Political Representation in The Ancien Régime

Political Representation in
the Ancien Régime
What kind of political representation existed in the Ancien Régime? Which

social sectors were given a voice, and how were they represented in the
institutions? These are some of the issues addressed by the authors of
this book from different institutional angles (monarchies and republics;
parliaments and municipalities), from various European territories and
finally from a connected and comparative perspective.
The aim is twofold: analyse the different mechanisms of political
representation before Liberalism, their strengths and limitations; and value
the processes of oligarchisation and the possible mismatch between a
libertarian model and a reality which was far from its idealised image.
Joaquim Albareda is Full Professor of Early Modern History at Universitat

Pompeu Fabra, Barcelona.
Manuel Herrero Sánchez is Associate Professor of Early Modern History at

the Universidad Pablo de Olavide in Seville.
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The Elizabethan Secretariat and the Signet Office

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Political Representation in the Ancien Régime

Edited by Joaquim Albareda and Manuel Herrero Sánchez
Political Representation in
the Ancien Régime
Edited by Joaquim Albareda and

Manuel Herrero Sánchez
First published 2019
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Contents
List of Figures viii

List of Tables ix
Acknowledgements x
1 Introduction 1
J OAQU I M A L B ARE DA A N D MA N UE L H E RRE RO SÁNC HEZ
PART I
Preliminary Remarks 15
2 Enterprising Politics or Routine Dealings?: Political

Participation in Europe Before 1800 17
W I M B L O C K MA N S
PART II
Some European Cases 33
France 35
3 Political Representation in Languedoc Under

the Ancien Régime 37
G I L B E RT L A R GUIE R
4 Representation: Political Foundations of the French Province,

15th–18th Century 55
M A R I E - L AU R E L E GAY
5 The Administration of French Villages by Their Inhabitants

in the Modern Age 72
A N TO I N E F O L L A IN
vi Contents
Italian Republics and Imperial Cities 87
6 Governing in a Republican State: A Case Study of Genoa

From Medieval to Modern Times 89
CA R L O B I TO S SI
7 Political Representation and Symbolic Communication in

the Early Modern Period: The Imperial Cities of the Holy
Roman Empire 105
TH O M A S W E LL E R
Scotland 121
8 Representation in the Scottish Parliament to 1707 and

Scottish Representation in the Parliament of Great Britain
to the 1832 Reform Act 123
J O H N R . YO U N G
PART III
The Spanish Monarchy 141
The Crown of Aragon: Aragon, Valencia and Sardinia 143
9 Constitution and Political Representation in the Crown of

Aragon 145
TO M À S D E M O N TAGUT
10 Political Representation in the Kingdom of Aragon During

the Ancien Régime 161
G R E G O R I O C O L ÁS L ATO RRE
11 Political Representation in the Kingdom of Valencia During

the Modern Period (16th–18th Century) 176
CA R M E N P É R E Z A PARICIO
12 Political Representation in the Kingdom of Sardinia in the

Modern Period: Entry in Force and Retrospection on the
Pact-Based Culture 193
L L U Í S J. G U Í A MARÍN
Contents vii
The Crown of Aragon: The Catalan Case 211
13 Political Participation in Catalonia: From Zenith

to Suppression 213
J OAQU I M A L B ARE DA
14 The Configuration of the Tribunal de Contrafaccions

of Catalonia in the Corts of 1701–1702 231
J O S E P CA P D E FE RRO
15 The Conferència dels Comuns in Catalonia (1656–1714):

A New Form of Representation and Political Participation 245
E DUA R D M A RT Í
Castille and the Basque Territories 267
16 The Multiple Faces of Representation: Kingdom, Cortes

and Estates in the Crown of Castile Under the Habsburgs 269
J O S É I G N AC I O FO RTE A P É RE Z
17 Municipal Representation in the Crown of Castile in

the Early Modern Age 286
J O S É M A N U E L DE B E RN ARDO A RE S
18 Political Participation and Representation in the

Basque Country 300
S U SA N A TRU C H UE L O
Representation in a Polycentric Monarchy

of Urban Republics 317
19 Urban Republicanism and Political Representation in

the Spanish Monarchy 319
M A N U E L H E R RE RO SÁ N CH E Z
Contributors 334
Index 341
Figures
8.1 Scottish representation: Shires represented in the Scottish

Parliament before 1707 125
8.2 Scottish representation: Burghs represented in the Scottish
Parliament before 1707 127
8.3 Scottish representation: Shires represented in the Parliament
of Great Britain from 1707 132
8.4 Scottish representation: Burghs represented in the Parliament
of Great Britain from 1707 133
15.1 The activity of the Conference of the Three Commons of
Catalonia (1656–1714) 248
Tables
13.1 Occupation of Barcelona’s consellers (1702–1713) 223

15.1 Selection of the matters addressed by the Conference of
the Three Commons of Catalonia (1656–1714) 249
15.2 Social composition of the Conference of the Three
Commons of Catalonia 254
Acknowledgements
The editors would like to express their thanks to Núria Sallés Vilaseca, who
coordinated and revised the editing work of the book.
1 Introduction
Joaquim Albareda and Manuel Herrero Sánchez
What type of political representation existed in European political institu-

tions during the Ancien Régime? Which social sectors were given a voice?
How did the representation and participation of different social groups
in the various institutions develop? To what extent did the common man
feel represented in this estate-based society? These are some of the topics
addressed by the authors of this book—all of whom are recognised experts
in their field. This volume analyses different institutional levels (monarchies,
republics, parliaments, municipalities, rural communities) and European
territories (France, Italy, the Holy Roman Empire, Scotland, Spain [Crown
of Aragon and Crown of Castile]), adopting a comparative perspective and
correlating different territorial and social realities between the 16th and
18th centuries.
We do not refer, naturally, to democratic representation, as legal equality
between individuals did not exist in the Ancien Régime, but rather to estate-
based stratification, the position of individuals depending on their birth and
their status in the political-institutional order in which every corporation
was entitled to its own specific privileges and justice. Despite this, there is
no doubt that Ancien Régime society did accommodate some mechanisms
of political representation, and thus the picture we draw is akin to a multi-
coloured map. As such, this volume has a twofold objective: (1) to examine
different mechanisms of representation and their scope and limitations prior
to the triumph of liberalism, and (2) to analyse the role of such mechanisms
in the process of the emergence of the modern state, taking into account the
rise of emerging social groups and the processes of oligarchisation of power
that took place in Europe during this period. Following this interpretative
path, the concept of empowering interactions seems particularly suggestive
since, instead of promoting a perspective from above, it emphasises the reci-
procities between the different agents that took part in the process of state
building, the results of which could end up being beneficial for both the
representative institutions and for the state itself.1
In a pioneering study published in 1975, Helmut Koenisberger undertook
the first comprehensive and comparative approach to different mechanisms
of parliamentary representation in Early Modern Europe. Starting from the
2 Joaquim Albareda and Manuel Herrero Sánchez
theoretical postulates of Otto Hintze and Norbert Elias, his work highlights
the rivalry and the conflict between some monarchies which were progres-
sively concentrating more and more sovereign power in the hands of the
king, and a wide constellation of representative institutions, characterised
by their enormous diversity. The most vital among these parliamentary
bodies were to be found in the predominant composite monarchies, which
respected the autonomy of local elites and their institutions, or in regions
with a strong republican and constitutional tradition.2 Since the publica-
tion of this work, debates about representative institutions in Early Modern
Europe have become much more active, as illustrated by the number of
contributions published since 1981 in the journal Parliaments, Estates and
Representation3 and the publication of Michael Graves’s global syntheses,
which provide a comparative and diachronic view of different European
parliamentary models between the 15th and the late 17th centuries. Graves
emphasises the dazzling variety of models of representation in existence;
these institutions were originally designed to assist the sovereign but soon
became one of the main platforms for channelling discontent and watching
over territorial privileges and liberties as well as guaranteeing the commu-
nity’s key role in controlling fiscal affairs.4 Ultimately, the soaring financial
need caused by the growth of the bureaucratic apparatus and especially, by
endemic warfare, is one of the most profitable lines of analysis in the study
of European representative institutions. The gargantuan military demands
forced political leaders to negotiate fiscal agreements with their citizens,
who, in return, demanded a greater share of political power. The compara-
tive study coordinated by Philip Hoffman and Kathryn Norberg is illustra-
tive of how, even in the most, at least theoretically, absolutist models, such
as those of France and Castile, fiscal pressure was significantly lower than
in states with solid representative institutions, such as the United Provinces
or England.5
The mechanisms developed by the political community, in both the urban
and rural contexts, in order to resist the increasing demands of the new
modern state are also revealing with regard to the development of represen-
tative institutions in the Ancien Régime.6 The transformations and changes
undergone by these assemblies following revolutionary events, reformist
waves, civil wars and protest movements provide useful information about
conflicts surrounding different models of sovereignty and different pro-
cesses of state formation.7 The analysis of the multiple faces of political rep-
resentation illustrates how, during the Ancien Régime, state and sovereignty,
rather than converging in a cumulative process that would inevitably lead to
the triumph of a homogeneous national state, crystallised in a multilayered
structure based on strong territorial and local autonomy and the participa-
tion of a wide variety of corporations who jealously defended their rights,
privileges and spaces of representation.
The high degree of fragmentation and complexity of government mod-
els is expressed in the variety of representative institutions, which were
Introduction 3
carefully designed systems and followed strictly regulated protocols. The
growing interest for this anthropological and cultural perspective, in line
with what Michel Hébert recently defined as a théâtre de la parole, is
reflected in Marie-Laure Légay’s chapter about the varied typology of ritu-
als observed by representative bodies in the French provinces, and also in
Thomas Weller’s contribution, which focuses on the symbolic aspects of
political representation in the free imperial cities. The goal is to emphasise
the analysis of the ritual and the rhetoric which characterised the opening
and closing ceremonies of assemblies, the instatement of the different actors
involved, or the study of the mechanisms developed to perpetuate the record
of these assemblies, all of which played a crucial role in the configuration of
a culture of representation.8
Wim Blockmans explicitly takes the work of Michel Hébert as a starting
point, providing a detailed conceptual and methodological framework for
the present volume, with the aim of identifying the common denominators
and defining the circumstances under which political participation devel-
oped and survived. Blockmans’s goal is to overcome the three issues which,
according to Hébert, have traditionally shaped the study of political partici-
pation: the constitutionalist paradigm, the teleological perspective (which
draws a continuous line that links Early Modern parliaments and current
forms of democratic parliamentarianism), and the framework of the nation
state (which bears little resemblance to the forms of sovereignty actually in
operation during the Ancien Régime).9 Based on these premises, Blockmans
adopts a long-term global pan-European perspective, emphasising the cen-
tral role played by the actors and a whole series of other factors (geographi-
cal, economic, social and political-institutional). Based on these postulates,
some general trends can be identified: periods of expansion, which are char-
acterised by institutional innovations and an increase in participation, as
well as moments of contraction, which are marked by oligarchisation and
some degree of institutional inertia.
In order to better understand the role of each of the agents behind the
development of these forms of representation and the patterns of political
participation, it is necessary to offer a panoramic view that considers case
studies which go beyond the canonical English model; indeed, these forms
of representation have often been neglected because they do not conform
to the English example, in addition to being obscured by the growing con-
solidation of royal power, for instance, in France and Castile, or by their
highly fragmented sovereignty, for example, in the Holy Roman Empire and
Northern Italy. The balanced analysis that Marie-Laure Legay offers on the
diversity of the provincial representative assemblies in France during the
early modern period clearly demonstrates that generalisation often leads
to error, and that the so-called “domestication” of these institutions by the
sovereign was not as profound and widespread as commonly believed. In
line with the studies by Albert N. Hamscher on the Parliament of Paris10
and those by William Beik on the Languedoc,11 her work underlines the
agreement reached between the king and the local elite, and the delegation
of Royal powers (legal, political and financial) to these institutions, which
were strengthened throughout the 18th century and whose forms of repre-
sentation never ceased changing and adapting.12
Languedoc is a paradigmatic case. Gilbert Larguier’s contribution exam-
ines in detail multiple forms of political representation, from the early
appearance of local consulates in the 12th century up to the summoning
of the Estates General in 1789. The procedures surrounding the election of
consuls allow him to track the roots of a vocabulary with heavy commu-
nitarian and republican roots. Communitarianism and republicanism also
underlie the diversity and vitality of election procedures, a feature shared
by numerous corporate bodies during the Ancien Régime. We should not
forget that, as pointed out by Olivier Christin, the right to vote was an
expression of membership, a reflection of the individual’s belonging to one
of the constituent social bodies, which is why elections were one of the most
effective foundations of social representation.13 The ballot, which was more
or less restricted to certain members of the social body, was the key decision-
making institution in both traditional organisations such as universities,
guilds or some religious orders, and new corporations, such as commercial
companies or academies. Nevertheless, from the early 17th century, the sale
of offices in major representative assemblies and urban governments pro-
gressively eroded the classic election protocols by facilitating appointment
of non-residents to numerous posts, secularising rituals of representation
and gradually limiting participation in a distinct process of oligarchisa-
tion. Dynamics of change are not the exclusive domain of urban councils or
major representative institutions but, as demonstrated by Antoine Follain’s
contribution to this volume, also need to be analysed from the perspective
of the rural communities, which not only comprised most of the population
of France but were also characterised by a great diversity both in terms of
administrative typology and of their relationship with the Church, the sei-
gneur, the province or the state.
The French monarchic model, therefore, accommodated a wide variety
of forms of representation, in open contradiction with the stereotypical
description of France as the ultimate paradigm of dynastic absolutism; the
republican systems on the continent, in contrast, are usually described as a
modernising alternative and as the main sources of resistance against the
centralist drift and the concentration of sovereign power characteristic of
the dawning modern state.14 In this volume, through the examples posed by
the republic of Genoa, the imperial cities of the Holy Roman Empire and the
urban republics which operated at the heart of the Hispanic Monarchy we
challenge this reductionist dualist model and claim that reality was much
more complex, and that strong factors of coordination and dependence
existed. Carlo Bittosi’s detailed analysis of the Genovese case from the 14th
century until the demise of the republic (due to the Napoleonic invasions)
towards the end of the 18th century, and its systematic comparison with
Introduction 5
Venice and Lucca, reveals that the Genoese arenas of representation were
dominated by a strong oligarchic component and that public office was
the patrimony of a numerically small elite. Although Genoa preserved co-
optation mechanisms which were less restrictive than those in operation in
Venice, the continuous confrontations between family factions complicated
the conformation of a stately apparatus that was capable of guaranteeing
the autonomous defence of its territory. This forced the Genoese republic to
establish a symbiotic relationship with the Hispanic Monarchy, which, in
return for financial and naval services offered by the Ligurian aristocracy,
guaranteed the protection of its territory and facilitated the incorporation
of Genoese family networks into the territories under the jurisdiction of the
Catholic king.15
A similar situation may be found among the imperial cities of the Holy
Roman Empire, studied by Thomas Weller. Both active mercantile and finan-
cial centres, such as Augsburg, Nuremberg, Frankfurt, Cologne, Lübeck,
Hamburg or Bremen, and smaller urban nuclei, such as Buchau or Aalen,
maintained a high degree of autonomy and benefited from the right to have
their own representation in the Imperial Diets. The complex territorial struc-
ture and the superposition of sovereignties, typical of an elective Crown like
the Holy Roman Empire, are directly related to the mechanisms of decision-
making, which went far beyond the mere bilateral relationship between the
emperor and the Diet. In these circumstances, all kinds of regional federa-
tions, such as the Hansa, compensated for the lack of definition of central
state mechanisms and guaranteed the survival of autonomous diplomatic
representation. This system, however, suffered a noticeable setback with
the triumph of new models of sovereignty from the Peace of Westphalia
onwards. The imperial cities, which had been undergoing a process of pro-
gressive oligarchisation—parallel to that attested in the Low Countries16—
met with increasing difficulty in sustaining their demands in the teeth of the
growing power of other imperial estates and the impulse of the territorial
princes. Prior to 1648, some inter-imperial alliances, such as the Helvetic
Confederation or the Union of Utrecht, managed to remain autonomous
from the sovereignty of the empire. In the new setting, however, the increas-
ing authority of territorial princes prevented the operation of the traditional
inter-Estate alliance between peasants, knights and cities, as confirmed by
the gradual absorption of the Hanseatic cities by the neighbouring princes.17
At the heart of the Holy Roman Empire, this type of federation played
a crucial role in the religious confrontations that devastated Europe during
the 16th and 17th centuries. The creation of a constitutional union that was,
however, divided by confessional differences resulted in an imposed toler-
ance that drove these polities onto a very different path from that followed
by France and England. In both kingdoms, the end of the civil wars led to a
process of religious homogenisation and the limitation of exclusive regional
rights. The example posed by the Kingdom of Scotland speaks for itself;
here, the triumph of Calvinism and the deep roots of self-representation
were not enough to avoid the incorporation of Scotland into the new King-
dom of Great Britain through the Act of Union of 1707, which involved
the dissolution of the Scottish parliament. The prosopographical study pre-
sented by John Young, along with his detailed analysis on the subject of the
geography of representation and the participation of each Estate in Scottish
parliament between 1660 and 1707, reveals which individuals and groups
accepted and promoted the incorporation of Scotland into Great Britain.
In addition, Young follows the evolution of Scottish representation in the
British parliament until the Reform Act of 1832.
Another important feature of this book is that it offers an updated picture
of representation in the Crown of Aragon. Tomàs de Montagut examines
the constitutional framework that facilitated the political development of
its constituting territories (Catalonia, Aragon, Valencia, Mallorca, Sicily and
Sardinia) and the preservation of their differentiated legal regimes. In fact,
the resulting system was configured as a pluralistic and coordinated power-
structure,18 including a Cort General, which was operational until 1585,
and, afterwards, the particular Cortes that presided over each of the territo-
ries, which remained active until their suppression by Philip V between 1707
and 1715. These Cortes shared their basic functions: receiving the royal
oath, enforcing the law and enacting legislation. As pointed out by Xavier
Gil in his comparison between Aragon and Castile (both of which belonged
to the composite Habsburg monarchy), “things were different in the Crown
of Aragon, both in language and in practice, both in municipal life and
in parliamentary politics.”19 Without any doubt, the municipal regime was
more open in Aragon, to the extent that it was linked with the guild struc-
ture and based on electoral procedures. The nomination of public offices
was in the hands of the local ruling class, through a system of insaculacio-
nes,20 and the hegemony of the citizens and the presence of craftsmen was
not encroached upon. The jurados and consellers (councillors) participated
directly in the administration of the city, controlled taxes and undertook
other tasks related to the municipal government. In contrast with Castile,
the position of Corregidor, the highest royal authority at the local level, did
not exist. Finally, it is worth pointing out that, in Aragon, public posts were
not sold and lifelong offices did not exist—except for some bureaucratic
positions: lawyers, secretaries, notaries—until 1738, when Philip V imposed
these practices, based on the Castilian model.21
However, the core territories of the Crown of Aragon had different social
compositions and were affected by different internal dynamics, which led
to divergent political developments. While, between the late 16th and the
first quarter of the 17th century, the monarchy succeeded in restricting the
political authorities of Aragon and Valencia, it failed in its attempt to do
the same in Catalonia, stirring instead the Catalan revolt of 1640. In 1592,
Aragon saw its powers curtailed in benefit of the king, and, in 1626, the Cortes
accepted the Union of Arms22 proposed by the Count-Duke of Olivares, with
the Valencian Corts following suit. From that date onwards, the Cortes in both
Introduction 7
kingdoms began conceding the royal subsidies before their laws had been
granted the king’s endorsement, thereby reversing the parliamentary logic
that had been in operation until then. This reduced the assembly’s legislative
authority before the king.23
In 1700, on the brink of the War of the Spanish Succession (in which
the territories of the Crown of Aragon sided with Charles III of Austria
against Philip V of Bourbon), constitutionalism was alive and well in Cata-
lonia, and it was mainly due to this that the two pretenders to the Hispanic
throne, Philip V and Charles III, held Cortes only there. A good indication
of the strength of constitutionalist ideas was the setting up of the Tribunal
de Contrafaccions, created to try legal transgressions (of the Constitutions)
between 1702 and 1713, as explained by Josep Capdeferro. This tribunal
was the culmination of a legal-political tradition based on pactism and
compliance with the law, opening an effective platform against royal and
seigneurial encroachments (without, naturally, pretending to abolish the sei-
gneurial regime). The development of Catalan constitutionalism, as discussed
by Joaquim Albareda, reached its climax in 1701 and 1706, when its abil-
ity to restrict royal power and enforce the laws was greater than ever. This
progress was related to the broadening of the basis of political participation.
Social permeability allowed the mercantile social groups to access the rank
of “ciudadanos honrados” (honoured citizens) and to occupy important
positions in the country’s institutions. In addition, it also made it possible
for craftsmen to participate actively in the municipalities.
If constitutionalism had a republican outlook in the whole of the Crown
of Aragon—with respect for the law (Fueros in Aragon, Furs in Valencia,
and the Catalan Constitutions) on the part of the king an essential element
of pactism and the basis of the king’s authority24—Catalan republican-
ism was even more pronounced. This was the case not only in theory (as
reflected in political writings) but also in practice: in 1713, the Principality
became a republic de facto after being abandoned by its allies during the
peace negotiations. In this context of political effervescence, we should note
the role played by the Conferència dels Comuns, which became the leading
institution in Catalan political life between 1697 and 1714, as demonstrated
by Eduard Martí. This was an atypical institution, both in composition (it
included representatives of the Diputació del General, the Consell de Cent
of Barcelona and the Military Arm, known as the Three Commons) and in
character, as it was open to emerging social sectors. Its main task was to
assess and set the political directives for government institutions concerning
the preservation of the Constitutions during the dynastic transition in Spain
and during the War of the Succession.
In Valencia, the Diputació del General had fiscal and administrative pow-
ers but, in contrast with its counterpart in Catalonia and Aragon, it had
no control over political matters, which fell to the Junta d’Elets (board of
elected members) of the Three Estates. The elections of Junta members were
not under the control of the viceroy, which opened the institution to broader
social representation. As argued by Carmen Pérez Aparicio, this institution
was the keystone of the political system: it controlled both the granting of
royal subsidies and the convening of ad hoc assemblies which could resolve
matters without the need for prior endorsement from the Corts, which were
summoned for the last time in 1645.
The Kingdom of Sardinia, which became part of the Crown of Aragon in
1324, to be later incorporated into the Hispanic Monarchy and finally into
the empire, preserved the Catalan-Aragonese political model for almost four
centuries. However, this kingdom was always subject to a greater degree
of royal control than other territories of the crown, and had less political
autonomy, as explained by Lluís Guia. The parliament embodied political
representation in the kingdom, together with the Estates’ Juntas de primeras
voces. Unlike the Cortes/Corts in other territories of the Crown of Aragon,
the Sardinian parliament was not chaired by the king, but by the viceroy,
although parliamentary procedures were very similar to those of the Ara-
gonese Cortes/Corts (especially those of Valencia). On the other hand, Sar-
dinia had no Deputation, whose fiscal tasks were taken over by committees
appointed by the Estates under the supervision of the king. The parliament
was not summoned after the arrival of the Savoy dynasty in 1718.
The Aragonese model (which was without any doubt a reference for the
political literature of the 17th and 18th centuries, including Juan de Mariana
and Spinoza),25 was built on two basic pillars: Cortes and Justice (a tribunal
that aimed to reduce abuses of power and to ensure that grievances were
duly atoned for), which worked hand in hand with the Deputation and the
Assembly of the Four Arms or Estates. In his contribution, Gregorio Colás
focuses on the representation of the local councils in the Cortes—where
fueros and laws had to be approved unanimously, which guaranteed that the
voice of the fourth arm, cities and towns, was not ignored. Moreover, the
activity of the urban syndics was strictly controlled by city councils, which
demonstrates that urban groups were well aware of their role in the political
structure of the realm.
Concerning the Crown of Castile, Pablo Fernández Albaladejo claims that
an inter-estatal and organic regnum capable of representing and corporately
gathering the whole country against the king never crystallised. It may be
said that, from 1539 onwards, the kingdom was made up of 18 cities (21 in
the 18th century).26 As such, in contrast with Aragon, in Castile territorial
rights were not the result of the collaboration of the Cortes and the mon-
arch, but of unilateral royal initiatives, such as the pragmatic sanction.
Did this, in some way, clear the way for absolutism in Castile? Even if
it promoted the crown’s authoritarian leanings concerning matters of rep-
resentation and law enactment, this was not an inevitable outcome. From
a strictly legal perspective, the Crown always acknowledged the superior-
ity of the law. On the other hand, the leading political role shifted to the
city councils and the Council of Castile. In this way, as claimed by José
Ignacio Fortea, insofar as the deputies represented their communities, and
Introduction 9
their initiative was curtailed by strict mandates, the concept of participa-
tive representation underwent a significant evolution in the context of the
Cortes. However, the absence of the nobility and the clergy was problematic,
especially when it came to collecting their share of the Crown’s subsidies,
and raised doubts as to who was the true embodiment of the realm: the
cities which constituted it, or the Cortes which represented it. From 1665
onwards, after the king stopped summoning the Cortes, it became accepted
that the representation of the realm corresponded to the Diputación de las
Alcabalas and, failing that, to the Comisión de Millones, to the detriment of
the representative institution of the Cortes.
In the aggregative and complex political structure of a polycentric monar-
chy such as the Spanish monarchy, the cities were the backbone of the rela-
tionship between sovereign and subjects. This has led Manuel Herrero to
formulate the concept of “monarchy of urban republics.”27 The idea is based
on the fact that, in addition to enjoying considerable autonomy and control
over fiscal policies, the freedoms and privileges of Castilian cities were more
secure than in other contemporary monarchies, such as the French. At the
same time, the monarch also benefited from this situation, because the free-
dom of each of these cities (or urban republics) added to his overall power:
the cities became the ideal interlocutor for the king and were the main
contributors to the preservation of the imperial system, which led to the
consolidation of the power of urban corporations. All this happened with-
out the need for a pompous theoretical republican rhetoric which could, in
some circumstances, raise questions about the loyalty of the king’s subjects.
In contrast with the Crown of Aragon, in Castile (and also in France) the
sale of municipal positions, especially that of regidor, became a formula for
the social mobility of merchants, lawyers and military personnel.28 In the
end, the ennoblement and oligarchisation of a closed elite, the existence of
which relied entirely on the imperial policies, had inevitable results at the
urban level: regidurías (regidor’s office) largely fell to the hidalgos, and cities
ceased to be urban republics and turned into aristocratic cities.29
In Castilian municipalities, the council was formed by the corregidor, the
regidores and the jurados (councillors)—positions occupied by the most
powerful social and economic-social groups (hidalgos, knights, merchants,
etc.). While regidores (aldermen) acted on behalf of the elite, jurados repre-
sented the estado llano (Third Estate). As analysed by José Manuel Bernardo
Ares, the composition of the Third State changed over time either as a con-
sequence of the indirect election system (16th century) or owing to the sale
of offices, which led to the privatisation of public service, which remained in
the hands of a few families, in a process identical to that undergone by the
regidurías. The jurados attended the council and, despite having a voice but
not a vote, tried to prevent agreements that went against the interest of their
neighbourhoods and were contrary to the law.
The territorial assemblies of the northern regions of the Iberian Peninsula
are an example of the diversity of representative systems in modern Spain
All of these assemblies were based on towns or privileged corporations, and
controlled the population of the rural surroundings, where the petty nobility
or hidalgos enjoyed a significant role. Susana Truchuelo analyses the local
councils and the provincial Juntas of Vizcaya, Guipuzkoa and Álava, which
played a leading part in those fiscal and military matters that were directly
related to the defence of the territory. Relevantly, the Basque provinces did
not participate in the Castilian Cortes, which is why Vizcaya and Guipuz-
koa could consolidate their bilateral relationship with the Crown and their
loyalty was rewarded with generous commercial and fiscal compensations.
Their forms of local representation were also different from the Castilian
model: they were based on open political councils, in which the social body
was widely represented, and elected offices (by insaculación and lot) that
were renewed annually; therefore, openness and rotation was guaranteed,
although the restrictive criteria for office limited participation to some
extent, which was beneficial to the oligarchic groups.
The central goal of this volume is to provide a broad overview and a
selection of interconnected case studies, which have rarely been analysed
in a comprehensive way; we aim to deliver a global vision of the various
forms of participation, and of the organisation of the political community
in different Western European kingdoms, cities and republics. One of the
main contributions of this volume is that it situates, in this context, the
various models of representation in operation in different Hispanic terri-
tories and exposes the historiographical simplification of the French case,
which is proving to be especially resilient. Returning to a comparative per-
spective is, without any doubt, the best solution for banishing simplistic
schemes and overcoming the national-based interpretations that still persist.
The conceptualisation of Britain, the epitome of political and financial effi-
ciency, as the most perfect expression of the parliamentary system, and its
explicit presentation as the opposite of French absolutism, makes us forget
that both models were similar in many ways. Far from being as antagonistic
as is usually presented, both models underwent sharp religious conflicts at
their very core, as well as a distinct process of concentration of sovereign
power in the hands of the state from the mid-17th century onwards. This
process was very different from that which took place in most European ter-
ritories, where polycentric political systems, which significantly fragmented
sovereignty, were the norm. The analysis presented in this volume is not
limited to the examination of the provincial French parliaments or the par-
liamentary trajectory of Scotland, but also deals with the Italian mercantile
republics and the imperial free cities, where representative institutions had
some shared traits with those found in the Hispanic Monarchy under the
Habsburgs, for example, in Italy (Sardinia), the Crown of Aragon (Catalo-
nia, Aragon and Valencia) and the Crown of Castile. Indeed, it can no longer
be sustained that representation in Castile was hamstrung by a domesticated
parliament, as Koenigsberger’s interpretative scheme suggests.
Introduction 11
This book stems from a conference on “The political representation in the
Ancien Régime” that was held in the Universitat Pompeu Fabra (Barcelona)
on 6 and 7 October 2016. The conference was organised by the research
groups coordinated by Professors Joaquim Albareda (Grup dÉstudi de les
institucions i de les cultures polítiques. S. XVI-XXI. Generalitat de Cata-
lunya 2014-SGR-1369) and Tomàs Montagut (Juristas hispánicos: entre
el Imperio del derecho y la gestión del Poder. S. XIII-XXI. MINECO
DER2013–43431-P). We are grateful to the following for their support in
organising the conference: the Institut d´Història Jaume Vicens Vives; the
Department of Humanities and the Department of Law (Area of History
and Law) in the Universitat Pompeu Fabra; and the International Commis-
sion for the History of Representative and Parliamentary Institutions. The
success of the conference was, to a large extent, due to the efforts, diligence
and organisational skills of Núria Sallés and Eduard Martí. We are also
grateful for their help in completing this book, which is also supported by
the project directed by Manuel Herrero (The Polycentric Model of Shared
Sovereignty [Sixteenth–Eighteenth Centuries]: An Alternative Path for the
Construction of the Modern State. MINECO HAR 2013–45357-P). We
extend our thanks to the editors Harald E. Braun and Max Novick for their
great interest in this book as well as to the translators Sílvia Iriso and David
Govantes-Edwards.
Notes
1. Wim Blockmans, André Holenstein and Jon Mathieu, eds., Empowering Inter-
actions: Political Cultures and the Emergence of the State in Europe, 1300–1900
(Farnham: Ashgate, 2009), 1–30.
2. Helmut Koenisberger, “Monarchies and Parliaments in Early Modern Europe:
Dominium Regale or Dominium Politicum et Regale,” Theories and Society 5,
no. 2 (1978): 191–217. The first edition resulted from the Inaugural Lecture in
the Chair of History at University of London King’s College, pronounced on
25 February 1975.
3. The journal is published by the International Commission for the History of
Representative and Parliamentary Institutions (ICHRPI), and its present editor-
in chief is John R. Young, one of the authors of this volume.
4. Michael A. R. Graves, The Parliaments of Early Modern Europe (London &
New York: Routledge, 2013). See also the -already classic- study by Alec R.
Myers, Parliaments and Estates in Europe to 1789 (London: Thames & Hud-
son, 1975).
5. Philip T. Hoffman and Kathryn Norberg, eds., Fiscal Crises, Liberty, and Repre-
sentative Government, 1450–1789 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1994).
6. Peter Blickle, ed., Resistance, Representation, and Community (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1997).
7. See the comparative study, coordinated by the Centre for Parliamentary History
of the University of Yale, which includes some contributions that deal with both
European and American examples: Maija Jansso, Realities of Representation:
State Building in Early Modern Europe and European America (New York:
Palgrave MacMillan, 2007).
8. Michel Hébert, Parlementer. Assemblées représentatives et échange politique en
Europe occidentale à la fin du Moyen Age (Paris: Éditions du Boccard, 2014).
9. Ibid., 10–11.
10. Albert N. Hamscher, The Parlement of Paris after the Fronde, 1653–1673 (Pitts-
burgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1976).
11. William Beik, Absolutism and Society in Seventeenth Century France State
Power and Provincial Aristocracy in Languedoc (Cambridge: Cambridge Uni-
versity Press, 1985).
12. Against these views, Hurt points out that recent revisionism of French absolut-
ism has become a new orthodoxy, and underlines the suppression of the political
autonomy of the parliaments initiated during the reign of Louis XIV. John J.
Hurt, Louis XIV and the Parlements: The Assertion of Royal Authority (Man-
chester: Manchester University Press, 2002).
13. Olivier Christin, Vox populi. Une histoire du vote avant le suffrage universel
(Paris: Seuil, 2014).
14. Martin Van Gelderen and Quentin Skinner, eds., Republicanism: A Shared
European Heritage (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002); André
Holenstein, Thomas Maissen and Maarten Prak, eds., The Republican Alter-
native: The Netherlands and Switzerland Compared (Amsterdam: Amsterdam
15. Manuel Herrero Sánchez, Yasmina Ben Yessef, Carlo Bitossi and Dino Puncuh,
eds., Génova y la Monarquía Hispánica (1528–1713) (Genova: Atti de la Soci-
età Ligure di Storia Patria, 2011).
16. Mary Lindemann, The Merchant Republics: Amsterdam, Antwerp and Ham-
burg, 1648–1790 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015).
17. Reinhart Koselleck, Historias de conceptos. Estudios sobre semántica y prag-
mática del lenguaje político y social (Madrid: Editorial Trotta, 2012), 286–289.
18. Jesús Lalinde, El pactismo en la Historia de España (Madrid: Instituto de
España, 1980), 113–139.
19. Xavier Gil, “Republican Politics in Early Modern Spain: The Castilian and
Catalano-Aragonese Traditions,” in Republicanism: A Shared European Heri-
tage, ed. Martin Van Gelderen and Quentin Skinner (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2002), vol. 1, 271.
20. Offices were allocated by lot, among the names included in a series of lists pre-
sented by each body to the city council.
21. Josep Maria Torras i Ribé, “La venta de oficios municipales en Cataluña (1739–
1741), una operación especulativa del gobierno de Felipe V,” in Actas del IV
Symposium de Historia de la Administración (Madrid: Instituto Nacional de
Administración Pública, 1983), 724–725; Pablo Fernández Albaladejo, Frag-
mentos de Monarquía (Madrid: Alianza, 1992), 400.
22. The Union of Arms was a Project launched by the Count-Duke of Olivares to
involve all territories of the Monarchy in the mobilisation and maintenance of
troops.
23. Eva Serra, “La vida parlamentària a la Corona dÁragó: segles XVI i XVII: una
aproximació comparativa,” in Actes del 53è Congrés de la Comissió Interna-
cional per a lÉstudi de la Història de les Institucions Representatives i Parla-
mentàries, ed. Jaume Sobrequés (Barcelona: Parlament de Catalunya, 2005), vol. 1,
510–511.
24. “In the rhetoric of the fueros, the rights were the foundations of loyalty, in
contrast with dynastic semantics, according to which obedience, dominion
and freedom were alternatively linked.” José Maria Iñurritegui, “1707: la
fidelidad y los derechos,” in Los Borbones. Dinastía y memoria de nación en
la España del siglo XVIII, ed. Pablo Fernández Albaladejo (Madrid: Marcial
Pons, 2001), 286.
Introduction 13
25. Clizia Magoni, Fueros e libertà. Il mito della costituzione aragonese nellÉuropa
moderna (Rome: Carocci, 2007).
26. Albaladejo, Fragmentos, 289. Let us not forget, nevertheless, that, as pointed out
by Sean Perrone, the ecclesiastical assemblies were still administrating the eccle-
siastical revenue in the same way as the Cortes, and the cathedral chapters were
still benefiting from a high degree of autonomy and ample platforms of negotia-
tion with the Crown. Sean T. Perrone, Charles V and the Castilian Assembly of
the Clergy: Negotiations for Ecclesiastical Subsidy (Leiden-Boston: Brill, 2008).
27. Manuel Herrero Sánchez, ed., Repúblicas y republicanismo en la Europa mod-
erna (siglos XVI-XVIII) (Madrid: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 2017). Espe-
cially the chapter: “La monarquía hispánica y las repúblicas europeas. El modelo
republicano en una monarquía de ciudades,” 273–326.
28. Jean Nagle, Un orgueil français: la venalité des offices sous lÁncien Régime
(Paris: Odile Jacob, 2008).
29. Domingo Centenero, De repúblicas urbanas a ciudades nobles. Un análisis de
la evolución y desarrollo del republicanismo castellano (1550–1621) (Madrid:
Siglo veintiuno, 2012), 104.
Part I
Preliminary Remarks
2 Enterprising Politics or
Routine Dealings?
Political Participation in Europe
Before 1800
Wim Blockmans
The history of representative institutions is a venerable field, initially fos-

