Introduction

For the study of the great writers and thinkers of the past, historical imagination is the first necessity. Without mentally referring to the environment in which they lived, we cannot hope to penetrate below the inessential and temporary to the absolute and permanent value of their thought. Theory, no less than action, is subject to these necessities; the form in which men cast their speculations, no less than the ways in which they behave, are the result of the habits of thought and action which they find around them. Great men make, indeed, individual contributions to the knowledge of their times; but they can never transcend the age in which they live. The questions they try to answer will always be those their contemporaries are asking; their statement of fundamental problems will always be relative to the traditional statements that have been handed down to them. When they are stating what is most startlingly new, they will be most likely to put it in an old-fashioned form, and to use the inadequate ideas and formulae of tradition to express the deeper truths towards which they are feeling their way. They will be most the children of their age, when they are rising most above it.

To study the great writers and thinkers of the past, we must first imagine the world they lived in. Without that historical context, we cannot hope to see past the temporary, less important aspects of their thought. Only then can we recognize its lasting, universal value. Theory, just like action, is shaped by these conditions. People's ways of expressing ideas, like their behavior, grow out of the habits of thought and action around them. Great thinkers do make their own contributions to the knowledge of their time. But they can never move entirely beyond the age they live in. The questions they try to answer will always be the questions their contemporaries are asking. Their way of defining fundamental problems will always relate to the traditional definitions passed down to them. When expressing their most startlingly new ideas, they will be most likely to use old-fashioned forms. They will use the inadequate ideas and formulas of tradition to express deeper truths they are still working toward. They will reflect their own age most strongly just when they rise furthest above it.

Rousseau has suffered as much as any one from critics without a sense of history. He has been cried up and cried down by democrats and oppressors with an equal lack of understanding and imagination. His name, a hundred and fifty years after the publication of the Social Contract, is still a controversial watchword and a party cry. He is accepted as one of the greatest writers France has produced; but even now men are inclined, as political bias prompts them, to accept or reject his political doctrines as a whole, without sifting them or attempting to understand and discriminate. He is still revered or hated as the author who, above all others, inspired the French Revolution.

Rousseau has suffered as much as anyone from critics who lack a sense of history. Democrats and oppressors alike have praised and condemned him with an equal lack of understanding and imagination. A hundred and fifty years after the publication of the Social Contract, his name still sparks controversy and rallies political factions. He is recognized as one of the greatest writers France has produced. But even now, people tend to accept or reject his political ideas as a whole, according to their political biases. They do not examine those ideas carefully or try to understand them and distinguish between them. He is still revered or hated as the writer who, more than any other, inspired the French Revolution.

At the present day, his works possess a double significance. They are important historically, alike as giving us an insight into the mind of the eighteenth century, and for the actual influence they have had on the course of events in Europe. Certainly no other writer of the time has exercised such an influence as his. He may fairly be called the parent of the romantic movement in art, letters and life; he affected profoundly the German romantics and Goethe himself; he set the fashion of a new introspection which has permeated nineteenth century literature; he began modern educational theory; and, above all, in political thought he represents the passage from a traditional theory rooted in the Middle Ages to the modern philosophy of the State. His influence on Kant's moral philosophy and on Hegel's philosophy of Right are two sides of the same fundamental contribution to modern thought. He is, in fact, the great forerunner of German and English Idealism.

Today, his works matter in two ways. Historically, they reveal how people thought in the eighteenth century. They also matter because of their actual influence on events in Europe. Certainly no other writer of his time has had such an influence. He may fairly be called the founder of the romantic movement in art, literature, and life. He profoundly influenced the German romantics and Goethe himself. He made a new kind of introspection fashionable, and that introspection spread throughout nineteenth-century literature. He began modern educational theory. Above all, his political thought marks the transition from a traditional theory rooted in the Middle Ages to modern philosophy of the State. His influence on Kant's moral philosophy and on Hegel's philosophy of Right reflects two sides of the same fundamental contribution to modern thought. He is, in fact, the great forerunner of German and English Idealism.

It would not be possible, in the course of a short introduction, to deal both with the positive content of Rousseau's thought and with the actual influence he has had on practical affairs. The statesmen of the French Revolution, from Robespierre downwards, were throughout profoundly affected by the study of his works. Though they seem often to have misunderstood him, they had on the whole studied him with the attention he demands. In the nineteenth century, men continued to appeal to Rousseau, without, as a rule, knowing him well or penetrating deeply into his meaning. "The Social Contract," says M. Dreyfus-Brisac, "is the book of all books that is most talked of and least read." But with the great revival of interest in political philosophy there has come a desire for the better understanding of Rousseau's work. He is again being studied more as a thinker and less as an ally or an opponent; there is more eagerness to sift the true from the false, and to seek in the Social Contract the "principles of political right," rather than the great revolutionary's ipse dixit in favour of some view about circumstances which he could never have contemplated.

A short introduction cannot cover both the substance of Rousseau's thought and his actual influence on practical affairs. The statesmen of the French Revolution, from Robespierre onwards, were deeply influenced throughout by studying his works. Although these statesmen often seem to have misunderstood Rousseau, they generally studied him with the attention his work demands. In the nineteenth century, people continued to appeal to Rousseau's authority. As a rule, however, they neither knew his work well nor understood his meaning deeply. "The Social Contract," says M. Dreyfus-Brisac, "is the book of all books that is most talked about and least read." But the great revival of interest in political philosophy has brought a desire to understand Rousseau's work better. Once again, people are studying him more as a thinker and less as an ally or opponent. Readers are more eager to separate the true from the false. They increasingly look to the Social Contract for the "principles of political right." They are less interested in using the great revolutionary's unsupported assertion to support some view about circumstances he could never have imagined.

The Social Contract, then, may be regarded either as a document of the French Revolution, or as one of the greatest books dealing with political philosophy. It is in the second capacity, as a work of permanent value containing truth, that it finds a place among the world's great books. It is in that capacity also that it will be treated in this introduction. Taking it in this aspect, we have no less need of historical insight than if we came to it as historians pure and simple. To understand its value we must grasp its limitations; when the questions it answers seem unnaturally put, we must not conclude that they are meaningless; we must see if the answer still holds when the question is put in a more up-to-date form.

The Social Contract, then, may be seen as either a document of the French Revolution or a great work of political philosophy. As political philosophy, it ranks among the greatest books on the subject. Its lasting value and the truth it contains earn it a place among the world's great books. This introduction will also treat the book as a work of political philosophy. Reading it this way requires just as much historical understanding as approaching it purely as historians. To understand the book's value, we must grasp its limitations. When the questions it answers seem strangely framed, we must not conclude that those questions are meaningless. We must see whether the answers still hold when the questions are put in more modern terms.

First, then, we must always remember that Rousseau is writing in the eighteenth century, and for the most part in France. Neither the French monarchy nor the Genevese aristocracy loved outspoken criticism, and Rousseau had always to be very careful what he said. This may seem a curious statement to make about a man who suffered continual persecution on account of his subversive doctrines; but, although Rousseau was one of the most daring writers of his time, he was forced continually to moderate his language and, as a rule, to confine himself to generalisation instead of attacking particular abuses. Rousseau's theory has often been decried as too abstract and metaphysical. This is in many ways its great strength; but where it is excessively so, the accident of time is to blame. In the eighteenth century it was, broadly speaking, safe to generalise and unsafe to particularise. Scepticism and discontent were the prevailing temper of the intellectual classes, and a short-sighted despotism held that, as long as they were confined to these, they would do little harm. Subversive doctrines were only regarded as dangerous when they were so put as to appeal to the masses; philosophy was regarded as impotent. The intellectuals of the eighteenth century therefore generalised to their hearts' content, and as a rule suffered little for their lèse-majesté: Voltaire is the typical example of such generalisation. The spirit of the age favoured such methods, and it was therefore natural for Rousseau to pursue them. But his general remarks had such a way of bearing very obvious particular applications, and were so obviously inspired by a particular attitude towards the government of his day, that even philosophy became in his hands unsafe, and he was attacked for what men read between the lines of his works. It is owing to this faculty of giving his generalisations content and actuality that Rousseau has become the father of modern political philosophy. He uses the method of his time only to transcend it; out of the abstract and general he creates the concrete and universal.

First, we must always remember that Rousseau was writing in the eighteenth century, mostly in France. Neither the French monarchy nor the Genevese aristocracy welcomed outspoken criticism. So Rousseau always had to be very careful about what he said. This may seem a strange claim about a man who faced constant persecution for his subversive ideas. But although Rousseau was one of his time’s boldest writers, he constantly had to soften his language. He generally had to discuss broad principles rather than attack specific abuses. Rousseau’s theory has often been criticized as too abstract and metaphysical. In many ways, this abstract approach is its great strength. But where the theory is too abstract, the circumstances of his time are to blame. In the eighteenth century, broadly speaking, discussing general ideas was safe, but discussing specific cases was dangerous. Skepticism and discontent were the dominant attitudes among intellectuals. A shortsighted, despotic government believed these attitudes would do little harm as long as they remained confined to intellectual circles. Subversive ideas were considered dangerous only when expressed in ways that appealed to the masses. Philosophy was seen as powerless. Eighteenth-century intellectuals therefore discussed general ideas to their hearts’ content. As a rule, they suffered little for their lèse-majesté, or offenses against royal authority. Voltaire is the typical example of this approach. The spirit of the age favored such methods, so Rousseau naturally followed them. But Rousseau’s general observations had obvious applications to specific cases. They also clearly reflected a particular attitude toward the government of his day. So even philosophy became dangerous in his hands. He was attacked for what people read between the lines of his works. Rousseau became the father of modern political philosophy because he could give his general ideas substance and immediate relevance. He uses the method of his time only to go beyond it. From the abstract and general, he creates the concrete and universal.

Secondly, we must not forget that Rousseau's theories are to be studied in a wider historical environment. If he is the first of modern political theorists, he is also the last of a long line of Renaissance theorists, who in turn inherit and transform the concepts of mediæval thought. So many critics have spent so much wasted time in proving that Rousseau was not original only because they began by identifying originality with isolation: they studied first the Social Contract by itself, out of relation to earlier works, and then, having discovered that these earlier works resembled it, decided that everything it had to say was borrowed. Had they begun their study in a truly historical spirit, they would have seen that Rousseau's importance lies just in the new use he makes of old ideas, in the transition he makes from old to new in the general conception of politics. No mere innovator could have exercised such an influence or hit on so much truth. Theory makes no great leaps; it proceeds to new concepts by the adjustment and renovation of old ones. Just as theological writers on politics, from Hooker to Bossuet, make use of Biblical terminology and ideas; just as more modern writers, from Hegel to Herbert Spencer, make use of the concept of evolution, Rousseau uses the ideas and terms of the Social Contract theory. We should feel, throughout his work, his struggle to free himself from what is lifeless and outworn in that theory, while he develops out of it fruitful conceptions that go beyond its scope. A too rigid literalism in the interpretation of Rousseau's thought may easily reduce it to the possession of a merely "historical interest": if we approach it in a truly historical spirit, we shall be able to appreciate at once its temporary and its lasting value, to see how it served his contemporaries, and at the same time to disentangle from it what may be serviceable to us and for all time.

Secondly, we must not forget to study Rousseau's theories in their broader historical context. If he is the first modern political theorist, he is also the last in a long line of Renaissance theorists. Those theorists, in turn, inherited and transformed the ideas of medieval thought. So many critics have wasted so much time trying to prove that Rousseau was not original. They did so only because they began by assuming that originality meant working in isolation. First, they studied the Social Contract on its own, without considering earlier works. Then, after discovering similarities with those works, they decided that everything Rousseau's book said was borrowed. Had they begun with a truly historical approach, they would have seen where Rousseau's importance lies. His importance lies precisely in his new use of old ideas, moving from an old understanding of politics to a new one. Someone who merely introduced new ideas could not have had such influence or discovered so much truth. Theory makes no great leaps. Theory reaches new ideas by adjusting and renewing old ones. Theological writers on politics, from Hooker to Bossuet, use Biblical language and ideas. Similarly, more modern writers, from Hegel to Herbert Spencer, use the concept of evolution. Just as these writers draw on existing ideas, Rousseau uses the ideas and language of Social Contract theory. Throughout his work, we should sense his struggle to escape the lifeless and outdated parts of that theory. At the same time, he develops fruitful ideas from the theory that reach beyond its limits. Reading Rousseau too rigidly and literally may easily leave his thought with nothing more than "historical interest". If we approach his thought with a truly historical understanding, we can appreciate both its value for its time and its lasting value. We can see how his thought served his contemporaries. At the same time, we can draw out what may be useful to us and for all time.

Rousseau's Emile, the greatest of all works on education, has already been issued in this series. In this volume are contained the most important of his political works. Of these the Social Contract, by far the most significant, is the latest in date. It represents the maturity of his thought, while the other works only illustrate his development. Born in 1712, he issued no work of importance till 1750; but he tells us, in the Confessions, that in 1743, when he was attached to the Embassy at Venice, he had already conceived the idea of a great work on Political Institutions, "which was to put the seal on his reputation." He seems, however, to have made little progress with this work, until in 1749 he happened to light on the announcement of a prize offered by the Academy of Dijon for an answer to the question, "Has the progress of the arts and sciences tended to the purification or to the corruption of morality?" His old ideas came thronging back, and sick at heart of the life he had been leading among the Paris lumières, he composed a violent and rhetorical diatribe against civilisation generally. In the following year, this work, having been awarded the prize by the Academy, was published by its author. His success was instantaneous; he became at once a famous man, the "lion" of Parisian literary circles. Refutations of his work were issued by professors, scribblers, outraged theologians and even by the King of Poland. Rousseau endeavoured to answer them all, and in the course of argument his thought developed. From 1750 to the publication of the Social Contract and Emile in 1762 he gradually evolved his views: in those twelve years he made his unique contribution to political thought.

Rousseau's Emile, the greatest of all works on education, has already been published in this series. This volume contains his most important political works. Of these, the Social Contract is by far the most significant and the last to be written. It presents his mature thinking, while the other works only show how his ideas developed. Born in 1712, Rousseau published no important work until 1750. But he tells us in the Confessions, that he had already planned a major work on Political Institutions in 1743. At the time, he was working at the Embassy in Venice. The planned work "was to put the seal on his reputation." He seems, however, to have made little progress on the work until 1749. That year, he happened to see an announcement of a prize offered by the Academy of Dijon. The prize was for an answer to the question, "Has the progress of the arts and sciences tended to the purification or to the corruption of morality?" His old ideas came flooding back. Sick at heart over his life among the Paris lumières, he wrote a fierce, rhetorical attack on civilisation in general. The following year, after the Academy awarded his work the prize, Rousseau published it. His success was immediate. He became famous at once, the "lion" of Parisian literary circles. Professors, hack writers, outraged theologians, and even the King of Poland published rebuttals of his work. Rousseau tried to answer them all, and his thinking developed through these arguments. From 1750 until the publication of the Social Contract and Emile in 1762, he gradually worked out his views. In those twelve years, he made his unique contribution to political thought.

