Power Tends To Corrupt: Lord Acton's Study of Liberty

By Christopher Lazarski

Lord Acton (1834–1902) is often called a historian of liberty. A great historian and political thinker, he had a rare talent to reach beneath the surface and reveal the hidden springs that move the world. While endeavoring to understand the components of a truly free society, Acton attempted to see how the principles of self-determination and freedom worked in practice, from antiquity to his own time. But though he penned hundreds of papers, essays, reviews, letters and ephemera, the ultimate book of his findings and views on the history of liberty remained unwritten. Reading a book a day for years he still could not keep pace with the output of his time, and finally, dejected, he gave up. Today, Acton is mainly known for a single maxim, power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.

In Power Tends to Corrupt, Christopher Lazarski presents the first in-depth consideration of Acton's thought in more than fifty years. Lazarski brings Acton's work to light in accessible language, with a focus on his understanding of liberty and its development in Western history. A work akin to Acton's overall account of the history of liberty, with a secondary look at his political theory, this book is an outstanding exegesis of the theories and findings of one of the nineteenth century's keenest minds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Northern Illinois University Press
• Release date: Nov 15, 2012
• ISBN: 9781609090791

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© 2012 by Northern Illinois University Press

Published by the Northern Illinois University Press, DeKalb, Illinois 60115

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Lazarski, Christopher.

Power tends to corrupt : Lord Acton’s study of liberty / Christopher Lazarski.

p. cm.

Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN 978-0 -7580-465-1 (cloth bound) — ISBN 978-1-60909-079-1 (e-book)

1. Acton, John Emerich Edward Dalberg Acton, Baron, 1834–1902—Political and social views.

2. Liberty. I. Title.

JC223.A35L39 2012

320.01’1 dc23

2012014675

To America and all noble souls—particularly the parish of the Episcopal Church of the Holy Communion, Memphis, TN; International Creative Management, NYC; Georgetown University, Washington, DC; and the Hoover Institution, CA—with gratitude for the kindness I received during my years on American soil (June 21, 1983–September 25, 1995).

Contents

Preface

Introduction

1—Acton’s Life and Mission

Part one—The Foundation of Liberty

2—Liberty’s Ancient Roots: From Ancient Israel to the Fall of the Roman Empire

3—A Bumpy Road to Success: Liberty in the Middle Ages

4—The Great Reversal: Modern Infatuation with Power

Part two—Anglo-American Liberty

5—English Liberty: The Birth of Mature Liberty

6—The High Point of Liberty: Colonial America and the Foundation of the Republic

7—The American Experience: Between the Union’s Founding and the Civil War

Part three—The Liberty of Revolutionary DreamS

8—The French Revolution: A Triumph of Revolutionary Tyranny

Part four—Civic versus Civil Liberty

9—Acton’s Ideal Polity and Its Alternatives

Conclusions—Acton’s Legacy and Lessons

Abreviations in notes

Notes to Introduction

Notes to Chapter 1

Notes to Chapter 2

Notes to Chapter 3

Notes to Chapter 4

Notes to Chapter 5

Notes to Chapter 6

Notes to Chapter 7

Notes to Chapter 8

Notes to Chapter 9

Notes to Conclusions

Selected Bibliography

Index

Preface

Anyone beginning a large research project can understand my feelings of confusion and even hopelessness when I attempted to write the first page of this book. After a few years of research that were less rather than more intensive (a full-time teaching position and various administrative duties allowed me to proceed at only a moderate pace), I realized I could no longer postpone writing if I were to avoid the (mis)fortune of my own hero, Lord Acton. Acton had always put off the writing of the history of liberty for the sake of more complete research, until—tired and dejected—he deserted the idea entirely. Although I had read the majority of Acton’s work and the literature on him and had reread my notes again and again, I had no clue as to his thought (except that he was a liberal and he loved freedom) or, even more, how to begin to find it. He wrote so many essays, reviews, and letters, all of which fascinated me with their originality, erudition, and extraordinary insights. At the same time, his works confused me with their inconsistencies, esoteric references and themes, incomprehensible allusions, gaps, and contradictions. How would I make it all coherent and intelligible? Would I be able to write on Acton’s theory of liberty, the aim of my original project?

