Sovereignty, for the same reason as makes it inalienable, is indivisible;

for will either is, or is not, general;

it is the will either of the body of the people, or only of a part of it.

In the first case, the will, when declared, is an act of Sovereignty and constitutes law: in the second, it is merely a particular will, or act of magistracy—at the most a decree.

 But our political theorists, unable to divide Sovereignty in principle, divide it according to its object: into force and will;

into legislative power and executive power;

into rights of taxation, justice and war;

into internal administration and power of foreign treaty.

Sometimes they confuse all these sections, and sometimes they distinguish them;

they turn the Sovereign into a fantastic being composed of several connected pieces: it is as if they were making man of several bodies, one with eyes, one with arms, another with feet, and each with nothing besides.

We are told that the jugglers of Japan dismember a child before the eyes of the spectators;

then they throw all the members into the air one after another, and the child falls down alive and whole.

The conjuring tricks of our political theorists are very like that;

they first dismember the body politic by an illusion worthy of a fair, and then join it together again we know not how.

 This error is due to a lack of exact notions concerning the Sovereign authority, and to taking for parts of it what are only emanations from it.

Thus, for example, the acts of declaring war and making peace have been regarded as acts of Sovereignty; but this is not the case, as these acts do not constitute law, but merely the application of a law, a particular act which decides how the law applies, as we shall see clearly when the idea attached to the word law has been defined.

 If we examined the other divisions in the same manner, we should find that, whenever Sovereignty seems to be divided, there is an illusion: the rights which are taken as being part of Sovereignty are really all subordinate, and always imply supreme wills of which they only sanction the execution.

 It would be impossible to estimate the obscurity this lack of exactness has thrown over the decisions of writers who have dealt with political right, when they have used the principles laid down by them to pass judgment on the respective rights of kings and peoples.

Every one can see, in Chapters III and IV of the First Book of Grotius, how the learned man and his translator, Barbeyrac, entangle and tie themselves up in their own sophistries, for fear of saying too little or too much of what they think, and so offending the interests they have to conciliate.

Grotius, a refugee in France, ill-content with his own country, and desirous of paying his court to Louis XIII, to whom his book is dedicated, spares no pains to rob the peoples of all their rights and invest kings with them by every conceivable artifice.

This would also have been much to the taste of Barbeyrac, who dedicated his translation to George I of England.

But unfortunately the expulsion of James II, which he called his “abdication,” compelled him to use all reserve, to shuffle and to tergiversate, in order to avoid making William out a usurper.

If these two writers had adopted the true principles, all difficulties would have been removed, and they would have been always consistent;

but it would have been a sad truth for them to tell, and would have paid court for them to no-one save the people.

Moreover, truth is no road to fortune, and the people dispenses neither ambassadorships, nor professorships, nor pensions.