The Discourse on the Arts and Sciences, the earliest of the works reproduced in this volume, is not in itself of very great importance. Rousseau has given his opinion of it in the Confessions. "Full of warmth and force, it is wholly without logic or order; of all my works it is the weakest in argument and the least harmonious. But whatever gifts a man may be born with, he cannot learn the art of writing in a moment." This criticism is just. The first Discourse neither is, nor attempts to be, a reasoned or a balanced production. It is the speech of an advocate, wholly one-sided and arbitrary, but so obviously and naively one-sided, that it is difficult for us to believe in its entire seriousness. At the most, it is only a rather brilliant but flimsy rhetorical effort, a sophistical improvisation, but not a serious contribution to thought. Yet it is certain that this declamation made Rousseau's name, and established his position as a great writer in Parisian circles. D'Alembert even devoted the preface of the Encyclopædia to a refutation. The plan of the first Discourse is essentially simple: it sets out from the badness, immorality and misery of modern nations, traces all these ills to the departure from a "natural" state, and then credits the progress of the arts and sciences with being the cause of that departure. In it, Rousseau is already in possession of his idea of "nature" as an ideal; but he has at present made no attempt to discriminate, in what is unnatural, between good and bad. He is merely using a single idea, putting it as strongly as he can, and neglecting all its limitations. The first Discourse is important not for any positive doctrine it contains, but as a key to the development of Rousseau's mind. Here we see him at the beginning of the long journey which was to lead on at last to the theory of the Social Contract.

The Discourse on the Arts and Sciences is the earliest work included in this volume. In itself, it is not very important. Rousseau gave his own opinion of it in the Confessions. "Full of passion and force, it has no logic or order at all. Of all my works, it has the weakest arguments and the least unity. But whatever gifts a man is born with, he cannot learn the art of writing in a moment." This criticism is fair. The first Discourse is neither reasoned nor balanced, and does not try to be. It is an advocate's speech, entirely one-sided and based on arbitrary judgments. But its bias is so obvious and so naive that we find it hard to believe it is entirely serious. At most, it is a rather brilliant but flimsy piece of rhetoric. It is an improvised exercise in clever but misleading argument, not a serious contribution to thought. Yet this impassioned speech certainly made Rousseau's name and established his reputation as a great writer in Parisian circles. D'Alembert even devoted the preface of the Encyclopædia to refuting it. The plan of the first Discourse is essentially simple. It begins with the wickedness, immorality, and misery of modern nations. It traces all these evils to their departure from a "natural" state. It then blames progress in the arts and sciences for causing that departure. Rousseau already has his idea of "nature" as an ideal. But he has not yet tried to distinguish good from bad among things that are unnatural. He is simply using one idea, stating it as forcefully as he can, and ignoring all its limitations. The first Discourse matters not for any specific teaching it offers, but for what it reveals about Rousseau's intellectual development. Here we see him beginning the long journey that would finally lead to the theory of the Social Contract.

In 1755 appeared the Discourse on the Origin and Foundation of Inequality among Men, which is the second of the works given in this volume. With this essay, Rousseau had unsuccessfully competed in 1753 for a second prize offered by the Academy of Dijon, and he now issued it prefaced by a long Dedication to the Republic of Geneva. In this work, which Voltaire, in thanking him for a presentation copy, termed his "second book against the human race," his style and his ideas have made a great advance; he is no longer content merely to push a single idea to extremes: while preserving the broad opposition between the state of nature and the state of society, which runs through all his work, he is concerned to present a rational justification of his views and to admit that a little at any rate may be said on the other side. Moreover, the idea of "nature" has already undergone a great development; it is no longer an empty opposition to the evils of society; it possesses a positive content. Thus half the Discourse on Inequality is occupied by an imaginary description of the state of nature, in which man is shown with ideas limited within the narrowest range, with little need of his fellows, and little care beyond provision for the necessities of the moment. Rousseau declares explicitly that he does not suppose the "state of nature" ever to have existed: it is a pure "idea of reason," a working concept reached by abstraction from the "state of society." The "natural man," as opposed to "man's man," is man stripped of all that society confers upon him, a creature formed by a process of abstraction, and never intended for a historical portrait. The conclusion of the Discourse favours not this purely abstract being, but a state of savagery intermediate between the "natural" and the "social" conditions, in which men may preserve the simplicity and the advantages of nature and at the same time secure the rude comforts and assurances of early society. In one of the long notes appended to the Discourse, Rousseau further explains his position. He does not wish, he says, that modern corrupt society should return to a state of nature: corruption has gone too far for that; he only desires now that men should palliate, by wiser use of the fatal arts, the mistake of their introduction. He recognises society as inevitable and is already feeling his way towards a justification of it. The second Discourse represents a second stage in his political thought: the opposition between the state of nature and the state of society is still presented in naked contrast; but the picture of the former has already filled out, and it only remains for Rousseau to take a nearer view of the fundamental implications of the state of society for his thought to reach maturity.

In 1755, the Discourse on the Origin and Foundation of Inequality among Men appeared. It is the second work included in this volume. Rousseau had unsuccessfully entered the essay in 1753 for a second prize offered by the Academy of Dijon. He now published it with a long dedication to the Republic of Geneva. Voltaire thanked Rousseau for a gift copy by calling the work his "second book against the human race." In this work, Rousseau’s style and ideas have developed considerably. He is no longer content simply to push a single idea to extremes. He still maintains the broad contrast between the state of nature and the state of society throughout all his work. But he now seeks to justify his views through reason and admits that the opposing side has at least something to say. Moreover, his idea of "nature" has already developed considerably. Nature is no longer merely an undefined opposite of society’s evils. It now has a positive meaning of its own. Thus, half the Discourse on Inequality offers an imaginary description of the state of nature. In this description, human beings have an extremely limited range of ideas and little need for one another. They care about little beyond meeting their immediate needs. Rousseau explicitly states that he does not suppose the "state of nature" ever existed. It is a pure "idea of reason," a working concept developed by abstracting from the "state of society." The "natural man," unlike "man's man," is a human being stripped of everything society provides. This creature is formed through abstraction and was never intended as a historical portrait. The Discourse’s conclusion does not favor this purely abstract being. Instead, it favors a state of savagery between the "natural" and the "social" conditions. In this intermediate state, people may preserve nature’s simplicity and advantages. At the same time, they may gain the basic comforts and security of early society. Rousseau explains his position further in one of the long notes attached to the Discourse. He says he does not want modern, corrupt society to return to a state of nature. Corruption has gone too far for that. He now wants only to lessen the harm caused by introducing the disastrous arts, through wiser use of those arts. He recognizes society as inevitable and is already working toward a justification of it. The second Discourse marks a second stage in his political thought. The state of nature and the state of society are still presented as stark opposites. But his picture of the state of nature has already become fuller. To bring his thought to maturity, Rousseau now needs only to examine the fundamental implications of the state of society more closely.

Rousseau is often blamed, by modern critics, for pursuing in the Discourses a method apparently that of history, but in reality wholly unhistorical. But it must be remembered that he himself lays no stress on the historical aspect of his work; he gives himself out as constructing a purely ideal picture, and not as depicting any actual stages in human history. The use of false historical concepts is characteristic of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, and Rousseau is more to be congratulated on having escaped from giving them too much importance than criticised for employing them at all.

Modern critics often blame Rousseau for using a method in the Discourses that seems historical but is entirely unhistorical. But we must remember that Rousseau himself places no importance on the historical side of his work. He presents his work as a purely imagined picture, not as an account of actual stages in human history. False historical ideas were common in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Rousseau deserves more praise for avoiding giving those ideas too much importance than criticism for using them at all.

It is doubtful whether the Discourse on Political Economy, first printed in the great Encyclopædia in 1755, was composed before or after the Discourse on Inequality. At first sight the former seems to be far more in the manner of the Social Contract and to contain views belonging essentially to Rousseau's constructive period. It would not, however, be safe to conclude from this that its date is really later. The Discourse on Inequality still has about it much of the rhetorical looseness of the prize essay; it aims not so much at close reasoning as at effective and popular presentation of a case. But, by reading between the lines, an attentive student can detect in it a great deal of the positive doctrine afterwards incorporated in the Social Contract. Especially in the closing section, which lays down the plan of a general treatment of the fundamental questions of politics, we are already to some extent in the atmosphere of the later works. It is indeed almost certain that Rousseau never attempted to put into either of the first two Discourses any of the positive content of his political theory. They were intended, not as final expositions of his point of view, but as partial and preliminary studies, in which his aim was far more destructive than constructive. It is clear that in first conceiving the plan of a work on Political Institutions, Rousseau cannot have meant to regard all society as in essence bad. It is indeed evident that he meant, from the first, to study human society and institutions in their rational aspect, and that he was rather diverted from his main purpose by the Academy of Dijon's competition than first induced by it to think about political questions. It need, therefore, cause no surprise that a work probably written before the Discourse on Inequality should contain the germs of the theory given in full in the Social Contract. The Discourse on Political Economy is important as giving the first sketch of the theory of the "General Will." It will readily be seen that Rousseau does not mean by "political economy" exactly what we mean nowadays. He begins with a discussion of the fundamental nature of the State, and the possibility of reconciling its existence with human liberty, and goes on with an admirable short study of the principles of taxation. He is thinking throughout of "political" in the sense of "public" economy, of the State as the public financier, and not of the conditions governing industry. He conceives the State as a body aiming at the well-being of all its members and subordinates all his views of taxation to that end. He who has only necessaries should not be taxed at all; superfluities should be supertaxed; there should be heavy imposts on every sort of luxury. The first part of the article is still more interesting. Rousseau begins by demolishing the exaggerated parallel so often drawn between the State and the family; he shows that the State is not, and cannot be, patriarchal in nature, and goes on to lay down his view that its real being consists in the General Will of its members. The essential features of the Social Contract are present in this Discourse almost as if they were commonplaces, certainly not as if they were new discoveries on which the author had just hit by some happy inspiration. There is every temptation, after reading the Political Economy, to suppose that Rousseau's political ideas really reached maturity far earlier than has generally been allowed.

It is uncertain whether the Discourse on Political Economy, first published in the great Encyclopædia in 1755, preceded the Discourse on Inequality. At first glance, the former seems much closer in style to the Social Contract. Its views also seem to belong firmly to the period when Rousseau developed his own political theory. But we cannot safely conclude from these similarities that the work was written later. The Discourse on Inequality still has much of the loose, rhetorical style of an essay written for a prize competition. Its aim is less to reason precisely than to present an argument effectively to a broad audience. But an attentive reader can read between the lines and find many ideas later included in the Social Contract. This is especially true of the closing section, which outlines a general study of the fundamental questions of politics. Here, we are already somewhat in the world of Rousseau's later works. Indeed, Rousseau almost certainly never tried to include any of his own political theory in either of the first two Discourses. These were not intended as final statements of his views, but as partial, preliminary studies. His aim in them was much more to challenge existing ideas than to develop his own. Clearly, when Rousseau first planned a work on Political Institutions, he cannot have intended to treat all society as fundamentally bad. From the start, he evidently meant to study human society and institutions in terms of their rational foundations. The Academy of Dijon's competition diverted him from this main purpose rather than first prompting him to consider political questions. So we need not be surprised by ideas in a work probably written before the Discourse on Inequality. These ideas were the seeds of the theory fully developed in the Social Contract. The Discourse on Political Economy is important because it gives the first outline of the theory of the "General Will." We can readily see that Rousseau does not mean exactly what we mean today by "political economy". He begins by discussing the State's fundamental nature and whether its existence can be reconciled with human freedom. He then offers an excellent brief study of the principles of taxation. Throughout, he uses "political" economy to mean "public" economy. He is concerned with the State's management of public finances, not with the conditions governing industry. He sees the State as a body seeking the well-being of all its members. All his views on taxation serve that goal. Anyone who has only the necessities of life should pay no tax at all. Anything beyond those necessities should face higher taxes, and every kind of luxury should be heavily taxed. The first part of the article is even more interesting. Rousseau begins by dismantling the exaggerated comparison so often made between the State and the family. He shows that the State is not, and cannot be, patriarchal in nature. He then argues that the State's true essence lies in the General Will of its members. The essential features of the Social Contract appear in this Discourse almost as if they were familiar ideas. They certainly do not appear as new discoveries the author had just reached in a lucky flash of inspiration. After reading the Political Economy, we are strongly tempted to draw a conclusion. Rousseau's political ideas may have matured far earlier than has generally been acknowledged.

The Social Contract finally appeared, along with Emile, in 1762. This year, therefore, represents in every respect the culmination of Rousseau's career. Henceforth, he was to write only controversial and confessional works; his theories were now developed, and, simultaneously, he gave to the world his views on the fundamental problems of politics and education. It is now time to ask what Rousseau's system, in its maturity, finally amounted to. The Social Contract contains practically the whole of his constructive political theory; it requires to be read, for full understanding, in connection with his other works, especially Emile and the Letters on the Mount (1764), but in the main it is self-contained and complete. The title sufficiently defines its scope. It is called The Social Contract or Principles of Political Right, and the second title explains the first. Rousseau's object is not to deal, in a general way, like Montesquieu, with the actual institutions of existing States, but to lay down the essential principles which must form the basis of every legitimate society. Rousseau himself, in the fifth book of the Emile, has stated the difference clearly. "Montesquieu," he says, "did not intend to treat of the principles of political right; he was content to treat of the positive right (or law) of established governments; and no two studies could be more different than these." Rousseau then conceives his object as being something very different from that of the Spirit of the Laws, and it is a wilful error to misconstrue his purpose. When he remarks that "the facts," the actual history of political societies, "do not concern him," he is not contemptuous of facts; he is merely asserting the sure principle that a fact can in no case give rise to a right. His desire is to establish society on a basis of pure right, so as at once to disprove his attack on society generally and to reinforce his criticism of existing societies.

The Social Contract finally appeared in 1762, along with Emile. In every respect, this year therefore marked the high point of Rousseau's career. From then on, he would write only works of controversy and personal confession. His theories were now fully developed. He presented his views on the fundamental problems of politics and education at the same time. We can now ask what Rousseau's fully developed system ultimately amounted to. The Social Contract contains almost all his constructive political theory. To understand the book fully, readers need to consider his other works, especially Emile and the Letters on the Mount (1764). But the book is largely self-contained and complete. The title makes its scope clear. The book is called The Social Contract or Principles of Political Right, and the second title explains the first. Rousseau does not aim, like Montesquieu, to discuss the actual institutions of existing States in general terms. Instead, he aims to establish the essential principles that must underlie every legitimate society. Rousseau himself clearly explained the difference in the fifth book of Emile. "Montesquieu," he says, "did not intend to discuss the principles of political right. He was content to discuss positive right (or law) in established governments. No two studies could be more different." Rousseau thus sees his aim as very different from the aim of the Spirit of the Laws. To misrepresent his purpose is a deliberate error. He remarks that "the facts," meaning the actual history of political societies, "do not concern him." This does not mean he dismisses facts. He is simply asserting the sound principle that a fact can never establish a right. He wants to base society on pure right. By doing so, he aims both to refute his general attack on society and to strengthen his criticism of existing societies.

Round this point centres the whole dispute about the methods proper to political theory. There are, broadly speaking, two schools of political theorists, if we set aside the psychologists. One school, by collecting facts, aims at reaching broad generalisations about what actually happens in human societies! the other tries to penetrate to the universal principles at the root of all human combination. For the latter purpose facts may be useful, but in themselves they can prove nothing. The question is not one of fact, but one of right.

The whole debate about the right methods for political theory centers on this point. Broadly speaking, there are two schools of political thinkers, if we leave aside the psychologists. One school collects facts to reach broad conclusions about what actually happens in human societies. The other seeks to uncover the universal principles underlying all forms of human association. Facts may help in this search for principles, but facts alone can prove nothing. The question is not about what happens, but about what is right.