Initially, I shunned the thought of re-creating Acton’s history of liberty. First, I did not want to pretend that I could have succeeded in carrying out the project that had proved too challenging for Lord Acton. Second, I did not believe that his original grand design for the history of liberty was viable, nor did I think myself worthy of attempting it. Third, I did not want to be seen as merely the most recent enthusiast who entertains an idea of reconstructing Acton’s original history of liberty as if he had written it.* However, if not through the history of liberty, how would I approach my topic, which was too broad and too complex to understand in its entirety? How would I distinguish the fundamental from the secondary in Acton’s thought, placing his ideas in some coherent order? I did not cherish any preconceived thesis as to his thought, nor did I harbor any hidden agenda, except for a sincere desire to comprehend him.

* In 1955, G. E. Fasnacht and, a few years later, George Watson attempted to "reconstitute The History of Liberty from Acton’s notes": George Watson, Lord Acton’s History of Liberty: A Study of His Library, with an Edited Text of His History of Liberty Notes (Aldershot: Scolar Press, 1995), 49.

There I was, at the end of my sabbatical in the summer of 2007, going back and forth to the Lauinger Library at Georgetown University, impatiently awaiting an illumination as to the essence of Acton’s thoughts. I finally realized that I would not comprehend Acton without applying some principle of division. I had to separate his ideas into smaller units, sort them out, and then, step-by-step, analyze each. The best solution seemed to proceed in chronological order, reviewing Acton’s output according to what he wrote about freedom in each period of Western civilization, from antiquity until his own time. I hoped that using the Cartesian method of division and analysis then gradual reconnection and synthesis would allow me to understand Acton’s theory of liberty from its most basic to its most complex elements. With this plan of how to proceed, I was at last able to write the first page of what now is chapter 2. The remaining pages and chapters would gradually emerge and, before I realized it, I had produced Acton’s history of liberty. Although not as he designed it, Power Tends to Corrupt is the history of liberty according to Acton, with his theory of freedom being pushed to second place.

My first encounter with Lord Acton was not encouraging. I had to write a short paper on his editorship of the Cambridge Modern History for a graduate course on methodology, which I took at Georgetown University. At that time, I viewed him as a rigid figure, rather passé, who still dreamed about the possibility of scientific history. Because of that belief, I thought of him as a kind of positivist historian who had entertained an idea of ultimate history. I was not aware then of how much Acton would have hated to be linked with positivism. I was fortunate, however, to take a course with Father James Schall which, in retrospect, was the initial impulse leading toward this book. In this course, we read Acton’s two essays on liberty, another on nationality, and various other pieces of his writing. Acton overwhelmed me with his erudition. I instantly knew that I had touched a great mind, even if I could not fully grasp the meaning of his thoughts. Furthermore, Acton’s passion for freedom attracted me as well. I had left my native Poland because of Soviet domination and Communist oppression, both factors making me painfully aware of the paramount importance of liberty. My admiration for Acton’s mind and his love of freedom inspired me to return to studying him years later, when I undertook the project that was ultimately to result in this book.

Father Schall once more played a decisive role in my adventure with Lord Acton when, around 2003, he strongly encouraged me to pursue this project, provided me with invaluable advice, and continued to support me in occasional e-mails. I am eternally grateful to this magnificent teacher.

Dr. Andrzej Sulima Kaminski, another outstanding Georgetown University professor, contributed decisively to the writing of this book in another way. He awoke me from the slumber to which I had surrendered at Lazarski University, the place of my permanent employment since 1996. He reminded me (as frankly as could still be deemed civil) of the importance of research and writing. This will be the second book that owes its existence to the jolt Andrzej gave me at some point in 2002. I do not know how to express my gratitude for his straightforwardness and caring.

Dr. James Collins is yet another Georgetown professor to whom I owe a great deal of appreciation. Jim generously extended his hospitality to me during my sabbatical in Washington, DC. I am thankful not only for his room and board (his exquisite dinners could hardly be termed board), but for the dinner discussions with him, which I enjoyed so much. Listening to him was like being back in his classroom and benefiting from his numerous insights on modern Europe. I hope he will not be entirely disappointed with the way that Acton (and, indirectly, I myself) treats his beloved France, or with Acton’s unequivocal condemnation of absolutism, to which Jim has a much more nuanced approach.