tered by a standing committee of the International Congress for Histori-
cal Sciences and by a publication series.1 Dating back to the late 1930s
and the Second World War, the series’ early volumes were marked by a
neo-corporatist vision; later on, the series included both monographs and
miscellaneous volumes. In the mid-1960s, the Jean Bodin Society for Com-
parative Institutional History published no fewer than six volumes on the
relations between rulers and subjects in world history, of which volumes
three and four concern premodern Europe. From 1981 onwards, the journal
Parliaments, Estates and Representation effectively replaced the old series.
While much detailed information has now been made available, systematic
comparisons and insights into the causes of a great number of cases remain
beyond our reach.
In his masterly book on parliamentarism in medieval Western Europe,
Michel Hébert rightly pointed out three major shortcomings of the abun-
dant literature on the subject: the constitutionalist, and often formalistic,
point of view; the teleological perspective, directed towards the emergence
of modern parliamentary democracy; and a framework based on existing
national states.2 A more comparative approach which takes into account the
variety in the settings of political participation might help to overcome these
“blockades.” Therefore, the ideal type of dualistic systems, which confronts
benevolent monarchs with a standard model of representation of the subjects
through assemblies of Three Estates, needs to be dismissed and replaced by
a more encompassing vision of the diversity of forms of political participa-
tion on all levels of society. Similarly, one should question the impact of the
territorial dimensions of polities, the characteristics of the different societies
under consideration and their economic resources. Moreover, the continuity
of institutional settings through the early modern period needs to be taken
into account without artificially splitting their development.
In 1998, I summarily proposed an analytical framework which focused
on five factors: the strength of the dynasty, the physical scale of the politi-
cal system, its social and economic characteristics, its geopolitical location
and its institutional traditions. To formulate an overarching framework, by
18 Wim Blockmans
reconsidering and elaborating these five factors, let us start by accepting
that the systems of participation differed hugely through time and space,
just as the societies in which they functioned differed, but not necessarily in
exactly the same way. Since other factors have an impact, the relationship
between a society and its political system should not be interpreted in a
mechanical way. For example, political events connected with the discon-
tinuity of efficient leadership, the intervention of external contenders and
institutional inertia could also influence the way political representation
was organised in the long term.
It is therefore important to identify the common denominators on a the-
oretical level and to define the circumstances under which particular levels
of political participation could emerge and could be sustained over time.
This is, in brief, the purpose of this contribution. A systematic appraisal
of the various forms of political participation in given times and places,
in light of a systematic set of potentially relevant variables, should help
us to gain a more coherent understanding of the causes of the variation.
An all-encompassing framework of political participation should take
into account the dynamics of the relevant factors, including the lasting
effects of contiguous events. In a similar way, political systems have to
be analysed as interactive processes in which institutions can emerge as
the unplanned results of the operation of multiple actors. Once practices
have become normal and have been proved to be efficient for the most
influential actors, they start to have a life of their own and tend to turn
into formalised structures. Then they become less dependent on—and less
responsive to—changes in society. Institutions have a tendency to expand
their sphere of influence for their own purpose and to shift away from
their initial goals. The established elites are then inclined to give preference
to personal honours and profits, derived from their position, and hinder
further changes. At that stage, formal and ritual aspects tend to prevail
in the political debates rather than conflicting interests or the ideal of the
“common good.”
In order to understand these processes of institutionalisation, it is helpful
to distinguish the political systems from the societies in which they emerged
and functioned. Institutions that function well in one type of society can-
not simply be transferred to another society that has developed in a differ-
ent way. Tensions between a political system and its societal basis tend to
become evident in dynamic settings. Conditions which led to the emergence
of a particular political system may develop in a way that puts that system
under strong pressure; however, political elites may tend to keep a soci-
ety under control by hampering the growth of new contenders. Members
of established elites generally pursue the interests of their own class and
perceive the claims of others as threats to their own interests. A general
characteristic of Ancien Régime societies—of which the Estates formed a
typical feature—was a strong sense of hierarchy, and this was formalised
Enterprising Politics or Routine Dealings? 19
in legal privileges and expressed in behavioural codes, value systems and
world views.
1. Setting the Scene

Traditional historiography has mostly described representative institutions
and, more generally, political systems in isolation from their economic, social
and even ideological contexts. Arguments were mainly based on ideal insti-
tutional types but left unexplained the great diversity of institutions in terms
of emergence, absence, composition, membership, functions, frequency and
duration of meetings, field of action and impact. All these characteristics
were expressions of the division of power, wealth and economic activity in a
given society. Moreover, historians have taken for granted that monarchies
ruled over communities that lived in well-established territories. However,
these three factors (monarch, community, territory) changed frequently but
largely independently from one another and, in consequence, they rarely
coincided. Therefore, to begin with, questions must address the setting of
the stage for political action: how did the relations between communities
and dynasties come into being, and how did they relate to the space in which
their interaction took place?
Dynasties depend on their biological continuity, a given tradition for the
transfer of power and the personal skills of their leaders. Local communi-
ties may have emerged before the rise of a particular dynasty, and may have
become linked to a ruling dynasty in a process of ethnogenesis. Over the
course of time, however, dynasties were replaced by others which initially
had no affinity with their “new” subjects. Communities could, on the basis
of their interactions under similar conditions in a specific environment and
without any monarchical initiative, develop on a regional scale, and thus a
common lifestyle, material and ideological features, and a sense of belong-
ing were generated. Relatively isolated geographical settings, such as islands,
valleys and remote or inaccessible locations, constitute typical examples
of spontaneous community formation. In short, communities are strongly
attached to their geographical framework of reference, whereas rulers dis-
play a tendency to strive towards expansion, as do all living organisms.
Successful expansion of territorial rule poses a challenge for the integra-
tion of the various communities into larger units. As noted, communities
were intimately linked to the territory: it enabled them to develop a par-
ticular way of life and was, in turn, reshaped by the communities’ actions.
For rulers, land was part of their patrimony and often just one asset in
the ongoing competition for supremacy. These opposed views became a key
issue in the negotiations that representative assemblies conducted with rul-
ers who belonged to a dynasty that was perceived as “foreign.” Subjects
generally requested guarantees of territorial integrity and respect for the
local customs, law and language. They opposed monarchical tendencies to
20 Wim Blockmans
use their territories as assets which could be mortgaged and exchanged for
other valuables in their power play.
2. The Political Society

Communities developed a common awareness, often expressed in the form
of myths of origin which are largely independent from their rulers, whose
dynasties underwent processes of extinction, splitting, merging or other
transitions, which were largely unrelated to the territories and communities
involved. In 1231 and 1240, the independent local communities of Schwyz
and Uri negotiated a set of privileges which Emperor Frederick II eagerly
granted in order to secure his passage over the Alpine passes. They forged
alliances to resist the pressure posed by the counts of Habsburg and incor-
porated a third community, Unterwalden, first mentioned in a charter issued
in 1291. Gradually, a representative political system emerged that progres-
sively extended through the association of new territories. The system was
based on leagues and settled at 13 members in 1513. The continuity of
this league over time, embodied in over 2,000 meetings of representatives
between 1470 and 1798, indicates that monarchies are not a necessary con-
dition for the formation and maintenance of local political communities, or
for the organisation of representative assemblies.3 Naturally, the Eidgenos-
senschaft is not the only model of political representation, created by local
communities, from the bottom up, without a ruling monarch as either initia-
tor or counterpart.
The formation of a political community was prompted by both endoge-
nous and exogenous factors. A ruling class or dynasty could rise from within
or could be imposed upon the community. In small-scale communities, the
political system was generally formed by the main economic actors—for
instance, free landholders, cattle-raisers, merchants or shippers. From the
early Middle Ages, a military class imposed its control over land ownership
and sparsely populated rural societies. The Swiss Confederation was only
in part an exception to this rule, owing to the substantial interregional dif-
ferences that existed within the Confederation. The fragmentation of the
territory by the Alps prevented extensive accumulation of land, as occurred
across most of the continent. The aristocracy retained its power in the least
connected and urbanised regions of the continent until the early 20th cen-
tury, mainly in the land-locked regions of Southern, Central and Eastern
Europe. Basically, we have to consider fundamental differences between
communities and societies: namely, those between small-scale (based on
face-to-face relations) and larger, often composite, units; between rural and
urban; and between landed and maritime.
Another geographical dimension with a clear impact on the operation of
representative institutions is the sheer size of a polity. Travelling distance
had a negative influence on community building and increased the costs
of political participation. It required at least a four-week journey to cross
the empire. As early as 1939, Norbert Elias pointed out the fact that the
empire’s surface area was almost five times that of England. Bernard Guenée
similarly attributed France’s weak administrative integration, as well as the
failure of the Estates General, to the kingdom’s dimensions, which increased
considerably from the 15th century onwards. In England, the 1066 conquest
is a crucial factor, as it reinforced and homogenised governmental struc-
tures. In contrast, the empire was a result of the ambition of the renovated
Roman Empire and could more naturally expand towards Central Europe,
which made centrifugal forces very strong.
Italy’s geopolitical setting was completely different: in the middle of the
Mediterranean, segmented by the Apennines and surrounded by the sea, it
became, from the 10th century onwards, the central hub for the commercial
connections between Europe, on the one hand, and the highly developed
Levant and the Byzantine Empire with their connections to the Far East, on
the other. The extraordinary concentration of capital would lead to a remark-
able process whereby the large and rich urban communes in North and Cen-
tral Italy developed into autonomous city states and then into regional states.
The power of successive monarchs, from the Hohenstaufen to the Habsburg,
was dwarfed by that of the cities, but no system of representative assemblies
emerged in these regions on a regional level. The high level of urbanisation,
therefore, is proved not to be a sufficient condition for the emergence of
intensive political participation of urban societies in territorial polities. In
the absence of countervailing powers, the re-feudalised political elites in the
dominant cities displayed no tendency at all to prompt any form of political
participation from the collective of “subjected cities” under their rule. The
dominant cities respected a substantial part of the local privileges, accom-
modated conflicts by bilateral negotiations and made its military superiority
manifest. In addition, favours granted to the local elites proved sufficient to
perpetuate this oligarchy until well into the 19th century.
3. The Representative Agency