Rousseau belongs essentially to this philosophical school. He is not, as his less philosophic critics seem to suppose, a purely abstract thinker generalising from imaginary historical instances; he is a concrete thinker trying to get beyond they inessential and changing to the permanent and invariable basis of human society. Like Green, he is in search of the principle of political obligation, and beside this quest all others fall into their place as secondary and derivative. It is required to find a form of association able to defend and protect with the whole common force the person and goods of every associate, and of such a nature, that each, uniting himself with all, may still obey only himself, and remain as free as before. This is the fundamental problem of which the Social Contract provides the solution. The problem of political obligation is seen as including all other political problems, which fall into place in a system based upon it. How, Rousseau asks, can the will of the State help being for me a merely external will, imposing itself upon my own? How can the existence of the State be reconciled with human freedom? How can man, who is born free, rightly come to be everywhere in chains?

Rousseau belongs firmly to this philosophical school. His less philosophical critics seem to think he deals only in abstractions, drawing general conclusions from imagined historical examples. But he is a thinker concerned with concrete realities. He tries to look beyond what is incidental and changing to the permanent, unchanging foundations of human society. Like Green, he seeks the principle of political obligation. Beside this search, all other questions take a secondary place and depend on it. We must find a form of association that uses the community’s full strength to defend and protect every member’s person and property. The association must also allow each person, while joining with everyone else, to obey only themselves and remain as free as before. This is the fundamental problem that the Social Contract solves. The problem of political obligation is understood to include all other political problems. These other problems take their places within a system founded on political obligation. How, Rousseau asks, can the State’s will be anything but an outside will imposed on my own? How can the State’s existence be reconciled with human freedom? How can human beings, who are born free, legitimately end up everywhere in chains?

No-one could help understanding the central problem of the Social Contract immediately, were it not that its doctrines often seem to be strangely formulated. We have seen that this strangeness is due to Rousseau's historical position, to his use of the political concepts current in his own age, and to his natural tendency to build on the foundations laid by his predecessors. There are a great many people whose idea of Rousseau consists solely of the first words of the opening chapter of the Social Contract, "Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains." But, they tell you, man is not born free, even if he is everywhere in chains. Thus at the very outset we are faced with the great difficulty in appreciating Rousseau. When we should naturally say "man ought to be free," or perhaps "man is born for freedom," he prefers to say "man is born free," by which he means exactly the same thing. There is doubtless, in his way of putting it, an appeal to a "golden age"; but this golden age is admittedly as imaginary as the freedom to which men are born is bound, for most of them, to be. Elsewhere Rousseau puts the point much as we might put it ourselves. "Nothing is more certain than that every man born in slavery is born for slavery.... But if there are slaves by nature, it is because there have been slaves against nature" (Social Contract, Book I, chap. ii).

Everyone would immediately understand the central problem of the Social Contract if its ideas were not often expressed so strangely. We have seen why Rousseau writes this way. He uses the political concepts of his time and naturally builds on the foundations laid by earlier thinkers. His place in history explains this unfamiliar language. Many people know Rousseau only through the opening words of the Social Contract: "Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains." But, they tell you, people are not born free, even if they are everywhere in chains. So, from the start, we face the great difficulty in understanding Rousseau. We would naturally say "people ought to be free," or perhaps "people are born for freedom." He prefers to say "man is born free," meaning exactly the same thing. His wording certainly appeals to a "golden age". But this golden age is admittedly imaginary, just as freedom at birth must be imaginary for most people. Elsewhere, Rousseau makes the point much as we might ourselves. "Nothing is more certain than that everyone born into slavery is born to be a slave.... But if some people are slaves by nature, it is because others have been enslaved against nature" (Social Contract, Book I, chap. ii).

We have seen that the contrast between the "state of nature" and the "state of society" runs through all Rousseau's work. The Emile is a plea for "natural" education; the Discourses are a plea for a "naturalisation" of society; the New Héloïse is the romantic's appeal for more "nature" in human relationships. What then is the position of this contrast in Rousseau's mature political thought? It is clear that the position is not merely that of the Discourses. In them, he envisaged only the faults of actual societies; now, he is concerned with the possibility of a rational society. His aim is to justify the change from "nature" to "society," although it has left men in chains. He is in search of the true society, which leaves men "as free as before." Altogether, the space occupied by the idea of nature in the Social Contract is very small. It is used of necessity in the controversial chapters, in which Rousseau is refuting false theories of social obligation; but when once he has brushed aside the false prophets, he lets the idea of nature go with them, and concerns himself solely with giving society the rational sanction he has promised. It becomes clear that, in political matters at any rate, the "state of nature" is for him only a term of controversy. He has in effect abandoned, in so far as he ever held it, the theory of a human golden age; and where, as in the Emile, he makes use of the idea of nature, it is broadened and deepened out of all recognition. Despite many passages in which the old terminology cleaves to him, he means by "nature" in this period not the original state of a thing, nor even its reduction to the simplest terms: he is passing over to the conception of "nature" as identical with the full development of capacity, with the higher! idea of human freedom. This view may be seen in germ even in the Discourse on Inequality, where, distinguishing self-respect (amour de soi) from egoism (amour-propre), Rousseau makes the former, the property of the "natural" man, consist not in the desire for self-aggrandisement, but in the seeking of satisfaction for reasonable desire accompanied by benevolence; whereas egoism is the preference of our own interests to those of others, self-respect merely puts us on an equal footing with our fellows. It is true that in the Discourse Rousseau is pleading against the development of many human faculties; but he is equally advocating the fullest development of those he regards as "natural," by which he means merely "good." The "state of society," as envisaged in the Social Contract, is no longer in contradiction to the "state of nature" upheld in the Emile, where indeed the social environment is of the greatest importance, and, though the pupil is screened from it, he is none the less being trained for it. Indeed the views given in the Social Contract are summarised in the fifth book of the Emile, and by this summary the essential unity of Rousseau's system is emphasised.

We have seen that the contrast between the "state of nature" and the "state of society" runs through all Rousseau's work. The Emile argues for "natural" education. The Discourses argue for a "naturalisation" of society. The New Héloïse makes a romantic appeal for more "nature" in human relationships. What role, then, does this contrast play in Rousseau's mature political thought? Clearly, his position is no longer simply the one found in the Discourses. In those works, he considered only the faults of existing societies. Now he considers the possibility of a rational society. His aim is to justify the change from "nature" to "society," although this change has left people in chains. He seeks a true society that leaves people "as free as before." Overall, the idea of nature plays a very small part in the Social Contract. Rousseau must use the idea in the chapters where he challenges false theories of social obligation. But once he has dismissed the false prophets, he sets aside the idea of nature along with them. He then focuses entirely on providing the rational justification for society that he has promised. Clearly, in political matters at least, the "state of nature" is for him only a term used in debate. He has effectively abandoned the theory of a human golden age, insofar as he ever accepted it. Where he still uses the idea of nature, as in the Emile, he broadens and deepens it beyond recognition. In many passages, he still clings to the old language. Yet by "nature" he no longer means a thing's original state, or even its simplest form. He is moving toward an understanding of "nature" as the full development of human abilities, the higher ideal of human freedom. This view can be seen in an early form even in the Discourse on Inequality. There Rousseau distinguishes self-respect (amour de soi) from egoism (amour-propre). He presents self-respect as a quality of the "natural" person. Self-respect means seeking to satisfy reasonable desires while showing goodwill toward others, rather than seeking to increase one's own importance. Whereas egoism places our own interests above other people's, self-respect merely puts us on an equal footing with others. It is true that, in the Discourse, Rousseau argues against developing many human abilities. But he also argues for fully developing the abilities he regards as "natural," by which he simply means "good." The "state of society" imagined in the Social Contract no longer conflicts with the "state of nature" defended in the Emile. In the Emile, the social environment is in fact extremely important. Although the pupil is shielded from that environment, he is nevertheless being prepared for it. Indeed, the fifth book of the Emile summarizes the views presented in the Social Contract. This summary emphasizes the essential unity of Rousseau's system.

Rousseau's object, then, in the first words of the Social Contract, "is to inquire if, in the civil order, there can be any sure and certain, rule of administration, taking men as they are and laws as they might be." Montesquieu took laws as they were, and saw what sort of men they made: Rousseau, founding his whole system on human freedom, takes man as the basis, and regards him as giving himself what laws he pleases. He takes his stand on the nature of human freedom: on this he bases his whole system, making the will of the members the sole basis of every society.

Rousseau’s aim, then, in the opening words of the Social Contract, “is to ask whether society can have any reliable and certain rule of government, taking people as they are and laws as they might be.” Montesquieu took laws as they were and examined what kind of people those laws produced. Rousseau, by contrast, bases his entire system on human freedom. He starts with human beings and sees them as giving themselves whatever laws they choose. He grounds his whole system in the nature of human freedom. For Rousseau, the will of a society’s members is the sole basis of every society.

In working out his theory, Rousseau makes use throughout of three general and, to some extent, alternative conceptions. These are the Social Contract, Sovereignty and the General Will. We shall now have to examine each of these in turn.

Throughout his theory, Rousseau uses three broad concepts that are, to some extent, alternatives to one another. These are the Social Contract, Sovereignty and the General Will. We must now examine each concept in turn.

The Social Contract theory is as old as the sophists of Greece (see Plato, Republic, Book II and the Gorgias), and as I elusive. It has been adapted to the most opposite points of view, and used, in different forms, on both sides of every question to which it could conceivably be applied. It is frequent in mediæval writers, a commonplace with the theorists of the Renaissance, and in the eighteenth century already nearing its fall before a wider conception. It would be a long, as well as a thankless, task to trace its history over again: it may be followed best in D. G. Ritchie's admirable essay on it in Darwin and Hegel and Other Studies. For us, it is important only to regard it in its most general aspect, before studying the special use made of it by Rousseau. Obviously, in one form or another, it is a theory very easily arrived at. Wherever any form of government apart from the merest tyranny exists, reflection on the basis of the State cannot but lead to the notion that, in one sense or another, it is based on the consent, tacit or expressed, past or present, of its members. In this alone, the greater part of the Social Contract theory is already latent. Add the desire to find actual justification for a theory in facts, and, especially in an age possessed only of the haziest historical sense, this doctrine of consent will inevitably be given a historical setting. If in addition there is a tendency to regard society as something unnatural to humanity, the tendency will become irresistible. By writers of almost all schools, the State will be represented as having arisen, in some remote age, out of a compact or, in more legal phrase, contract between two or more parties. The only class that will be able to resist the doctrine is that which maintains the divine right of kings, and holds that all existing governments were were imposed on the people by the direct interposition of God. All who are not prepared to maintain that will be partisans of some form or other of the Social Contract theory.

Social Contract theory is as old as the sophists of Greece, and just as elusive. (See Plato, Republic, Book II and the Gorgias.) The theory has been adapted to completely opposing viewpoints. In different forms, it has supported both sides of every question to which it could possibly apply. Social Contract theory appears often in medieval writers and was commonplace among Renaissance theorists. By the eighteenth century, the theory was already giving way to a broader understanding. Tracing its history again would be a long and thankless task. The best account is D. G. Ritchie's excellent essay on the subject in Darwin and Hegel and Other Studies. We need only consider the theory in its broadest form before studying Rousseau's particular use of it. Clearly, some form of the theory is very easy to arrive at. Wherever government is anything more than sheer tyranny, thinking about the State's foundations inevitably leads to an idea of consent. In some sense, the State rests on its members' consent, whether silent or openly expressed, past or present. This idea alone already contains most of Social Contract theory. Add a desire to ground a theory in facts, and the doctrine of consent will inevitably receive a historical setting. This is especially true in an age with only the vaguest understanding of history. If people also tend to view society as unnatural to humanity, the urge to give consent a historical setting becomes irresistible. Writers of almost every school will describe the State as having emerged in some distant age from an agreement. In more legal language, this agreement is a contract between two or more parties. Only those who uphold the divine right of kings will be able to resist the doctrine. They hold that all existing governments were imposed on the people through God's direct intervention. Everyone unwilling to defend that position will support some form of Social Contract theory.

It is, therefore, not surprising that we find among its advocates writers of the most opposite points of view. Barely stated, it is a mere formula, which may be filled in with any content from absolutism to pure republicanism. And, in the hands of some at least of its supporters, it turns out to be a weapon that cuts both ways. We shall be in a better position to judge of its usefulness when we have seen its chief varieties at work.

So it is no surprise that its supporters include writers with completely opposing views. Stated in its simplest form, it is just a formula. That formula can accommodate anything from absolutism to pure republicanism. And in the hands of at least some supporters, the formula becomes a weapon that cuts both ways. We can better judge its usefulness once we have seen its main forms in action.

All Social Contract theories that are at all definite fall under one or other of two heads. They represent society as based on an original contract either between the people and the government, or between all the individuals composing the State. Historically, modern theory passes from the first to the second of these forms.

All Social Contract theories that are at all clearly defined fall into one of two categories. Both describe society as founded on an original agreement. In the first, the agreement is between the people and the government. In the second, the agreement is among all the individuals who make up the State. Historically, modern theory has moved from the first form to the second.

The doctrine that society is founded on a contract between the people and the government is of mediæval origin. It was often supported by references to the Old Testament, which contains a similar view in an unreflective form. It is found in most of the great political writers of the sixteenth century; in Buchanan, and in the writings of James I: it persists into the seventeenth in the works of Grotius and Puffendorf. Grotius is sometimes held to have stated the theory so as to admit both forms of contract; but it is clear that he is only thinking of the first form as admitting democratic as well as monarchical government. We find it put very clearly by the Convention Parliament of 1688, which accuses James II of having "endeavoured to subvert the constitution of the kingdom by breaking the original contract between king and people." While Hobbes, on the side of the royalists, is maintaining the contract theory in its second form, the Parliamentarian Algernon Sidney adheres to the idea of a contract between the people and the government.

The idea that society rests on a contract between the people and the government dates from the Middle Ages. Supporters often cited the Old Testament, which presents a similar view without examining it closely. The idea appears in most of the great political writers of the sixteenth century, including Buchanan and James I. It continues into the seventeenth century in the works of Grotius and Puffendorf. Some believe Grotius presented the theory in a way that allowed for both forms of contract. But he clearly considers only the first form, allowing for democratic as well as monarchical government. The Convention Parliament of 1688 states the idea very clearly. It accuses James II of having "endeavoured to subvert the constitution of the kingdom by breaking the original contract between king and people." While Hobbes, a royalist, defends the second form of contract theory, the Parliamentarian Algernon Sidney takes the other view. Sidney holds to the idea of a contract between the people and the government.

In this form, the theory clearly admits of opposite interpretations. It may be held that the people, having given itself up once for all to its rulers, has nothing more to ask of them, and is bound to submit to any usage they may choose to inflict. This, however, is not the implication most usually drawn from it. The theory, in this form, originated with theologians who were also lawyers. Their view of a contract implied mutual obligations; they regarded the ruler as bound, by its terms, to govern constitutionally. The old idea that a king must not violate the sacred customs of the realm passes easily into the doctrine that he must not violate the terms of the original contract between himself and his people. Just as in the days of the Norman kings, every appeal on the part of the people for more liberties was couched in the form of a demand that the customs of the "good old times" of Edward the Confessor should be respected, so in the seventeenth century every act of popular assertion or resistance was stated as an appeal to the king not to violate the contract. The demand was a good popular cry, and it seemed to have the theorists behind it. Rousseau gives his refutation of this view, which he had, in the Discourse on Inequality, maintained in passing, in the sixteenth chapter of the third book of the Social Contract. (See also Book I, chap, iv, init.) His attack is really concerned also with the theory of Hobbes, which in some respects resembles, as we shall see, this first view; but, in form at least, it is directed against this form of contract. It will be possible to examine it more closely, when the second view has been considered.