I also would like to thank my friends who kindly agreed to read earlier versions of this work, especially Dr. Andrzej Bryk and Dr. Andrzej Nowak, both of Jagiellonian University; Dr. Wojciech Falkowski of Warsaw University and the Sorbonne; and Dr. Jan Szeminski of the Hebrew University in Jerusalem, as well as numerous colleagues who read various parts of the manuscript. I am grateful for all their insights, remarks, and advice. I am especially indebted to Dr. Barbara Pendzich and Curtis Murphy, a PhD candidate, who put much work into editing this book and sharing their thoughts about its content. Curtis in particular deserves thanks in this respect. They all have made this book better, while its deficiencies naturally remain my responsibility.

Peter Kracht, Editorial Director of the University of Pittsburgh Press, deserves my particular thanks in view of the kindness he extended to me and the support he lent while I was searching for a publisher. I could not have managed to sail through the mysteries of scholarly publishing in America without his invaluable advice. I owe similar thanks to Amy Farranto, an editor at the Northern Illinois University Press, for guiding me through the process of reviewing and preparing the manuscript for publication (editing, cutting and re-editing, and editing once more . . .). I could not have succeeded in surmounting these hurdles without her kind assistance and advice.

My special gratitude goes to my wife, Jola, who patiently tolerated my preoccupation with this book at the cost of family life. This gratitude also applies to my two sons, Phil and Max, to whom I very sparingly lent my free moments and with whom I could have been much more generous in sharing my time.

Finally, I would like to thank Lazarski University, first for the sabbatical in 2007 that greatly hastened my research and writing and, second, for tolerating in recent years my semi-presence in the life of our academic community.

From Selected Writings of Lord Acton

Power tends to corrupt and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Great men are almost always bad men.—Acton’s letter to Mandell Creighton, April 5, 1887

Liberty . . . resembles the camel, and enjoys more definitions than any other object in nature.—"Review of Bright’s History of England"

Liberty is not a means to a higher political end. It is itself the highest political end.—The History of Freedom in Antiquity

If happiness is the end of society, then liberty is superfluous. It does not make men happy.—Add. Mss. 5954, 232–33

Why democracy? It means liberty given to the mass. Where there is no powerful democracy, freedom does not reign.—Add. Mss. 4945, 92

Idea of equality leads to imperialism.—Add. Mss. 5446, 185

Introduction

[The] History of Liberty—a history of the last 200 years. . . . But although practically beginning then, theoretically 2000 years earlier. Indeed it is the unity, the only unity of the history of the world—and the one principle of a philosophy of history.

[A] philosopher divided government into two kinds, the bad and the good, that is, those which exist and those which do not exist.

Christianity is the gospel of the poor. Civilisation is the gospel of the rich.¹

Lord Acton is often called a historian, or even the historian, of liberty. Indeed, among his many interests and pursuits, liberty was a lifelong passion and the central theme of his writing. True, his long-term project, The History of Liberty, was never realized and turned into the greatest book that never was written, as one observer termed it.² In a period of nearly fifty years as a scholar and journalist, he wrote on a large variety of issues but produced not a single book. Yet in almost everything he wrote, and Acton did produce hundreds of smaller works (articles, essays, book reviews, and letters), freedom was either the focus or the idea unifying all the other topics. Whatever his declared subject matter (history, politics, philosophy, and religion; the Church, the state, and church-state relations; absolutism, nationalism, democracy, or liberalism; or the problems of evolutionary development versus revolution, etc.), freedom always figured as the reference point. Other themes either served to illuminate the various tenets of freedom or were included as elements of freedom’s history. Thus, without risk of exaggeration, we could claim that all of Acton’s research and writing aimed, in one way or another, at liberty.³

If liberty is Acton’s central idea, how does he understand and define it? Acton does not address the philosophic problem of freedom as opposed to determinism or the degree to which individuals depend on forces beyond their control. No, his focus is limited to political liberty: he is concerned with individuals as members of a political community and their freedom in such a polity. Thus the question narrows to political freedom. What is political liberty, then, according to Acton? What makes a polity free or unfree? How do its members become citizens or subjects? How does he view liberty’s role in human history? Is not the past a record of varying forms of servitude rather than freedom? These are fundamental questions that we can expect that Acton, liberty’s disciple and its chronicler, must answer. To these major questions we can also add other, no less essential issues: How does he see liberty’s origins and growth? What are its basic ingredients and do they change with time? What is the role of religion and political authority vis-à-vis civil freedom? How does liberty relate to such principles and ideas as equality, property, democracy, suffrage, national independence, or happiness? Do these factors contribute to or impede its development? What does Acton mean by mature liberty, a term he often employs in his writing? What kind of liberal is he and what type of liberalism does he profess? Is his concept of freedom universal, or is it limited only to the West?