During the 13th century, the long-term growth of cities and states unavoid-
ably brought them into closer contact. Princes tended to open up their con-
sultations to incorporate the new merchant class, keeping a greedy eye on
their purses. As long-distance trade by necessity crossed many political bor-
ders, merchants protected their security and freedom of trade by negotiating
with local rulers. They addressed their own territorial prince or king on
matters of monetary stability and market regulations, and they sought his
support in their relations with foreign authorities and for the management
of trade disputes, which often were related to, or complicated by, dynastic
conflicts. The intensification of long-distance trade brought merchants more
frequently into contact with different authorities. The territorial expansion
of monarchic states implied that more communities became subjected to
a single ruler who claimed sovereign power within his territory. However,
22 Wim Blockmans
commercialisation had a far wider reach than any state because trade routes
went over land, by rivers and along the coasts, where a multiplicity of local
rulers held power. Moreover, before the 17th century, no territorial lord was
able to control the seas (although straits such as the Bosporus, Gibraltar and
the Sound were controlled).
State and trade did not coincide, but they needed each other. In the most
commercially oriented regions, political systems needed to adapt to the real-
ities of the period, but the initiative was largely on the part of the associa-
tions of merchants operating on long-distance routes, as they had to secure
guarantees from different authorities. Moreover, corporate actors such as
merchants’ associations did not wait for the princes to organise themselves
on the basis of their trade networks. Among the best-known examples of
supra-local organisations fostering the shared interests of long-distance
traders, the “Hanse of the XVII Cities” deserves special attention; it was an
association of merchants based on cities located in different principalities
of the Southern Low Countries, which traded at the Champagne fairs. Even
more famous is the German Hanse, a conglomerate of merchant groups
which were very active on certain routes in the 13th century. Trade conflicts
resulted in the first of the regular Hanseatic Diets being held in 1356; their
fragile unity was fostered by the external pressure posed by monarchs, and
the association continued to function with a representative political organ-
isation until the 17th century.
All 13th-century hanses were associations of merchants who organised facil-
ities, privileges, protection and conflict management on specific long-distance
trading routes. The merchants came from different cities and were under the
rule of different princes, and did not represent their communities as such. Yet
the governments of commercial towns were firmly controlled by the merchant
class. Their guilds and hanses pursued shared interests on their own behalf,
negotiating with all the necessary authorities: kings, dukes, counts, bishops
and municipal governments. Only later, in the 14th century, did the German
Hanse also become an organisation of towns. In the highly urbanised and com-
mercialised regions of the Low Countries, the merchant guilds and hanses lost
their monopoly on urban government around 1300, and the new administra-
tions, including members of the craft guilds, carried on fostering trading inter-
ests; often the main cities formed consortiums which claimed to represent the
whole county. In the period from 1385 to 1435, the so-called “Four Members
of (the county of) Flanders,” including the three largest cities, met 2,160 times
(30 meetings per year, on average); 46% of all topics discussed had to do with
commercial and monetary affairs, involving 71% of all meetings. In highly
urbanised principalities, most of these meetings were organised on the initia-
tive of the main cities to settle economic affairs, and the princes and govern-
ments were rarely involved. This pattern continued in the prosperous United
Provinces after they had become independent from the Habsburgs.
The local lords, the citizens and, where they had a voice, the peasantry
proved to be most attached to the territory where they had their roots and
where they lived under the same law, the Landrecht. They were committed
to collectively defend the integrity of their territory against external threats
as well as against alienations by the ruler; they were just as eager to defend
their customs, privileges and laws against infringements, even if these were
perpetrated by the monarch and his officers. This common defensive atti-
tude guaranteed the maintenance of regional assemblies of Estates within
composite monarchies, even in the kingdom of France, and it may well have
been the prime mover in the formation of that form of representation.
Economic factors need to be taken into consideration, as political power
largely relied on the kind and amount of available resources. The dimen-
sions of the polity play a key role, as large, relatively prosperous and well-
populated states can mobilise more resources than smaller, poorer and
less-populated competitors. In reality, these three components do not neces-
sarily coincide, as greater controls involve the investment of accordingly
larger resources. In practice, the productive capacity of the environment,
combined with the technical skills through which this potential is exploited,
determines the opportunities for powerful elites to accumulate and concen-
trate resources and means of physical power. In practical terms, highly fertile
soils, a mild and moderately wet climate, and the availability of raw materi-
als, combined with the proximity of navigable waterways, and preferably
a combination of these elements, offered opportunities for trade, the con-
centration of surplus and sustained economic growth. Conversely, extensive
land-locked areas, poor soils and long winters were hardly conducive to the
concentration of wealth. The considerable development lag of the Eastern
European land masses, when compared to the early rise of the Levant and
the Mediterranean, may be linked to geographical and economic conditions
surrounding the construction of power-intensive political systems.
In the 12th and 13th centuries, the ongoing population growth, the
creation of new wealth through increased productivity and the gradual
strengthening of the free classes put the traditional social order, which had
been dominated by the great landholders, under pressure. The shift in the
accumulation and distribution of wealth led the rising classes and, in some
cases, free peasants as well (in newly colonised areas), to demand politi-
cal participation. The earliest mentions of such demands, formulated at
a territorial level by urban leagues, date from 12th-century Flanders and
León-Castile. In neither of these cases, however, did the dynastic crisis
have a lasting institutional effect. At the same time, however, Lombard cit-
ies united to resist the claims of imperial domination by Emperor Frederic
Barbarossa through effective military mobilisation. The discontinuity of the
Hohenstaufen dynasty, combined with its insufficient resources for effective
physical and economic domination in the region, created an imbalance of
power between the sovereignty of the crown and the cities. The scale and
intensity of the domination of Northern and Central Italy by urban-based
elites was unique in Europe until the 18th century. The integration of the
landed aristocracy with the urban elites, and their close collaboration with
24 Wim Blockmans
the bishops, explains the absence of Estates, as their power bases and vital
interests largely coincided.
In Prussia, the export-oriented landowners were able to exercise power
unchecked, as they kept monarchs at a distance, and the sizeable citizenry
did not outweigh the other Estates. Similar social conditions prevailed in
England, Catalonia and Portugal, but, importantly, in these regions the mon-
archy played a prominent role. Owing to this effective balance of power, rep-
resentative assemblies did play a substantial and lasting role. Once princes
discovered that trade could be used for their own advantage, it became a
tool of military projects. Edward I and Edward III of England and Philip
IV of France are the most prominent examples of kings whose war exploits
required new forms of income that could only be generated with the support
of different social classes, especially that of the merchants. A fine balance
determined whether the king or the merchants would profit the most, and
whether those that came worse off in this struggle, such as the Templars in
Paris and the Bardi Company in London, could be kept permanently away
from the political arena. In general, intensive commerce strengthened the
positions of the main contenders for power: the bourgeoisie, as the inevi-
table entrepreneurs and mediators, and the monarchy, insofar as they suc-
ceeded in tapping into substantial surpluses generated by trade, thereby
shifting the tax burden largely onto foreign buyers. Concerning rural export
economies, for instance, winegrowers, cattle-raisers and grain producers,
the bulk of the profits might well have gone to the landed aristocracy. A spe-
cial case was that of the discovery and exploitation of gold and silver mines,
which enriched the Bohemian, Hungarian and Serbian kings and merchants
from the 13th to early 15th centuries.
Until around 1600, the most densely populated regions in Europe by far
were Northern and Central Italy, the region around Naples, and the South-
ern Low Countries. In the early 17th century, however, Holland and the
London area took over. These high levels of urbanisation were sustainable
only through intense trade, and this required the merchant class to have
relative freedom and enjoy a dominant position, at least within the cities,
as well as in the hinterland and along the trading routes. Therefore, the
measure of urbanisation appears as the most general indicator for social
differentiation between town and countryside, as well as between differ-
ent cities and regions. The merchant class controlled commercial capital,
mainly in the form of mobile assets, such as ships and goods; human capi-
tal, such as specific knowledge about markets and commercial techniques;
and entrepreneurial initiative. This implies that they could move their assets
away from oppressive regimes and thus remain relatively independent from
monarchs.
In contrast, population density in predominantly rural societies was
considerably lower, and the main form of capital accumulation was land,
which is immobile by nature and thus typically controlled by monarchs
and aristocrats. The lower the rural productivity, the stronger the degree of
exploitation by non-economic means, resulting in the dominance of an aris-
tocracy that exploited bonded labourers and serfs. A class of free peasants
could thrive better in regions producing valuable and exportable surpluses.
Given the diversity, if not the outright opposition, of the interests of the
various social classes, the only way to achieve an efficient system to pursue
the common good was by developing forms of political expression and
negotiation. This was especially the case in those situations in which certain
social classes controlled different types of economic activity and the related
resources. These classes had a vital interest in ensuring peaceful relations
and sustainable exchange, but could not impose their power unilaterally.
In short, political institutions which involved regular negotiations between
Estates emerged in differentiated societies characterised by a variety of
interests and means of power and capital and by the absence of a single
dominant power-holding group, community, Estate or class. Thus, negotia-
tion appears to be the most efficient way to deal with conflicting interests.
If one contender or class is in a position to secure its interests directly,
domination prevails over negotiation, which precludes power-sharing. That
was the case with the aristocracies that ruled over scarcely populated ter-
ritories, just as it applied to the dominant urban elites in Northern and
Central Italy.
4. Political Crises
The frequency of weak or disputed successions urged the contenders to
the throne to seek the support of the most prominent powers in the realm.
They could do this by granting collective privileges to all the Estates, or to
one or two of them in particular. The recurrently problematic successions
in the Duchy of Brabant from 1249 to 1430, for example, as well as inad-
equate government, created opportunities for the Estates to negotiate a
unique collection of charters based on the grievances concerning violations
of rights and privileges and aimed at correcting them. The last of these inau-
guration acts was endorsed in Brussels in 1792 by Emperor Francis II. In
general, a ruler’s violation of customary law and privileges, internal divi-
sions and partisan violence, outrageous taxation, military defeat, external
threat and sheer incapacity led to defections within the ruling elites and
fostered organised opposition and possibly armed mobilisation of different
segments of the population. All of these circumstances occurred at once
in England in 1215. Depending on the level of institutional development,
similar situations involving weak leadership might induce the formation of
assemblies of leading actors and communities, or, when such Estates were
already established, for them to further appropriate government structures
and competences. However, any mobilisation of subjects is unavoidably a
temporary phenomenon. Rulers always tried to repeal the concessions made
under pressure as soon as possible, as illustrated by King John and his son’s
regents, Duke John III of Brabant (1312–1355) and Archduke Maximilian
26 Wim Blockmans
after 1477, who did not care much for the privileges granted earlier by his
spouse Mary of Burgundy.
As noted earlier, the main aim of any military and landowning class, in
particular of the monarch, was to acquire more land, through matrimonial
strategies and heritage regulations, whenever possible, and through warfare.
Charles Tilly calculated that the frequency of war involving great powers
was especially high in the 16th and 17th centuries, with 34 and 29 wars,
respectively, with an average duration of 1.6 and 1.7 years. This means that,
during the 16th century, 54.4 years saw wars between the great powers, and
49.3 years in the 17th saw such wars. These figures dropped in the 18th
century to 17 wars lasting 1.0 year on average. The fastest growing items
in state budgets were military expenses, the costs of actual warfare and the
servicing of the public debt, which steadily increased by the financing of the
wars via credit: 40% in the 15th century, 27% in the 16th, 46% in the 17th,
and 54% in the 18th—obviously with important fluctuations through time
and between states. The size of the armies rose to 300,000 in Spain (1635),
400,000 in France, 170,000 in Russia, 100,000 in the Dutch Republic and
Sweden (1705), and 199,000 in England (1760).4
In most countries, assemblies had to be convened for the negotiation
of military subsidies, but the discussions were not limited to the financial
aspects of warfare, and the social and economic effects of conflict on their
own populations were also debated. Large armies in motion had to “live off
the land,” which not only meant the large-scale robbery of food from the
peasant population but also other material and human losses. Trade routes
were blocked, markets were disturbed and privateering increased the risk at
sea. All these concerns could be voiced in the form of petitions or complaints
submitted by assembly members when they were summoned to agree on
more taxes. However, large sections of the aristocracy profited from their
participation in warfare, and the decisions about war and peace were not
taken in the assemblies, since they were seen as royal prerogatives. When the
Estates saw the opportunity to intervene in inter-state relations, they nor-
mally advocated peace and free trade. It remains an intriguing question why
assemblies, in the long run, accepted the steady increase of taxation, while
the general population were forced to suffer the effects of the wars that they
had to pay for as well. Some case studies show that the levying of taxes
became part of a patronage structure and monarchical favours on which
members of the assemblies depended, including having personal stakes in
the levy of taxes.
War, monarchic policies and dynastic vicissitudes were the main factors
affecting people’s lives and encouraging political debate. The motivations
behind the monarch’s decisions about war and peace remained largely per-
sonal, but the consequences were rarely predictable, as were the results of
military operations or the life expectancy of heirs apparent. A striking par-
allel can be drawn between the evolution of the English and the French
representative systems between 1300 and the 1350s. Both had to face the
same problems: English territorial claims on parts of France or even on the
whole kingdom, the military confrontation and the launching of a major
war on the continent. While it is clear that the English Parliament and the
French États Généraux were not very different in the early years of the
14th century, they evolved in radically different ways. After 1360, the États
Généraux were summoned only on rare occasions, and in some regions, but
not those under direct royal rule, the older assemblies continued to have
a say. During the same period, the English Parliament developed into “the
most important sphere for the resolution of political crises.” It firmly con-
trolled the state’s fiscal system and actively contributed to enact legislation
through the Petitions channelled by the Commons. Many factors should be
considered when examining this great divergence. Until 1360, the English
Crown and aristocracy were the great winners of the war that was being
fought on French territory. Moreover, one should not disregard either the
fact that the territory and institutions in both kingdoms had had very dif-
ferent genealogies or the different size of both kingdoms. The French had
lost the war and suffered important losses, the territory was divided and the
institutions had failed. It took three generations (until the 1430s) to over-
come these disasters, and success was realised through the reaffirmation of
the predominance of the Crown and the aristocracy.
This brings us to the observation that political events gained a decisive
influence over the shape of institutions. During the formative period of the
Scottish Parliament in the 13th and 14th centuries, challenges by imperi-
alist neighbours, dynastic succession crises, as well as war and social and
economic upheaval all contributed to the rise of political participation, as
royal power needed to engage in dialogue with the Estates in those difficult
circumstances. Once brought to life and having fulfilled particular require-
ments, institutions start to develop a life of their own and become hard
to overlook. The États Généraux got off to a bad start, while, in contrast,
the English Parliament could seize the opportunities provided by the king’s
demands. From then onwards, both assemblies followed divergent paths.
5. Oligarchisation and Institutional Inertia

It is within the framework of feudal relations that the free communes devel-
oped and claimed their rights in similar reciprocal terms of loyalty and sup-
port and the right to correct violations, if needed, with the active support
of the monarch’s own vassals, as stipulated in a count’s charter issued in
Flanders in 1128. That meant nothing less than the transfer of the model of
a bilateral and individual contract to the sphere of communal law.
In regions where urbanisation developed later or to a lesser extent, the
landed aristocracy could continue their seigniorial domination, exercising
direct economic, administrative and judicial power over the indentured
population living and working on their estates. Even small towns could be
part of their domains. The landowning aristocracy had, therefore, no reason
28 Wim Blockmans
to share their territorial power with other classes. Typically, dominance of
the landowning classes remained unchallenged until the late 18th and 19th
centuries in the least-fertile and least-populated regions, where production
surpluses were entirely absorbed by the conspicuous devotional and luxury
investments of the clergy and the aristocracy. Central and Eastern Europe,
as well as the land-locked regions of Castile, France and the Kingdom of
Naples, are obvious examples of this pattern. Political participation was
dominated by the landowning classes, if it existed at all. In Castile, the
Cortes ceased to be convened in 1665; in France, after 1483 the Estates
remained active merely on a provincial basis in the peripheral principalities,
which had been integrated into the kingdom at a relatively late date.
A great variety of composite polities emerged in societies with a moder-
ate level of urbanisation; these were situated between the extreme cases of
systems in which the aristocracy monopolised political participation in the
kingdom, territorial state or province, and the regional states dominated by
the re-feudalised elites of the great cities in Northern and Central Italy. In
this respect, the overall population in a country is less relevant than the level
of its concentration, as the cases of England and Germany demonstrate.
Until the early 18th century, England remained an overwhelmingly rural
society with just one metropolis in the southeast and a great number of
much smaller cities and towns. When the participation of the “Commons”
became stabilised in the 14th century, London gained a prominent position;
however, a strong majority was held by the 72 gentlemen, elected for the
shires, to whose number can be added the gentlemen elected to represent
small boroughs. In Germany, the political role of cities and towns mattered
only in the territories along the Rhine, in Swabia and in the Hanseatic area.
In Holland, the representative model composed of the urban merchant class
and some participation of the nobility proved its functionality in the context
of the organisation of the Dutch Revolt and the governance of the highly
urbanised core area that controlled global trade in the 17th century. One
century later, however, these structures had lost their dynamism and become
oligarchies of rent-seeking elites, aspiring to a quasi-noble lifestyle.
6. Centre and Periphery

One of the functions of any form of political representation within a hier-
archical system is the exchange of information, as this connects the centre
and peripheral areas of a polity. The case of the regional states in North-
ern and Central Italy demonstrates that other forms of communication are
applicable when discussing issues of common interest. A similar tendency
has been noted for Castile, where some city procuradores in the Cortes were
appointed court councillors and thus were potentially influenced by the
Crown as well as by the city they were deemed to represent.5 French pro-
vincial Estates seem to have shifted to a similar system through the dispatch
of permanent deputies to the court. Prosopographical studies of the English
House of Commons also demonstrated that the gentry’s self-interest loomed
large in the representation of the shires. This line of investigation deserves
further study.
7. Concluding Remarks
This brief review of the various forms of political participation emphasises
the pertinence of Michel Hébert’s remark quoted in the introduction: a
formalistic and constitutional approach will not lead us to a better under-
standing of the widely varying shapes that political participation took in
Ancien Régime Europe. We need more systematic information about the real
agency of the representatives. English sources and research traditions have
long focused on the members’ prosopography. Continental sources do not
allow us to complete a similar exercise, but questions need to be asked about
the numbers and social status of the participants and the frequency of their
appearances. Huge differences existed in the frequency, duration and com-
position of meetings, but quantitative data remain scarce. What were the
domains of negotiation? Who set the agenda and what were the outcomes?
How effective was the influence of the assemblies? Did they have a “constitu-
tional” basis for controlling the government (also in financial matters)? Did
they have the possibility of taking their own initiatives, executive power, their
own staff and archives supporting the institutional memory? How widely
was information about the meetings disseminated, how and by whom?
The emergence of political representation appears to be linked to the rise
of relatively autonomous urban communes from the 12th to the 14th centu-
ries. This fundamental social and economic breakthrough created tensions
which led to horizontal associations for the self-protection of commercial
elites within and beyond territorial boundaries. Once integrated into the
political system in one form or another, the revolutionary urban dynamism
soon came to a halt during the demographic crisis of the 14th century. Before
the mid-18th century, only a few centres and regions had expanded signifi-
cantly and had become sufficiently powerful to keep out of the reach of the
consolidated states. In the 16th century, cities such as Seville, Lisbon and
Antwerp became strong enough to take care of their own economic inter-
ests, as did London and city states such as Hamburg and Danzig in the 17th.
The Dutch Republic functioned in the framework of a three-layered repre-
sentation of Estates, dominated by the merchant elites of Amsterdam and
the province of Holland. They secured their mercantile interests through the
chartered companies, the WIC and the VOC. In this instance, the traditional
political institutions proved to be functional for the first global economy.
Notes
1. A short description of the Committee’s activities was written by John Rogister, “The
International Commission for the History of Representative and Parliamentary
30 Wim Blockmans
Institutions: Commission internationale pour l’histoire des Assemblées d’États:
Aims and Achievements over Seventy Years, 1936–2006,” Parliaments, Estates and
Representation 27 (2007): 1–7.
2. Michel Hébert, Parlementer. Assemblées représentatives et échanges politiques en
Europe occidentale à la fin du moyen âge (Paris: Éditions de Boccard, 2014),
10–11.
3. Andreas Würgler, Die Tagsatzung der Eidgenossen. Politik, Kommunikation und
Symbolik einer repräsentativen Institution im europäischen Kontext (1470–1798)
(Epfendorf: Bibliotheca Academica Verlag, 2013), 95–113, 196–200.
4. Jan Lindegren, “Les hommes, l’argent, les moyens,” in Guerre et la compétition
entre les États européens du XIVe au XVIIIe siècle, ed. Philippe Contamine (Paris:
PUF, 1998), 166.
5. José Ignacio Fortea Pérez, Las Cortes de Castilla y León bajo los Austrias. Una
interpretación (Valladolid: Junta de Castilla y León, 2008), 376.
Selected Bliography
Blockmans, Wim. “Representation (since the Thirteenth Century).” In The New
Cambridge Medieval History: Vol. VII c. 1415-c.1500, edited by Christopher All-
mand, 29–64. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998.
Blockmans, Wim. “Constructing the Concept of Civil Rights: The Experience of Citi-
zens in the Low Countries, 12th to 16th Century.” Quaestiones Medii Aevi Novae
20 (2015): 223–247.
Bonney, Richard, ed. The Rise of the Fiscal State in Europe, c.1200–1815. Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 1999.
Elias, Norbert. The Civilizing Process: The Development of Manners: Changes in the
Code of Conduct and Feeling in Early Modern Times. Oxford: Blackwell, 1978.
Fletcher, Christopher. “Political Representation.” In Government and Political Life in
England and France, c. 1300-c. 1500, edited by Christopher Fletcher, Jean-Philippe
Genet and John Watts, 217–239. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015.
Fortea Pérez, José Ignacio. Las Cortes de Castilla y León bajo los Austrias. Una
interpretacion. Valladolid: Junta de Castilla y León, 2008.
Gouvernants et Gouvernés, Recueils de la Société Jean Bodin, Vols. 23 and 24. Brus-
sels: Librairie encyclopédique, 1965–1966.
Guenée, Bernard. “Espace et État dans la France du bas Moyen Âge.” Annales. Écon-
omies, Sociétés, Civilisations 23 (1968): 744–758.
Hébert, Michel. Parlementer. Assemblées représentatives et échanges politiques en
Europe occidentale à la fin du moyen âge. Paris: Éditions de Boccard, 2014.
Körner, Martin. “Expenditure.” In Economic Systems and State Finance, edited by
Richard Bonney, 393–422; Körner, Martin, “Public Credit.” In Economic Systems
and State Finance, 507–538. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995.
Lindegren, Jan. “Les hommes, l’argent, les moyens.” In Guerre et la compétition
entre les États européens du XIVe au XVIIIe siècle, edited by Philippe Contamine,
123–166. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1998.
Maddicott, John R. The Origins of the English Parliament, 924–1327. Oxford:
Marongiu, Antonio. Medieval Parliaments: A Comparative Study. London: Eyre &
Spottiswoode, 1968.
Reynolds, Susan. Kingdoms and Communities in Western Europe 900–1300. Oxford:
Rogister, John. “The International Commission for the History of Representative
and Parliamentary Institutions: Commission internationale pour l’histoire des
Assemblées d’États: aims and achievements over seventy years, 1936–2006.” Par-
liaments, Estates and Representation 27 (2007): 1–7.
Stasavage, David. States of Credit: Size, Power, and the Development of European
Polities. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2011.
Tilly, Charles. Coercion, Capital, and European States, AD 990–1990. Cambridge,
MA: Basil Blackwell, 1990.
Tilly, Charles, and Wim P. Blockmans. Cities and the Rise of States in Europe, A.D.
1000 to 1800. Boulder: Westview, 1994.
Würgler, Andreas. Die Tagsatzung der Eidgenossen. Politik, Kommunikation und
Symbolik einer repräsentativen Institution im europäischen Kontext (1470–1798).
Epfendorf: Bibliotheca Academica Verlag, 2013.
Part II
Some European Cases

France
3 Political Representation in
Languedoc Under the Ancien
Régime
Gilbert Larguier
Is it acceptable to speak of political representation in a kingdom where the

prince’s power was absolute—where (according to the modern meaning of
the term) a representative assembly did not exist? (The Estates General, sum-
moned at the prince’s will, had only consultative power). The question is not
baseless. Most of the works dealing with political science, while eloquent
about the foundational systems of classical antiquity and at least mindful of
the Italian republics, skip centuries and millennia to go straight to the repre-
sentative systems constitutionally instituted at the end of the 18th century in
the United States and France, as well as to the political theories which inspired
those systems. In so doing, they do not take into account the fact that political
representation may have existed before any representative regime had been
shaped, and they completely neglect the Middle Ages, when political repre-
sentation practices were supposedly ignored. However, some forms of repre-
sentation did actually exist before any representative regimes were established
or the works of seminal theorists were published. These practices, across time
and space, are of enormous historical interest in their own right.
Languedoc is a relevant case in point. Here, an early form of political
representation came into being upon the creation of consulates. This repre-
sentation, of course, did not remain unchanged during the five centuries that
followed. The provincial Estates of Languedoc claimed the right to repre-
sent their province at the Estates General called in 1789, and that led to an
unprecedented wave of protests, in the very name of representation.
Languedoc, then, offers a wide range of examples and situations that
illustrate the various forms taken by political representation and illustrates
how representation was carried out and perceived on a practical and a sym-
bolic level.
1. Medieval Origins of Political Representation
Consulates and Political Representation: The “Languedoc Model”