In this form, the theory clearly allows opposite interpretations. One interpretation holds that the people have surrendered themselves to their rulers once and for all. They therefore have nothing more to ask of their rulers and must submit to whatever treatment those rulers choose. But this is not the conclusion most often drawn from the theory. In this form, the theory originated with theologians who were also lawyers. They understood a contract to impose obligations on both sides. They believed its terms required the ruler to govern constitutionally. The old idea held that a king must not violate the realm’s sacred customs. This idea easily becomes the doctrine that he must honor the original contract between himself and his people. Under the Norman kings, every popular appeal for greater freedom demanded respect for the customs of the "good old times" of Edward the Confessor. Similarly, in the seventeenth century, every assertion of popular rights or act of resistance appealed to the king to honor the contract. This demand made an effective rallying cry, and the theorists seemed to support it. Rousseau refutes this view in the sixteenth chapter of the third book of the Social Contract. He had previously supported the view in passing in the Discourse on Inequality. (See also Book I, chapter iv, beginning.) His attack also addresses Hobbes’s theory, which, as we shall see, resembles this first view in some respects. But at least in its stated form, Rousseau’s attack targets this version of the contract theory. We can examine his attack more closely once we have considered the second view.

The second view, which may be called the Social Contract theory proper, regards society as originating in, or based on, an agreement between the individuals composing it. It seems to be found first, rather vaguely, in Richard Hooker's Ecclesiastical Polity, from which Locke largely borrowed: and it reappears, in varying forms, in Milton's Tenure of Kings and Magistrates, in Hobbes's Leviathan, in Locke's Treatises on Civil Government, and in Rousseau. The best-known instance of its actual use is by the Pilgrim Fathers on the Mayflower in 1620, in whose declaration occurs the phrase, "We do solemnly and mutually, in the presence of God and of one another, covenant and combine ourselves together into a civil body politic." The natural implication of this view would seem to be the corollary of complete popular Sovereignty which Rousseau draws. But before Rousseau's time it had been used to support views as diverse as those which rested on the first form. We saw that, in Grotius's great work, De Jure Belli et Pacis, it was already possible to doubt which of the two theories was being advocated. The first theory was, historically, a means of popular protest against royal aggression. As soon as popular government was taken into account, the act of contract between people and government became in effect merely a contract between the individuals composing the society, and readily passed over into the second form.

The second view may be called the Social Contract theory proper. It sees society as beginning with, or resting on, an agreement among its members. This view seems to appear first, rather vaguely, in Richard Hooker's Ecclesiastical Polity, from which Locke borrowed heavily. It reappears in different forms in Milton's Tenure of Kings and Magistrates, Hobbes's Leviathan, Locke's Treatises on Civil Government, and Rousseau's work. The best-known practical use of this theory was by the Pilgrim Fathers on the Mayflower in 1620. Their declaration includes the words, "We do solemnly and mutually, in the presence of God and of one another, covenant and combine ourselves together into a civil body politic." This view would seem naturally to imply complete popular sovereignty, the conclusion Rousseau draws from it. But before Rousseau's time, it had supported views as varied as those based on the first theory. As we saw, Grotius's great work, De Jure Belli et Pacis, already left room for doubt about which theory he supported. Historically, the first theory gave the people a way to protest against royal aggression. Once popular government was considered, the contract between people and government effectively became simply a contract among society's members. In this way, the first theory readily shifted into the second.

The second theory, in its ordinary form, expresses only the view that the people is everywhere Sovereign, and that, in the phrase of Milton's treatise, "the power of kings and magistrates is only derivative." Before, however, this view had been worked up into a philosophical theory, it had already been used by Hobbes to support precisely opposite principles. Hobbes agrees that the original contract is one between all the individuals composing the State, and that the government is no party to it; but he regards the people as agreeing, not merely to form a State, but to invest a certain person or certain persons with the government of it. He agrees that the people is naturally supreme, but regards it as alienating its Sovereignty by the contract itself, and delegating its power, wholly and for ever, to the government. As soon, therefore, as the State is set up, the government becomes for Hobbes the Sovereign; there is no more question of popular Sovereignty, but only of passive obedience: the people is bound, by the contract, to obey its ruler, no matter whether he governs well or ill. It has alienated all its rights to the Sovereign, who is, therefore, absolute master. Hobbes, living in a time of civil wars, regards the worst government as better than anarchy, and is, therefore, at pains to find arguments in support of any form of absolutism. It is easy to pick holes in this system, and to see into what difficulties a conscientious Hobbist might be led by a revolution. For as soon as the revolutionaries get the upper hand, he will have to sacrifice one of his principles: he will have to side against either the actual or the legitimate Sovereign. It is easy also to see that alienation of liberty, even if possible for an individual, which Rousseau denies, cannot bind his posterity. But, with all its faults, the view of Hobbes is on the whole admirably, if ruthlessly, logical, and to it Rousseau owes a great deal.

The second theory, in its usual form, says only that the people hold supreme power everywhere. In the words of Milton's treatise, "the power of kings and magistrates is only derivative." But before this view became a philosophical theory, Hobbes had already used it to support exactly the opposite principles. Hobbes agrees that the original contract is between all the individuals who make up the State. The government is not a party to the contract. But he believes the people agree to more than simply forming a State. They also agree to give one person, or several people, the power to govern the State. He agrees that the people naturally hold supreme power. But he believes that, through the contract itself, they surrender their sovereignty and transfer their power entirely and forever to the government. So, for Hobbes, the government becomes the sovereign as soon as the State is established. Popular sovereignty is no longer at issue. Only passive obedience remains: the contract binds the people to obey their ruler, whether he governs well or badly. They have surrendered all their rights to the sovereign, who therefore becomes their absolute master. Hobbes lived in a time of civil wars and considers the worst government better than anarchy. He therefore takes great pains to find arguments supporting any form of absolute rule. It is easy to find flaws in this system. It is also easy to see the difficulties a revolution might create for a conscientious follower of Hobbes. Once the revolutionaries gain the upper hand, that follower will have to abandon one of his principles. He must oppose either the sovereign who actually holds power or the sovereign who has the rightful claim. Another point is equally clear. Even if an individual could surrender his freedom, something Rousseau denies, that surrender could not bind his descendants. But despite all its faults, Hobbes's view is, on the whole, admirably logical, though ruthlessly so. Rousseau owes a great deal to that view.

The special shape given to the second Social Contract theory by Hobbes looks, at first sight, much like a combination, into a single act, of both the contracts. This, however, is not the view he adopts. The theory of a contract between government and people had, as we have seen, been used mainly as a support for popular liberties, a means of assertion against the government. Hobbes, whose whole aim is to make his government Sovereign, can only do this by leaving the government outside the contract: he thus avoids the necessity of submitting it to any obligation whatsoever, and leaves it absolute and irresponsible. He secures, in fact, not merely a State which has unbounded rights against the individual, but a determinate authority with the right to enforce those rights. His theory is not merely Statism (étatisme); it is pure despotism.

At first glance, Hobbes’s version of the second Social Contract theory seems to combine both contracts into a single act. But Hobbes does not take this view. As we have seen, the theory of a contract between government and people mainly served to defend popular liberties. It gave people a way to assert their rights against the government. Hobbes’s entire aim is to make his government Sovereign. He can achieve this only by keeping the government outside the contract. This frees the government from any obligations and leaves it with absolute power, accountable to no one. In fact, Hobbes establishes more than a State with unlimited rights over the individual. He also establishes a specific authority entitled to enforce those rights. His theory is not merely Statism (étatisme). It is pure despotism.

It is clear that, if such a theory is to be upheld, it can stand only by the view, which Hobbes shares with Grotius, that a man can alienate not merely his own liberty, but also that of his descendants, and that, consequently, a people as a whole can do the same. This is the point at which both Locke and Rousseau attack it. Locke, whose aim is largely to justify the Revolution of 1688, makes government depend, not merely at its institution, but always, on the consent of the governed, and regards all rulers as liable to be displaced if they govern tyrannically. He omits, however, to provide any machinery short of revolution for the expression of popular opinion, and, on the whole, seems to regard the popular consent as something essentially tacit and assumed. He regards the State as existing mainly to protect life and property, and is, in all his assertions of popular rights, so cautious as to reduce them almost to nothing. It is not till we come to Rousseau that the second form of the contract theory is stated in its purest and most logical form.

Clearly, such a theory can stand only if we accept a view shared by Hobbes and Grotius. They hold that a man can give up not only his own freedom but also his descendants’ freedom. Consequently, a whole people can do the same. Both Locke and Rousseau challenge the theory on this point. Locke’s aim is largely to justify the Revolution of 1688. He makes government depend on the consent of the governed, not just when government begins, but at all times. He also holds that all rulers can be removed if they rule tyrannically. However, he provides no way for the people to express their views short of revolution. On the whole, he seems to treat popular consent as essentially unspoken and taken for granted. He sees the State as existing mainly to protect life and property. And he is so cautious in all his claims for popular rights that he reduces those rights almost to nothing. Only with Rousseau is the second form of the contract theory presented in its purest and most logical form.

Rousseau sees clearly the necessity, if popular consent in government is to be more than a name, of giving it some constitutional means of expression. For Locke's theory of tacit consent, he substitutes an active agreement periodically renewed. He looks back with admiration to the city-states of ancient Greece and, in his own day, reserves his admiration for the Swiss free cities, Berne and, above all, Geneva, his native place. Seeing in the Europe of his day no case in which representative government was working at all democratically, he was unable to conceive that means might be found of giving effect to this active agreement in a nation-state; he therefore held that self-government was impossible except for a city. He wished to break up the nation-states of Europe, and create instead federative leagues of independent city-states.

Rousseau clearly sees that popular consent in government needs a constitutional way to express itself, if consent is to mean anything. He replaces Locke's theory of tacit consent with active agreement, renewed at regular intervals. He looks back with admiration to the city-states of ancient Greece. In his own time, he reserves his admiration for the Swiss free cities, Berne and, above all, his birthplace, Geneva. In the Europe of his day, he sees no example of representative government working at all democratically. As a result, he cannot imagine finding ways to put this active agreement into practice in a nation-state. He therefore believes that self-government is possible only in a city. He wants to break up Europe's nation-states and replace them with leagues of independent city-states joined in federations.

It matters, however, comparatively little, for the appreciation of Rousseau's political theory in general, that he failed to become the theorist of the modern State. By taking the State, which must have, in essentials, everywhere the same basis, at its simplest, he was able, far better than his predecessors, to bring out the real nature of the "social tie," an alternative name which he often uses for the Social Contract. His doctrine I of the underlying principle of political obligation is that of all great modern writers, from Kant to Mr. Bosanquet. This fundamental unity has been obscured only because critics have failed to put the Social Contract theory in its proper place in Rousseau's system.

However, Rousseau's failure to become the theorist of the modern State matters relatively little when assessing his overall political theory. He considered the State in its simplest form, since its essential basis must be the same everywhere. This approach let him explain the true nature of the "social tie" far better than his predecessors. He often uses that phrase as another name for the Social Contract. His view of the basic principle of political obligation is shared by all great modern writers, from Kant to Mr. Bosanquet. This fundamental agreement has been obscured only because critics have failed to place Social Contract theory properly within Rousseau's system.

This theory was, we have seen, a commonplace. The amount of historical authenticity assigned to the contract almost universally presupposed varied enormously. Generally, the weaker a writer's rational basis, the more he appealed to history—and invented it. It was, therefore, almost inevitable that Rousseau should cast his theory into the contractual form. There were, indeed, writers of his time who laughed at the contract, but they were not writers who constructed a general system of political philosophy. From Cromwell to Montesquieu and Bentham, it was the practically minded man, impatient of unactual hypotheses, who refused to accept the idea of contract. The theorists were as unanimous in its favour as the Victorians were in favour of the "organic" theory. But we, criticising them in the light of later events, are in a better position for estimating the position the Social Contract really took in their political system. We see that Locke's doctrine of tacit consent made popular control so unreal that he was forced, if the State was to have any hold, to make his contract historical and actual, binding posterity for all time, and that he was also led to admit a quasi-contract between people and government, as a second vindication of popular liberties. Rousseau, on the other hand, bases no vital argument on the historical nature of the contract, in which, indeed, he clearly does not believe. "How," he asks, "did this change [from nature to society] come about?" And he answers that he does not know. Moreover, his aim is to find "a sure and legitimate rule of administration, taking men as they are and laws as they might be"; that is to say, his Social Contract is something which will be found at work in every legitimate society, but which will be in abeyance in all forms of despotism. He clearly means by it no more and no less than the fundamental principle of political association, the basis of the unity which enables us, in the State, to realise political liberty by giving up lawlessness and license. The presentation of this doctrine in the quasi-historical form of the Social Contract theory is due to the accident of the time and place in which Rousseau wrote. At the same time, the importance of the conception is best to be seen in the hard death it dies. Though no-one, for a hundred years or so, has thought of regarding it as historical, it has been found so hard to secure any other phrase explaining as well or better the basis of political union that, to this day, the phraseology of the contract theory largely persists. A conception so vital cannot have been barren.

As we have seen, this theory was widely accepted. Almost everyone assumed a contract existed, but views varied enormously on how far it was a historical fact. Generally, the weaker a writer's reasoning, the more he appealed to history, and invented it. So it was almost inevitable that Rousseau would present his theory as a contract. Some writers of his time did laugh at the contract. But those writers did not develop a general system of political philosophy. From Cromwell to Montesquieu and Bentham, practically minded men rejected the contract because they had no patience for imaginary hypotheses. The theorists supported the contract as unanimously as the Victorians supported the "organic" theory. But later events give us a better basis for judging the Social Contract's actual place in their political systems. We can see that Locke's doctrine of tacit consent made popular control so unreal that he faced a problem. If the State was to retain any authority, he had to treat his contract as a real historical event. That contract would bind all future generations forever. He was also led to recognize something like a contract between the people and the government. This second contract offered another justification for popular freedoms. Rousseau, by contrast, bases no essential argument on the contract's historical reality. Indeed, he clearly does not believe in that reality. "How," he asks, "did this change [from nature to society] come about?" He answers that he does not know. Moreover, he aims to find "a sure and legitimate rule of administration, taking men as they are and laws as they might be". In other words, his Social Contract operates in every legitimate society, but is suspended under all forms of despotism. By the contract, he clearly means nothing more or less than the fundamental principle of political association. This principle creates the unity that lets us achieve political freedom within the State by giving up lawlessness and license. Rousseau presented this doctrine as a seemingly historical Social Contract theory because of when and where he happened to write. At the same time, the idea's importance is clearest in how stubbornly it refuses to die. For a hundred years or so, no one has considered the contract a historical fact. Yet finding another phrase that explains the basis of political union as well or better has proved very difficult. So the language of contract theory remains widely used to this day. An idea with such lasting power cannot have been unproductive.

It is indeed, in Rousseau's own thought, only one of the three different ways in which the basis of political union is stated, according to the preoccupation of his mind. When he is thinking quasi-historically, he describes his doctrine as that of the Social Contract. Modern anthropology, in its attempts to explain the complex by means of the simple, often strays further from the straight paths of history and reason. In a semi-legal aspect, using the terminology, if not the standpoint, of jurisprudence, he restates the same doctrine in the form of popular Sovereignty. This use tends continually to pass over into the more philosophical form which comes third. "Sovereignty is the exercise of the general will." Philosophically, Rousseau's doctrine finds its expression in the view that the State is based not on any original convention, not on, any determinate power, but on the living and sustaining rational will of its members. We have now to examine first Sovereignty and then the General Will, which is ultimately Rousseau's guiding conception.