Let us consider just one more question: how does Acton respond to these and similar queries? Simple and straightforward answers are rare in his writing. He does not respond to some questions, perhaps treating the answers as self-evident. His ideas, therefore, must be inferred from his writing. In the case of other questions, Acton replies indirectly or in a somewhat confusing and contradictory manner. In these cases, his views, scattered in various works and written at different points in his life, must be carefully examined and compared—and their inconsistencies explained. With other queries, his answers are so complex, so laden with hidden meanings, that they require additional elaboration and exegesis, often substantially lengthier than his original account.

Acton’s answers to questions about liberty are anything but simple, and thus the need for a book that fully exposes the complexity of his views on the topic. Such a book on Acton’s thought must meet one crucial prerequisite. Since he had no opportunity to make any definite statements about his beliefs or clarify his thoughts, he needs a reviewer who centers on the spirit of his message and views his writings in their entirety, rather than one who might focus only on his omissions, self-contradictions, and oblique language. The current work undertakes to present Acton’s legacy in its entirety. It searches for the core consistency in his concept of liberty and in his presentation of liberty’s history.

If Acton’s writings provide no easy answers or recipes with regard to liberty, they are, at the same time, fascinating in their originality. Acton was one of the best-educated men of his time; his erudition was legendary. And even though his friends sometimes referred to him as a walking encyclopedia, his knowledge was not limited to myriad facts. He possessed a rare talent for reaching beneath the surface and grasping the hidden springs that move reality. He noticed that which we, ordinary men and women, often overlook: the causes of freedom’s flourishing or perishing, and the reasons an individual or society enjoys liberty or only its illusion. In mental power and political wisdom he was certainly on a par with Alexis de Tocqueville (1805–1859), who was born a generation before him. He also shared many principles and ideas with Tocqueville. But while students of politics can immerse themselves in Tocqueville’s teachings by reading Democracy in America, the closest parallels with regard to Acton’s output are his two essays on liberty: The History of Freedom in Antiquity and The History of Freedom in Christianity.⁴ Tocqueville wrote two volumes on democracy in one region of the world, while Acton produced two essays on liberty in Western civilization, from ancient Israel to the French Revolution. As a result, his writing is dense and compact, demanding careful study rather than ordinary leisure reading.⁵

While Tocqueville had a profound impact on Acton’s thinking, he was not his only intellectual mentor. Acton himself points to Edmund Burke (1729–1797) as his tutor, whom he considers to be a teacher for Catholics or, even, of mankind. In spite of differences between them, which—with the exception of their views on the French Revolution—were secondary, Burke made a firm impression on Acton’s thought that remained obvious throughout his life.⁶ The third person who shaped Acton’s way of thinking was Father Professor Ignaz von Döllinger (1799–1890), the German theologian and historian under whom Acton began his career as a historian. This trio had the greatest and most lasting influence on his intellectual development. They all advanced his liberal way of thinking, molding him into a liberal of a singular kind: one who links a fervid love for liberty with an appreciation for Christianity as a liberating force from state omnipotence, all the while maintaining a severely critical attitude toward the doctrinaire threads of continental liberalism. Döllinger also endowed him with a passion for reconciling the Catholic Church with science, progress, and liberalism.

Acton was a prolific writer at the beginning of his career. Possibly the most productive decade of his life began when he assumed the co-editorship of Rambler, a journal of liberal Catholics (1858). If not for two lecture series offered at Cambridge University a few years prior to his death, we might well have said today that Acton wrote only a few articles beyond his early output.⁷ During that early time, he produced several of his important essays—used extensively in this book—such as Political Thoughts on the Church (1859); Political Causes of the American Revolution (1861); Expectation of the French Revolution (1861); The Protestant Theory of Persecution (1862); Nationality (1862); The Civil War in America: Its Place in History (1866); and "Mr. Goldwin Smith’s Irish History" (1862), technically a book review but in fact a long essay on history and politics.⁸ Without these and other early works, the re-creation of Acton’s theory and history of liberty would have faced serious obstacles.