There is no point in examining political representation in Languedoc with-
out recalling its early expressions, that is, without going back to its origins.
38 Gilbert Larguier
Indeed, a number of specific traits derive from them which are considered
constitutive of an original institutional model that French historiography
calls the “Languedoc model.”1 Political representation is consubstantial to
the emergence of consulates based on the Roman legal principle of a time-
limited mandate and regularly scheduled elections. Consulates came into
being when the towns of Languedoc decided to adopt their own administra-
tion.2 In most towns, that happened as early as the 12th century. In rural
areas, this took between one and one-and-a-half centuries longer.
The creation of consulates, even the urban ones, remains shrouded in
darkness. Consuls are casually mentioned for the first time in a court rul-
ing (Béziers, 1131) and a treaty between two cities (Narbonne, 1132). Was
it a new way of naming emissaries, or were they representatives of new
institutions in the process of being recognised? The matter has been widely
debated. This brings us back to the question of the juridical organisation
of communities at the time when consulates originated, a period in which
the scarcity of sources does not allow for clear answers in every case. One
thing, however, is indisputable: everywhere, the aspiration to create consul-
ates came from the people themselves.
Admittedly, more often than not we are unable to specify the conditions
and procedures implemented for the appointment of those representatives.
What we can ascertain, however, is the gradual spread to rural communi-
ties of a shared vocabulary, constitutive traits and an analogous operational
framework:
• Consulates are framed within communities with well-defined territorial

boundaries.
• Consulates and parishes are clearly different things.
• The consulate system is prior to the intervention of royal power, and the
latter did not upset the former.
• Consuls are perforce local inhabitants; they come from the community,
and their collegial and yearly offices are renewed by way of elections
held on set dates.3
Being a consul means representing and embodying the community, as its

agents, at all times and in all circumstances, within the community or outside.
A Very Heterogeneous Languedoc

The similarities that existed between urban and rural consulates do not
mean that they were identical. Among all the systems of municipal organisa-
tion present in Southern France, the “Languedoc model” is the one that fea-
tures the greatest diversity. A typology of consulates here ranges from those
endowed with complete autonomy to the communities that remained on the
margins of the consular movement.4 These contrasting formal distinctions
Political Representation in Languedoc 39
reflected an equally diverse geographic distribution. For instance, in the mid-
dle of the 14th century, the density of consulates was greater in the sen-
eschalty of Toulouse than in that of Carcassonne. In the latter the inland,
more mountainous, areas were not so well endowed as those closer to the
sea, which, themselves, are not entirely homogeneous either.5 Pointing out
these disparities is not a gratuitous exercise, as they persisted over time.
There are many explanations for these differences. Each case is unique,
but there are certain common factors. Although the size of the communities
was an important element, the decisive factor was the ability of the lords
to oppose the development of any new communal institutions. Another
determining factor was wealth; the relative poverty of communities near
Lauragais and Toulouse could be a determining factor in the widespread
presence of consulates in these areas. However, it was the ecclesiastical
power, the bishops and abbots of the great monasteries, who proved to be
the most hostile to the creation of consulates.
Lodève and its diocese provide a good example of this. As lords of the
town and of many other population centres, as well as of the entire diocese
by right of regale, the bishops vigorously opposed any attempt by the Lodève
inhabitants to bring about a commune. It was not until the 14th century
that, with the support of royal officers, the inhabitants succeeded in partially
removing the main prohibitions concerning consuls, a town council and the
common hall.6 At that time, no community in the diocese had a consulate.
Is it an exaggeration to speak of “white spots,” that is, areas devoid of con-
sulates around episcopal towns and the larger abbeys under the rule of an
abbot? They can be seen quite clearly around abbeys such as Aniane and
Lagrasse, and around towns such as Narbonne, where the archbishops were
opposed to the creation of consulates. This is even clearer in the dioceses of
Mende and Le Velay. In Mende, the residents’ leanings towards emancipation
were systematically hampered. The prelates, suzerains of all the Gévaudan
barons, were able to keep the upper hand with regard to the administration
of the town.7 At the end of the 18th century, in the diocese of Le Puy (Le
Velay), the northernmost see in Languedoc, only seven or eight small towns,
apart from Le Puy, were constituted as “regular bodies of communities”8 and
could elect consuls. Elsewhere, only mandements existed, that is, seigneuries
dispensers of high justice that at times could encompass disperse territories.
As we can see, Languedoc, which is defined here as a land of consul-
ates endowed with an original model of communal institutions, was far
from homogeneous. The Toulouse area, Lauragais, the plain near the Medi-
terranean coast and the vast zone stretching from the diocese of Lodève
to that of Le Velay, were separated by great distances, and the early, well-
established urban consulates, and those in inland territories, imperfectly
organised and to some extent excluded of the “Languedoc model,” were
likewise profoundly different. This heterogeneity, caused by the different
genealogies of communal institutions, could not but have repercussions for
40 Gilbert Larguier
political representation, the foundations and symbolism of which had the
communities as their source.
Political Representation Out of Necessity?

While the genesis of consulates and municipal institutions appears to be
endogenous, that of the Estates of Languedoc was the result of royal poli-
tics, even if the inhabitants of Languedoc were not against the decentralisa-
tion of the Estates General. In their original form, they were assemblies of
seneschalties whose territory served as the territorial framework of refer-
ence. After the Treaty of Brétigny (1360), they became the three seneschal-
ties of Toulouse, Carcassonne and Nîmes-Beaucaire.9 Formally, they were
assemblies in which the Three Estates (clergy, nobility and the “Common
Estate”)10 sat. However, this development, together with the recurrence of
meetings on an approximately annual basis, was not achieved in fact before
the second quarter of the 15th century. This timing is not fortuitous. Owing
to the serious financial difficulties of the kingdom, the province, a valuable
and timely financial contributor, obtained the right to call its Estates at will
and to be consulted prior to any new request for subsidies.
Taxation, which in Languedoc was founded on landed property and on
direct taxes, played a determining role in this context, as did fair-share prac-
tices among owners within a community and among communities themselves.
This prompted the establishment of “diocesan meetings,” or assemblies, where,
on a similar scale to religious dioceses, community contributions were shared
according to contributive capacity. This process had repercussions for politi-
cal representation: the distribution and collection of taxes under the com-
munities’ responsibility could not be carried out without those communities
being wholly constituted as legal entities. This can be noted particularly at the
turn of the 16th century when “diocesan investigations” were undertaken to
determine the communities’ contributive capacity: all of them had consuls.11
Is political representation by necessity the right hypothesis here? In any case,
it does not mean that the communities were set on an equal footing. Some did
not have the right to enter the assemblies, to deliberate or to be sent as repre-
sentatives to the Estates of Languedoc. The larger towns kept that prerogative
for themselves. Moreover, in the peripheral dioceses of Albigeois, Gévaudan,
Velay and Vivarais, where consulates were very unevenly distributed, nobles
and clerics kept a pre-eminent place.12
Thus, the originality of Languedoc lies in the precocity of its forms of
political representation, which share the same model but were unequally
distributed throughout the province. It also lies in the progressive and ten-
tative establishment of assemblies, for mainly financial and fiscal reasons,
which had some effect on communal institutions (if such a hypothesis is not
too daring). However, they generated new disparities in terms of access to
representation, as the majority of them were not granted fair representation
in diocesan meetings or the Estates of Languedoc.
2. Communities and Political Representation
The first manifestations of political representation are thus observed at the
community level. The issue here is identifying its expression, characteristics
and transformations over time. This is not an easy task due to the scarcity
of sources, most notably in the 15th century and the first half of the 16th
century. There is a gap of more than 200 years between the genesis of politi-
cal representation and the moment when it becomes possible to examine it
with some degree of accuracy.13
Vox Populi
The above-mentioned gap conceals the consolidation phase of represen-
tation and the explanation of its founding principles, which are revealed,
however, by the consuls’ elections. These elections, let us recall, constituted
a decisive stage in the access to representation and its recognition. Olivier
Christin has recently drawn attention to election practices, their sources
and the areas where they were in force.14 Each locality had its own cus-
toms, but we will concentrate here on a rural community in order to observe
the vox populi in the village Alignan-du-Vent, in the early 17th century.15
The renewal of consuls took place on Pentecost Sunday. All inhabitants
had to gather on the site where public affairs were examined, or else they
would be fined. Speaking one after the other, they nominated 14 members
of their group who would be in charge of electing the new advisors from a
list of names proposed by the consuls.16 Once the election had been carried
out, the inhabitants were summoned once more to attend the swearing-in
ceremony—by which the new consuls took office, which was celebrated in
the public square. The consuls donned the hoods their predecessors handed
to them and received the town keys.17 Thus, the process of creating their
new representatives was a combination of universal suffrage, a two-stage
election and co-optation, in which all the inhabitants took part to varying
degrees.18
The electoral process could also be much more sophisticated. The suc-
cessive regulations established in Aniane in the first half of the 17th cen-
tury constitute the best-documented example.19 The conditions for access
to the consulate were rigorously set out. They were a combination of
landownership-based criteria, election and lot. The process was divided into
two main stages: the first consisted in the constitution of the body of elec-
tors, and the second in the election itself. The last of Aniane’s regulations
(enacted in 1653) stated that all inhabitants who had more than one cadas-
tral pound of assessed value (allivrement) were allowed to vote,20 in a secret
ballot, so as to designate 60 members among those landowners who owned
two or more cadastral pounds. Then, that number was brought down to 30
by means of a draw: a child no older than seven distributed tickets, half of
which were white. Those who picked a white ticket were eliminated. That
42 Gilbert Larguier
electoral college then voted by secret ballot to choose three names, one for
each of the three scales ranking the inhabitants according to their level of
allivrement (one, two or three pounds). Young boys then drew one of the
three names.21 The process ended after the eligibility of the selected candi-
dates was checked. Residents who owed money to the community, farmers
of common lands, royal officers and their kin22 could not become consuls
or be members of the community council. Moreover, a former consul could
not be re-elected before eight full years had passed. These dispositions aimed
to limit conflicts of interest and prevent family groups from taking over
municipal power.
Aniane is also an interesting case due to its written prescriptions on the
order which was to be respected during councils and by the elected consuls.
The ordering and operation of the council, comprised of commoners only,
was as sophisticated as those in force in the most prestigious assemblies.23
Each member was assigned a set place according to rank, time in office,
age, and so on. The same applied when taking turns to speak. Freedom of
speech had to be granted, as it was during the election. “Forcing someone
into an opinion” was forbidden. Outside the council, elected members were
supposed to behave decently and to attend all public and religious functions
according to their place and rank, with the consuls donning their hoods, and
the advisors a black coat, if possible. This is a very illuminating testimony
of political representation in action, which, it must be said, was also meant
(mainly?) for internal use within the community.24
Res Publica
Two examples cannot accurately describe the variety of situations and prac-
tices in place. In small communities, the lords “made the consuls.” They
chose from the men who were proposed to them; this was a form of co-
optation under seigneurial control. They were still representative, a fact cor-
roborated by the many contestations that arose during election processes.
These were invariably caused by breaches of the electoral process, the sym-
bolic gestures that accompanied it or the conditions of admissibility. The
complaints were brought before royal courts, vigueries, seneschalties or the
parliament, which were thus turned into tribunals that judged rules of rep-
resentation, which helped harmonise and, therefore, strengthen them. The
importance of this function at a time when royal power over communities
was almost non-existent cannot be stressed enough.
Let us, however, voice a reservation. These two examples are valid for a
period of time prior to the mid-17th century. This period was characterised
by the use, in deliberations, of terms and phrases that display a clear under-
standing of representation. Let us start with the word “political” and look
at two particular instances. In Aniane, the regulations for the elections of
consuls were aimed at establishing “the political state” of the town.25 As in
other communities, the distinction was clearly made between the political
council and the general council.26 The community of Castelnau-de-Guers
even kept two books: one for political deliberations and the other for gen-
eral deliberations;27 the former were held by elected officials (consuls and
advisors only) and the latter were open to all. As for the “political state,” it
was based on election. The term “political,” then, explicitly indicates repre-
sentative and representation arising from elections.
A second term, “republic,” was closely linked to the election of consuls
and to the practices of their office, which consisted of “ruling and governing
the republic” and administering “the matters of the republic.” The phrase
res publica is found only in the context of the town. In 1579, the consuls
of Narbonne, in representation of the townspeople, appealed to the Queen
Mother for new regulations for the consular elections, in which document
the republic is defined as “the general body of a town,” that is to say, a body
outside the reach of any intervention or infringement from either within or
outside.28 The word “republic” and the expression to “govern the repub-
lic” are commonly used in the earliest surviving municipal deliberations,
dating from the mid-16th century.29 They become progressively less com-
mon, and finally fall out of use, after the mid-17th century,30 being replaced
by the expression “community matters.” Let us underline here that there
was indeed a common vocabulary, which included the wording of consular
oaths, in towns, villages and even small rural communities (in the mountain-
ous parts of the diocese of Saint-Pons, for example), whatever the mode of
consular elections and the weight of seigneurial influence. Does this prove
the existence of a genuine culture of political representation?31
There is in conclusion a shared language. Can the same be said of the
practices? They look very much alike, at least in rural communities, their
main characteristics being the strict observation of the electoral ritual, which
is always inaugurated with the celebration of a mass of the Holy Spirit;
the recurrence of general councils open to all; the ever-present concern for
all things public, both in speech (the “public good”) and in the symbolism
of gestures, whether during the swearing-in of new consuls in the public
square, or the summoning of residents to this public space to hear some
announcement, to express their opinion on important decisions (war spend-
ing, starting legal proceedings, etc.), or backing a new compoix.32 Another
interesting point is that a close examination of municipal life during the
period of religious unrest that affected a large part of Languedoc in the sec-
ond half of the 16th century does not reveal any challenges to the municipal
regime or to the principles and modes of political representation.33
If we add up all these observations, we may wonder, in the absence of
any work or treaty on the subject, what the commoners’ stratum looked
like and how political representation was conceived. Would it be going too
far to recognise in the vocabulary, the customs and the practices something
other than Roman law principles, Augustinian conceptions—or even better,
Thomist notions—about the essence and exercise of power and of repre-
sentation? What we may indeed find is obedience to God (hence the mass
44 Gilbert Larguier
of the Holy Spirit and widespread practice of leaving part of the election
process to providence), the notion of service rendered for the good of the
community by the elected, the idea of a “republic” conceived of as a free
community legislated by the people as a whole (hence the part given to it in
the electoral ritual), and the importance allotted to public demonstrations,
since a government (even if it was municipal), could not be based on secrecy.
Political Representation Abused by Royal Power

in the 18th Century
Were the above-mentioned elements present everywhere, or were they only
the prerogative of the more regulated communities, which might bias our
perception of political representation? Let us paint an ideal portrait of the first
consul, the pre-eminent position. The man holding this position would be a
local man of good morals, who could read and write, and was a substantial
taxpayer, that is, someone who was solvent, so as to be able to face any mis-
appropriation during his administration. Only a few dozen towns where the
nobility and bourgeoisie took pride of place and enjoyed a bitterly disputed
institutionalised pre-eminence can be noted here. However, it should be noted
that nowhere could consuls make decisions or represent the community with-
out being expressly authorised or mandated by the political council.
Things remained substantially unchanged until the end of the Ancien
Régime. Important modifications, however, did take place. These did not
so much question the principles of representation as much as alter their
practice. The first symptom was the disappearance of the word “republic”
in municipal deliberations and the parallel increase in the mention of taxes
and taxpayers. The oath that the consuls of Azillanet swore in 1646 to their
lord (in this case, to the king himself) is representative. Although they swear,
according to established custom, to be faithful servants of the public good
and to defend women, widows and orphans, and although they promise
obedience to their lord, they also pledge to “establish and distribute all
deniers (taxes) that he may command to be paid, in accordance with the
ruling of the Estates General of the province.”34 Let us underline the triad
present in this oath: king—Estates General (of Languedoc)—community,
and the function assigned to the political representative, namely, to be the
guarantor of the payment of taxes. A shift from res publica to “community
of taxpayers,” further supported by the substitution of the wording “rep-
resenting the greatest and healthiest part of the inhabitants”—which was
customarily used at the beginning of deliberations—or “all the principal
taxpayers of this locality.”35
This type of formula acquired its full meaning when a new royal policy
was instituted at the beginning of the personal reign of Louis XIV. Examples
of this can be found during the 1660s, when communities were forbidden
from taking on new spending commitments without prior authorisation
from the intendant, and the fiscal burden became heavier. This effectively
restricted the freedom of action of the communities and led to a repre-
sentation crisis. In 1668, the Estates of Languedoc became alarmed at the
absenteeism of advisors in many communities, because they feared being
held responsible for the non-payment of taxes. Thus, they advocated the
rule that “all political advisors will stand guarantors of the [tax] collectors’
management.”36
The establishment of municipal offices had far more disturbing conse-
quences because it called into question the foundations of political rep-
resentation as it had been functioning since medieval times. The edict of
27 August 1692 instituted the hereditary mayor, an appointment that could
be acquired for a fee. We can perceive the type of disruption introduced
here: a violation of the principles of election and the annual renewal of
office (though it did not put an end to consuls). Non-residents could also
acquire offices. This edict inaugurated a century of instability, during which
time offices were instituted, suppressed and re-established by successive
edicts, and rulings first suspended and then temporarily forbade municipal
elections.37
Up until that time, direct royal interventions had been rare. This time
around, all communities were affected by the insidious and immediate con-
sequences of the new policy. Let us again limit ourselves to just two exam-
ples: that of Fabrègues, near Montpellier, and of Lodève. Sarret, the lord of
Fabrègues, who was involved in a lawsuit against the community over the
taxation of his lands, immediately acquired the office of mayor. His rela-
tionship with the inhabitants, bad as it already was, became even worse. In
1695, Sarret designated the consuls himself, and they remained in office the
following year. In 1710, when Sarret and the community were still litigat-
ing, two councils found themselves on opposite sides: one on the lord’s side,
the other on the side of the majority of the people. For 20 years no consular
election took place according to custom.38 In Lodève, matters were even
more radical. The perpetual office of mayor was acquired by the bishop’s
viguier. He remained in office for 24 years, until the abolition of offices in
1717. The moment they were re-established, the office went to his son, who
succeeded him as viguier and was, moreover, the intendant’s sub-delegate.
The bishops, who, as we have seen, had been hostile to communal liberties
since the 13th century, did not waste the chance provided by the edict to
regain uncontested power.39
While such conflictual situations did not exist everywhere, they were not
rare.40 Improper solicitation of political representation happened in scores
of localities, to the detriment of communities and with repercussions for
diocesan assemblies and the Estates of Languedoc. Throughout the second
third of the century, proceeding to hold new elections was forbidden, which
further constrained the free renewal of offices and the principles under which
they had traditionally operated, as the same men could remain consuls for
more than ten years in a row.41 This contributed to an oligarchisation of the
municipal bodies that was particularly perceptible at the town level.42 The
46 Gilbert Larguier
phenomenon was not new. It was, however, greatly enhanced by the royal
concern to see the communities ruled by the main taxpayers and distrust of
the masses, which is clearly expressed in the 1692 edict.
There is more: as might be surmised, the frequency of political coun-
cil meetings and their attendance decreased sharply. The intendants and
their sub-delegates were able to participate without restrictions, and their
injunctions met with little resistance. It is more difficult to gauge general
council meetings, and their interpretation is more ambivalent. They largely
disappeared in Bas Languedoc but persisted in the Toulouse area, where the
townspeople were important landowners and exerted a dominating influ-
ence.43 However, it should be noted that there are far fewer instances of
meetings held in public squares.44 Finally, as a general phenomenon, con-
sular election reports become more succinct in the deliberation records. Is it
because they were deemed superfluous? Or were their proceedings simpli-
fied? The latter is the case in those instances where evidence exists. Thus,
drawing names was abandoned as an electoral practice.45 This is not insig-
nificant when, in parallel to the disruption of consular elections, we can note
the near disappearance of the mass of the Holy Spirit and the growing ten-
dency of consuls to co-opt political advisors. Did such deregulations favour
the secularisation of political representation?
3. The Issue of Political Representation in the 18th Century
A Crisis in Communal Representation?

The alteration of the “Languedoc model” in the 18th century, following
royal interference, is obvious. Apart from the Laverdy reform, the goal of
which was to harmonise the municipal regimes within the realm, the inter-
ventions were mostly financial in nature. Yet can we state that there was
a conscious attempt to undo political representation? If by “political” we
mean resulting from elections, we can claim this, but it would be going too
far: no community was ever deprived of its capacity to be represented. How-
ever, at the Languedoc level, it does not seem that the initial heterogeneity
observed in the province decreased. The impression is rather one of great
stability, whereby the ecclesiastical lords gave up very little if anything at all.
Let us put the impact of the royal interventions into perspective. Taking
into account the bending of the old consular elections rules—watered down
even to the point of abandonment—the almost total disappearance of the
symbolic participation of all residents in the electoral process, the weaken-
ing of the function of the public square as a result of the consuls not being
renewed46 or the hollowing out of their oath, which was reduced to a call of
service to the king and the common good, we must conclude that the impact
was substantial. These are all signs of the eradication of principles believed
to have been established before the 18th century, which imbues the exercise
of political representation with greater meaning. Pointing out that access to
councils was restricted to the highest taxpayers, Georges Fournier does not
hesitate to call it a crisis in representation.47
Were people aware of these changes at the time? For the more obvious
changes, the answer is yes. Was there an appreciation of the possible long-
term effects? That remains to be documented. As far as its external operation
was concerned, that is, the ability of the consuls who were granted access
to the assiette diocésaine (diocese meeting) and to the Estates of Languedoc
to represent their communities, there were no notable restrictions, at least
in form.
The Offensive Against the Estates of Languedoc

The inspections that took place prior to the opening of the diocesan assem-
blies and the Estates of Languedoc offer a good illustration of it: the admit-
ted consuls had to produce an extract from the deliberation which had
conferred them with authority. This also applied to the deputies of nobles
and prelates. During the 17th and 18th centuries, these two assemblies kept
insisting on their representativeness, especially the Estates of Languedoc.
Where the latter is concerned, a slight difference must be established
between representativeness and representation, which was to do with their
main function: consenting on taxation.
For a long period of time, despite taxation being based on landed property
in Languedoc, the two privileged orders showed little interest in attending
the assemblies, in contrast to the common order, which was always present.
The permanent president of the Estates, the Archbishop of Narbonne, came
to physically preside over the assemblies only from the beginning of the 18th
century. Attendance markedly improved during the reign of Louis XIV. The
prelates in particular became regular attendees during the 18th century. Half
of the nobles, however, continued to be represented by deputies. These were
representing more than two-thirds of the nobility on the eve of the Revolu-
tion.48 Is it because of the three orders that the rules for the designation of
the members of the nobility were the last to be established? To put it suc-
cinctly, a shift took place in the designation of these representatives. From
being personally designated by the king in their quality of grand vassals,
they went on to be appointed according to the wealth of their baronies, the
possession of which conferred the right to enter the Estates. This patrimo-
nial character was in sharp contrast to the representation of the two other
orders, which was more territorial and more evenly distributed within the
province. Three orders meant three different modes of representation.
This state of affairs had hardly any consequences until the mid-18th cen-
tury, when a new climate developed. As an echo of the discussions that were
beginning to surround the very concept of power and the state, the term
“constitution” appeared for the first time in a 1750 bill, in the sense of
“the early constitution of the province.”49 Ten years later (in 1761), the
phrase “Constitution of Languedoc” was found in article 2 of the book
48 Gilbert Larguier
of complaints of the provincial assembly brought before the king.50 The
behaviour of the Toulouse parliament had a much greater and more corro-
sive effect. In the 1750s, the proclamation of edicts registering the creation
of new taxes, including that of September 1759 establishing a general sub-
sidy, gave parliament the opportunity to dispute the role of the Estates and
to encroach upon their prerogatives by pointing out that a tax had been
registered before it had been consented to. The attack, insidious as it was,
as the assembly had participated in increasing the tax burden with their
own economic policies, resounded all the louder since it was accompanied
by poisonous darts thrown against the representatives of the three orders.
During a joint meeting of all houses of parliament, an advisor described the
Estates as a body composed of uninteresting bishops, barons without credit
and municipal officers deprived of freedom.51
It was not simply a figure of speech. Committed to lowering the tax bur-
den, just like other sovereign courts in the kingdom, the parliament of Tou-
louse attempted, by appealing to public opinion, to play a political role
in the absence of a representative assembly in the realm. Was taking legal
action against the members of the three orders that composed the provincial
assembly for their lack of representativeness not the same as disqualifying
the assembly as a body? Never had the Estates of Languedoc been subjected
to such an attack. By adopting the phrase “constitution of the province,”
they had allowed it to prosper.
1787–1789: A Fight for Representation