Indeed, in Rousseau's own thinking, it is only one of three ways of explaining the basis of political union. His explanation varies according to what occupies his mind. When thinking in roughly historical terms, he presents his doctrine as the Social Contract. Modern anthropology tries to explain the complex through the simple. In doing so, it often strays further from sound history and reasoning. From a partly legal perspective, he restates the same doctrine as popular Sovereignty. He uses the language of legal theory, though not necessarily its viewpoint. This account continually tends to shift toward his third, more philosophical formulation. "Sovereignty is the exercise of the general will." In philosophical terms, Rousseau holds that the State rests neither on an original agreement nor on any particular power. Instead, it rests on the living, rational will of its members, which sustains it. We must now examine Sovereignty first, then the General Will, which is ultimately Rousseau's guiding idea.

Sovereignty is, first and foremost, a legal term, and it has often been held that its use in political philosophy merely leads to confusion. In jurisprudence, we are told, it has the perfectly plain meaning given to it in Austin's famous definition. The Sovereign is "a determinate human superior, not in a habit of obedience to a like superior, but receiving habitual obedience from the bulk of a given society." Where Sovereignty is placed is, on this view, a question purely of fact, and never of right. We have only to seek out the determinate human superior in a given society, and we shall have the Sovereign. In answer to this theory, it is not enough, though it is a valuable point, to show that such a determinate superior is rarely to be found. Where, for instance, is the Sovereign of England or of the British Empire? Is it the King, who is called the Sovereign? Or is it the Parliament, which is the legislature (for Austin's Sovereign is regarded as the source of law)? Or is it the electorate, or the whole mass of the population, with or without the right of voting? Clearly all these exercise a certain influence in the making of laws. Or finally, is it now the Cabinet? For Austin, one of these bodies would be ruled out as indeterminate (the mass of the population) and another as responsible (the Cabinet). But are we to regard the House of Commons or those who elect it as forming part of the Sovereign? The search for a determinate Sovereign may be a valuable legal conception; but it has evidently nothing to do with political theory.

Sovereignty is, above all, a legal term. People have often argued that using the term in political philosophy only creates confusion. In law, we are told, Sovereignty has the perfectly clear meaning given in Austin's famous definition. The Sovereign is "an identifiable human superior, not habitually obeying another such superior, but receiving habitual obedience from the majority of a given society." On this view, identifying who holds Sovereignty is purely a question of fact, never of right. We need only find the identifiable human superior in a given society to find the Sovereign. To answer this theory, pointing out that such an identifiable superior can rarely be found is not enough. Still, that is a valuable point. Where, for example, is the Sovereign of England or of the British Empire? Is it the King, who is called the Sovereign? Or is it Parliament, the body that makes laws? Austin's Sovereign, after all, is regarded as the source of law. Or is it the electorate, or the entire population, with or without voting rights? Clearly, all these influence the making of laws to some extent. Or, finally, is the Sovereign now the Cabinet? Austin would rule out the population as a whole because it is not an identifiable body. He would also rule out the Cabinet because it is accountable to another body. But should we regard the House of Commons, or those who elect it, as part of the Sovereign? The search for an identifiable Sovereign may be a valuable approach in law. But that search clearly has nothing to do with political theory.

It is, therefore, essential to distinguish between the legal Sovereign of jurisprudence, and the political Sovereign of political science and philosophy. Even so, it does not at once become clear what this political Sovereign may be. Is it the body or bodies of persons in whom political power in a State actually resides? Is it merely the complex of actual institutions regarded as embodying the will of the society? This would leave us still in the realm of mere fact, outside both right and philosophy. The Sovereign, in the philosophical sense, is neither the nominal Sovereign, nor the legal Sovereign, nor the political Sovereign of fact and common sense: it is the consequence of the fundamental bond of union, the restatement of the doctrine of Social Contract, the foreshadowing of that of General Will. The Sovereign is that body in the State in which political power ought always to reside, and in which the right to such power does always reside.

We must therefore distinguish between the legal Sovereign of law and the political Sovereign of political science and philosophy. Even so, what this political Sovereign might be is not immediately clear. Is it the person or groups who actually hold political power in a State? Is it simply the network of existing institutions seen as expressing society’s will? This view would still leave us dealing only with facts, outside questions of right and philosophy. In philosophy, the Sovereign is neither the Sovereign in name, nor the legal Sovereign, nor the political Sovereign of everyday understanding. Instead, the Sovereign follows from the basic bond that unites society. This idea restates the doctrine of Social Contract and anticipates the doctrine of General Will. The Sovereign is the body within the State in which political power ought always to rest. It is also the body in which the right to that power does always rest.

The idea at the back of the philosophical conception of Sovereignty is, therefore, essentially the same as that we found to underlie the Social Contract theory. It is the view that the people, whether it can alienate its right or not, is the ultimate director of its own destinies, the final power from which there is no appeal. In a sense, this is recognised even by Hobbes, who makes the power of his absolute Sovereign, the predecessor of Austin's "determinate human superior," issue first of all from the Social Contract, which is essentially a popular act. The difference between Hobbes and Rousseau on this point is solely that Rousseau regards as inalienable a supreme power which Hobbes makes the people alienate in its first corporate action. That is to say, Hobbes in fact accepts the theory of popular supremacy in name only to destroy it in fact; Rousseau asserts the theory in its only logical form, and is under no temptation to evade it by means of false historical assumptions. In Locke, a distinction is already drawn between the legal and the actual Sovereign, which Locke calls "supreme power"; Rousseau unites the absolute Sovereignty of Hobbes and the "popular consent" of Locke into the philosophic doctrine of popular Sovereignty, which has since been the established form of the theory. His final view represents a return from the perversions of Hobbes to a doctrine already familiar to mediæval and Renaissance writers; but it is not merely a return. In its passage the view has fallen into its place in a complete system of political philosophy.

The idea behind the philosophical concept of Sovereignty is therefore essentially the same as the idea underlying Social Contract theory. The people ultimately control their own destiny, whether or not they can give up their right to do so. They are the final authority, whose decisions cannot be appealed. In a sense, even Hobbes recognizes this. For Hobbes, the power of his absolute Sovereign originally comes from the Social Contract, an act of the people themselves. His Sovereign is the predecessor of Austin's "determinate human superior." The only difference between Hobbes and Rousseau on this point concerns whether the people can surrender their supreme power. Rousseau considers that power inalienable, while Hobbes has the people surrender it in their first act as a collective body. In other words, Hobbes accepts popular supremacy in name only to destroy it in practice. Rousseau presents the theory in its only logical form. He feels no temptation to sidestep it through false historical assumptions. Locke already distinguishes between the legal Sovereign and the actual Sovereign, whom he calls the "supreme power". Rousseau combines Hobbes's absolute Sovereignty with Locke's "popular consent" to form the philosophical doctrine of popular Sovereignty. That doctrine has since become the established form of the theory. Rousseau's final view turns away from Hobbes's distortions and returns to a doctrine already familiar to medieval and Renaissance writers. But his view is more than a return. Along the way, the doctrine has found its place within a complete system of political philosophy.

In a second important respect Rousseau differentiates himself from Hobbes. For Hobbes, the Sovereign is identical with the government. He is so hot for absolutism largely because he regards revolution, the overthrow of the existing government, as at the same time the dissolution of the body politic, and a return to complete anarchy or to the "state of nature." Rousseau and, to some extent, Locke meet this view by sharp division between the supreme power and the government. For Rousseau, they are so clearly distinct that even a completely democratic government is not at the same time the Sovereign; its members are sovereign only in a different capacity and as a different corporate body, just as two different societies may exist for different purposes with exactly the same members. Pure democracy, however, the government of the State by all the people in every detail, is not, as Rousseau says, a possible human institution. All governments are really mixed in character; and what we call a democracy is only a more or less democratic government. Government, therefore, will always be to some extent in the hands of selected persons. Sovereignty, on the other hand, is in his view absolute, inalienable, indivisible, and indestructible. It cannot be limited, abandoned, shared or destroyed. It is an essential part of all social life that the right to control the destinies of the State belongs in the last resort to the whole people. There clearly must in the end be somewhere in the society an ultimate court of appeal, whether determinate or not; but, unless Sovereignty is distinguished from government, the government, passing under the name of Sovereign, will inevitably be regarded as absolute. The only way to avoid the conclusions of Hobbes is, therefore, to establish a clear separation between them.

Rousseau differs from Hobbes in a second important way. For Hobbes, the Sovereign and the government are the same. Hobbes strongly supports absolute power largely because he sees revolution, the overthrow of the existing government, as dissolving society itself. In his view, revolution also means a return to complete anarchy or the "state of nature." Rousseau and, to some extent, Locke counter this view by clearly separating supreme power from government. For Rousseau, the two are so distinct that even a fully democratic government is not also the Sovereign. Its members are sovereign only when acting in a different role and as a different collective body. In the same way, two different societies may have exactly the same members but exist for different purposes. Pure democracy, however, means government in which all the people manage every detail of the State. As Rousseau says, such government is not a possible human institution. All governments are really mixed in character. And what we call a democracy is only a more or less democratic government. Government, therefore, will always be to some extent in the hands of selected people. Sovereignty, on the other hand, is in Rousseau's view absolute, inalienable, indivisible, and indestructible. Sovereignty cannot be limited, given up, shared, or destroyed. In all social life, the right to decide the State's future ultimately belongs to the whole people. This right is an essential part of social life. Clearly, every society must ultimately have some final authority to appeal to, whether clearly defined or not. But unless Sovereignty is distinguished from government, the government will inevitably be seen as absolute because it is called Sovereign. The only way to avoid Hobbes's conclusions, therefore, is to establish a clear separation between Sovereignty and government.

Rousseau tries to do this by an adaptation of the doctrine of the "three powers." But instead of three independent powers sharing the supreme authority, he gives only two, and makes one of these wholly dependent on the other. He substitutes for the co-ordination of the legislative, the executive, and the judicial authorities, a system in which the legislative power, or Sovereign, is always supreme, the executive, or government, always secondary and derivative, and the judicial power merely a function of government. This division he makes, naturally, one of will and power. The government is merely to carry out the decrees, or acts of will, of the Sovereign people. Just as the human will transfers a command to its members for execution, so the body politic may give its decisions force by setting up authority which, like the brain, may command its members. In delegating the power necessary for the execution of its will, it is abandoning none of its supreme authority. It remains Sovereign, and can at any moment recall the grants it has made. Government, therefore, exists only at the Sovereign's pleasure, and is always revocable by the sovereign will.

Rousseau tries to do this by adapting the doctrine of the "three powers." But instead of three independent powers sharing supreme authority, he allows only two. He makes one entirely dependent on the other. Instead of placing legislative, executive, and judicial authorities on equal terms, he establishes a different system. Legislative power, or the Sovereign, is always supreme. Executive power, or government, is always secondary and draws its authority from the Sovereign. Judicial power is merely a function of government. Naturally, he makes this a division between will and power. The government is merely to carry out the decrees, or acts of will, of the Sovereign people. Just as the human will sends commands to the body's parts, so the body politic may enforce its decisions. To do so, the body politic may establish an authority that, like the brain, can command its members. By delegating the power needed to carry out its will, the body politic gives up none of its supreme authority. The body politic remains Sovereign and can withdraw its grants of power at any moment. Government therefore exists only as long as the Sovereign wishes. The sovereign will can always revoke the government's authority.

It will be seen, when we come to discuss the nature of the General Will, that this doctrine really contains the most valuable part of Rousseau's theory. Here, we are concerned rather with its limitations. The distinction between legislative and executive functions is in practice very hard to draw. In Rousseau's case, it is further complicated by the presence of a second distinction. The legislative power, the Sovereign, is concerned only with what is general, the executive only with what is particular. This distinction, the full force of which can only be seen in connection with the General Will, means roughly that a matter is general when it concerns the whole community equally, and makes no mention of any particular class; as soon as it refers to any class or person, it becomes particular, and can no longer form the subject matter of an act of Sovereignty. However just this distinction may seem in the abstract, it is clear that its effect is to place all the power in the hands of the executive: modern legislation is almost always concerned with particular classes and interests. It is not, therefore, a long step from the view of Rousseau to the modern theory of democratic government, in which the people has little power beyond that of removing its rulers if they displease it. As long, however, as we confine our view to the city-state of which Rousseau is thinking, his distinction is capable of preserving for the people a greater actual exercise of will. A city can often generalise where a nation must particularise.

When we discuss the nature of the General Will, we will see that this doctrine contains Rousseau's most valuable ideas. Here, however, we are more concerned with the doctrine's limits. In practice, legislative and executive functions are very hard to distinguish. In Rousseau's theory, a second distinction makes this separation even more complicated. The legislative power, the Sovereign, deals only with general matters. The executive deals only with particular matters. The full significance of this distinction becomes clear only in relation to the General Will. Roughly speaking, a matter is general when it concerns the whole community equally and mentions no particular class. As soon as a matter refers to any class or person, it becomes particular. It can then no longer be the subject of an act of Sovereignty. However reasonable this distinction may seem in theory, it clearly places all power in the executive's hands. Modern legislation almost always concerns particular classes and interests. Rousseau's view is therefore not far from the modern theory of democratic government. In that theory, the people have little power beyond removing their rulers if those rulers displease them. As long as we consider only the city-state Rousseau has in mind, however, his distinction can preserve something more. It can allow the people to exercise their will more fully in practice. A city can often deal with matters generally where a nation must deal with particular groups and interests.

It is in the third book of the Social Contract, where Rousseau is discussing the problem of government, that it is most essential to remember that his discussion has in view mainly the city-state and not the nation. Broadly put, his principle of government is that democracy is possible only in small States, aristocracy in those of medium extent, and monarchy in great States (Book III, chap. iii). In considering this view, we have to take into account two things. First, he rejects representative government; will being, in his theory, inalienable, representative Sovereignty is impossible. But, as he regards all general acts as functions of Sovereignty, this means that no general act can be within the competence of a representative assembly. In judging this theory, we must take into account all the circumstances of Rousseau's time. France, Geneva and England were the three States he took most into account. In France, representative government was practically non-existent; in Geneva, it was only partially necessary; in England, it was a mockery, used to support a corrupt oligarchy against a debased monarchy. Rousseau may well be pardoned for not taking the ordinary modern view of it. Nor indeed is it, even in the modern world, so satisfactory an instrument of the popular will that we can afford wholly to discard his criticism. It is one of the problems of the day to find some means of securing effective popular control over a weakened Parliament and a despotic Cabinet.

In the third book of the Social Contract, Rousseau discusses the problem of government. Here, above all, we must remember that he is mainly considering the city-state, not the nation. Broadly speaking, his principle is that democracy is possible only in small States, aristocracy in medium-sized States, and monarchy in large States (Book III, chap. iii). We must consider two things when assessing this view. First, Rousseau rejects representative government. In his theory, the will cannot be transferred to anyone else, so representative Sovereignty is impossible. But he sees all acts of a general nature as functions of Sovereignty. This means that no such act can fall within the authority of a representative assembly. To judge this theory, we must consider all the circumstances of Rousseau's time. France, Geneva and England were the three States he considered most closely. In France, representative government was almost nonexistent. In Geneva, it was necessary only to a limited extent. In England, it was a sham, used to support a corrupt oligarchy against a degraded monarchy. Rousseau may well be forgiven for not taking the usual modern view of representative government. Even in the modern world, representative government does not express the people's will well enough to justify dismissing his criticism entirely. One of today's problems is finding some way to ensure effective popular control over a weakened Parliament and a despotic Cabinet.