Acton’s highly productive early years coincided with his proclivity to sweeping generalizations and—originally—apologetics for Catholicism, as well as a missionary zeal in the struggle for reconciliation of the Church with liberalism and the modern world. After his studies in Bavaria (1850–1854), young Acton was full of ideas that were, in his mind, destined to transform England. Munich was one of the continental centers for Catholic thought and modern learning in general, and Acton’s aim was to transfer that which he had studied in Germany to the English Catholics, ossified in their traditional beliefs, and to the British public at large, entrenched in its anti-Catholic bias. This was his main goal as an editor of Rambler and, later, of the Home and Foreign Review (1862–1864). The setbacks and failures Acton experienced in this mission opened a new, mature period in his life. He grew increasingly disillusioned with the role of the Catholic Church, and he quarreled with Catholic authorities who questioned and even denied the orthodoxy of his faith. Acton scholars do not pinpoint the exact time of this transformation, but it probably occurred in the late 1860s, not long after his unsuccessful fight against the dogma of papal infallibility at the First Vatican Council (1869–1870).⁹ In addition to being radically more critical of the Church, the mature Acton stressed the importance of moral judgment for the past and the need for a universal code to provide the foundation for such a judgment (both issues largely beyond the scope of this book).¹⁰

Uncompromising in these respects, the mature Acton did not change his other views on, for example, the role of Christianity, conscience, progress, and civilization in the growth of liberty. He even softened some of his earlier opinions and revised his critical evaluation of American democracy at the time of the Civil War. It seems that this general outlook remained unchanged in his old age (roughly a decade before his death). Another side effect of these early disillusionments was his gradual departure from theological issues and a significant decline in his literary productivity in general. In this, the mature Acton did not differ from the older Acton, except for the brief period of his professorship at Cambridge University.

Though still concerned with many topics, each worthy of a separate book, in the second half of the 1870s Acton increasingly became aware of liberty as the theme that eclipses all others in gravity yet excludes none.¹¹ On the contrary, this subject embraces and unifies all issues and topics within human history. This role of liberty, best visible in modern history, stretches back to the dawn of human civilization.¹² Finally, Acton found the focus that would reconcile his various interests with his passion for liberty. The following, written by one of Acton’s contemporaries in the early 1880s, illustrates well his fascination with this idea:

Twenty years ago, late at night, in his library at Cannes, he expounded to me his view of how such a history of Liberty might be written, and in what wise it might be made the central thread of all history [italics CL]. He spoke for six or seven minutes only; but he spoke like a man inspired, seeming as if, from some mountain summit high in the air, he saw beneath him the far-winding path of human progress from dim Cimmerian shores of prehistoric shadow into the fuller yet broken and fitful light of the modern time. The eloquence was splendid, but greater than the eloquence was the penetrating vision which discerned through all events and in all ages the play of those moral forces, now creating, now destroying, always transmutting, which had moulded and remoulded institutions, and had given to the human spirit its ceaselessly-changing forms of energy. It was as if the whole landscape of history had been suddenly lit up by a burst of sunlight. I have never heard from any other lips any discourse like this nor from his did I ever hear the like again.¹³

Acton does not merely point to liberty as the central thread and the unifying principle in history. He also makes an allusion as to why freedom is destined to play such a paramount role. Liberty can be the axis of human past because it is a providential idea, supported and protected by the divine will. For this reason, liberty inevitably grows and matures in time, in spite of all the drawbacks and defeats. Liberty’s progress is, however, not a straight movement leading toward the ultimate, perfect freedom. The fallen nature of humankind precludes such perfection, and Acton, as a devout Christian, did not entertain any illusions about human perfectibility. No, liberty’s development is a long process in which we—men and women—are not spared the adversities and passages of servitude. Perhaps, due to such painful experiences and reversals of fortune, we learn to distinguish more clearly between good and evil and, therefore, are better able to understand the nature of liberty. Through small improvements, we acquire more elevated forms of liberty.¹⁴

Providence assists us in this process and, at the same time, prevents the worst—the utter destruction of liberty. Freedom requires tender care and cultivation in order to flourish, yet, as Acton claims, it eludes annihilation, even under the most adverse conditions. Paradoxically, efforts to eradicate it lead to contrary results. For example, such fundamental enemies of liberty as corruption and the venality of judicial offices, transmuted into the last line of defense against arbitrary power, allowing the remnants of freedom to persevere. Liberty is therefore a potent idea, which plays the same role in human history that Tocqueville so forcefully attributed to equality. According to Acton, however, freedom precedes equality in the divine order of values and is therefore superior to it. Protected by providence, liberty and equality exist in a tense relation throughout history, and we will have the opportunity to observe this tension in subsequent chapters of this book.¹⁵