The financial crisis into which the kingdom was sinking at the end of the
1780s brought about new legal actions against the Estates of Languedoc.
Taxation was again the motivating factor when in September 1787 an exten-
sion of the second vingtième (twentieth) tax was announced for the years
1790 and 1791. This tax was collected from landed-based profit “without
distinction or exemption,” and its assessment was entrusted to the provin-
cial assemblies and Estates. The sovereign courts, in their objections, did not
hesitate to deride the Estates. Thus, the Cour des Comptes, Aides et Finances
of Montpellier described them as “an imperfect body where representatives
of the orders do not represent them . . . where the right to vote is shared but
not the obligation to contribute” (26 February 1788). The taunts were more
political in nature than they had been 30 years earlier; the situation had
changed a great deal since that time. None of the fiscal reforms attempted
by the general finance controllers had succeeded, and the sovereign courts,
which were opposed to reforms, set themselves up as mouthpieces of public
opinion. They began, like the parliament of Paris on 16 July 1787, to call for
the convening of the Estates General.
They were eventually summoned by the State Council on 5 July 1788.
This brought the Estates of Languedoc’s onto a new course. Could they
represent Languedoc in the upcoming Estates General? They hoped so: they
had done so in the last Estates General in 1614. This led to unprecedented
protests against them, the echoes of which resounded down to the small-
est hamlets in the province, as is clearly reflected in the complaints books
(cahiers de doléances) from the spring of 1789. Nearly all of the complaints
denounced the Estates of Languedoc’s “unconstitutional” character and,
while not asking for their suppression, they called for “the greatest freedom
and the most complete representation.”52
Aside from the spread of protests in the province against the Estates53
and the belated publication of the regulations which were to rule the
elections to the Estates General (which only helped to further spread
the unrest),54 the repercussions of this struggle for representation can-
not be properly explained without taking into consideration the decisions
adopted by the provincial Estates of Dauphiné, held at Vizille in July
1788, and in Romans the following month of September. These decisions
are well known: double representation for the Third Estate was granted,
and the aristocracy gave way on the “one man, one vote” issue as well as
accepting fiscal equality. One should also consider the attacks launched at
the end of the 1750s, which had provided devastating arguments and had
contributed to the emergence of a new vocabulary. Demanding elections,
calling for freedom and, indeed, having the municipal administration call
for “giving each taxpayer influence in proportion to the interest he has
therein”55 was nothing more than reactivating (and, to some extent, ide-
alising) the foundations of political representation as practised before the
18th century.
The battle for representation was not confined to the offensive against the
Estates. The nobility also questioned its own representativeness in the next
Estates General, at which the main topic of discussion was to be public debt.
Their representativeness would be unchallengeable only if the nobles agreed
to share the tax burden. The meetings of the provincial Estates of Dauphiné
and of the Estates of Languedoc in January 1789 indicate that the nobility
did not reject equality in taxation. The preparatory meetings of the nobles
from the seneschalty of Limoux prior to the Estates General provide us with
an excellent testimony on this.56 The question of fiscal equality, which was
debated at length, was put to a vote on 6 March. The result was 20 votes for
and two against, which demonstrates agreement with the principle of equal-
ity all the way down to the small rural nobility. For the nobility, renounc-
ing its fiscal privileges meant consenting to subsidy duty, a function which
was theoretically the burden of the Third Estate (or the “Common Estate”),
while the nobles were supposed to provide military aid to the king. Admit-
tedly, in Languedoc, a region where the taille tax was based on the actual
worth of the lands owned, the nobility did contribute, and the royal power
had pushed to make the nobles contribute ever since the end of the 17th
century. It meant, nevertheless, that the nobility accepted, indeed requested,
to be scaled down to a level with the “Common Estate,” as it had been in the
15th century, but in a different way, since at that time the question had only
50 Gilbert Larguier
been the establishment of the territorial base for taxation between commu-
nities. Equality in taxation and representation are closely linked.
Conclusion
Maybe it has been too ambitious to try to discuss a period that goes from the
first appearance of consulates right up to the preliminaries of the Estates Gen-
eral of 1789 and deal with a province that comprised more than 2,500 poorly
documented communities in which only a handful of records have been pre-
served; however, I believe it was necessary. The foundations of political repre-
sentation exercised in communities, underpinned by the principles of Roman
law as well as the Augustinian and Thomist conceptions of the essence and
exercise of power, emerged very early with the creation of the consulates. The
election was this form of representation’s most characteristic feature, together
with the one-year term for offices open only to tax-paying citizens.
The Estates of Languedoc were granted consent to impose taxation. Its
members were not elected but sat by virtue of their titles. This included the
“commoners,” for it was always the same towns, that is, the ones with right
of entry, who sent their representatives. The conflicting character of these
two systems of representation did not raise any doubts prior to the 18th
century, when a subversion of the foundations of political representation of
the communities, including the elective principle, took place. This subver-
sion came on the heels of repeated interference by the royal power and an
offensive against the provincial assembly, which was accused of not being
representative of the Estates that composed it and of making decisions on
taxation that resulted in an unfair distribution of the fiscal burden among its
members. This constituted a double destabilisation, more worrying for the
Estates than for the communities, who could put a stop to venal practices
and go back to a mode of operation more in accordance with the spirit of
their institutions.
This “crisis in representation” came to a climax with the convening of
the Estates General, where the Estates of Languedoc became the focus of all
attacks, even from its own members, who were hoping for more freedom
in representation than they were granted. This deeper questioning brought
up the matter of representation within the communities, linked to taxation.
On the threshold of elections, the privileged orders,—and especially the
nobility—challenged their representativeness, the probity of which would
only be beyond doubt if they let their fiscal privileges go and accepted being
brought down to the level of the “Common Estate.” This opened the way
for new conceptions and forms of representation.
Notes
1. Maurice Bordes, “Les communautés villageoises des provinces méridionales à
l’époque moderne,” in Les communautés villageoises en Europe occidentale du
Moyen Age aux temps modernes (Auch: Flaran 4, 1984), 142–164. Quite obvi-
ously, the “Languedoc model” belongs to a consulate system found only in the
northwestern Mediterranean.
2. Philippe Wolff, ed., Histoire du Languedoc (Toulouse: Privat, 1967), 161–164;
André Gouron, “Les étapes de la pénétration du droit romain dans l’ancienne
Septimanie,” Annales du Midi (1957): 103–120; Gouron, “La diffusion des con-
sulats méridionaux et l’expansion du droit romain aux XIIe et XIIIe siècles,” Bib-
liothèque de l’Ecole des Chartes 121 (1963): 26–76; Jean Ramière de Fortanier,
Chartes de franchises du Lauraguais (Toul: imprimerie Toulouse, 1939).
3. Monique Bourin-Derruau, Villages médiévaux en Languedoc (Paris: L’Harmattan,
1987), vol. 2, 246.
4. Ibid., 151.
5. Ibid., 159–161.
6. Ernest Martin, Histoire de la ville de Lodève (Montpellier: Serre et Roumégous,
1900), vol. 1, 157–158; Cartulaire de la ville de Lodève (Montpellier: Serre et
Roumégous, 1900).
7. Charles Porée, Le consulat et l’administration de Mende (des origines à la Révo-
lution) (Paris: A. Picard et fils), 1902.
8. According to the terms of the intendant’s sub-delegate in 1788, Departmental
archives of Hérault (below A.D.H.), C 47.
9. Dom Devic et Dom Vaissète, Histoire générale de Languedoc (Toulouse: Privat,
1870–1904); Paul Dognon, Les institutions politiques et administratives du pays
de Languedoc du XIIIe siècle aux guerres de religion (Toulouse: Privat, 1895);
Henri Gilles, Les Etats de Languedoc au XVe siècle (Toulouse: Privat, 1965);
Stéphane Durand, Arlette Jouanna and Elie Pélaquier, Des Etats dans l’Etat. Les
Etats de Languedoc de la Fronde à la Révolution (Genève: Librairie Droz, 2014).
10. For a long time the only phrase used, rather than Third Estate.
11. Except for Velay.
12. They claimed the title of Estates particuliers (the “general” ones being the Estates
of Languedoc).
13. Less than 5% of the municipal deliberations that have survived predate the year
1600, but there are disparities: in Gévaudan, 25 communities have preserved
deliberations prior to 1700. The inquiry carried out by the Estates of Languedoc
in 1734 confirms the communities’ dismal preservation of their papers, except
for the compoix, or master cadastres. Less than 20% of the communities in the
diocese of Toulouse, for example, kept some sort of records, and these are often
poorly classified.
(Paris: Seuil, 2014).
15. Diocese of Béziers, A.D.H., 9 EDT 1–3 (1616–1628, 1632–1644, 1644–1672).
16. Examples of wide popular participation in the consuls’ elections are not rare.
In Gallargues, in the first half of the 16th century, people went from house to
house to ask for whom the residents were voting—consuls were thus elected by
a majority of votes; cf. Anny Herrmann, Gallargues au XVIe siècle. Une com-
munauté languedocienne à la veille de la Réforme d’après le registre des consuls,
1536–1553 (Paris: L’Harmattan, 2000).
17. It is worthwhile noting the ubiquitous importance of the public square. In Séri-
gnan (diocese of Béziers), “the public square . . . is a place where they customar-
ily make and create new consuls”: A.M. Sérignan, BB 2, 8 June 1579.
18. There were many other modes of election. Preserved deliberation records and
notary protocols containing the proceedings of consular elections, together with
the precise tallying of votes, indicate open and disputed elections.
19. Diocese of Montpellier, A.D.H., 10 EDT 22 (1601–1622), 24 (1601–1627), 25
(1627–1635), 26 (1635–1645), 27 (1645–1654).
52 Gilbert Larguier
20. A compoix (master cadastre) is the listing and valuation of each owner’s real
estate. Allivrement (assessed value) is the turning of that value into livres de
compoix (cadastral pounds), which aims to make taxation easier.
21. The practice of drawing names was not exceptional: it is found in Azillanet (dio-
cese of Saint-Pons), for example. Out of the six names proposed by the consuls,
the three new consuls were those “on whom the new election lot fell”: A.D.H.,
20 EDT 2, 26 December 1646; in Mèze and neighbouring communities, cf.
Stéphane Durand, “Les élites municipales dans les villes du Bas-Languedoc au
XVIIIe siècle: réflexions autour de l’exemple de Mèze,” Liame (2007): 127–143.
22. That is, brothers, brothers-in-law, cousins, uncles and nephews. These rules,
which were already in place in the 14th century, were called upon by the parlia-
ment of Toulouse on several occasions (rulings of 3 May 1532, 11 September
1603, 21 May 1610); cf. Martin, Cartulaire, 1900.
23. Christin, Vox populi, 219–233.
24. A.D.H., 10 EDT 24, 2 November 1620.
25. A.D.H., 10 EDT 22, rule of 14 April 1647: “like all well-regulated towns and
communities of this area, the political state of the present town of Aniane will
be ruled and governed.”
26. A.D.H., Aspiran, 13 EDT 5, 1 May 1652, etc.
27. Diocese of Agde, A.D.H., 56 EDT 2, April 1627.
28. Municipal archives of Narbonne (below A.M.), BB 4, 1 February 1579, fol. 143 ff.
29. Cessenon, A.D.H., 73 EDT 3, fol. 93v°, 12 May 1557; A.M. Sérignan, BB 2, fol.
65, 8 June 1579, etc.
30. One of the last mentions: Roquebrun (diocese of Béziers), 1663, rebuilding the
town hall “to be used in the future for the republic”: Joseph Sahuc, Inventaire
sommaire des archives communales du canton d’Olargues (Montpellier: Ricard
Frères, 1898), 27.
31. We can ask ourselves, this is the language of the people or that of the clerks who
wrote down the deliberations? In any case, a change in the vocabulary is clear
after the mid-17th century.
32. Gilbert Larguier, “Alivrer et chiffrer en Languedoc (XVe-XVIIIe siècle)”, Estimes
compoix et cadastres. Histoire d’un patrimoine commun de l’Europe méridi-
onale, ed. Jean-Loup Abbé (Toulouse: Le Pas d’oiseau, 2017), 92–103; 95, n. 12.
33. There were of course struggles between parties, short-term interruptions and
the moving of the meeting place of the political council to the church (Lattes,
A.D.H., 129 EDT 1, 11 March 1565), but nothing of fundamental importance.
34. A.D.H., 20 EDT 2, 26 December 1646, fol. 140 v°.
35. A.D.H., Bouzigues, 39 EDT 2, 7 April 1670.
36. Political councils composed of the Three Estates were also established in all
locations where they had not existed up until then. Actually, a ruling of the
Council of 20 September 1689 ordered the creation of this type of council in all
places where it did not already exist.
37. This list is by no means exhaustive, but here are the main ones: 27 August 1692:
creation of the hereditary mayor; 30 March 1700 and 3 May 1701: communities
are allowed to reimburse buyers of municipal offices; May 1702: edict establish-
ing lieutenant mayors; 1706: in lieu of perpetual mayors and lieutenants, the
creation of alternative mitriennaux (who would alternate every 18 months);
March 1709: creation of alternative perpetual offices; June 1717: abolition of
all offices; November 1718: re-establishment of the offices of mayor, lieutenant
mayor and perpetual consul; 26 March 1734: suspension of all municipal elec-
tions; 29 December 1737: the interdiction is removed; 13 March 1742: interdic-
tion of municipal elections (will last until 1755); 11 August 1764 and 11 May
1765: suppression of venality of offices; November 1771: re-establishment of
the venality. The Estates of Languedoc decided in 1773 to buy back the offices
at a cost of four million livres.
38. Gérard Saumade, Une petite commune rurale du Languedoc sous l’Ancien
Régime, Fabrègues, 1650–1792 (Montpellier: L’Abeille, 1908), 89–119.
39. Martin, Histoire, vol. 2, 148.
40. Not all communities were affected in the same way: offices did not find buyers
everywhere. But it is difficult to come up with a precise assessment, owing to the
scarcity of preserved municipal deliberations.
41. This is what happened in Sigean (diocese of Narbonne). Gilbert Larguier,
“Villages narbonnais aux XVIIe et XVIIIe siècles. Les villages dépendant de
l’archevêque de Narbonne,” Le village languedocien à l’époque moderne, Etudes
sur Pézenas et l’Hérault 11 (1980–1983): 31–42.
42. Laurent Coste, Les lys et le chaperon. Les oligarchies municipales en France de
la renaissance à la Révolution (Bordeaux: Pub, 2007).
43. Georges Fournier, Démocratie et vie municipale en Languedoc du milieu du
XVIIIe siècle au début du XIXe siècle, 2 vols. (Toulouse: Les Amis des Archives
de la Haute-Garonne, 1994), 345–360.
44. These two points deserve a detailed inquiry at the provincial level, over a period
of time, paying close attention to the location and size of the communities.
45. Aniane constitutes a good example of this. Since only a handful of deliberations
predating the 18th century have come down to us, we might infer that municipal
administration was somewhat chaotic, particularly in small rural communities.
This had not always been the case previously.
46. This makes it easier to understand why the public square was used again for
revolutionary feasts.
47. Fournier, Démocratie, 383.
48. Durand, Etats, 37. For everything that follows 31–51.
49. Arnaud Vergne, La Notion de Constitution d’après les cours et les assemblées à
la fin de l’Ancien Régime (1750–1789) (Paris: de Boccard, 2006).
50. Durand, Etats, 354.
51. 19 January 1761, Durand, Etats, 588.
52. Edouard Bligny-Bondurand, Cahiers de doléances de la sénéchaussée de Nîmes
pour les Etats généraux de 1789 (Nîmes: Imprimerie A. Chastanier, 1908), book
of complaints of Alais (Alès), vol. 1, 35.
53. Gilbert Larguier, “La grande protestation contre les Etats de Languedoc (1788–
1789),” in Actes du XXXIVe Congrès de la Fédération des sociétés académiques
et savantes, Languedoc, Pyrénées, Gascogne (Impr. Salingardes: Villefranche-de-
Rouergue, 1980), 193–245; Durand, Etats, 605–634.
54. The Estates’ proposal to partially elect, or even to elect all of, the deputies to the
Estates General was rejected by the ruling of 24 January 1789.
55. Bligny-Bondurand, Cahiers, 261, complaints book of Cornillon.
56. To my knowledge, the only record of this kind preserved in Languedoc, Gilbert
Larguier, 1789 dans la sénéchaussée de Limoux (Limoux: Comité Limouxin du
Bicentenaire, 1989), 45–50.
Selected Bibliography
Bligny-Bondurand, Edouard. Cahiers de doléances de la sénéchaussée de Nîmes pour
les Etats généraux de 1789, 2 vols. Nîmes: Imprimerie A. Chastanier, 1908.
Bordes, Maurice. “Les communautés villageoises des provinces méridionales à l’époque
moderne.” In Les communautés villageoises en Europe occidentale du Moyen Age
aux temps modernes, 142–164. Auch: Flaran 4, 1984.
54 Gilbert Larguier
Bourin-Derruau, Monique. Villages médiévaux en Languedoc, 2 vols. Paris: L’Harmattan,
1987.
Christin, Olivier. Vox populi. Une histoire du vote avant le suffrage universel. Paris:
Seuil, 2014.
Coste, Laurent. Les lys et le chaperon. Les oligarchies municipales en France de la
renaissance à la Révolution. Bordeaux: Presses Universitaires de Bordeaux, 2007.
Dognon, Paul. Les institutions politiques et administratives du pays de Languedoc
du XIIIe siècle aux guerres de religion. Toulouse: Privat, 1895.
Dom Devic et Dom Vaissète. Histoire générale de Languedoc. Toulouse: Privat,
1870–1904.
Durand, Stéphane. “Les élites municipales dans les villes du Bas-Languedoc au XVIIIe
siècle: réflexions autour de l’exemple de Mèze.” Liame (2007): 127–143.
Durand, Stéphane, Arlette Jouanna, and Elie Pélaquier. Des Etats dans l’Etat. Les
Etats de Languedoc de la Fronde à la Révolution. Genève: Librairie Droz, 2014.
Fournier, Georges. Démocratie et vie municipale en Languedoc du milieu du XVIIIe
siècle au début du XIXe siècle, 2 vols. Toulouse: Les Amis des Archives de la
Haute-Garonne, 1994.
Gilles, Henri. Les Etats de Languedoc au XVe siècle. Toulouse: Privat, 1965.
Gouron, André. “Les étapes de la pénétration du droit romain dans l’ancienne Septi-
manie.” Annales du Midi 69 (1957): 103–120.
Gouron, André. “La diffusion des consulats méridionaux et l’expansion du droit romain
aux XIIe et XIIIe siècles.” Bibliothèque de l’Ecole des Chartes 121 (1963): 26–76.
Herrmann, Anny. Gallargues au XVIe siècle. Une communauté languedocienne à la veille
de la Réforme d’après le registre des consuls, 1536–1553. Paris: L’Harmattan, 2000.
Larguier, Gilbert. “La grande protestation contre les Etats de Languedoc (1788–
1789).” In Actes du XXXIVe Congrès de la Fédération des sociétés académiques
et savantes, Languedoc, Pyrénées, Gascogne, 193–245. Impr. Salingardes: Ville-
franche-de-Rouergue, 1980.
Larguier, Gilbert. “Villages narbonnais aux XVIIe et XVIIIe siècles. Les villages
dépendant de l’archevêque de Narbonne.” Le village languedocien à l’époque
moderne, Etudes sur Pézenas et l’Hérault 11 (1980–1983): 31–42.
Larguier, Gilbert. 1789 dans la sénéchaussée de Limoux. Limoux: Comité Limouxin
du Bicentenaire, 1989.
Larguier, Gilbert. “Alivrer et chiffrer en Languedoc (XVe-XVIIIe siècle)”. In Estimes
compoix et cadastres. Histoire d’un patrimoine commun de l’Europe méridionale,
ed. Jean-Loup Abbé (Toulouse: Le Pas d’oiseau, 2017), 92–103.
Martin, Ernest. Cartulaire de la ville de Lodève. Montpellier: Serres et Roumégous, 1900.
Martin, Ernest. Histoire de la ville de Lodève, 2 vols. Montpellier: Serres et Roumé-
gous, 1900.
Porée, Charles. Le consulat et l’administration de Mende (des origines à la Révolu-
tion). Paris: A. Picard et fils, 1902.
Ramière de Fortanier, Jean. Chartes de franchises du Lauraguais. Toul: Imprimerie
Toulouse, 1939.
Sahuc, Joseph. Inventaire sommaire des archives communales du canton d’Olargues.
Montpellier: Ricard Frères, 1898.
Saumade, Gérard. Une petite commune rurale du Languedoc sous l’Ancien Régime,
Fabrègues, 1650–1792. Montpellier: L’Abeille, 1908.
Vergne, Arnaud. La Notion de Constitution d’après les cours et les assemblées à la
fin de l’Ancien Régime (1750–1789). Paris: de Boccard, 2006.
Wolff, Philippe, ed. Histoire du Languedoc. Toulouse: Privat, 1967.
4 Representation
Political Foundations of the French
Province, 15th–18th Century
Marie-Laure Legay
Today, historiography mainly highlights the fact that provincial estates,

which were created for financial reasons, became powerful assemblies dur-
ing the Wars of Religion period but barely survived monarchic centralisa-
tion, due to the apparent incompatibility of a provincial structure and the
construction of a modern state. However, the longue durée approach has
demonstrated that monarchies always needed the support of some local
form of political representation to build their power.
As demonstrated by the example of the Dauphiné, what bothered the
monarchy was not so much the existence of an assembly but the fact that
tax reforms were blocked by the two privileged Estates. This is a constant
factor in French history: central power playing off the cities against the
nobility but not necessarily against the provinces. The Norman case con-
firms this observation: what ultimately brought down the Estates of Nor-
mandy was not the organisation of elections, the last of which took place
in 1638, but the threats posed by the quarrelling nobility which dominated
the 1655 assembly. Several city or community assemblies were preserved
after the Estates were suspended—in 1628 for the Dauphiné, in 1639 for
the Provence and the Pyrenees—when the absenteeism of the local nobil-
ity made it possible to control the pays d’états (region). What else were the
Estates of Languedoc but an assembly from which the gentlemen of the
province were excluded? What else were the Estates of Burgundy but an
“emasculated” assembly, to quote Daniel Hickey?1 Did Controller-General
Orry not establish an assembly in the Boulonnais in 1731? Did Minister
Laverdy not consider the creation of the Estates of Aquitaine in 1768?2
Some might object, claiming that these were new forms of representation.
Certainly, this may be so, but we cannot completely separate the new forms
from the old ones. As early as 1554, a regulation of the regional assemblies
of the Dauphiné specified that it was necessary to have an equal number of
representatives from the cities and from the first two Estates.3 This equiva-
lence in representation between cities and privileged Estates was not a con-
cern only in the 18th century. It was an old goal, which can be traced back
to as early as the 16th century. As such, the relationship that the central gov-
ernment had with Brittany, which was still under the control of the nobility,
56 Marie-Laure Legay
was considered an unusual case. What really matters is that the monarchy
has too often been presented as being opposed to any kind of regulated rep-
resentation, when really its main concern was to reduce tax privileges and,
later on, exert effective executive control over its territory. To achieve this
goal, it was necessary to reach some form of political compromise.4 If we go
back to the emergence and suppression of the assemblies, it should be easy
to verify this statement.
1. Origin and Nature of the Assemblies