The second factor is the immense development of local government. It seemed to Rousseau that, in the nation-state, all authority must necessarily pass, as it had in France, to the central power. Devolution was hardly dreamed of; and Rousseau saw the only means of securing effective popular government in a federal system, starting from the small unit as Sovereign. The nineteenth century has proved the falsehood of much of his theory of government; but there are still many wise comments and fruitful suggestions to be found in the third book of the Social Contract and in the treatise on the Government of Poland, as well as in his adaptation and criticism of the Polysynodie of the Abbé de Saint-Pierre, a scheme of local government for France, born out of its due time.

The second factor is the enormous growth of local government. Rousseau believed that all authority in a nation-state must necessarily pass to the central government, as had happened in France. Transferring power to local governments was hardly considered. Rousseau saw a federal system as the only way to secure effective government by the people. Such a system would start with the small unit as Sovereign. The nineteenth century has proved much of his theory of government wrong. But many wise observations and useful suggestions remain in the third book of the Social Contract. They also appear in the treatise on the Government of Poland and his adaptation and criticism of the Abbé de Saint-Pierre’s Polysynodie. The Polysynodie was a plan for local government in France, proposed before its time.

The point in Rousseau's theory of Sovereignty that offers most difficulty is his view (Book II, chap, vii) that, for every State, a Legislator is necessary. We shall understand the section only by realising that the legislator is, in fact, in Rousseau's system, the spirit of institutions personified; his place, in a developed society, is taken by the whole complex of social custom, organisation and tradition that has grown up with the State. This is made clearer by the fact that the legislator is not to exercise legislative power; he is merely to submit his suggestions for popular approval. Thus Rousseau recognises that, in the case of institutions and traditions as elsewhere, will, and not force, is the basis of the State.

The most difficult point in Rousseau's theory of Sovereignty is his view that every State needs a Legislator. He presents this view in Book II, chapter vii. We can understand the section only by recognizing that, in Rousseau's system, the legislator personifies the spirit of institutions. In a developed society, the legislator's role is filled by the entire network of social customs, organization, and tradition. This network has grown up with the State. The legislator's role becomes clearer when we see that he is not to exercise legislative power. He is only to submit his suggestions for approval by the people. Thus Rousseau recognizes that, for institutions and traditions as elsewhere, will, not force, is the basis of the State.

This may be seen in his treatment of law as a whole (Book II, chap, vi), which deserves very careful attention. He defines laws as "acts of the general will," and, agreeing with Montesquieu in making law the "condition of civil association," goes beyond him only in tracing it more definitely to its origin in an act of will. The Social Contract renders law necessary, and at the same time makes it quite clear that laws can proceed only from the body of citizens who have constituted the State. "Doubtless," says Rousseau, "there is a universal justice emanating from reason alone; but this justice, to be admitted among us, must be mutual. Humbly speaking, in default of natural sanctions, the laws of justice are ineffective among men." Of the law which set up among men this reign of mutual justice the General Will is the source.

We may see this in his discussion of law as a whole (Book II, chapter vi). That discussion deserves very careful attention. He defines laws as "acts of the general will." Like Montesquieu, he sees law as the "condition of civil association." He goes beyond Montesquieu only by tracing law more clearly to its origin in an act of will. The Social Contract makes law necessary. At the same time, it makes clear that laws can come only from the citizens who have formed the State. "Certainly," Rousseau says, "there is a universal justice that comes from reason alone. But for this justice to be accepted among us, it must be mutual. In human terms, without natural penalties to enforce them, the laws of justice have no effect among people." The General Will is the source of the law that established this rule of mutual justice among people.

We thus come at last to the General Will, the most disputed, and certainly the most fundamental, of all Rousseau's political concepts. No critic of the Social Contract has found it easy to say either what precisely its author meant by it, or what is its final value for political philosophy. The difficulty is increased because Rousseau himself sometimes halts in the sense which he assigns to it, and even seems to suggest by it two different ideas. Of its broad meaning, however, there can be no doubt. The effect of the Social Contract is the creation of a new individual. When it has taken place, "at once, in place of the individual personality of each contracting party, the act of association creates a moral and collective body, composed of as many members as the assembly contains voters, and receiving from the act its unity, its common identity (moi commun), its life and its will" (Book I, chap. vi). The same doctrine had been stated earlier, in the Political Economy, without the historical setting. "The body politic is also a moral being, possessed of a will, and this general will, which tends always to the preservation and welfare of the whole and of every part, and is the source of the laws, constitutes for all the members of the State, in their relations to one another and to it, the rule of what is just or unjust." It will be seen at once that the second statement, which could easily be fortified by others from the Social Contract, says more than the first. It is not apparent that the common will, created by the institution of society, need "tend always to the welfare of the whole." Is not the common will at least as fallible as the will of a single individual? May it not equally be led away from its true interests to the pursuit of pleasure or of something which is really harmful to it? And, if the whole society may vote what conduces to the momentary pleasure of all the members and at the same time to the lasting damage of the State as a whole, is it not still more likely that some of the members will try to secure their private interests in opposition to those of the whole and of others? All these questions, and others like them, have been asked by critics of the conception of the General Will.

We finally come to the General Will, the most disputed and certainly the most fundamental of all Rousseau's political concepts. No critic of the Social Contract has found it easy to explain exactly what Rousseau meant by the term. Nor has any critic found it easy to assess its ultimate value for political philosophy. The difficulty grows because Rousseau himself sometimes shifts the meaning he gives the term. He even seems to use it to suggest two different ideas. Still, there can be no doubt about its broad meaning. The Social Contract creates a new individual. Once the contract takes effect, "the act of association immediately replaces the individual identity of each contracting party with a moral and collective body. This body has as many members as the assembly has voters. The act gives the body its unity, its common identity (moi commun), its life and its will" (Book I, chapter vi). Rousseau had stated the same doctrine earlier in the Political Economy, without the historical setting. "The body politic is also a moral being with a will. This general will always aims to preserve and promote the welfare of the whole and every part. It is also the source of the laws. For all members of the State, it sets the standard of justice and injustice in their relations with one another and with the State." Clearly, the second statement says more than the first. Other passages from the Social Contract could easily support the second statement. It is not clear that the common will created when society is established must "always aim at the welfare of the whole." Isn't the common will at least as capable of error as an individual's will? May it not likewise stray from its true interests to pursue pleasure or something actually harmful to itself? And the whole society may vote for something that gives all its members immediate pleasure while permanently harming the State as a whole. If so, isn't it even more likely that some members will try to advance their private interests? Those interests may conflict with the interests of the whole and of other members. Critics of the General Will have asked all these questions, and others like them.

Two main points are involved, to one of which Rousseau gives a clear and definite answer. "There is often," he says, "a great deal of difference between the will of all and the general will; the latter takes account only of the common interest, while the former takes private interest into account, and is no more than a sum of particular wills." "The agreement of all interests is formed by opposition to that of each" (Book II, chap. iii). It is indeed possible for a citizen, when an issue is presented to him, to vote not for the good of the State, but for his own good; but, in such a case, his vote, from the point of view of the General Will, is merely negligible. But "does it follow that the general will is exterminated or corrupted? Not at all: it is always constant, unalterable, and pure; but it is subordinated to other wills which encroach upon its sphere.... The fault [each man] commits [in detaching his interest from the common interest] is that of changing the state of the question, and answering something different from what he is asked. Instead of saying by his vote 'It is to the advantage of the State,' he says, 'It is to the advantage of this or that man or party that this or that view should prevail.' Thus the law of public order in assemblies is not so much to maintain in them the general will as to secure that the question be always put to it, and the answer always given by it" (Book IV, chap. i). These passages, with many others that may be found in the text, make it quite clear that by the General Will Rousseau means something quite distinct from the Will of All, with which it should never have been confused. The only excuse for such confusion lies in his view that when, in a city-state, all particular associations are avoided, votes guided by individual self-interest will always cancel one another, so that majority voting will always result in the General Will. This is clearly not the case, and in this respect we may charge him with pushing the democratic argument too far. The point, however, can be better dealt with at a later stage. Rousseau makes no pretence that the mere voice of a majority is infallible; he only says, at the most, that, given his ideal conditions, it would be so.

Two main points are involved. Rousseau gives a clear, definite answer to one of them. "There is often," he says, "a great difference between the will of all and the general will. The general will considers only the common interest. The will of all considers private interests and is simply the sum of individual wills." "All interests come together through their opposition to each individual interest" (Book II, chap. iii). A citizen facing an issue may indeed vote for his own good rather than the State’s good. But from the standpoint of the General Will, his vote in such a case simply does not count. But "does it follow that the general will is destroyed or corrupted? Not at all: it is always constant, unchanging, and pure. But it is placed beneath other wills that intrude on its domain.... The mistake [each man] makes [in separating his interest from the common interest] is to change the question. He answers something different from what he is asked. Instead of saying through his vote 'This benefits the State,' he says, 'This view benefits this or that man or party.' Thus the rule for keeping order in public assemblies is not so much to preserve the general will within them. Rather, the rule is to ensure that the question is always put to the general will and answered by it" (Book IV, chap. i). These passages, along with many others in the text, make Rousseau’s meaning quite clear. The General Will is quite distinct from the Will of All, and the two should never have been confused. The only excuse for this confusion lies in his view of voting under certain conditions. He believes that when, in a city-state, all separate associations are avoided, votes guided by individual self-interest will always cancel one another out. Majority voting will therefore always produce the General Will. This is clearly not true. On this point, we may accuse him of taking the democratic argument too far. However, this point can be better addressed later. Rousseau does not claim that the majority’s voice alone is infallible. At most, he says that under his ideal conditions, it would be.

The second main point raised by critics of the General Will is whether in defining it as a will directed solely to the common interest, Rousseau means to exclude acts of public immorality and short-sightedness. He answers the questions in different ways. First, an act of public immorality would be merely an unanimous instance of selfishness, different in no particular, from similar acts less unanimous, and therefore forming no part of a General Will. Secondly, a mere ignorance of our own and the State's good, entirely unprompted by selfish desires, does not make our will anti-social or individual. "The general will is always right and tends to the public advantage; but it does not follow that the deliberations of the people are always equally correct. Our will is always for our own good, but we do not always see what that is: the people is never corrupted, but it is often deceived, and on such occasions only does it seem to will what is bad" (Book II, chap. iii). It is impossible to acquit Rousseau in some of the passages in which he treats of the General Will, of something worse than obscurity—positive contradiction. It is probable, indeed, that he never quite succeeded in getting his view clear in his own mind; there is nearly always, in his treatment of it, a certain amount of muddle and fluctuation. These difficulties the student must be left to worry out for himself; it is only possible to present, in outline, what Rousseau meant to convey.

The second main question raised by critics of the General Will concerns Rousseau’s definition of it. He defines the General Will as a will directed only toward the common interest. Does he therefore exclude acts of public immorality and shortsightedness? He gives different answers to these questions. First, an act of public immorality would simply be a unanimous act of selfishness. It would be no different from similar acts with less unanimous support. It would therefore form no part of a General Will. Second, we may simply fail to understand our own good and the State’s good, without any selfish motives. Such ignorance does not make our will antisocial or individual. "The general will is always right and aims at the public good. But the people’s decisions are not necessarily always equally correct. We always will our own good, but we do not always see what our good is. The people are never corrupted, but they are often deceived. Only when deceived do they seem to will what is bad" (Book II, chapter iii). In some passages about the General Will, Rousseau cannot be cleared of something worse than unclear writing: outright contradiction. Indeed, he probably never quite managed to clarify his view in his own mind. His treatment of the subject nearly always contains some confusion and inconsistency. Readers must be left to work through these difficulties for themselves. All that can be offered here is an outline of what Rousseau meant to convey.

The treatment of the General Will in the Political Economy is brief and lucid, and furnishes the best guide to his meaning. The definition of it in this work, which has already been quoted, is followed by a short account of the nature of general wills as a whole. "Every political society is composed of other smaller societies of various kinds, each of which has its interest and rules of conduct; but those societies which everybody perceives, because they have an external or authorised form, are not the only ones that actually exist in the State: all individuals who are united by a common interest compose as many others, either temporary or permanent, whose influence is none the less real because it is less apparent.... The influence of all these tacit or formal associations causes by the influence of their will as many modifications of the public will. The will of these particular societies has always two relations; for the members of the association, it is a general will; for the great society, it is a particular will; and it is often right with regard to the first object and wrong as to the second. The most general will is always the most just, and the voice of the people is, in fact, the voice of God."

The discussion of the General Will in the Political Economy is brief and clear, offering the best guide to Rousseau’s meaning. The definition in this work, quoted earlier, is followed by a short explanation of general wills as a whole. "Every political society is made up of smaller societies of various kinds. Each has its own interest and rules of conduct. Some societies are visible to everyone because they have an outward or officially recognized form. But these are not the only societies that actually exist in the State. All individuals united by a common interest form other societies, either temporary or permanent. Their influence is no less real because it is less visible.... All these informal or formal associations influence the public will, each changing it through its own will. The will of each smaller society always has two aspects. For the association’s members, it is a general will. For the larger society, it is a particular will. And it is often right for the association but wrong for the larger society. The most general will is always the most just, and the voice of the people is, in fact, the voice of God."

The General Will, Rousseau continues in substance, is always for the common good; but it is sometimes divided into smaller general wills, which are wrong in relation to it. The supremacy of the great General Will is "the first principle of public economy and the fundamental rule of government." In this passage, which differs only in clearness and simplicity from others in the Social Contract itself, it is easy to see how far Rousseau had in his mind a perfectly definite idea. Every association of several persons creates a new common will; every association of a permanent character has already a "personality" of its own, and in consequence a "general" will; the State, the highest known form of association, is a fully developed moral and collective being with a common will which is, in the highest sense yet known to us, general. All such wills are general only for the members of the associations Which exercise them; for outsiders, or rather for other associations, they are purely particular wills. This applies even to the State; "for, in relation to what is outside it, the State becomes a simple being, an individual" (Social Contract, Book I. chap. vii). In certain passages in the Social Contract, in his criticism of the Abbé de Saint-Pierre's Project of Perpetual Peace, and in the second chapter of the original draft of the Social Contract, Rousseau takes into account the possibility of a still higher individual, "the federation of the world." In the Political Economy, thinking of the nation-state, he affirms what in the Social Contract (Book II, chap, iii) he denies of the city, and recognises that the life of a nation is made up of the whole complex of its institutions, and that the existence of lesser general wills is not necessarily a menace to the General Will of the State. In the Social Contract, he only treats of these lesser wills in relation to the government, which, he shows, has a will of its own, general for its members, but particular for the State as a whole (Book III, chap. ii). This governmental will he there prefers to call corporate will, and by this name it will be convenient to distinguish the lesser general wills from the General Will of the State that is over them all.

Rousseau goes on to say that the General Will always serves the common good. But sometimes it divides into smaller general wills, which are wrong in relation to the General Will. The supremacy of the larger General Will is "the first principle of public economy and the fundamental rule of government." This passage differs from others in the Social Contract itself only in its clarity and simplicity. It makes clear how definite Rousseau's idea was. Every association of several people creates a new common will. Every lasting association already has a "personality" of its own and, therefore, a "general" will. The State, the highest known form of association, is a fully developed moral and collective being. Its common will is general in the highest sense we yet know. All these wills are general only for the members of the associations that express them. For outsiders, or rather for other associations, these wills are purely particular wills. Even the State follows this rule: "for, in relation to what is outside it, the State becomes a simple being, an individual" (Social Contract, Book I, chapter vii). Rousseau considers the possibility of an even higher individual, "the federation of the world." He does so in certain passages of the Social Contract and in his criticism of the Abbé de Saint-Pierre's Project of Perpetual Peace. He also considers this possibility in the second chapter of the original draft of the Social Contract. In the Political Economy, Rousseau has the nation-state in mind. He affirms something about the nation-state that he denies about the city in the Social Contract (Book II, chapter iii). He recognizes that a nation's life consists of its whole complex of institutions. He also recognizes that smaller general wills do not necessarily threaten the State's General Will. In the Social Contract, he discusses these smaller wills only in relation to government. He shows that government has its own will, general for its members but particular for the State as a whole (Book III, chapter ii). There, he prefers to call the government's will its corporate will. This term conveniently distinguishes the smaller general wills from the State's General Will, which stands above them all.