The subject of providential care over liberty leads us to introduce some other preliminary information, especially Acton’s core notion of liberty and its intimate links with morality and conscience. In the inaugural lecture at Cambridge University, Acton said that liberty has two hundred definitions, the most popular of which include democracy (France), federalism (USA), national independence (Italy), and the reign of the fittest (Germany). None of these, however, seemed sufficient. For Acton, liberty is the paramount principle in politics: Liberty is not a means to an end. It is itself the highest political end. It is not for the sake of a good public administration that it is required, but for security in the pursuit of the highest objects of civil society, and of private life. Authority that does not recognize this principle—setting other political goals, such as happiness or equality, as higher—delegitimizes itself and turns into sheer force.¹⁶

In another definition of liberty, Acton stresses the role of the individual: By liberty I mean the assurance that every man shall be protected in doing what he believes his duty against the influence of authority and majorities, custom and opinion. The individual is here at the center, and individual rights are supreme. Here Acton presents himself as a seemingly typical liberal, no different from any other, especially in that he also emphasizes the rights of minorities a few lines later.¹⁷ Yet the difference is, in fact, striking. John Stuart Mill (1806–1873), the spokesman for liberalism in Acton’s time, stressed the rights of others as the only just restraint on the unlimited freedom of an individual. Acton instead emphasizes morality and conscience. Liberty, for him, is not the right to do what one wishes. It is not a license but a summons to do what one ought. This, in turn, implies a crucial role for conscience, for the voice of God within us, who, as Acton believes, tells us what we should do. This knowledge of our moral duties and the freedom to do right (i.e., the freedom of conscience) equals liberty.¹⁸ The link between freedom, morality, and conscience is perhaps the best explanation for Acton’s belief in the special care of providence for freedom and the leading role of liberty in human history.

Freedom of conscience is not only essential for Acton’s notion of liberty but also a sign of what Acton terms the mature phase of liberty. A polity that recognizes and safeguards freedom of conscience approaches what Acton calls mature liberty (see chapter 9 for a detailed explication of this term). In short, Acton links mature liberty with the coming of the liberal age. While liberty has its roots in antiquity and slowly progresses throughout history, it comes of age with the legal equality of individuals, their increasing participation in power, and the emergence of a balanced authority. Acton points to England after the Glorious Revolution (see chapter 5) and to the American Revolution (chapter 6) as watersheds in the process of the maturation of liberty.

While freedom of conscience is the first of liberties, self-government is the next, and both are indispensable for liberty itself.¹⁹ Acton rejected the doctrinaire approach of classical liberalism, which derived natural rights from the abstract concept of the state of nature. Moreover, he disapproved of the greatest happiness principle of utilitarianism, predominant in the liberalism of his own day. Freedom, according to Acton, originates in local communities with individuals who manage their own affairs and gradually build up larger, ascending communities, from parish to state. Thus, the ideal that Acton sought is freedom of citizens, that is, civic freedom (see chapters 6, 7, and 9). Though largely coinciding with civil freedom, both terms are not necessarily identical. Civil freedom implies liberties provided by a liberal regime, which otherwise may have an omnipotent government, unchecked by intermediate authorities, and passive citizens who exercise their citizenship every few years at the ballot box. Civic liberty usually (though not necessarily) includes civil liberties, but it always demands active individuals—citizens—who exercise their right to self-rule in their localities and who, correspondingly, enjoy a limited government, well balanced by various checks on authority. This book uses both terms in their meaning as just defined.²⁰

The distinction between civil and civic freedom is not merely a semantic issue. It helps us to understand Acton’s idea of liberty as well as his ideal of liberty. This difference is also a sign of a deeper disparity in the perception of the roots of liberty, which has a bearing on our understanding of freedom up to the present. The structure of this book tries to reflect this disparity in the comprehension of freedom. Part One presents liberty’s common background, in antiquity and the Middle Ages, showing how early modern Europe served as the foundation for the future divide in the course traversed by liberty. Part Two centers on the development of Anglo-American liberty, which largely coincides with the concept of civic freedom. Part Three, drawing on the centralization of power evident in early modern Europe, links the resistance against royal absolutism with the birth of continental liberalism, as exemplified by the most celebrated event in this process, the French Revolution. Part Four further exposes the differences between Anglo-American and continental, doctrinaire liberalisms and between civic and civil liberty. It also presents Acton’s own ideal of liberalism and of his best practical regime, as well as its variegated opposites.

