵ of English wage-earners in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries are almost identical to those directed against African natives today. The writers complained that English wage-earners were self-indulgent and idle compared with the Dutch. They said that the workers wanted only enough to survive and would stop working as soon as they earned it. They also claimed that the more workers earned, the more they spent on drink, “so licentious are they.”¹³⁶ High prices, therefore, were said to be a blessing rather than a misfortune, because they forced wage-earners to work harder. High wages, on the other hand, were said to be a misfortune rather than a blessing, because they merely led to “weekly debauches.”

When such doctrines were general, it was natural that the rigors of economic exploitation should be preached as a public duty, and, with a few exceptions, the writers of the period differed only as to the methods by which severity could most advantageously be organized. Pollexfen and Walter Harris thought that salvation might be found by reducing the number of days kept as holidays. Bishop Berkeley, with the conditions of Ireland before his eyes, suggested that “sturdy beggars should ... be seized and made slaves to the public for a certain term of years.” Thomas Alcock, who was shocked at the workman’s taste for snuff, tea and ribbons, proposed the revival of sumptuary legislation.¹³⁷ The writers who advanced schemes for reformed workhouses, which should be places at once of punishment and of training, were innumerable. All were agreed that, on moral no less than on economic grounds, it was vital that wages should be reduced. The doctrine afterwards expressed by Arthur Young, when he wrote, “every one but an idiot knows that the lower classes must be kept poor, or they will never be industrious,”¹³⁸ was the tritest commonplace of Restoration economists. It was not argued; it was accepted as self-evident.

When such doctrines were widespread, it was natural to preach harsh economic exploitation as a public duty. With a few exceptions, writers of the period differed only over the best ways to organize such harsh treatment. Pollexfen and Walter Harris thought the answer might lie in reducing the number of holidays. Bishop Berkeley, thinking of conditions in Ireland, suggested that “sturdy beggars should ... be seized and made slaves to the public for a certain term of years.” Thomas Alcock was shocked by workers’ taste for snuff, tea and ribbons. He proposed bringing back sumptuary laws, which restricted such spending.¹³⁷ Countless writers proposed reforms to make workhouses places of both punishment and training. All agreed that reducing wages was vital, for moral as well as economic reasons. Arthur Young later expressed the doctrine when he wrote, “every one but an idiot knows that the lower classes must be kept poor, or they will never be industrious.”¹³⁸ This was the most commonplace idea among Restoration economists. They did not argue for it. They accepted it as self-evident.

When philanthropists were inquiring whether it might not be desirable to reëstablish slavery, it was not to be expected that the sufferings of the destitute would wring their hearts with social compunction. The most curious feature in the whole discussion, and that which is most sharply in contrast with the long debate on pauperism carried on in the sixteenth century, was the resolute refusal to admit that society had any responsibility for the causes of distress. Tudor divines and statesmen had little mercy for idle rogues. But the former always, and the latter ultimately, regarded pauperism primarily as a social phenomenon produced by economic dislocation, and the embarrassing question put by the genial Harrison—“at whose handes shall the bloude of these men be required?”¹³⁹—was never far from the minds even of the most cynical. Their successors after the Restoration were apparently quite unconscious that it was even conceivable that there might be any other cause of poverty than the moral failings of the poor. The practical conclusion to be drawn from so comfortable a creed was at once extremely simple and extremely agreeable. It was not to find employment under the Act of 1601, for to do that was only “to render the poor more bold.” It was to surround the right to relief with obstacles such as those contained in the Act of 1662, to give it, when it could not be avoided, in a workhouse or house of correction, and, for the rest, to increase the demand for labor by reducing wages.

When philanthropists were asking whether it might be desirable to bring back slavery, the suffering of the destitute was unlikely to stir their social conscience. The most curious feature of the whole discussion was the firm refusal to admit that society bore any responsibility for the causes of hardship. This was also the sharpest contrast with the long debate on poverty in the sixteenth century. Tudor clergy and statesmen showed little mercy to idle rogues. But the clergy always saw poverty primarily as a social problem caused by economic upheaval, and the statesmen eventually came to see it that way too. The genial Harrison had asked an uncomfortable question: “at whose handes shall the bloude of these men be required?”¹³⁹ Even the most cynical rarely forgot it. Their successors after the Restoration apparently never imagined that poverty could have any cause other than the moral failings of the poor. The practical conclusion from such a comforting belief was both extremely simple and extremely agreeable. It was not to find work for the poor under the Act of 1601, for that would only “make the poor bolder.” Instead, the answer was to put obstacles in the way of their right to relief, like those in the Act of 1662. When relief could not be avoided, it was to be given in a workhouse or house of correction. Otherwise, the answer was to increase the demand for labor by reducing wages.

The grand discovery of a commercial age, that relief might be so administered as not merely to relieve, but also to deter, still remained to be made by Utilitarian philosophers. But the theory that distress was due, not to economic circumstances, but to what the Poor Law Commissioners of 1834 called “individual improvidence and vice,” was firmly established, and the criticism on the Elizabethan system which was to inspire the new Poor Law had already been formulated. The essence of that system was admirably expressed a century later by a Scottish divine as “the principle that each man, simply because he exists, holds a right on other men or on society for existence.”¹⁴⁰ Dr. Chalmers’ attack upon it was the echo of a note long struck by Puritan moralists. And the views of Dr. Chalmers had impressed themselves on Nassau Senior,¹⁴¹ before he set his hand to that brilliant, influential and wildly unhistorical Report, which, after provoking something like a rebellion in the north of England, was to be one of the pillars of the social policy of the nineteenth century.