The origin of the assemblies is not always known. Whether they were cre-
ated outside the kingdom by the big feudatories (Béarn, Brittany, Burgundy)
or, which is most often the case, within it by the king himself (Normandy,
Languedoc), the 14th and 15th centuries is the terminus a quo. The incor-
poration of the Third Estate to the curiae, otherwise composed by clerics
and noblemen, can be attested almost everywhere by the time of Philip the
Fair. The Hundred Years’ War undoubtedly strengthened the institutional
foundations of these assemblies. During the late 15th century only a few
pays still lacked their own Estates. The difficulties involved in summoning
the Estates General, on the one hand, and the growing need for subsidies,
on the other, made it necessary to turn to more manageable local assem-
blies. This financial vocation of the assemblies was therefore clearly defined
from the outset. The confirmation of provincial privileges only endorsed
this fact. In 1555, for example, Henry II recalled that, in Burgundy, “no aid
or subsidy could be raised in the aforementioned pays without the consent
of the People of the aforementioned three, duly assembled, Estates,” and he
maintained for the assembly the right “to distribute and equalise upon our
aforementioned Subjects by hearth and parish, each and every one of the
deniers, granted to Us.”5
These assemblies can be divided into several types: Estates Provincial,
États particuliers (Estates Particular), assemblies of communities or cities,
assemblies of bailiwicks or of seneschalties. Nevertheless, their territorial
frameworks were not at all invariable. For example, in the 16th and 17th
centuries, the province of Forez was controlled through three different
types of assemblies: those in which the Three Estates met at the provincial
level, as was done in 1574, 1575, 1577, 1585 and 1595; those in which the
Three Estates met at the government level, as was done in 1556, 1561 and
1582; and, finally, the particular meetings of the nobility or of the Third
Estate.6 The Estates Provincial, more commonly named Estates General of
the Province, often had a wide range of powers. They had jurisdiction over
general issues, and delegated the execution of their decisions, specifically,
the collection of taxes, to the Estates particular, if these existed. The latter
were, in fact, subordinate to the Estates General of the province, and were
and operated as territorial subdivisions. The Estates Particular of Albigeois,
Castrais, Gévaudan, Velay and Vivarais, for example, sent representative
Representation 57
deputies to the Estates of Languedoc but preserved the habit of gathering
regularly to represent the interests of their pays. In the same way, the Estates
of the Mâconnais and the Charolais, as well as the Estates of the counties of
Auxonne and Auxerre, can be considered Estates Particular, since they sent
deputies to the Estates General of Burgundy. Meanwhile, the term Estates
Particular sometimes referred to the Estates General of a whole province,
in particular when it was necessary to distinguish them from the Estates
General of the kingdom.7 Community assemblies were exclusively com-
posed of representatives of city or village communities. Sometimes, they
appeared to be the remnants of truncated Estates Provincial, initially com-
posed of the three orders (as was the case for the Estates of the Viscounty of
Turenne from 1550 onwards). Sometimes these assemblies were organised
from the start only on the basis of the communities; this was especially
the case in mountainous areas. In Flanders, the political weight of the cit-
ies had an impact on the institutional organisation of the provinces. Their
Estates Provincial did not have any ecclesiastical or noble representatives but
still had the appearance of full-blown Estates: they spoke on behalf of the
cities and of the plat-pays (flatland or countryside).8 Finally, we can distin-
guish between the assemblies of the bailiwicks and the seneschalties. As we
know, the three orders gathered at the level of juridical districts to elect their
deputies to the Estates General of the kingdom. Nevertheless, they would
also meet for other purposes, summoned by the bailiff or the seneschal,
to draft customs or distribute taxes. These semantic subtleties evolved as
time passed. In the 18th century, there was a clear distinction between the
real pays d’états and the pays abonnés. The first category preserved a com-
plete representative system of the three orders and summoned assemblies
in the presence of the royal commissaires or intendants. The second one, on
the other hand, no longer represented anything other than the Third Estate,
without the presence of any royal representatives. As such, Maurice Bordes
considered the Béarn, Lower Navarre, Bigorre, Nébouzan and the land of
Soule real pays d’états, and the Quatre-Vallées, Labourd and Marsan pays
abonnés.9 The latter can be associated with the pays syndiqués (syndicated
territories) of eastern France, such as the Bresse, Gex or Bugey regions, the
interests of which were represented only by the syndic.10 For some, these
syndics were an alternative to the administrative reform projects which were
at the origin of the provincial assemblies; these were organised in the king-
dom from 1778 onwards.
It is equally difficult to explain why some assemblies persisted until the
Revolution but others only had a very short existence. The suppression edict
sheds some light on the reasons for this disparity. The edict from March
1639, revoking the administration of the county of Auxonne, for example,
insisted on its “uselessness” and its costly nature. The expenses amounted to
“sums which were higher than those levied for the King.”11 The fate of the
Estates of Upper Alsace, which were terminated in 1661, was also linked to
the state of its finances.12 The assembly represented an additional burden
for the territory. At that time, the correspondence of Jean-Baptiste Colbert
regularly refers to the minister’s aversion to the smaller pays d’états, which
he considered too expensive. In fact, in certain assemblies, such as those of
the Estates of Labourd or of Marsan, the nobility stopped attending the
sessions from the moment they stopped receiving compensation. Later, in
1783, the marquis de Segur, secretary of state of war, developed the same
arguments; referring to the Estates of Corsica, he states:
Th[e]s[e] kind[s] of assemblies cost the king and the province an amount
of money that could be used for other purposes. As such, it can only be
useful to defer them when they are not absolutely necessary.13
However, assemblies were not disbanded for financial reasons alone. The
suspension of the Estates of Lower Alsace in 1682 seems to have been due
instead to their independent spirit. Also, despite the evident cost of this insti-
tution, the Contrôle Général was opposed to the suppression of the assem-
bly of Bresse in 1685, which was demanded by some irritated citizens.14
Finally, in the mid-18th century, when the suppression of the Estates of the
Mâconnais was debated, the disagreement between the administrators was
emphasised.15
As a general rule, several factors need to be taken into consideration.
The first concerns the assembly’s original nature: we need to distinguish
between the “feudal” Estates type, such as Brittany, and the “royal” Estates,
such as Normandy. Admittedly, the conditions of the union with the French
Crown were certainly beneficial for the former, to the extent that, as noted
previously, the sovereigns often granted letters of endorsement to the pro-
vincial franchises (Béarn, Brittany). The same observation can be made
for the provinces that were later incorporated into the kingdom through
capitulation (Artois, Flanders, Cambrésis). As such, the kingdom’s periph-
eral territories, which became French by contract or by conquest, would
have preserved their Estates more easily. This was expressed in 1624 by
the Estates of Béarn: “The aforementioned Béarn is a border territory on
the way to Spain, and its liberties have usually been specifically and care-
fully preserved by the sovereigns, in order to provide it with more means
to guard the passes.”16 In contrast, the Estates of the “royal” type, which
were created by the sovereign, could have been easily dismantled, since they
could not claim any particular privileges (specifically the Estates of central
France, such as Anjou, La Marche, Maine, Poitou and Touraine). However,
this analysis hardly allows us to understand why certain peripheral Estates,
such as Franche-Comté, were not endorsed, while others, of the “royal”
type, were preserved (Estates of Lower Auvergne until 1672, Rouergue until
1673, Languedoc until 1789). This could lead us to think, as Albert Babeau
has done, that the assemblies were maintained in the regions where “nation-
ality and tongue were still distinct.”17 It is true that people still spoke Breton,
Provençal, Flemish, Gascon, Basque (in Navarre) and Italian (in Corsica).
Representation 59
However, the cultural factor, just like the “constitutional” factor, even
if it needs to be taken into consideration, cannot be the only key to the
explanation. The decisive element seems to have been the expression, or
not, of an administrative and financial need. Sometimes, royal power con-
sidered it useful to maintain the assemblies so that they would undertake
reforms, draft customs, raise subsidies, build channels or roads, and levy
taxes. However, the Crown also tried to reduce the assemblies’ influence
whenever it represented an obstacle to these operations. In other words,
even if the “right” to assembly had been granted to certain provincial bod-
ies to meet the needs of the great feudatories or the monarchs, this same
right was maintained only as a function of a need, which was defined by
the king. The Estates of Berry still gathered in 1539 to satisfy article 125
of the ordinance of Montils-lès-Tours and draft the customs of the territory.
The three estates of the Perche met in Nogent in 1558 to “rédigés par escript
noz loix matenelles quy estoyent confuses et sans ordre” (“draft in writing
our maternal laws, which were confusing and disordered”).18 In Dauphiné,
Louis XIII suspended the assembly of the three orders, but still authorised
the assemblies of the pays in charge of implementing the reform of the taille
land tax. After the completion of this reform, these assemblies ceased to
exist. Summoned again on the occasion of the Dauphin’s birth in 1661, and
prompted by the first two orders, the assemblyattempted to bring back to
life the Estates Provincial. Henceforth, the king took measures to limit the
renewed ambitions of the gentlemen and, as was the case in Normandy, no
longer counted on the assemblies for the execution of his policies. First in
1664, and then later in 1673, we can still find traces of collective decisions
at provincial level. During the aftermath of the Dutch War (1672–1678),
Louis XIV accepted maintaining the financial assignment of the Estates of
Cambrésis, but, at the same time, he prevented the officials from the Estates
of Franche-Comté from continuing their fiscal activities. In 1731, the royal
power put in place a first provincial assembly in the Boulonnais region to
restore the main route from Calais to Montreuil. During the same period
(1738), Louis XV disbanded the Estates of the Viscounty of Turenne, where
fiscal immunity was no longer necessary after the redemption of these lands.
If we can believe intendant Gaspard Moïse de Fontanieu, the Escarton gen-
eral of the Briançonese remained quite useful as “the tax levies in this canton
are never delayed, owing to the particular policies followed by its inhabit-
ants.”19 It needs to be mentioned that, in the 18th century, the central gov-
ernment was no longer completely sure whether it wanted to put an end to
the Estates Provincial, even the smaller assemblies. When it came to the fate
of the pays of Bresse, Bugey and Gex, it was impossible to take a drastic
decision:
It would be hard to downgrade these three provinces to pays d’élections.

This operation would somehow seem contradictory to the benevolent
intentions that the King has announced and recently started to put into
practice, creating pays d'administration provinciale in généralités which
previously only were Pays d’élections. As such, we dare to reject this
harsh measure completely, because it would be the same as punish-
ing these three Pays, which are equally loyal and obedient, and do not
deserve it.20
These examples demonstrate that the government, generally, took a prag-

matic approach in its decisions concerning the provincial assemblies. Cer-
tainly, the simultaneous disappearance of Estates Provincial during the 17th
century requires a more detailed explanation, which will be provided later.
For the moment, our analysis will help us better understand how, during
the modern period, the Estates’ assemblies were not necessarily doomed to
disappear, even in a context of increasing administrative centralisation.
2. Composition and Balance of Forces

The diversity of origins, territorial frameworks and nature of the Estates
makes it extremely difficult to make general statements about these institu-
tions. In the same vein, the study of their composition should not be syn-
thesised too hastily. All possible situations were present. At any rate, the
balance of political forces in the assemblies seemed to be more decisive than
the effective composition of the chambers. In fact, during the early modern
period, royal power tried to restrict these institutions by controlling the
nomination of representatives. Especially in some provinces, the authority
over the delegates of the Third Estate became a local political issue. Hence,
we need to distinguish several points when analysing the composition of the
Estates Provincial during the Ancien Régime.
First, we need to consider the social component of the Estates. Each of
them guaranteed a representation, reduced following the sanior pars, which
was undisputed until the late 18th century. The marquis of Argenson, René-
Louis de Voyer, minister of Louis XV, was one of the first to criticise the
narrowness of provincial representation. The right to participate depended
on local traditions and could be linked to the exercise of judicial powers.
For example, in Comminges the representatives of the clergy and the nobil-
ity were all provided with jurisdictional fiefs, and only the cities under direct
authority of the king could take a position in the assembly. However, other
criteria could predominate. For example, the principle of equity between the
different social bodies (chapters, urban or rural communities) explains the
establishment of a rotating representative system in Burgundy, Languedoc
and Normandy. We need to remember that, the clergy, when in possession
of a chamber in the Estates Provincial, generally delegated on its local dig-
nitaries. Archbishops, bishops, abbots and representatives of the chapters,
generally sat in the first chamber, either in their capacity as lords and land-
owners or simply by virtue of their position. In Normandy, the clerical depu-
ties before the Estates Provincial were chosen in each bailiwick through
Representation 61
elections in which priests sometimes participated. In the bailiwicks of Caux
and Gisors, which did not have their own chapters, the deputy could even be
chosen from among the priests.21 Elsewhere, the role of the lower clergy in
the Estates Provincial was almost non-existent. Around 1700, the chamber
of the clergy in the Estates of Burgundy was the largest gathering, including
four bishops, 17 abbots, seven deans, 12 chapter deputies, three deputies
of the clergies of adjacent counties, 12 priors, six monastic priors and eight
abbey deputies, amounting to 69 dignitaries in total. This number was to
reach 109 members on the eve of the Revolution. The Estates of Brittany
included nine bishops, nine deputies of the cathedral chapters and 38, later
40, abbots representing the main Breton monasteries, amounting to a total
of either 56 or 58 members. Until 1639, the Estates of Provence included
bishops with parishes, nine abbots, the provost of the Pignans chapter and
eight commanders of the order of Malta. In Artois, almost 40 persons could
sit in the chamber of the clergy. In Languedoc, only the secular prelates (three
archbishops and 20 bishops) participated in the Estates. In Vivarais, the
clergy was not represented by its own members. At most, the bishop could
send a delegate in his position as baron of Largentière. Also, from around
the middle of the 16th century, the clergy was no longer summoned in the
viscounty of Turenne.22 In Béarn, the clergy, composed of only five members
(the bishops from Lescar and Oloron, and the three abbots of Lucq, Sauve-
lade and Lasseube), gathered with the nobility to form the Grand Corps. This
approach of counting the number of ecclesiastics present in the assemblies,
does not necessarily paint a reliable picture of the weight of the first order.
In Cambrésis, for example, the dignitaries from the clergy (six deputies
from the metropolitan chapter of Cambrai, four from the chapter of Saint-
Géry, three from the chapter of Sainte-Croix and three abbots, amounting to
16 persons in total) dominated the assembly, which rarely was composed of
more than 30 to 35 members. Their wealth, combined with the seigneurial
titles of the Archbishop of Cambrai, gave them a powerful position at the
heart of the Estates.23 In Languedoc, the political weight of the bishops was
due to other reasons: it was mainly linked to the close relationship between
the prelates and the monarchy, who controlled the appointment of the for-
mer, and to their status as présidents-nés of the particular assemblies of the
province. Very often, in fact, the particular Estates, like those of Gévaudan or
Mâconnais, were controlled by the bishop, who summoned the assembly in
his palace, appointed deputies and endorsed every decision.
Before the 16th century, the criteria for summoning local nobles to the
Estates Provincial remained rather vague. In Brittany, for instance, all nobles
were in principle members of the Estates and were allowed to attend the
sessions and deliberate, although, according to article 570 of this province’s
custom, the advantageous distribution (le partage avantageux), which was
characteristic of the nobility, had not yet become common practice yet.
The record of attendance was set in 1728 in Rennes, when 973 gentlemen
showed up for a meeting.24 In any case, the regulations of 1736 and 1770,
which forced prospective members to present formal evidence of their
families’ nobility for over a hundred years, slashed the number of nobles
with access rights. In Béarn, possessing so-called noble land was enough
to guarantee a seat. Next to the ten (later 12) barons, sat the title hold-
ers of small baronies, parish seigneurs, possessors of a fief or noble land
and secular abbots, owners of tithes or patronats de cure. This amounted
to approximately 500 people.25 Also, in the county of Foix, possessing
one of the region’s approximately 50 fiefs gave the right to participate in
the order of the nobility. In Provence, in the early modern period gentle-
men could claim a seat, but, from 1620 onwards, access was limited to
the nobility, that is, the holders of a fief. In Burgundy, the access criteria
also became more rigorous from 1679 onward, when it became necessary
for the nobility to present themselves as fief-holding seigneurs, justiciar-
ies and holders of four degrees of nobility. The same thing happened in
the Mâconnais, where only the noblemen, holders of fiefs with the right
of high justice, could join the assembly. In Dauphiné, also only seigneurs
with jurisdiction had access to the Estates. In order to enter the Estates of
Artois or Cambrésis, it was necessary to possess a fief à clocher, meaning
land that included the seigniory or jurisdiction over a dependent church.
Nevertheless, in 1665 the Artesian nobility convinced Louis XIV to restrict
access to the assembly to holders of four degrees of noble blood. In 1755,
this restriction was increased to six degrees. In Languedoc and the adja-
cent pays, representation had been reduced from the start to holders of
baronies, of which only 22, later 23 (from 1694 onward), could claim a
seat in the Estates. Some barons had the right to be represented in all ses-
sions, while others could only take turns, as with the 16 rotating barons
of Vivarais or the eight rotating barons of Gévaudan. Meanwhile, access
conditions were further restricted, requiring “400 years of military nobil-
ity on the father’s side” from 1769 onwards (instead of four generations,
as had been required before that date). From 1780 onwards, Cambrésis
deliberately copied the rules of Languedoc, also requiring 400 years of
paternal nobility.26 In the Estates of Bresse, only the noblemen with more
than 60 years of nobility could take a seat. In Walloon Flanders, only four
seigneurs, high justiciars, were represented before the Estates. As can be
seen, throughout the entire modern period, the second order, represented
in the Estates Provincial, never stopped restricting access to the assemblies.
Blood requirements were tightened, and property criteria raised, as their
position was being increasingly jeopardised by the arrival of newly enno-
bled people to the administrative apparatus of the state. The gentlemen of
Brittany clearly revealed their position on this matter:
The letters patent from 10 February 1770, issued on the request of the
Estates of Brittany as a consequence of their deliberation of 13 February
1769, have the purpose of affording entry to their assemblies of only
those among the order of the nobility who are truly noble and whose
Representation 63
nobility is sufficiently deep-rooted to merit this principal and highest
honour on behalf of their estate.27
This gradual legal closure of the nobility’s chambers guaranteed cohesion

inside the order, but, at the same time, it also maintained a particular polit-
ical culture at the heart of the provincial assemblies, one which focused
almost exclusively on the defence of the order’s values.
It is very interesting to observe how the terms “Third Estate” and “prov-
ince” shared a similar fate, as both expressions became dominant during
the 16th century. Accidental or not, this reminds us that, during the early
modern period, no assembly of the Estates was summoned without repre-
sentatives of the Third Estate. On the other hand, it was possible to find
assemblies held without representatives of the privileged classes. This was
the case, as we have seen, for small assemblies in mountainous regions.
The importance of common pasture zones for the economy of these areas
explains the peculiar composition of these assemblies, which were some-
times restricted to representatives of the communities, as was the case in
Labourd, in the Pyrenean region of the Quatre-Vallées28 or in Briançonnais.
Summoned by the first consul of Briançon, the representatives of the five
escartons of the bailiwick gathered twice per year for the escartonnement
or division of the taille. In the same way, the bailiwick of Embrun was split
into three escartons, of which the most honourable citizens gathered at the
injunction of the consul of Embrun to settle the matters of the pays. In the
Marsan region, which was not a mountain area but had been deputised for
the Estates of Béarn, only the bastilles were represented in the assemblies.
In the territory of Soule, besides the upper house, there were also the lower
house, composed of seven dégans (at the head of the dégueries or groups
of parishes, into which the territory was divided) and six deputies for the
boroughs. In the Estates of Bigorre, the Third Estate was composed of 29
deputies for the towns and valleys. In the Estates of Nébouzan, during the
18th century, between 32 and 36 deputies for the communities and one
deputy for the viguerie of Monvoisin took seats, next to the four members
of the clergy, the five barons and approximately 20 gentlemen who under-
took the yearly journey to the meeting.29 In Lower Navarre, there were
28 deputies, representing seven towns and seven pays. The assembly of the
Bearnese Third Estate included the mayors and jurats (judges of fact) of
the 42 communities under royal jurisdiction. Elsewhere in the kingdom, the
rural communities saw their representation in the Estates Provincial reduced
to almost nothing. Certainly, in Dauphiné, we should note the presence of
200 delegates from the villages in the Estates of 1592.30 In Normandy, the
rural parishes were summoned to the assemblies of the viscounties (there
were between four and five viscounties per bailiwick in Normandy) to elect
their representative before the Estates. In Comminges, the villages could
send a delegation to the Estates’ general assembly.31 On the whole, how-
ever, at the dawn of the early modern period the cities had succeeded in
monopolising the representation of the third order. In this regard, the claims
of the Consulate of Lyon are paradigmatic. Since the 15th century, the city
took the initiative to summon the surrounding villages to debate common
issues, and in the years 1570–1580, the representation of the entire Lyon-
nais province was absorbed by the city of Lyon.32 In Dauphiné, the Assem-
bly of Ten Cities had also taken the initiative to defend the interests of the
Third Estate towards the end of the 16th century. The urban assemblies
thus became the privileged intermediaries before the royal administration
and were capable of counterbalancing the other two orders. Depending on
the provinces to which they belonged, their representative mechanisms were
more or less complex. In Brittany, 42 towns had the right to delegate; in
Languedoc, the chief towns of the dioceses were represented at each ses-
sion, and the less important boroughs only according to a rotating system;
in Burgundy there was also a double system, where the mayors of the 13
towns of the “grande roue” (“big wheel”: drawn around Dijon and compris-
ing the most important towns of the province) were granted direct access,
while those of the towns of the “petite roue” (“small wheel”: a total of
around 60 persons) alternated; in Artois, eight towns, ten after the treaty of
Nijmegen, sent deputies to the Estates; in Provence, 37 communities were
represented in the assembly of the pays; and in Walloon Flanders, the cities
of Lille, Douai and Orchies controlled, between the three of them, half the
seats in the Estates. Most of these urban deputies to the Estates Provincial
served as officers or consuls. The underrepresentation of merchants and
craftsmen, already observed at the level of the Estates General,33 could also
be found at the provincial level. The occupation of 322 of the deputies for
the cities of Forez who acted as delegates during the 25 sessions held during
the 16th and 17th centuries, have been identified: 56.83% (183 deputies)
were consuls, 41.61% (134 deputies) were holders of a royal or seigneurial
office and only 1.5% (five deputies) were merchants.34
Examining merely the different components of assemblies does not suffice
to understand their true nature. It is necessary to assess the balance between
the different contending forces. The numerical balance of the three chambers
was just one factor among others. Indeed, it was by virtue of their number
that the members of the “bastion,” the heart of the Breton nobility, managed
to cover up the voice of the shamed speaker. On the other hand, the domi-
nant presence of the representatives of the Third Estate in Normandy (more
than 30 against seven representatives of the clergy and seven of the nobil-
ity) drew the attention of the assembly’s enemies, who already considered it
worthless. In the Dauphiné, all the jurisdictional lay and ecclesiastical lords
were summoned, but their record of attendance was low, so much so that the
deputies of the Third Estate were sometimes able to dominate the assemblies
numerically, as in 1599, when they numbered 92, compared to ten from the
clergy and 34 from the nobility.35 The social components of the different
assemblies varied from one province to another. During the 18th century, we
could still agree with the marquis of Argenson when he claimed:
Representation 65
Of all our provinces d'états, none are alike in spirit and nature. The
Estates of Languedoc are episcopal; it is they who have the best admin-
istration, and are, at the same time, the most diligent with the public
good. Those of Brittany are led by a mischievous and jealous nobil-
ity; those of Burgundy, subjugated by a despotic government; those of
Arras, formed by a proud and obtuse nobility; those of Provence, all
popular, but poor communities, devoid of emulation and industry.36
How were the decisions within each chamber, as well as during the general
assembly, made? In the particular chambers, the votes could be counted either
per individual (this was the case for the prelates and the abbots in the clergy’s
chambers, and the noblemen in the second order), or per body (the case of
urban chapters). In the general assemblies there was a wide range of different
possible scenarios. In Normandy, the vote took place per bailiwick (seven bai-
liwicks in total). In Languedoc, there was a headcount, a system which earned
the Estates of this province the admiration of 18th-century political observ-
ers. In Dauphiné, the voting method varied depending on the importance of
the matter: there was a headcount for current affairs, but matters “of great
weight and consequence” were voted per order.37 Elsewhere, for example in
Burgundy, Provence and Artois, the decision rested with the orders.
It remains for us to analyse whether the decision had to be unanimous or
whether it could be taken by a majority of the three orders. In Dauphiné,
the first two orders alone did not have the authority to make decisions but,
according to a negotiated transaction of February 1554, a single vote from
a member of the Third Estate pronouncing the same verdict as the privi-
leged orders was enough to reach a majority. At the general conference of
the Estates of Artois or the Estates of Burgundy, one body could veto the
deliberation of the other two. This opposition would then be mentioned
in the register, but did not suspend the decision. When the opinions of the
three orders diverged completely, a commission or conference was set up
to resolve this difference of opinion. In these provinces ofBurgundian tra-
dition, the orders preserved a strict autonomy. The general deliberations
of the Estates of Cambrésis also reflected the result the deliberations car-
ried out within each chamber. On the other hand, in Languedoc, the three
orders came together more readily, and a curious system of adding votes was
used to reach an absolute majority and thus resolve financial matters. In the
Estates of Béarn, a commission was appointed to reconcile the opinions of
the two bodies. In Navarrre, disagreements between nobility and the Third
Estate were resolved by the king’s commissioner.
3. The Heyday of Provinces