As mentioned, Acton’s grand project of writing a book on liberty never materialized. His ambition was to deliver a scientific history of liberty, based on archival research and the most recent scholarship. Reading one book a day and laboriously producing tens of thousands of notes, he still could not catch up with the historiographic output of his time. He procrastinated and began to refer to his project jokingly as the Madonna of the Future—an ever-postponed work that was not even attempted. Finally, overwhelmed by the greatness of the task and dejected by the towering obstacles, he abandoned the project altogether.²¹ The only remnants of this effort are his two essays on liberty mentioned before and thousands of index cards with his notes, now stored at Cambridge University Library. These essays are essential in retracing Acton’s views on freedom; the notes play a lesser and somewhat equivocal role in that task.²²

Keeping Acton’s experience in mind, the current work is not an attempt to re-create his original design of the history of liberty. Ultimate history is entirely beyond human capacity, and no serious historian now entertains such a notion. Presenting the history of liberty—a de facto synthetic review of the history of the West, from antiquity to the present—is also beyond the capacity of one ordinary individual. Such a project, drawing on the most recent results of archival research and historical production, would require the coordinated effort of a team of distinguished scholars, and even then the effect might not be satisfactory, as The Cambridge Modern History (bearing Acton’s formal editorship) proved. The current work is an attempt to re-create Acton’s concept of liberty, that is, his theory of political liberty and his vision of the progress of liberty throughout the history of Western civilization. As a rule, the present author does not confront Acton with current scholarship. Such a task would entail a return to Acton’s original project and, again, require a group of historians and political thinkers, not just one individual. On the other hand, the author does not find anything in Acton’s writing that modern scholarship would entirely contradict.

While Acton’s abandonment of his history of liberty was a great loss for political thought and historical scholarship on the West in general, the two essays on freedom that he did manage to write provide an outline of the whole project and thus allow us to imagine its structure and content. Together with a lengthy book review on Thomas Erskin May’s Democracy in Europe, these works are an indispensable guide to Acton’s legacy.²³ They were all written in the span of two years (1877–1878), when Acton achieved maturity as a writer. These articles can therefore verify (usually) or falsify (rarely) his earlier opinions. The review of May’s book is also helpful for Acton’s perspective on the nineteenth century. A similar role can be ascribed to his two series of lectures on the French Revolution and on modern history, prepared and offered in the final years of his life (1895–1900) and published after his death.²⁴ In addition to filling in gaps in his earlier output, they either corroborate or negate the views held by young Acton. Altogether, these works make the current project viable.

Acton’s biography is beyond the scope of his study of liberty, but a brief sketch of his life can help us understand the origins and development of his beliefs, passions, and lifelong causes (chapter 1). There is, however, more to the story of Acton than his theory and history of liberty, and the reader should be aware of this fact. In particular, he had what amounted to a love-hate affair with the Catholic Church. This part of Acton’s life certainly had an impact on his views regarding freedom, yet this relationship could not be illuminated properly in the narration of his history of liberty. Acton’s insistence on making moral judgments in history is a similar case—beyond the scope of this book, yet essential for understanding why he failed to realize his lifelong project on liberty. A biographical sketch should remedy these and other such deficiencies.

I did not conduct primary research on Acton’s life, and in general, I used Rolland Hill’s recent book, Lord Acton, the best and the most thorough of Acton’s biographies. Personally acquainted with Acton’s descendants, Hill had access to his private papers as well as to family accounts and stories. In addition, he conducted an imposing amount of research using primary as well as secondary sources. He was therefore able to shed new light on Acton’s life and reveal many unknown stories about him, especially those relating to his personal life. Still, while writing even a short biography of Acton, I encountered some inconsistencies in dates, names, and family relations as narrated by different authors. Straightening out those inconsistencies and contradictions will require the work of a future biographer.