So far, there is no great difficulty; but in discussing the infallibility of the General Will we are on more dangerous ground. Rousseau's treatment here clearly oscillates between regarding it as a purely ideal conception, to which human institutions can only approximate, and holding it to be realised actually in every republican State, i.e. wherever the people is the Sovereign in fact as well as in right. Book IV, chap, ii is the most startling passage expressing the latter view. "When in the popular assembly a law is proposed, what the people is asked is not exactly whether it accepts or rejects the proposal, but whether it is in conformity with the general will, which is its will.... When, therefore, the opinion that is contrary to my own prevails, this proves neither more nor less than that I was mistaken, and that what I thought to be the general will was not so." On his own principles laid down elsewhere, Rousseau would have to admit that it proves nothing of the sort, except in so far as the other voters have been guided by the general interest. Though he sometimes affirms the opposite, there is no security on his principles that the will of the majority will be the General Will. At the most it can only be said that there is a greater chance of its being general than of the will of any selected class of persons not being led away by corporate interests. The justification of democracy is not that it is always right, even in intention, but that it is more general than any other kind of supreme power.

So far, there is no great difficulty. But discussing whether the General Will can ever be wrong brings us onto more dangerous ground. Rousseau clearly moves between two views here. In one, the General Will is a pure ideal that human institutions can only approach. In the other, it actually exists in every republican State, that is, wherever the people are Sovereign in practice as well as by right. Book IV, chapter ii contains the most startling statement of the second view. "When a law is proposed in the popular assembly, the people are not asked simply whether they accept or reject it. Instead, they are asked whether the proposal agrees with the general will, which is their own will.... So when an opinion contrary to my own wins, that proves just one thing: I was mistaken. What I thought was the general will was not." Yet Rousseau's own principles, stated elsewhere, would force him to admit that this result proves nothing of the kind. It does so only insofar as the other voters have been guided by the general interest. Although Rousseau sometimes claims otherwise, his principles offer no guarantee that the majority's will is the General Will. At most, the majority's will has a greater chance of reflecting the general interest. The will of any selected group is more likely to be swayed by that group's interests. Democracy is justified not because it is always right, even in its intentions. It is justified because it reflects the general interest more than any other form of supreme power.

Fundamentally, however, the doctrine of the General Will is independent of these contradictions. Apart from Kant's narrow and rigid logic, it is essentially one with his doctrine of the autonomy of the will. Kant takes Rousseau's political theory, and applies it to ethics as a whole. The germ of mis application is already found in Rousseau's own work; for he protests more than once against attempts to treat moral and political philosophy apart, as distinct studies, and asserts their absolute unity. This is brought out clearly in the Social Contract (Book I, chap, viii), where he is speaking of the change brought about by the establishment of society. "The passage from the state of nature to the civil state produces a very remarkable change in man, by substituting justice for instinct in his conduct, and giving his actions the morality they had hitherto lacked.... What man loses by the social contract is his natural liberty and an unlimited right to everything he tries to get and succeeds in getting; what he gains is civil liberty ... which is limited by the general will.... We might, over and above all this, add to what man acquires in the civil state moral liberty, which alone makes him truly master of himself; for the mere impulse of appetite is slavery, while obedience to a law which we prescribe to ourselves is liberty."

At its core, however, the doctrine of the General Will does not depend on these contradictions. Apart from Kant's narrow and rigid logic, it is essentially the same as his doctrine of the will's autonomy. Kant takes Rousseau's political theory and applies it to ethics as a whole. The beginnings of this application already appear in Rousseau's own work. Rousseau objects more than once to treating moral and political philosophy as separate fields, and insists on their complete unity. This unity is clear in the Social Contract (Book I, chapter viii), where Rousseau discusses the change that establishing society brings. "The move from the state of nature to civil society brings a remarkable change in human beings. Justice replaces instinct as the guide to their conduct, and their actions gain the moral character they previously lacked.... Through the social contract, people lose their natural liberty. They also lose their unlimited right to everything they try to obtain and succeed in obtaining. What they gain is civil liberty ... limited by the general will.... Beyond all this, we might add another gain that people make in civil society: moral liberty, which alone makes them truly their own masters. For simply following our appetites is slavery, while obeying a law we set for ourselves is liberty."

This one chapter contains the gist of the Kantian moral philosophy, and makes it quite clear that Rousseau perceived its application to ethics as well as to politics. The morality of our acts consists in their being directed in accordance with universal law; acts in which we are guided merely by our passions are not moral. Further, man can only possess freedom when his whole being is unified in the pursuit of a single end; and, as his whole being can be unified only in pursuit of a rational end, which alone excludes contradiction, only moral acts, only men directing their lives by universal law, are free. In Kantian language, the will is autonomous (i.e. prescribes to itself its own law) only when it is directed to a universal end; when it is guided by selfish passions, or particular considerations, it is heteronomous (i.e. receives its law from something external to itself), and in bondage. Rousseau, as he says (Book I, chap, viii), was not directly concerned with the ethical sense of the word "liberty," and Kant was, therefore, left to develop the doctrine into a system; but the phrases of this chapter prove false the view that the doctrine of a Real Will arises first in connection with politics, and is only transferred thence to moral philosophy. Rousseau bases his political doctrine throughout on his view of human freedom; it is because man is a free agent capable of being determined by a universal law prescribed by himself that the State is in like manner capable of realising the General Will, that is, of prescribing to itself and its members a similar universal law.

This single chapter contains the core of Kantian moral philosophy. It clearly shows that Rousseau understood how this philosophy applied to ethics as well as politics. Our actions are moral when they follow universal law. Actions guided only by our passions are not moral. Furthermore, a person can be free only when their whole being is united in pursuing a single goal. Their whole being can be united only in pursuing a rational goal, because only a rational goal rules out contradiction. So only moral actions are free, and only people who guide their lives by universal law are free. In Kantian terms, the will is autonomous (i.e. gives itself its own law) only when directed toward a universal goal. When guided by selfish passions or particular concerns, the will is heteronomous (i.e. receives its law from something outside itself). Such a will is in bondage. As Rousseau says (Book I, chapter viii), he was not directly concerned with the ethical meaning of "liberty." Kant was therefore left to develop the doctrine into a system. But the wording of this chapter disproves the view that the doctrine of a Real Will first arises in politics. That view holds that the doctrine is only later transferred to moral philosophy. Rousseau bases his political doctrine throughout on his understanding of human freedom. A person is a free agent capable of being guided by a universal law they give themselves. Because people have this capacity, the State can likewise realize the General Will. In other words, the State can give itself and its members a similar universal law.

The General Will, then, is the application of human freedom to political institutions. Before the value of this conception can be determined, there is a criticism to be met. The freedom which is realised in the General Will, we are told, is the freedom of the State as a whole; but the State exists to secure individual freedom for its members. A free State may be tyrannical; a despot may allow his subjects every freedom. What guarantee is there that the State, in freeing itself, will not enslave its members? This criticism has been made with such regularity that it has to be answered in some detail.

The General Will, then, applies human freedom to political institutions. Before we can judge the value of this idea, we must address a criticism. We are told that the freedom achieved through the General Will is the freedom of the State as a whole. But the State exists to secure individual freedom for its members. A free State may be tyrannical. A despot may allow his subjects every freedom. What guarantee is there that the State will not enslave its members while freeing itself? This criticism has been raised so often that we must answer it in some detail.

"The problem is to find a form of association which will defend and protect with the whole common force the person and goods of each associate, and in which each, while uniting himself with all, may still obey himself alone, and remain as free as before." "The clauses of the contract ... are everywhere the same and everywhere tacitly admitted and recognised.... These clauses, properly understood, may be reduced to one—the total alienation of each associate, together with all his rights, to the whole community...; for, if the individuals retained certain rights, as there would be no common superior to decide between them and the public, each, being on one point his own judge, would ask to be so on all, and the state of nature would continue" (Book I, chap. vi). Rousseau sees clearly that it is impossible to place any limits upon the power of the State; when the people combine into a State, they must in the end submit to be guided in all things by the will of the effective majority. Limited Sovereignty is a contradiction in terms; the Sovereign has a right to all that reason allows it, and as soon as reason demands that the State shall interfere, no appeal to individual rights can be made. What is best for the State must be suffered by the individual. This, however, is very far from meaning that the ruling power ought, or has the moral right, to interfere in every particular case. Rousseau has been subjected to much foolish criticism because, after upholding the State's absolute supremacy, he goes on (Book II, chap, iv) to speak of "the limits of the sovereign power." There is no contradiction whatsoever. Wherever State intervention is for the best, the State has a right to intervene; but it has no moral right, though it must have a legal right, to intervene where it is not for the best. The General Will, being always in the right, will intervene only when intervention is proper. "The Sovereign," therefore, "cannot impose upon its subjects any fetters that are useless to the community, nor can it even wish to do so." As, however, the infallibility of the General Will is not enough to make the State infallible, there still remains an objection. Since the General Will cannot always be arrived at, who is to judge whether an act of intervention is justified? Rousseau's answer fails to satisfy many of his critics. "Each man alienates, I admit, by the social compact, only such part of his powers, goods and liberty as it is important for the community to control; but it must also be granted that the Sovereign is sole judge of what is important." This, we are told, is mere State tyranny over again. But how is it possible to avoid such a conclusion? Rousseau has already given his reasons for objecting to a limited Sovereignty (Book I, chap, vi): it follows absolutely that we must take the best machinery we can find for the execution of the State's functions. No doubt the machinery will be imperfect; but we can only try to get as near the General Will as possible, without hoping to realise it fully.

"The problem is to find a form of association that uses the community's full strength to protect each member and their property. Each person, while joining with everyone else, must still obey only themselves and remain as free as before." "The terms of the contract ... are the same everywhere and are accepted and recognized everywhere without being explicitly stated.... Properly understood, these terms amount to one requirement: each member must surrender themselves and all their rights to the whole community... . For suppose individuals kept certain rights. There would be no higher authority shared by individuals and the public to settle disputes between them. Each person, acting as their own judge on one point, would demand to do so on every point. The state of nature would therefore continue" (Book I, chapter vi). Rousseau clearly sees that no limits can be placed on the State's power. When people unite into a State, they must ultimately accept the guidance of the effective majority's will in all things. Limited Sovereignty is a contradiction in terms. The Sovereign has a right to everything reason permits. As soon as reason demands State intervention, individual rights cannot be invoked against that intervention. Individuals must endure whatever is best for the State. But this does not mean that the ruling power should intervene, or has a moral right to intervene, in every case. Rousseau has faced much foolish criticism for discussing "the limits of the sovereign power" after defending the State's absolute supremacy (Book II, chapter iv). There is no contradiction at all. Whenever State intervention is for the best, the State has a right to intervene. But where intervention is not for the best, the State has no moral right to intervene, though its legal right must remain. The General Will, being always right, will intervene only when intervention is proper. "The Sovereign," therefore, "cannot place any restrictions on its subjects that are useless to the community. Nor can the Sovereign even wish to do so." However, the General Will's infallibility is not enough to make the State infallible, so an objection remains. Since the General Will cannot always be determined, who should judge whether intervention is justified? Rousseau's answer does not satisfy many of his critics. "I admit that, through the social compact, each person surrenders only certain powers, possessions, and freedoms. These are the powers, possessions, and freedoms that it is important for the community to control. But we must also accept that the Sovereign alone judges what is important." This, we are told, is just State tyranny all over again. But how can we avoid that conclusion? Rousseau has already explained his objections to limited Sovereignty (Book I, chapter vi). We must therefore choose the best machinery we can find for carrying out the State's functions. The machinery will undoubtedly be imperfect. But we can only try to come as close as possible to the General Will, without hoping to achieve it fully.

The answer, therefore, to the critics who hold that, in securing civil liberty Rousseau has sacrificed the individual may be put after this fashion. Liberty is not a merely negative conception; it does not consist solely in the absence of restraint. The purest individualist, Herbert Spencer for example, would grant that a certain amount of State interference is necessary to secure liberty; but as soon as this idea of securing liberty is admitted in the smallest degree, the whole idea has undergone profound modification. It can no longer be claimed that every interference on the part of the State lessens the liberty of the individual; the "liberty-fund" theory is as untenable as that of the "wages-fund": the members of a State may be more free when all are restrained from doing one another mutual damage than when any one is left "free" to enslave another or be himself enslaved. This principle once admitted, the precise amount of State interference that is necessary to secure freedom will be always a matter for particular discussion; every case must be decided on its own merits, and, in right, the Sovereign will be omnipotent, or subject only to the law of reason.

Critics argue that Rousseau sacrificed the individual to secure civil liberty. The answer to these critics, therefore, can be put this way. Liberty is not merely a negative concept. Liberty does not consist only in the absence of restraint. Even the purest individualist, Herbert Spencer for example, would agree that some State interference is necessary to secure liberty. But accepting even the smallest role for the State in securing liberty profoundly changes the whole idea of liberty. We can no longer claim that every State intervention reduces individual liberty. The "liberty-fund" theory is as indefensible as the "wages-fund" theory. Members of a State may be freer when everyone is prevented from harming one another. They may be less free when anyone is left "free" to enslave another person or be enslaved himself. Once we accept this principle, the precise amount of State interference needed to secure freedom will always require case-by-case discussion. Every case must be judged on its own merits. And the Sovereign will, by right, have unlimited power, or be subject only to the law of reason.

It has often been held that Rousseau cannot really have inspired the French Revolution because this view is totally inconsistent with the "rights of man," which the revolutionaries so fervently proclaimed. If every right is alienated in the Social Contract, what sense can there be in talking of "natural rights" afterwards? This, however, is to misrepresent Rousseau's position. The rights of man as they are preached by the modern individualist, are not the rights of which Rousseau and the revolutionaries were thinking. We have seen that the theory of the Social Contract is founded on human freedom: this freedom carries with it, in Rousseau's view, the guarantee of its own permanence; it is inalienable and indestructible. When, therefore, government becomes despotic, it has no more right over its subjects than the master has over his slave (Book I, chap, iv); the question is then purely one of might. In such cases, appeal may be made either to the terms of the Social Contract, or, putting the same idea another way, to the "natural right" of human freedom. This natural right is in no sense inconsistent with the complete alienation supposed in the Contract; for the Contract itself reposes on it and guarantees its maintenance. The Sovereign must, therefore, treat all its members alike; but, so long as it does this, it remains omnipotent. If it leaves the general for the particular, and treats one man better than another, it ceases to be Sovereign; but equality is already presupposed in the terms of the Contract.

People have often argued that Rousseau cannot really have inspired the French Revolution. They claim his view completely contradicts the "rights of man," which the revolutionaries proclaimed so passionately. If people give up every right under the Social Contract, what sense does talking about "natural rights" afterward make? But this argument misrepresents Rousseau's position. The rights of man promoted by modern individualists are not the rights Rousseau and the revolutionaries had in mind. We have seen that the theory of the Social Contract rests on human freedom. In Rousseau's view, this freedom guarantees its own survival. It cannot be given up or destroyed. So when government becomes despotic, it has no more right over its subjects than a master has over his slave (Book I, chapter iv). The question then becomes purely one of force. In such cases, people may appeal to the terms of the Social Contract. Or, to express the same idea differently, they may appeal to the "natural right" of human freedom. This natural right does not in any way contradict the complete surrender of rights assumed in the Contract. The Contract itself rests on this natural right and guarantees its preservation. The Sovereign must therefore treat all its members equally. But as long as the Sovereign does so, its power remains unlimited. If the Sovereign turns from general matters to particular cases and treats one person better than another, it stops being Sovereign. But equality is already assumed in the terms of the Contract.