To get an idea of the importance of provincial assemblies in public life dur-
ing the Ancien Régime, it is necessary to go back to the days preceding the
opening of the Estates Provincial. Whatever town was chosen to host the
most honourable representatives of the country was overtaken by excep-
tional activity. The merchants swarmed in and settled themselves for days
of entertainment, and the foremost citizens prepared their houses to receive
the most exalted guests. The journey was also made by theatre troupes, like
Molière’s, which travelled to Pézenas for the celebration of the Estates of
Languedoc that were held in the city in 1656. In 1588, the work of the poet
Loys Papon, recounting the victory of the duke of Guise in the battle of
Auneau (1587), was performed in the Estates’ assembly room in Montbri-
son. The magistrates gathered plentiful victuals in anticipation of the many
balls and banquets that were to take place. “Fifteen or twenty large tables,
continuous games, never-ending balls, theatre plays three times per week, a
grand braderie (fair), that’s the Estates,” wrote the marquise of Sévigné on
the subject of the Estates of Vitré of 1671.38 The assembly room still needed
to be prepared: a refectory in the convent of Friars Minor for the Estates
of Bresse, held in Bourg; the premises of the Cordeliers in Pau and Tarbes;
an abbey for the Estates of Artois, which were held for the last time in
1724; a simple church for the Estates of Corsica, held in Bastia, or those of
Languedoc, held in Béziers; the ducal palace in Dijon; the city hall of Lille,
Montpellier, Cambrai and Villeneuve-de-Marsan; the palace of justice for
the Estates of Nébouzan, held in Saint Gaudens; and the episcopal palace
for the Estates of Foix, held in Pamiers. In the 18th century, some Estates,
such as those of Dijon or Arras, had a hôtel particulier (their own hall,
mansion or palace) at their disposal. This building gave the cohesion of the
province even more visibility, as it could be made apparent not only during
assembly sessions, but also during special events. During October 1729, for
example, the birth of the Dauphin gave rise to celebrations around the hôtel
of the Estates in Arras.
The three sides of the hôtel were illuminated. The next day, the orders
having gathered there in the evening, we went to the Main Square for
the lighting of a bonfire that had been prepared there. The march, which
was magnificent and superb, was done in this order: the drums, the
trumpets and violins preceded the Marechaussée (Marshalcy), then came
M. Charles d’Elbeuf, governor general of the province, accompanied by
Bernard Chauvelin, Intendant for Picardy and Artois, and by Ambroise
Palissot d’Incourt, the first president of the Council of Artois, all three
on foot, escorted by his Highness’ guards. Then, all the abbots, two by
two, as well as the gentlemen and the deputies of the Third Estate. Each
of the three chambers was illuminated by a torch of white wax, carried
by the servant or valet of each particular order. (. . .) Afterwards, there
was the ball, to which the ladies had been invited, as well as to the meal,
which was provided by the city. During these two days of celebration,
some silver was thrown to the commoners through the windows of the
Hôtel of the Estates.39
Representation 67
Similarly, the Élus généraux of the Estates of Burgundy did not spare any
expenses when the birth of the Dauphin had to be celebrated in 1781. Their
deliberation on 12 November determined, in seven articles, a Te Deum in
the Estates’ chapel, which “all persons, connected to the province’s Adminis-
tration” were obliged to attend in ceremonial attire; fireworks and illumina-
tions, especially in the Royal Quarters, the Estates’ Palace and the houses of
people who were “connected to the administration;” the giving of alms; the
marriage of 12 poor girls from the countryside, endowed at the expense of
the province; the stamping of 100 silver medals, bearing the province’s coat
of arms; the stamping of four golden medals for the king, the queen, the gov-
ernor of the province and the secretary of state for the department; and the
printing of the declaration itself.40 The munificence of the Estates was thus
displayed before everyone, so much so that, as we shall see, towards the end
of the Ancien Régime, their prodigality was the subject of much criticism.
These celebrations in no way detracted from the solemn character of the
provincial events. Of note, for example, was the importance of the open-
ing of the Estates. In the province of Brittany, on the eve of each session,
a herald announced the assembly accompanied by a trumpet. He roamed
the town, dressed in ermine and fleur-de-lis, on a caparisoned horse. In
Languedoc, the declaration of the opening of the sessions was also made
to the sound of horns. Above all, this protocol reflects the balance of
forces between the king and the province, between the orders and, within
them, between the different bodies. The arrival of the governor was always
followed by strong protestations of deference. He was offered the keys to
the city, an escort and a chime concert. The king’s commissioners usually
sat in the centre of the assembly room. In Cambrai, the governor had an
armchair with two cushions at his disposal, whereas the intendant, on
his left side, sat in an armchair with only one cushion. On the right-hand
side of these commissioners were the deputies of the cathedral chapter,
then those of the collegiate, followed by the gentlemen who, because of the
way the seating was arranged, found themselves facing the commissioners.
On the left-hand side of the latter were the regular abbots, the Magistrate of
Cambrai and, finally, the prosecutor and the clerk.41 During the ordinary
sessions of the Estates, the king’s commissioners were absent. The central
seat would then be taken by the president, as was done in Languedoc,
where the Archbishop of Narbonne would sit in an armchair under a bal-
dachin placed in the centre of the room. In this assembly, the other mem-
bers would sit on simple benches. The members of the privileged classes
sat at the same height as the president, on a platform, and were divided
into the prelates on the right and the nobility on the left. The Third Estate
were placed below the members of the first two orders, also adopting a
similar U-shape. A table was reserved for the officers of the province.42
Not all assemblies had a president. The Estates of Artois, for example,
frequently recalled the fact that none of its members could claim this place
of honour. On the other hand, in other places, such as the counties of Foix
(presided over by the Bishop of Pamiers), and Mâconnais (presided over
by the Bishop of Mâcon), the pays of Bresse (presided over by the Bishop
of Lyon), Cambrésis (presided over by the Archbishop of Cambrai from
1766 onwards), Provence (Archbishop of Aix), Languedoc (Archbishop
of Narbonne), Béarn (Bishop of Lescar), Bigorre (Bishop of Tarbes), Dau-
phiné (Bishop of Grenoble) and Burgundy (Bishop of Autun), the prel-
ate directed the assembly with authority. In order to settle the numerous
disputes over precedence, strict regulations were drafted. In the county
of Foix, the Estates, initially assembled in the church of the chapter of
Saint-Volusien for the mass of the Holy Spirit, followed the prescribed
etiquette, which established the reception of the king’s commissioners and
the Bishop of Pamiers in front of the church, the place of the different
bodies in the upper and lower stalls, the position of the prie-Dieux for the
commissioners and the bishop-president, the number of times the incense
burner was to be swung for each of them and their clothing:
Our commissioners will be dressed in cloak and cravat at the opening

of the Estates, or in the habit of their estate, according to their choice;
the bishops or abbots in rochet and camail. This garment will be worn
during all public ceremonies and the closing of the Estates.43
Thus, the province put itself on display and demonstrated its power through
the pomp of the celebrations. Processions, ceremonial attire, illuminations,
balls, banquets, carrousels, solemn masses, medals, patronage, prints and,
later, hôtels particuliers—nothing was left to chance when it came to high-
lighting the political personality of the provincial bodies.
Provincial representation kept all this pomp and circumstance until late
in the early modern period, contributing to a centre–periphery relationship
which coincided with that promoted by intendants elsewhere. The diversity
of local decision-making mechanisms in no way interfered with monarchic
authority, which had already adapted to this reality, provided that it was
allowed to keep executive control of the territory without interference. Pro-
vincial representation, therefore, was subject to no major interferences, as
the ruling provincial elites, for their part, also adapted to earn the royal
favour, which was their main asset. Wherever assemblies survived, they
maintained the customs and cultural codes that allowed them to demon-
strate their power to their peoples.
Notes
1. Daniel Hickey, Le Dauphiné devant la monarchie absolue: le procès des tailles
et la perte des libertés provinciales, 1540–1640 (Moncton & Grenoble: Editions
d’Acadie et Presses universitaires de Grenoble, 1993).
Representation 69
2. Marie-Laure Legay, “Un projet méconnu de décentralisation au temps de Laverdy
(1763–1768): les grands États d’Aquitaine,” Revue Historique 306, no. 3 (2004):
533–554.
3. Transaction of 6 February 1554, quoted by René Favier, Les villes du Dauphiné
aux XVIIe et XVIIIe siècles (Grenoble: PUG, 1993), 406 (from the departmen-
tal Archives of the Isère, B 2915, f 1).
4. On the provincial compromise, see the proceedings of the colloquium of Dijon,
published under the title Consensus et représentation (Paris: Publications de la
Sorbonne, 2016); Marie-Laure Legay and Roger Baury, L’invention de la décen-
tralisation. Noblesse et pouvoirs intermédiaires en France et en Europe XVIIe-
XIXe siècle (Villeneuve d’Ascq: Presses universitaires du Septentrion, 2009). See
also William Beik, Absolutisme and Society in Seventeenth Century France State
Power and Provincial Aristocracy in Languedoc (Cambridge: Cambridge Uni-
versity Press, 1985); Julian Swann, Provincial Power and Absolute Monarchy:
The Estates General of Burgundy, 1661–1790 (Cambridge: Cambridge Univer-
sity Press, 2003).
5. Gordon Griffiths, Representative Government in Western Europe in the Six-
teenth Century (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1968), 223.
6. Etienne Fournial and Jean-Pierre Gutton, Documents sur les trois états du pays
et comté de Forez, Vol. 2, Monarchic Period (Saint-Etienne: Centre d’études
foréziennes, 1989).
7. Joseph-Nicolas Guyot, Répertoire universel et raisonné de jurisprudence civile,
criminelle, canonique et bénéficiale (Paris: Visse, 1784), vol. 7, 102.
8. With regard to this point, see the evidence by Merlin de Douai in the Répertoire
universel . . . by Joseph-Nicolas Guyot, vol. 7, 405, article “Flandre,” 1784.
9. Maurice Bordes, D’Étigny et l’administration de l’intendance d’Auch (Auch: F.
Cocharaux, 1956), 253–303.
10. Marie-Laure Legay, Les États provinciaux dans la construction de l’état mod-
erne aux XVIIe et XVIIIe siècles (Geneva: Droz, 2001).
11. A.N., H1 203, pièce 1, Mémoire sur la nécessité de supprimer l’administration
particulière du Mâconnais (Paris, 1778), f 36.
12. Georges Livet, L’intendance d’Alsace (Strasbourg: Presses Universitaires de
Strasbourg, 1991), 218.
13. Letter from Ségur to Marbeuf, 5 February 1783, quoted by L. Villat, La Corse
de 1968 à 1789 (Besançon: Millot frères, 1925), 13.
14. Arthur M. de Boislisle, Correspondance des contrôleurs généraux des finances
avec les intendants de province (Paris: Imprimerie nationale, 1874), 45, letter
from Harlay, intendant of Bourgogne, to the controller-general, 10 March 1685.
15. Archives nationales, Paris, H1 1132, room 5, Mémoire contenant les raisons
pour et contre la suppression des états du Mâconnais et la réunion de ce comté
aux états généraux de Bourgogne.
16. Journal of the Estate of Béarn of 1624, quoted by Francis Loirette, L’État et la
région, l’Aquitaine au XVIIe siècle (Bordeaux: Presses Universitaires de Bor-
deaux, 1998), 71.
17. Albert Babeau, La province sous l’Ancien Régime (Paris: Librairie de Firmin-
Didot, 1894), vol. 1, 26.
18. René Courtin, Histoire du Perche (Mortagne: Marchand et Gilles, 1911), 415.
19. Alexandre Fauché-Prunelle, Essai sur les anciennes institutions autonomes des
Alpes cotiennes briançonnaises (Paris: Dumoulin, 1857), vol. 2, 317–335.
20. A.N., H1 180, room 9. Observations sur le pays de Bresse, Bugey et Gex, vers
1780.
21. Henri Prentout, Les États provinciaux de Normandie (Caen: E. Lanier, 1926),
vol. 2, 50.
22. René Fage, Les États de la vicomté de Turenne (Paris: Picard, 1894).
23. Legay, Les États provinciaux.
24. Armand Rébillon, Les États de Bretagne de 1661 à 1789. Leur organisation.
L’évolution de leurs pouvoirs. Leur administration financière (Rennes: Plihon,
1932).
25. A.N., H1 77, room 24, “Mémoire sur les états du Béarn.”
26. Archives départementales du Nord, Lille, C 20 295.
27. A.N., H1 420, room 194, consultation of the letters patents of the king of 10 Feb-
ruary 1770.
28. Two deputies from the valley of Magnonc, two from the valley of Aure, one
from the valley of Nettés and one from the valley of Baroube composed the
Estates of Quatre vallées during the 18th century.
29. A.N., H1 72, room 192, “Mémoire contre les états du Nébouzan.”
30. Hickey, Le Dauphiné devant la monarchie absolue.
31. René Souriac, Décentralisation administrative dans l’ancienne France. Autono-
mie commingeoise et pouvoir d’État, 1540–1630 (Toulouse: Association Les
amis des archives de la Haute-Garonne, 1992).
32. Jean-Pierre Gutton, “Les États de Lyonnais (XVe-XVIIe siècles),” in L’Europe,
l’Alsace et la France, Études réunies en l’honneur de Georges Livet (Colmar: Les
éditions d’Alsace, 1986), 151–161.
33. James Russell Major, The Deputies to the Estates General in Renaissance France
(Madison: The University of Wisconsin Press, 1960), 139.
34. Fournial and Gutton, Documents.
35. Marie-Laure Denis, Les États du Dauphiné de 1579 à 1628 (Paris: Bibliothèque
de l’école des Chartres, 1993), 59.
36. René-Louis de Voyer d’Argenson, Mémoires et journal inédit (Paris: P. Jannet,
1858), vol. 5, 375.
37. Denis, Les États du Dauphiné, 125.
38. Letters of Madame de Sévigné, her family and friends, collected and annotated
by M. Monmerqué (Paris: L. Hachette, 1862), vol. 2, 308.
39. Père Ignace, Supplément aux Mémoires, vol. 2, 330; quoted by Edmond Lecesne,
Histoire d’Arras depuis les temps les plus reculés jusqu’à 1789 (Arras: Rohard-
Courtin, 1880), 506.
40. A.N., H1 204, room 15, Délibération de MM. les élus généraux des états de
Bourgogne (Dijon, 1781), 7.
41. A.D. du Nord, C 15 763.
42. A.N., H1 748130, imprint: Séance ordinaire des États du Languedoc.
43. A.N., K 687, n° 15, June 1780.
Beik, William. Absolutism and Society in Seventeenth Century France State Power
and Provincial Aristocracy in Languedoc. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1985.
Bordes, Maurice. D’Étigny et l’administration de l’intendance d’Auch. Auch: F.
Cocharaux, 1956.
Denis, Marie-Laure. Les États du Dauphiné de 1579 à 1628. Paris: Library of the
École des Chartres, 1993.
Griffiths, Gordon. Representative Government in Western Europe in the Sixteenth
Century. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1968.
Hickey, Danel. Le Dauphiné devant la monarchie absolue: le procès des tailles et
la perte des libertés provinciales, 1540–1640. Moncton et Grenoble: Editions
d’Acadie et Presses universitaires de Grenoble, 1993.
Representation 71
Legay, Marie-Laure. Les États provinciaux dans la construction de l’état moderne
aux XVIIe et XVIIIe siècles. Genève: Droz, 2001.
Legay, Marie-Laure. “Un projet méconnu de décentralisation au temps de Laverdy
(1763–1768): les grands États d’Aquitaine.” Revue Historique 306, no. 3 (2004):
533–554.
Legay, Marie-Laure, and Roger Baury. L’invention de la décentralisation. Noblesse
et pouvoirs intermédiaires en France et en Europe XVIIe-XIXe siècle. Villeneuve
d’Ascq: Presses universitaires du Septentrion, 2009.
Russell Major, James. The deputies to the Estates General in Renaissance France.
Madison: The University of Wisconsin Press, 1960.
Swann, Julian. Provincial Power and Absolute Monarchy: The Estates General of
Burgundy, 1661–1790. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003.
5 The Administration of French
Villages by Their Inhabitants
in the Modern Age
Antoine Follain
This contribution addresses political representation in the Ancien Régime at

the lowest possible level. Each individual village was too small and too weak
to have had a political relationship with the state and the king: a village does
not have any real bargaining power. However, villages can take legal action
and, to do so, they rely on their own proper organisation. Many historians
consider a “communauté rurale,” “communauté villageoise” or simply “vil-
lage” as something which is totally dependent on the seigneurie and state,
but the truth is that peasants designated their representatives and managed
most of their affairs by themselves. The historiographical implications can-
not be ignored: during certain periods, political and social elites and histo-
rians looked down on peasants and distorted their history. In other periods,
peasants received more consideration than they deserved. This meant that
the administration of villages by their inhabitants has never been properly
examined (part 1). To study any subject, historians depend on archives, and
when it comes to the study of villages, there is a real issue with sources. To
begin with, you cannot find what you are not searching for (part 2). How-
ever, when these sources are found and adequately explored, they can reveal
how the government of villages was organised, what autonomous policies
the peasants implemented and also what matters they resolved in collabora-
tion with the Church, the seigneurie, the province or the representatives of
the state (part 3).1
French Historians and the “problème de la communauté rurale”

L’histoire du village really began for French historians with a 19th-century
author named Albert Babeau and his book, published in 1878, Le village sous
l’Ancien Régime. His purpose seemed clear: Faire connaître l’administration
des campagnes sous l’ancienne monarchie; étudier la gestion des affaires
communales par les habitants des villages; montrer la part qu’y prenaient
le prêtre, le seigneur et le prince, tel est le but et le programme de ce livre.
(“Explaining the administration of the countryside under the old monar-
chy; studying the management of communal business by the inhabitants
of the villages; showing the roles played by the priest, the landlord and
Village Administration in the Modern Age 73
the prince, that is the aim and purpose of this book.”) For a historian of
that time, Albert Babeau’s perception of the peasants was novel, as was his
intention. This is clear in the Introduction of his book (pages 1 to 4), where
he rejects the general disdain for peasants. On the contrary, he highlights
the dignity of their political behaviour.2 This book was followed by several
theses, some of which bore almost the same title: “Les Assemblées des com-
munautés d’habitants . . .” in this or that province. Some interesting work
was produced by René Le Cerf, who studied the subject after the discovery
of local government papers in an ancient parsonage, which had been turned
into a town hall and then forsaken. Le Cerf looked at the archives without
any prior assumptions and realised that they totally contradicted the idea of
peasants being crushed by the seigneurial or royal power.3
Why did these studies appear in the 1870s? Why was there such sympathy
for small peasant government? This historiographical trend is associated
with a special political context, a new way of perceiving peasants by the
country’s elite. After 1848 and the establishment of universal suffrage, the
vote of the countryside (necessarily a vote of the majority) was accused of
handing France to the conservatives and then to Napoléon III. First, repub-
licans thought that only cities had genuine civic and political knowledge.
They did not associate these ideas with the countryside, which was inhab-
ited by peasants living in closed, conservative communities.4 After 1871, the
peasants did not change, but the way they were considered changed com-
pletely. On the one hand, conservatives, who relied on the votes from the
countryside, stated that “ruralité” was a proof of superiority. On the other
hand, republicans now condemned the revolutionary Commune (1871) and
explained the disasters brought about by the “radicalism” of the city, look-
ing for new support from the “France profonde.”5 At that moment, histori-
ans began exploring the question of polarisation in the countryside. In 1869,
Saint-Pré, a “publiciste” (political journalist), expressed his contempt for
peasants, whom he considered to be incapable of political thought: Dut-il
voter cent ans, le paysan resterait sans savoir ce que voter veut dire (“Even
if he had to vote for a hundred years, a peasant would remain ignorant
of what voting means”).6 In 1893, the republican gambettist Jean-Jacques
Weiss stated quite the opposite: les paysans forment la classe la plus poli-
tique de notre pays (“peasants are the most political class of our country”).7
In this context, Albert Babeau claimed that his book presented quite a
neutral stance. His aim was not to support one thesis but to faire connaî-
tre l’administration des campagnes sous l’ancienne monarchie. At the time,
the word “administration” was reserved for the state and the nation; local
institutions did not administer anything for themselves, and for this reason,
Babeau’s use of the word “administration” is in itself, an exercise in rehabili-
tation. In his book, he notes the autonomy of villages. According to him, all
the expérience délibérative, which accumulated in villages over time was the
best and most complete preparation for l’exercice des droits politiques that
they were granted later.8 In fact, Babeau was interested in the formation of
74 Antoine Follain
the (future) French citizen, as opposed to the government of the village by its
villagers. His Village sous l’Ancien Régime is not, therefore, as neutral as he
purported. It supported some ideas and, just like other books published at a
later stage, was under the influence of its own political context. That is why,
since the 1900s, interest for the subject of l’administration des campagnes
has undergone successive ebbs and flows.
At the beginning of the 20th century, studies on ancient village communi-
ties became rare. The Middle Ages and the early modern period were forgot-
ten. Only the revolutionary period was of interest. Caractères originaux de
l’histoire rurale française was published by Marc Bloch in 1931, but it was
only read in the 1950s. The 1960s were mainly dedicated to studies on agrar-
ian history. For many themes, including l’administration des campagnes,
historians continued to rely on Village sous l’Ancien Régime by Babeau.
Most of the previous works were no longer known. They were neglected
and unread just because they were old. The revitalisation came with Pierre
de Saint Jacob, but not with his thesis La Bourgogne du Nord au dernier
siècle de l’Ancien Régime, which was published in 1960. The position of this
work is quite traditional and speaks of the seigneurial domination over the
villages. He takes a different approach in his complementary thesis, Docu-
ments relatifs à la communauté villageoise, which was published in 1962.
This publication of sources aimed to uncover gaps in historical knowledge
and prompt historians to undertake comparative work, especially for the
period between 1500 and 1600.
Jean Jacquart was one of the authors of a (premature) synthesis L’Histoire
de la France rurale . . ., which was published in 1975.9 He was responsible
for the section concerning the 16th and 17th centuries, and, when he wanted
to deal seriously with the community of inhabitants, he took his information
mainly from his own PhD thesis, which focused on Ile de France. Shortly
afterwards, he proposed a research programme in the 1976 article “Réflex-
ions sur la communauté d’habitants” which was dedicated to the “prob-
lème de la communauté rurale.” Jacquart produced a list of questions that
needed answering and of useful works which had already been produced.10
The four provinces which had been studied thoroughly were peripheral:
Provence, Bourgogne, Dauphiné (protected by its particular status) and Lor-
raine (still foreign; incorporated into the kingdom during the 18th century).
Only in Jacquart is the heart of the kingdom present.
The best years in the history of la gestion des affaires communales par les
habitants des villages stretch from the 1970s until the end of the 20th cen-
tury; national and regional colloquiums were dedicated to the political and
administrative history of the village, as well as many PhD dissertations (at
least 15 concerning the South of France) and, of course, dozens of articles.
One might assume that the subject of the administration of the village is an
offshoot of the rural and agrarian history which underwent trente glorieuses
years of rural history.11 However, the subject is still under the influence of
current political events. Among the future leaders of the administration,
the “problème de la petite commune rurale” is a relatively common subject
for their internship report at the École Nationale d’Administration (ENA).
Geographers and sociologists work on the “problème du pouvoir local” or
“le pouvoir dans les communautés locales.” But why “problems”? Why did
these situations become problematic? This was because France was being
hampered by an excessive number of rural municipalities and was unable
to carry out the necessary reforms. In the 1970s, while European partners
drastically reduced the number of Local Administrative Units, the French
communal network was frozen. There was in fact a “problème de la petite
commune rurale,” as can be noted in the following figures: at the end of the
20th century, half the communities in the European Union were French and
preserved ancient communities and parishes from the 18th century.12 It is in
this context that geographers, sociologists, political scientists and historians
have taken interest in the subject. Unfortunately, they focused on the 18th
century or the period just before communities were turned into towns.13
They still had very little interest in the “première modernité” (from the 15th
to the 17th century).
After this period, the subject went again out of vogue. We should, how-
ever, mention Élie Pélaquier’s monograph on the village of Saint-Victor-la-
Coste in 1996 and my PhD dissertation about Normandy in 1993. I have
studied the subject since the end of the 1990s and have found more and
more sources for working on particular aspects such as the division and
collection of taxes. Nobody writes PhD theses entitled “Les communautés
rurales dans . . .” about one province or another anymore. One exception is
a 2012 PhD dissertation on the history of law in Forez.14 Continuous work,
it is true, has been done on some aspects, such as the role played by collective
spaces. Yet, when new approaches were requested during the colloquium at
Clermont-Ferrand in 2007,15 only a few authors responded with new contri-
butions. Certain subjects, such as taxes, still require further study.16 Recent
questions about “échelons inférieurs des collectivités territoriales” led to the
publication of the book Clochemerle17 ou république villageoise? in 2012.
This work attempted to synthesise the political and administrative history of
rural communities on a European scale.18 More recently, a collective book
was published: Les communautés rurales dans l’Ouest. Perceptions, soli-
darités et conflits (2016).19 This had the same thematic scope as the works
published in the 1970s and 1980s, meaning that the subject is still relevant;
the authors state that their book “renouvelle notre connaissance des com-
munautés.” This initiative brought together a large number of historians and
resulted in the publication of a volume of around 500 pages; this approach
was much more efficient than publication in separate articles.
Since the end of the 20th century, historians have followed the same pro-
grammes as those proposed by Babeau and Jacquart. We are at the beginning
of the 21th century and still have not done enough research or produced
enough publications to answer all the questions concerning the French ter-
ritory. The Modern Age is too often understood as an Ancien Régime which
76 Antoine Follain
faltered in its final period, until its downfall (1750–1789). Furthermore,
historians are more interested in the relationship between the village and
the state, rather than in relations within the village itself. Geographically,
historians have always focused on the South of France because they were
looking for villages or provinces that opposed the state. Showing one’s dif-
ference was a matter of regional pride. In other parts of France, some histo-
rians were reluctant to study history at a local level, considering it to be too
different from the great national, central and official history.
Insufficient Sources?
The paucity of sources has often been used to explain the lack of scholarly
works. It is true that, for studying “l’administration des villages par les pay-
sans,” sources are less abundant than for cities. The “consulats” in the cities
in the South of France left an abundant record, as (so they say) did those in
the villages; in the south, many “villages” were, in fact, small towns. It is also
often admitted that they preserved their old archives better. In Les paysans
de Languedoc (1966), Emmanuel Le Roy Ladurie compared the “commu-
nicative” communities of the South of France with others, in the west for
example, to which he attributes a “silence écrasant.” Let us now consider
this further.
First, not writing much is not a proof that collective matters were badly
addressed. In the south, writing was a facet of society, a society which pro-
duced much written material, from the hands of a multitude of notaries and
clerks. Other societies did not call upon notaries and writings for private
matters as often as for collective issues, but that does not mean that they did
not produce abundant records. The problem is that many of these writings
have been lost. This is the harsh reality: no sources, no history. On the basis
of my, rather different, experience, I think that enough sources are available,
but we lack historians who are interested in searching for them, finding
them and using them. I will demonstrate this by speaking about regions for
which sources are considered to be non-existent; consequently, these are
regions where historians have made the mistake of concluding that there
were no active rural communities.
It is true that many sources were lost, but is this not normal? Was it nec-
essary for peasants to keep a piece of paper for more time than strictly neces-
sary for their own purposes? Just think of the annual tax roles for the taille.
In the 1600s, they constituted a bulk of eight million documents, and there
is hardly anything left.20 Communities needed to keep a record of their own
expenses, especially the charge of income by the so-called officiers de village
and the décharge of expenses. Accounting archives were kept, but it is obvi-
ous that they just kept a tiny part of all the documents that were written.21
It is the same with deliberations: no important collective decision was taken
without previous deliberation, but very few records remain. Defending one’s
rights implies undertaking legal action through a complaint. A court trial
causes much paperwork. But, did the peasants have to keep papers other
than the final sentence? I studied a village in the province of Anjou which
took a different path to other towns. In the 17th and 18th centuries, the
inhabitants and bien-tenants (owners) of Soulaire were often in the need
to defend their common properties and right of pasture. During trials, they
found it difficult to find records and present evidence for their case, and
at some point during the 18th century they decided to classify and keep
everything so that they would be ready to defend themselves, and this meant
the preservation of 10,000 pages of archives! These pages were classified,
sewn together and protected by nine covers. The villagers bought a safe and
wedges to lift it up and keep it away from humidity. This is how this village
kept more trial archives than any other in Anjou.22 But it becomes clear
that in every village where trials were held, people produced hundreds and
thousands of papers that later disappeared.23 Generally most villages kept
nothing and only a few villages have preserved substantial archives; these
archives still need to be found by historians. This demonstrates the impor-
tance of the papers which were thought lost, to be later rediscovered in the
Norman villages.
The Norman peasants are among those social groups which have a repu-
tation for silence écrasant and their villages are reputed to be totally lacking
in archives. Accordingly, some historians even thought that these rural com-
munities were not active. Nevertheless, I wrote my PhD on rural communi-
ties in northern Normandy, and I could do it because the necessary sources
were, in fact, available. This is not to say that I did not face many difficulties.
Five villages had archives dating from the 16th century, but more than a
thousand had nothing of the kind. Did they have a government and archives?
Did they lose their archives? Then, I proceeded to work on southern Nor-
mandy and read documents from the 17th century that previous historians
had neglected. They were “registres d’assemblées du commun” or “registres
des consentements” (consents), which contain agreements with which the
local inhabitants intended to respond to a collective problem.24 Crucially,
at the beginning of the 20th century, an archivist noticed these documents,
which were kept in every village. Further research has been done, partly
remotely, through the correspondence of mayors and secretaries, a type of
document not to be found in every municipality. For the department of Cal-
vados alone, the aforementioned archivist found registers from the 17th
century in 130 rural communes, out of 700. This means one out of five:
the proportion is huge! We may suggest that many documents disappeared
between the 1600s and the beginning of the 1900s, and thus assume that
such registers were not an exception; rather, they were the standard practice
in most villages. Why did historians neglect these archives? First, due to a
lack of interest in rural communities (until the 1970s), especially communi-
ties which were not in the south; second, because of the lack of visibility of
the directory and the loss of many sections of the archives during the 20th
century. In addition to normal losses, many villages in Calvados, Orne and
78 Antoine Follain
Manche were totally destroyed in 1944. At a later stage, legislation forced
the municipalities to hand over their old documents to the archives départe-
mentales in “série E” and “sous-série Dépôts des communes.” This is how
the “registres des consentements” were collected, protected and referenced
in the 1980s and 1990s. My own research allowed me to attest to the dis-
appearance of archives concerning some of the villages that appear in the
directory. I also found some documents whose existence was unknown to
Georges Besnier. My estimation today is that it is possible to research at
least 100 villages in Calvados, and a number of others in Orne. Moreover,
some registers are titled “BMS” (baptisms, marriages and funerals), even
though they also include deliberations. Sometimes, one side of the same
register is dedicated to BMS, and the other side to assemblies. When both
sides came together in the middle of the register, the priest and the villagers
started a new one. This contradicts the idea of the peasants’ silence écrasant.
The available documentation more than suffices for the study of the opera-
tion of “l’administration des campagnes sous l’ancienne monarchie” in the
province of Normandy.
What can be said about other provinces, supposedly without archives and
without active communities? Let us look now at Massif Central, Auvergne
and Forez. A footnote in Pierre Charbonnier’s PhD dissertation on Auvergne
from the 14th through the 17th century allowed me to find a deliberations
register from the 1640s. This is similar to the Norman registers, except that
it was written by a notary. This study will soon result in a book, whose
title is taken from the name of the register: Les actes et affaires des villages
d’Auvergne. L’exemple de Saint-Bonnet.25 I did not find any other register
of the same type, but I believe that, searching in notarial archives, it might
be possible to find either another specific register or even collective papers
among the notarial acts, for example, one for every 50 or 100 private acts.
In 2012, a PhD dissertation on the province of Forez confirmed the hypoth-
esis: while searching among notarial studies and registers, my young col-
league found hundreds of deliberation records.
Thus, the question of sources is solved: many are lost but enough papers
remain to allow historians to work on the governance of villages. These
papers describe the daily functioning of the community, the designation of
appointed officials, the organisation of the assemblies, the principles of gov-
ernment and so on.
The Administrative and Political Behaviour of Peasants