The great discovery of a commercial age had yet to be made by Utilitarian philosophers. They would discover that relief could be administered not just to help people, but also to deter them from seeking help. But one theory was already firmly established. It held that poverty was caused not by economic conditions, but by what the Poor Law Commissioners of 1834 called “individual improvidence and vice.” The criticism of the Elizabethan system that would inspire the new Poor Law had also already been formulated. A century later, a Scottish clergyman admirably expressed the essence of the Elizabethan system. He called it “the principle that each man, simply because he exists, holds a right on other men or on society for existence.”¹⁴⁰ Dr. Chalmers’ attack on this principle echoed a theme long voiced by Puritan moralists. His views had impressed themselves on Nassau Senior¹⁴¹ before Senior began writing his brilliant, influential, and wildly unhistorical Report. The Report would provoke something like a rebellion in the north of England. It would also become one of the pillars of nineteenth-century social policy.

It would be misleading to dwell on the limitations of Puritan ethics without emphasizing the enormous contribution of Puritanism to political freedom and social progress. The foundation of democracy is the sense of spiritual independence which nerves the individual to stand alone against the powers of this world, and in England, where squire and parson, lifting arrogant eyebrows at the insolence of the lower orders, combined to crush popular agitation, as a menace at once to society and to the Church, it is probable that democracy owes more to Nonconformity than to any other single movement. The virtues of enterprise, diligence and thrift are the indispensable foundation of any complex and vigorous civilization. It was Puritanism which, by investing them with a supernatural sanction, turned them from an unsocial eccentricity into a habit and a religion. Nor would it be difficult to find notable representatives of the Puritan spirit in whom the personal austerity, which was the noblest aspect of the new ideal, was combined with a profound consciousness of social solidarity, which was the noblest aspect of that which it displaced. Firmin the philanthropist, and Bellers the Quaker, whom Owen more than a century later hailed as the father of his doctrines, were pioneers of Poor Law reform. The Society of Friends, in an age when the divorce between religion and social ethics was almost complete, met the prevalent doctrine, that it was permissible to take such gain as the market offered, by insisting on the obligation of good conscience and forbearance in economic transactions, and on the duty to make the honorable maintenance of the brother in distress a common charge.¹⁴²

It would be misleading to dwell on the limits of Puritan ethics without stressing Puritanism’s enormous contribution to political freedom and social progress. Democracy rests on a sense of spiritual independence that gives individuals the courage to stand alone against worldly powers. In England, local landowners and clergy raised arrogant eyebrows at the insolence of the lower classes. Together, they worked to crush popular agitation, seeing it as a threat to both society and the Church. In England, democracy probably owes more to Nonconformity than to any other single movement. Enterprise, diligence, and thrift are essential foundations of any complex and vigorous civilization. By giving these virtues divine approval, Puritanism turned them from an antisocial eccentricity into a habit and a religion. It would not be hard to find notable examples of the Puritan spirit that combined two ideals. These people practiced personal austerity, the noblest aspect of the new ideal. But they also had a profound sense of social solidarity, the noblest aspect of the ideal it replaced. Firmin the philanthropist and Bellers the Quaker were pioneers of Poor Law reform. More than a century later, Owen hailed Bellers as the father of his doctrines. In that age, religion and social ethics had become almost completely separate. The common belief was that people could rightly take whatever profit the market offered. The Society of Friends challenged this belief. It insisted that people must act with good conscience and restraint in economic dealings. The Society also insisted that supporting a brother in distress with dignity was a shared duty.¹⁴²

The general climate and character of a country are not altered, however, by the fact that here and there it has peaks which rise into an ampler air. The distinctive note of Puritan teaching was different. It was individual responsibility, not social obligation. Training its pupils to the mastery of others through the mastery of self, it prized as a crown of glory the qualities which arm the spiritual athlete for his solitary contest with a hostile world, and dismissed concern with the social order as the prop of weaklings and the Capua of the soul. Both the excellences and the defects of that attitude were momentous for the future. It is sometimes suggested that the astonishing outburst of industrial activity which took place after 1760 created a new type of economic character, as well as a new system of economic organization. In reality, the ideal which was later to carry all before it, in the person of the inventor and engineer and captain of industry, was well established among Englishmen before the end of the seventeenth century. Among the numerous forces which had gone to form it, some not inconsiderable part may reasonably be ascribed to the emphasis on the life of business enterprise as the appropriate field for Christian endeavor, and on the qualities needed for success in it, which was characteristic of Puritanism. These qualities, and the admiration of them, remained, when the religious reference, and the restraints which it imposed, had weakened or disappeared.

A country’s general climate and character do not change just because a few peaks rise into clearer air. Puritan teaching had a different emphasis. It stressed individual responsibility, not social obligation. It taught its followers to master others by first mastering themselves. It prized the qualities that armed the spiritual athlete for a solitary struggle against a hostile world. It treated these qualities as a crown of glory. It dismissed concern with the social order as a crutch for the weak and a Capua of the soul. Both the strengths and the weaknesses of this attitude had great consequences for the future. Some suggest that the astonishing surge in industrial activity after 1760 created a new kind of economic character. They suggest that it also created a new system of economic organization. In fact, the ideal later embodied by the inventor, engineer, and captain of industry would sweep all before it. But it was already well established among Englishmen before the end of the seventeenth century. Many forces had helped form this ideal. A considerable part may reasonably be credited to Puritanism. Puritanism emphasized business enterprise as a proper field for Christian effort. It also emphasized the qualities needed to succeed in business. These qualities, and the admiration for them, remained after their religious basis and its restraints had weakened or disappeared.