It is more profitable to attack Rousseau for his facile identification of the interests of each of the citizens with those of all; but here, too, most of the critics have abused their opportunity. He does not maintain that there can be no opposition between a man's particular interests and the General Will as present in him; on the contrary, he explicitly and consistently affirms the presence of such opposition (Book I, chap. vii). What he asserts is, first, that the Sovereign, as such, cannot have any interest contrary to the interest of the citizens as a whole—that is obvious; and, secondly, that it cannot have an interest contrary to that of any individual. The second point Rousseau proves by showing that the omnipotence of the Sovereign is essential to the preservation of society, which in turn is necessary for the individual. His argument, however, really rests on the fundamental character of the General Will. He would admit that, in any actual State, the apparent interest of the many might often conflict with that of the few; but he would contend that the real interest of State and individual alike, being subject to universal law could not be such as to conflict with any other real interest. The interest of the State, in so far as it is directed by the General Will, must be the interest of every individual, in so far as he is guided by his real will, that is, in so far as he is acting universally, rationally and autonomously.

A more useful criticism of Rousseau targets his easy assumption that each citizen’s interests are identical to everyone’s shared interests. But here, too, most critics have misused their opportunity. He does not claim that a person’s private interests cannot conflict with the General Will within that person. On the contrary, he explicitly and consistently affirms that such conflicts exist (Book I, chap. vii). First, he argues that the Sovereign, as such, cannot have interests contrary to those of the citizens as a whole. That is obvious. Second, he argues that the Sovereign cannot have interests contrary to those of any individual. Rousseau proves the second point by showing that the Sovereign’s unlimited power is essential to preserving society. Society, in turn, is necessary for the individual. His argument, however, really rests on the fundamental nature of the General Will. He would admit that, in any actual State, the apparent interests of the many might often conflict with those of the few. But he would argue that the real interests of both State and individual are subject to universal law. As such, those interests could not conflict with any other real interest. The State’s interests, insofar as the General Will directs them, must be the interests of every individual. This holds insofar as the individual follows his real will, meaning he acts universally, rationally, and autonomously.

Thus the justification of Rousseau's theory of liberty returns to the point from which it set out—the omnipotence of the real will in State and individual. It is in this sense that he speaks of man in the State as "forced to be free" by the General Will, much as Kant might speak of a man's lower nature as forced to be free by the universal mandate of his higher, more real and more rational will. It is in this recognition of the State as a moral being, with powers of determination similar to the powers of the individual mind, that the significance of the General Will ultimately lies. Even, however, among those who have recognised its meaning, there are some who deny its value as a conception of political philosophy. If, they say, the General Will is not the Will of All, if it cannot be arrived at by a majority vote or by any system of voting whatsoever, then it is nothing; it is a mere abstraction, neither general, nor a I will. This is, of course, precisely the criticism to which Kant's "real will" is often subjected. Clearly, it must be granted at once that the General Will does not form the whole actual content of the will of every citizen. Regarded as actual, it must always be qualified by "in so far as" or its equivalent. This, however, is so far from destroying the value of the conception that therein lies its whole value. In seeking the universal basis of society, we are not seeking anything that is wholly actualised in any State, though we must be seeking something which exists, more or less perfectly, in every State.

So the defense of Rousseau's theory of liberty returns to its starting point: the absolute power of the real will in both the State and the individual. In this sense, he describes a person in the State as "forced to be free" by the General Will. Similarly, Kant might describe a person's lower nature as forced into freedom by a universal command. That command comes from the person's higher, more real, and more rational will. The General Will's ultimate significance lies in recognizing the State as a moral being. The State has powers of decision similar to those of the individual mind. Yet even among those who understand the General Will, some deny its value as a concept in political philosophy. They argue that if the General Will is not the Will of All, it is nothing. If no majority vote or any other voting system can establish the General Will, it is merely an abstraction. It is neither general nor a will. Of course, Kant's "real will" often faces precisely the same criticism. We must clearly admit from the outset that the General Will does not encompass everything every citizen actually wills. When speaking of the General Will as something actual, we must always qualify our statement with "in so far as" or an equivalent phrase. But this qualification does not destroy the concept's value. On the contrary, its entire value lies in that qualification. In seeking society's universal foundation, we are not seeking something fully realized in any State. Yet we must seek something that exists, more or less perfectly, in every State.

The point of the Social Contract theory, as Rousseau states it, is that legitimate society exists by the consent of the people, and acts by popular will. Active will, and not force or even mere consent, is the basis of the "republican" State, which can only possess this character because individual wills are not really self-sufficient and separate, but complementary and inter-dependent. The answer to the question "Why ought I to obey the General Will?" is that the General Will exists in me and not outside me. I am "obeying only myself," as Rousseau says. The State is not a mere accident of human history, a mere device for the protection of life and property; it responds to a fundamental need of human nature, and is rooted in the character of the individuals who compose it. The whole complex of human institutions is not a mere artificial structure; it is the expression of the mutual dependence and fellowship of men. If it means anything, the theory of the General Will means that the State is natural, and the "state of nature" an abstraction. Without this basis of will and natural need, no society could for a moment subsist; the State exists and claims our obedience because it is a natural extension of our personality.

As Rousseau explains it, Social Contract theory holds that legitimate society exists through the people’s consent and acts through their will. Active will, not force or even consent alone, is the foundation of the "republican" State. The State can be "republican" only because individual wills are not truly self-sufficient and separate. Instead, individual wills complement and depend on one another. Why should I obey the General Will? The answer is that the General Will exists within me, not outside me. I am "obeying only myself," as Rousseau says. The State is not simply an accident of human history or a tool for protecting life and property. The State meets a fundamental need in human nature and is rooted in the character of its members. The entire network of human institutions is not merely an artificial structure. These institutions express people’s dependence on one another and their sense of fellowship. If the theory of the General Will means anything, it means the State is natural. By contrast, the "state of nature" is an abstract idea. Without this foundation in will and natural need, no society could survive for even a moment. The State exists and has a claim to our obedience because it is a natural extension of our personality.

The problem, however, still remains of making the General Will, in any particular State, active and conscious. It is clear that there are States in which visible and recognised institutions hardly answer in any respect to its requirements. Even in such States, however, there is a limit to tyranny; deep down, in immemorial customs with which the despot dare not interfere, the General Will is still active and important. It does not reside merely in the outward and visible organisation of social institutions, in that complex of formal associations which we may call the State; its roots go deeper and its branches spread further. It is realised, in greater or less degree, in the whole life of the community, in the entire complex of private and public relations which, in the widest sense, may be called Society. We may recognise it not only in a Parliament, a Church, a University or a Trade Union, but also in the most intimate human relationships, and the most trivial, as well as the most vital, social customs.

The problem, however, remains: how to make the General Will active and conscious in any particular State. Clearly, some States have visible, recognized institutions that hardly meet any of the General Will’s requirements. Even in such States, however, tyranny has limits. The General Will remains active and important deep within age-old customs that the despot dares not disturb. The General Will does not exist only in the outward, visible structure of social institutions. That network of formal associations is what we may call the State. The General Will’s roots go deeper, and its branches reach further. The General Will takes shape, to a greater or lesser degree, throughout the community’s life. It finds expression in the whole network of private and public relationships that, in the broadest sense, we may call Society. We may recognize the General Will in a Parliament, a Church, a University or a Trade Union. But we may also recognize it in the closest human relationships. It can also be found in the most trivial social customs, as well as the most vital ones.

But, if all these things go to the making of the General Will in every community, the General Will has, for politics, primarily a narrower sense. The problem here is to secure its supremacy in the official institutions and public councils of the nation. This is the question to which Rousseau chiefly addressed himself. Here, too, we shall find the General Will the best possible conception for the guidance of political endeavour For the General Will is realised not when that is done which is best for the community, but when, in addition, the community as a whole has willed the doing of it. The General Will demands not only good government, but also self-government—not only rational conduct, but good-will. This is what some of Rousseau's admirers are apt to forget when they use his argument, as he himself was sometimes inclined to use it, in support of pure aristocracy. Rousseau said that aristocracy was the best of all governments, but he said also that it was the worst of all usurpers of Sovereignty. Nor must it be forgotten that he expressly specified elective aristocracy. There is no General Will unless the people wills the good. General Will may be embodied in one man willing universally; but it can only be embodied in the State when the mass of the citizens so wills. The will must be "general" in two senses: in the sense in which Rousseau used the word, it must be general in its object, i.e. universal; but it must also be generally held, i.e. common to all or to the majority.¹

But if all these things help form the General Will in every community, its political meaning is primarily narrower. The problem here is to make the General Will supreme in the nation’s official institutions and public councils. This is the question Rousseau mainly addressed. Here, too, the General Will offers the best possible idea for guiding political efforts. The General Will is not realized simply when what is best for the community is done. The community as a whole must also have willed that action. The General Will requires not only good government but also self-government, not only rational conduct but also goodwill. Some of Rousseau’s admirers tend to forget these requirements when they use his argument to support pure aristocracy. Rousseau himself was sometimes inclined to use his argument this way. Rousseau said that aristocracy was the best of all governments. But he also said that aristocracy was the worst of all those who seize Sovereignty. We must also remember that he specifically meant elective aristocracy. There is no General Will unless the people wills the good. The General Will may be embodied in one man whose will serves the good of all. But the General Will can be embodied in the State only when the mass of citizens wills the same. The will must be "general" in two senses. In Rousseau’s sense, the will must be general in its aim, that is, universal. But the will must also be generally shared, that is, common to all or to the majority.¹

The General Will is, then, above all a universal and, in the Kantian sense, a "rational" will. It would be possible to find in Rousseau many more anticipations of the views of Kant; but it is better here to confine comment to an important difference between them. It is surprising to find in Kant, the originator of modern "intellectualism," and in Rousseau, the great apostle of "sentiment," an essentially similar view on the nature and function of the will. Their views, however, present a difference; for, whereas the moving force of Kant's moral imperative is purely "rational," Rousseau finds the sanction of his General Will in human feeling itself. As we can see from a passage in the original draft of the Social Contract, the General Will remains purely rational. "No-one will dispute that the General Will is in each individual a pure act of the understanding, which reasons while the passions are silent on what a man may demand of his neighbour and on what his neighbour has a right to demand of him." The will remains purely rational, but Rousseau feels that it needs an external motive power. "If natural law," he writes, "were written only on the tablets of human reason it would be incapable of guiding the greater part of our actions; but it is also graven on the heart of man in characters that cannot be effaced, and it is there it speaks to him more strongly than all the precepts of the philosophers" (from an unfinished essay on The State of War). The nature of this guiding sentiment is explained in the Discourse on Inequality (p. 197, note 2), where egoism (amour-propre) is contrasted with self-respect (amour de soi). Naturally, Rousseau holds, man does not want everything for himself, and nothing for others. "Egoism" and "altruism" are both one-sided qualities arising out of the perversion of man's, "natural goodness." "Man is born good," that is, man's nature really makes him desire only to be treated as one among others, to share equally. This natural love of equality (amour de soi) includes love of others as well as love of self, and egoism, loving one's self at the expense of others, is an unnatural and perverted condition. The "rational" precepts of the General Will, therefore, find an echo in the heart of the "natural" man, and, if we can only secure the human being against perversion by existing societies, the General Will can be made actual.

The General Will is, then, above all a universal will and, in the Kantian sense, a "rational" will. We could find many more examples of Rousseau anticipating Kant’s views. But here it is better to focus on an important difference between them. Kant founded modern "intellectualism," while Rousseau was the great champion of "sentiment." Surprisingly, they held essentially similar views about the nature and purpose of the will. Yet their views differ in one respect. The driving force behind Kant’s moral imperative is purely "rational." Rousseau, however, finds the authority behind his General Will in human feeling itself. As a passage from the original draft of the Social Contract, shows, the General Will remains purely rational. "No one will dispute that the General Will in each individual is a pure act of understanding. With the passions silent, understanding reasons about what someone may demand of a neighbour. It also reasons about what that neighbour has a right to demand in return." The will remains purely rational, but Rousseau feels that reason needs an outside force to move it to action. "If natural law," he writes, "were written only in human reason, it could not guide most of our actions. But natural law is also engraved on the human heart in letters that cannot be erased. There, natural law speaks more strongly than all the teachings of philosophers" (from an unfinished essay on The State of War). The nature of this guiding feeling is explained in the Discourse on Inequality (p. 197, note 2). There, egoism (amour-propre) is contrasted with self-respect (amour de soi). Rousseau holds that people do not naturally want everything for themselves and nothing for others. "Egoism" and "altruism" are both one-sided qualities that arise when human "natural goodness" is distorted. "Man is born good," meaning that human nature really leads people to want only equal treatment and an equal share. This natural love of equality (amour de soi) includes love of others as well as love of oneself. Egoism, loving oneself at others’ expense, is an unnatural and distorted condition. The "rational" principles of the General Will therefore find an echo in the heart of the "natural" person. And if we can protect people from being corrupted by existing societies, the General Will can become a reality.

This is the meeting-point of Rousseau's educational with his political theory. His view as a whole can be studied only by taking together the Social Contract and the Emile as explained by the Letters on the Mount and other works. The fundamental dogma of the natural goodness of man finds no place directly in the Social Contract; but it lurks behind the whole of his political theory, and is indeed, throughout, his master-conception. His educational, his religious, his political and his ethical ideas are all inspired by a single consistent attitude. Here we have been attending only to his political theory; in the volume which is to follow, containing the Letters on the Mount and other works, some attempt will be made to draw the various threads together and estimate his work as a whole. The political works, however, can be read separately, and the Social Contract itself is still by far the best of all text-books of political philosophy. Rousseau's political influence, so far from being dead, is every day increasing; and as new generations and new classes of men come to the study of his work, his conceptions, often hazy and undeveloped, but nearly always of lasting value, will assuredly form the basis of a new political philosophy, in which they will be taken up and transformed. This new philosophy is the work of the future; but, rooted upon the conception of Rousseau, it will stretch far back into the past. Of our time, it will be for all time; its solutions will be at once relatively permanent and ceaselessly progressive.

Here Rousseau’s educational theory meets his political theory. To understand his overall view, we must study the Social Contract and the Emile together. We must also read them in light of the Letters on the Mount and his other works. His fundamental belief in humanity’s natural goodness does not appear directly in the Social Contract. But this belief underlies his entire political theory and is his guiding idea throughout. His educational, religious, political, and ethical ideas all grow from a single, consistent outlook. Here we have focused only on his political theory. The next volume, containing the Letters on the Mount and other works, will attempt to connect these different strands. It will also attempt to assess his work as a whole. His political works, however, can be read on their own. The Social Contract itself remains by far the best textbook of political philosophy. Far from being dead, Rousseau’s political influence grows every day. New generations and new groups of people are coming to study his work. As they do, his ideas will certainly become the basis of a new political philosophy. These ideas are often vague and undeveloped, but nearly always have lasting value. The new philosophy will adopt and transform them. This new philosophy belongs to the future. But because it is rooted in Rousseau’s thinking, it will reach far back into the past. Though a product of our time, it will be relevant for all time. Its solutions will be both relatively lasting and continually developing.

G. D. H. COLE.

G. D. H. COLE.