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Acton’s teaching is neither easy nor popular today. He is remembered by his most quoted maxim: Power tends to corrupt and absolute power corrupts absolutely. His message is thus reduced to a simple rule that power brings risk while arbitrary power is evil—hardly a revelation in today’s world. The rest of his teaching is for the most part unknown: his penetrating mind is no longer appreciated, his wisdom forgotten. His onetime reputation as an apostle of liberty, whose admirers included Friedrich von Hayek, Karl Popper, and Isaiah Berlin, has largely waned.²⁵ Even some in the academic community see Acton as not much more than a Victorian historian who may interest only specialists or crackpots.

There is no doubt that Acton condemns arbitrary authority, from antique tyrants, Roman emperors, and power-hungry popes to modern absolute rulers. Yet there is also no doubt that he reserves his sharpest criticism for the follies and misconceptions of democracy, seeing the deviations of this form of government as the foremost threat to liberty in his time and in the future. In this he is as uncompromising as the Jewish prophets—whom he recalled in his essay on freedom in antiquity—who dared to face the king and tell him, regardless of the consequences, that he had sinned and had to mend his ways.

However, Acton’s censure of democracy (and for that matter, some facets of liberalism as well) is not a hostile attack. Rather, it is friendly criticism. This quintessential liberal—and, as this book aims to prove, democrat at heart—virtually identifies the cause of liberty with liberalism and regards limited democracy as the best practical regime. But because he cares for freedom above all else, he is not squeamish about exposing the unpleasant truths behind liberalism and democracy. Like Tocqueville, who warned the democrats against the threat of equality in slavery, Acton cautions against the illiberal seeds in liberalism and the menacing potentials dormant in democracy.

Should we not listen to Acton’s warnings? Should we not make an effort to understand the challenges to freedom in this liberal age and find the will to confront them? Acton has a fascinating story to tell us.

ONE

Acton’s Life and Mission

All governments in which one principle dominates, degenerate by its exaggeration.

The weight of opinion is against me when I exhort you never to debase the moral currency or to lower the standard of rectitude, but to try others by the final maxim that governs your own lives, and to suffer no man and no cause to escape the undying penalty which history has the power to inflict on wrong.

I never had any contemporaries, but spent years in looking for men wise enough to solve the problems that puzzled me, not in religion or politics so much as along the wavy line between the two.¹

For an ordinary reader unacquainted with Lord Acton, he may appear to be the epitome of an English and Victorian aristocrat: aloof and condescending, untroubled by the problems of ordinary men and women, shielded from poverty or prejudice, privileged in every way, and disposed to take advantage of every opportunity open to his class. In fact, Acton might have been aloof and a little condescending, but he was certainly not a typical British lord, particularly if we are imagining the current stereotype in popular culture. Born in Naples, of a German-French mother, raised by an Italian grandmother and educated partly abroad, he did not belong to the traditional English nobility and was somewhat alienated from the English social and political elite. Until the end he looked like a continental gentleman, with manners that remained rather foreign, as Queen Victoria noticed in 1893. He was not even legally British when he was born and had to confirm his British nationality, fixing his last name on this occasion as Dalberg Acton.² Although not a commoner, he gained only the entry level of the peerage at the age of 35, when he became the First Baron Acton. Because of his Catholicism he was not admitted to British universities and thus spent his formative years in Munich. Though not poor, he was not particularly wealthy either.

John Emerich Edward Dalberg Acton, First Baron Acton, was born on January 10, 1834. His family on his father’s side belonged to the gentry. Since the fourteenth century they had lived in Aldenham, near Bridgnorth, located in Shropshire (England’s West Midlands county bordering Wales). In the seventeenth century, one of his ancestors was made a baronet by King Charles I. In the second half of the eighteenth century, the Actons converted to Catholicism. Acton’s grandfather John Francis Edward Acton made a staggering career in the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, eventually becoming its long-term prime minister (1780–1804). In spite of belonging to a junior branch of the Actons, the grandfather inherited the family title and the 6,000-acre estate in Aldenham when the senior branch died out (1791). Acton’s father, Sir Richard Ferdinand Dalberg-Acton, the seventh baronet of Aldenham, managed to squander much of his father’s fortune on gambling and died when his son was only three years old (1837).

The family of Acton’s mother, the Dalbergs, traced their origins to the High Middle Ages (although the family tree goes as far back as Abraham), and for centuries were in service of the Bishops of Worms, electors in the Holy Roman Empire. Since the fifteenth century, they had enjoyed the privilege