The documents consist of deliberations, minutes of assemblies, religious,
civilian and tax accounts and collective decisions. In the case of Normandy,
it is mostly a question of taxes because this was the province’s major prob-
lem. The oldest registers in this corpus date from the end of the 16th century.
They certify the ability of the peasants to deliberate, elect representatives
and manage collective matters by themselves despite the complexity of
financial and tax questions. Who took part in the deliberations? Only those
who contributed and paid the taille were directly affected by the difficul-
ties they faced and the decisions they took—as a consequence, the poorest
among the villagers did not participate in deliberations. The foreign owners
(or horsains) and the landlords did not pay the taille, but, concerning non-
fiscal matters, they were allowed to take part and could even be summoned,
for example, concerning discussions about the maintenance and embellish-
ment of the parish church, public charity or the local school.
The existence of these registers raises several questions. Whose idea was it
and where did the model come from? Who wrote them? What were the roles
of the peasants and the cultural mediators? The registers were for internal use,
dictated by villagers to people who could write (most often the priest of the par-
ish) and written for the villagers.26 This administrative model was not imposed
by the authorities (as will be the case later with municipalities during the Revo-
lution). Peasants partly invented what they needed, and partly adopted models
and means, proposed by other people, to deal with their public affairs. The
inhabitants of the villages adapted the model to suit their specific needs.
Situations are always different. Some villages had been properly admin-
istrated for a long time, others took more time and others were never well
organised. Not all registers are identical. Sometimes, changes in the record-
ing system, both for the better and for the worse, can be traced. It is also
possible to appreciate the effect of external events. For example, in the vil-
lage of Authevernes (Eure), the register was generally written by the priest,
but in 1673 peasants confronted their landlord on a question of taxes, and
deliberations ceased being written down by the priest. The bad spelling of
the deliberation records and the identity of the participants—“Nous dictz
abittans [habitants] nous obligons [obligeons]”—indicate that the peasants
did this on their own. The withdrawal of the priest did not prevent them
from acting, nor did the identity of their opponent. I also studied all the
archives of Camembert (Orne), where the acts of the assemblies show that
the peasants discussed and decided their matters by themselves. Sometimes,
it is explicitly stated that the parish priest was not among them: peasants
discussed matters privately and then told the priest what to write in the
“registres des consentements.”
Peasants could not do everything without help. To calculate the tax divi-
sion, they sometimes paid an expert to carry out complex calculations. In
the province of Lyon, we find peasants hiring a group of experts for this
operation, and calculation tables were found in Norman registers. This has
also been attested concerning the division of the taille: I studied a collection
of papers from the village of Saint-Bonnet in Auvergne, and I found conver-
sion tables to calculate tax from one year to the next. Asking advice from
the priest and hiring an expert to calculate taxes is just like asking a master
builder or carpenter to build a wall or a lawyer to represent his client in
court. The important thing is that the registers reveal that it was the peas-
ants who decided. The others were only instruments.
80 Antoine Follain
This sort of document allows us to answer the questions asked by Jac-
quart in 1976 (questions which have since grown in number and scope).
But these questions also become increasingly more complex, which is why I
prefer to refer the reader to my work (2008) in this regard.27 I will now give
just one example: Jacquart said “à la base, l’assemblée,” a “basis” which
was respected in some provinces and villages, but not in all of them. In some
French provinces, there were “corps politiques” (some sorts of municipal
assemblies), which limited access to deliberations to a minority of the inhab-
itants. This limitation has been attested everywhere. Even when the assembly
is a so-called générale, it never supplied a list of names or the signatures of
the heads of household. There were always exclusions. The small number of
inhabitants was not conducive to a perfect democracy—far from it! I have
examined the statistics and the frequency of assemblies. These reports can
be counted and reveal how unevenly spread over time meetings were. They
were summoned depending on the problems being faced by the village, but
in general it can be said that the peasants did not gather very often. Do we
have information on all of the meetings? Sources mention some assemblies,
which are probably the most important ones, at least from the perspective
of outside observers. However, apart from assemblies specifically convened
in order to debate a particular subject (an important decision concerning a
trial, for example), a community usually gathered in the church to celebrate
mass every Sunday or religious holiday, approximately 80 times a year. If
public matters were discussed, was it necessary to write the results of the
deliberations down every time? Deliberations records were a novelty imple-
mented in 1750, or even sometimes introduced by the Revolution (1790).
Convocations and reports on trivial matters are characteristic of the late
18th and 19th centuries. Indeed, a municipality gathered in compliance with
certain rules of frequency, but this had nothing to do with the operation of
villages in the 16th and 17th centuries. Finally, during a quiet year, a com-
munity could very well organise full-scale assemblies only twice or three
times a year. But when everything went wrong, the number of consultations
between inhabitants, treasurers, syndics and tax collectors was with all cer-
tainty much higher. On this point, the registers of Petit-Quevilly are clear. For
every action, and on every account, the official in charge informed the rest
about the issue and asked for advice. This sometimes happened on a daily
basis.28 It was unnecessary to write an act for every one of these actions. The
actual frequency of consultations among peasants was as important as they
considered necessary. Political action was a continuous process.
Conclusion
Our subject is complicated because the history of “l’administration des
villages par les paysans” consists of 40 provincial histories and 40,000 vil-
lage histories. These histories are not only partial views on the history of
the state of France. They are linked but nevertheless different from one
another—particularly before 1789. Albert Babeau claimed that he was pre-
senting the Village sous l’Ancien Régime, but he mainly took into account
the villages of Bourgogne and Champagne. Since 1878, we have made some
progress, but not enough. We could assume that every province has been
studied at least a little, and it is true for some of them; but it is not for oth-
ers, because even when sources exist, you need a historian to study them.29
Sometimes, this is impossible because sources have been lost. An effort
should be made to study villages in central France, where little is known
about village institutions and their evolution. The study of some subjects,
such as rural taxes, should be continued, resumed or simply begun. The
royal power limited itself to setting the annual cost of the tax, and the peas-
ants were responsible for the operation of the system. Communities always
succeeded in achieving this, but little is known of the difficulties they faced
and the solutions they found. The 16th and 17th centuries should be of
more interest for researchers. It is certain that, in some provinces, the silence
écrasant attributed to the peasants is a misplaced concept.
In the places where historians have searched, they found peasants who
deliberated regularly, dealt with their own matters, wrote many records and
(more or less) kept archives. Did people of a higher social standing do things
for them? The answer is no. In modern times, peasants organised themselves
in a way that allowed them to do what they needed, when they needed.30
They created institutions and appointed delegates. They never showed any
lack of resolve, nor were they unable to react when confronting difficul-
ties. Of course, they did not succeed every time, nor did they do more than
strictly necessary. In the 16th and 17th centuries, either the village was faced
with big problems, which they discussed and subsequently organised them-
selves to solve, or life was quiet and they had no need to keep any records.
Thanks to the papers left by peasants and village citizens, it is possible to
understand how the government of the village was organised, which mat-
ters the peasants could manage alone and which matters they tackled with
the help of the Church, the seigneurie, the province or the representatives
of the state.
Notes
1. The main reference work for this article is my book: Antoine Follain, Le village
sous l’Ancien régime (Paris: Fayard, 2008), Introduction: Définitions et prob-
lèmes, 10–27. Bibliographie, 537–586.
2. “On s’occupait peu, à la cour, des habitants des campagnes (. . .) À peine les
regardait-on, sinon pour s’en étonner. L’on voit certains animaux farouches,
disait La Bruyère [moralistic writer 1645–1696], des mâles et des femelles,
répandus par les campagnes (. . .) attachés à la terre (. . .) ils ont comme une voix
articulée, et quand ils se lèvent sur leurs pieds, ils montrent une face humaine,
et en effet ils sont des hommes . . . Le grand moraliste (. . .) s’il avait retrouvé le
dimanche, dans leur village, les animaux farouches (. . .) aurait vu des hommes
se réunir à la porte de leur église pour délibérer sur leurs propres affaires et nom-
mer leurs agents; il les aurait montrés (. . .) reprenant leur dignité, remplissant
82 Antoine Follain
leurs devoirs de chrétiens et de citoyens. Si la Bruyère s’était occupé de ce côté-là
de la vie rurale, quel tableau plus riant en eût-il pu tracer . . .” See Follain, Le
village . . ., 29–61.
3. “On croit généralement que les paroisses féodales (. . .) étaient soumises à une
sorte de servage et n’avaient aucune liberté, même dans le dernier état de l’ancien
droit; cette idée est absolument fausse. Mûr [en Bretagne] est un type parfait de
la paroisse féodale; toute la terre appartient à des seigneurs (. . .) qui ont droit
de justice (. . .) Suivant les récits qui ont cours partout, nous devrions trouver
ici une population soumise à l’arbitraire de son seigneur, n’ayant pas le droit de
gérer ses affaires et défendre ses intérêts; il en est tout autrement: les paroissiens
se réunissent en assemblée générale, font eux-mêmes rédiger les rôles d’impôts,
nomment des égailleurs pour la répartition, des collecteurs pour la perception,
jugent les réclamations des contribuables, gèrent les finances de la paroisse (. . .)
votent en cas de besoin des impositions additionnelles, prescrivent des mesures
de police; ils discutent leurs droits, les soutiennent et les font valoir en justice
(. . .) ils ne consultent même pas leur seigneur pour plaider.” René le Cerf, “Le
général d’une paroisse bretonne,” in Revue de Bretagne et de Vendée (1888)
Revue de Bretagne et de Vendée. Études d'histoire locale 4, no. 1 (juillet 1888),
54–65. “General” designates the assembly and local government.
4. “La politique de l’homme des champs sera bien longtemps encore locale, étroite,
intéressée, timide, et c’est pour cela que le suffrage universel (. . .) n’est au fond
qu’un instrument conservateur”: Jules Ferry, La Lutte électorale en 1863 (Paris:
E. Dentu, 1863).
5. The people of Paris are now qualified “foule stupide et grossière, ignorante et
prétentieuse, sans honte ni dignité, plus stupide et plus grossière cent fois que
nos paysans les plus rustiques,” in La politique de Jean-Guillaume électeur rural.
Lettres d’un villageois (Lyon, 1872), 354.
6. D. R. D. Saint-Pré, Les Paysans et le suffrage universel (Paris, 1869), 117.
7. Jean-Jacques Weiss, Combat constitutionnel (Paris, 1893), 106.
8. Universal male suffrage in 1792–1795, 1799–1815 and from 1848; selective
suffrage in 1795–1799 and 1815–1848. The right to vote was given to women
in 1944. The designation of mayors was kept under closed supervision super-
vised in the 19th century. Even in villages, he was not elected by his fellow citi-
zens but nominated by the préfet.
9. In tome 2, L’Âge classique (1340–1789) the second section on the period 1560–
1660 was written by Jean Jacquart. In the third section, which was written by
Emmanuel Le Roy Ladurie, “De la crise ultime à la vraie croissance, 1660–
1789,” the only mention of rural communities comes from a testimony by Restif
de la Bretonne. It is an interesting source concerning cultural history, but not for
the study of rural administration.
10. It includes the results of his own PhD thesis (Société et vie rurales dans le sud
de la région parisienne du milieu du XVIe siècle au milieu du XVIIe siècle,
1971) and of works made by other historians: Marc Bloch, of course; Pierre
de Saint Jacob (Bourgogne); Robert Mandrou, Introduction à la France mod-
erne (1500–1649) (Paris: Albin Michel, 1961); Roland Mousnier in his pages
dedicated to seigneuries, villages and parishes in Les Institutions de la France
sous la monarchie absolue (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1974); Guy
Cabourdin in his PhD thesis on Lorraine from 1550 to 1635 (1974); René Pil-
lorget, “L’assemblée des communautés de Provence et le pouvoir royal de 1652
à 1661,” Marseille 101 (1975): 43–47, at a higher administrative level; Yves-
Marie Bercé, Croquants et Nu-pieds. Les soulèvements paysans en France du
XVIe au XIXe siècle (Paris: Gallimard-Julliard, 1974); and Bernard Bonnin
in his study on debts in Dauphiné (1971–1975). Jean Jacquart ignored many
ancient works which I have rediscovered.
11. See the review original number of Histoire & Sociétés Rurales (1994).
12. See Antoine Follain, “Le contentieux des réunions de communes.” Histoire
et Sociétés Rurales 25, no. 1 (2006), 131–157 and my articles on community
network published in Revue du Nord (1996) and Annales de Bretagne et des
Pays de l’Ouest (1997): Antoine Follain, “La formation du réseau communal
en France du Nord de 1790 au milieu du XIXe siècle.” Revue du Nord 316
(1996), 485–510, and Antoine Follain, “Des communautés paroissiales aux
communes en Bretagne et en Normandie. Un conflit pour l'identité communau-
taire.” Annales de Bretagne et des Pays de l’Ouest 104, no. 1 (1997), 33–66.
13. One exception is Quatrième journées internationales d’histoire de Flaran (1982),
which covers from the Middle Ages to 17th Century.
14. Sylvain Therrat, “Les institutions villageoises du Forez du XVIe au XVIIIe siècle:
D’une grande autonomie à l’insertion dans les nécessités et le contrôle de l’Etat
moderne” (unpublished PhD diss., University of Lyon 3, 2012). The author has
not published articles. This PhD dissertation has the great merit of showing that,
when you think there are no sources to study villages, you just have to be coura-
geous enough to find some.
15. Les espaces collectifs dans les campagnes (2007). Same result at the Conference
of Liessies (2011) Lisières, landes, marais et friches: les usages de l’inculte de
l’Antiquité au XXIe siècle: no new developments in modern history. See “La
question des usages et biens communaux” in my work Le village sous l’ancien
régime, 104–128.
16. Antoine Follain and Gilbert Larguier, eds., L’impôt des campagnes, fragile fon-
dement de l’État dit moderne. XVe-XVIIIe siècle (Paris: Comité pour l’histoire
économique et financière de la France, 2005). In 2011, Bruno Jaudon based his
PhD dissertation on a specific fiscal document of the South of France: Les com-
poix de Languedoc (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2014).
17. Clochemerle is the name of the village in a satirical novel published in 1934
which mocks insignificant business in villages.
18. After a century in which the communal network underwent no changes, things
are rapidly changing now because the government has reduced funding for vil-
lages and has provided financial incentives for villages to amalgamate.
19. The term “Ouest” is used by the members of the CRBC laboratory in the Univer-
sity of Brest to refer to the Atlantic coast from Portugal to the Shetland Islands.
20. Each document had to be written twice. One for the royal tax administration,
and one for the village. In a period covering 100 years, two documents in about
40,000 villages equals eight million papers. Nothing remains of this record from
the 17th century in ministerial archives, but no one deduces from this that royal
administration did not exist. In the villages, they needed to keep papers until the
end of the tax year (for the distribution) and until the end of trials (in case dif-
ferences arose), but not longer.
21. Antoine Follain, ed., L’Argent des Villages (Rennes: Association d’Histoire des
Sociétés Rurales, 2000).
22. How could such massive archives go unnoticed? I rediscovered them while
working at the University of Angers (1996–2005). As it was big and interesting,
I gave the subject to a student for her PhD dissertation: Estelle Lemoine (PhD,
University of Angers, 2009).
23. The archives and trials of Quevilly in Normandy are another example. To
defend their rights in the forest at the end of the 16th century, 400 villages
in Normandy held trials against the “grand maître des Eaux et forêts.” The
village of Petit-Quevilly is the only one which kept archives. In the end, reg-
isters of accounts remain for this village from 1550 to 1650 and from 1694
to 1750, including hundreds of papers on buildings, trials, taxes and military
matters.
84 Antoine Follain
24. See Antoine Follain, “Les paysans, la terre et l’impôt à Camembert au XVIIe
siècle,” Enquêtes rurales 6 (1999): 39–82, and other publications, such as
“Consentements du général et commun d’une paroisse de Basse-Normandie,”
in L’Argent des villages, and a recent article on the village of Mondeville, pub-
lished in Cédric Jeanneau et Philippe Jarnoux, éd., Les communautés rurales
dans l’Ouest (Brest: CRBC, 2016). One of my students is working on the village
of Rots. There are still 97 villages to be studied!
25. This is the title given to the register in 1639–1642.
26. In most of the kingdom, in the 16th and 17th centuries, priests wrote things down
for villagers. Sometimes, one citizen can write. In Normandy, where there was a
good school network, I found accounts, written by peasants, in the archives of
Petit-Quevilly. It is of great cultural interest because their spelling is not standard.
27. Chapters VII, “Les assemblées de village”; VIII, “La vie politique au village”; IX,
“Les officiers de village”; and X, “Les villages sont-ils bien gouvernés?,” in my
work, Le village sous l’ancien régime, 218–345.
28. “Item dict le dict Dupont [trésorier] que le merquedy troysiesme jour de juil-
let [1636] il luy fut siniffié une saissye de réunion faicte des marais et com-
munes d’icelle parroisse [1st case: confiscation of communal grassland] par Jean
Mauger huissier du Roy (. . .) Item du lundy septiesme jour du dict moys et an
pour avoir esté au palais [de justice] trouver monsieur de La Rivière Lesdo [a
parliament judge in Normandy: ‘friend’ of the village, where he owns a second-
ary residence] pour luy mander advis de la dicte saissye et assignation à nous
cy devant faicte (. . .) Item du mardy huictiesme jour du dict moys et an pour
avoir esté à Rouen à la salle des Carmes (. . .) Item du vendredy dix huictiesme
jour dudict moys et an pour avoir esté à la vicomté de l’eau (. . .) respondre à
une assignation à nous faicte à la requeste de maistre Pierre du Bellay plancager
pour le Roy [officer in charge of the towpath and the banks of the Seine] pour et
à y celle fin de nous voirs condamnés à mande [penalty] de ce que nous n’avons
teneu le chemin des rivages en bon estat [2nd case: lack of maintenance of the
banks of the Seine] et le dict jour nous faismes plaider que nous advions eu
semblable aprochement et que nous advions troys moys pour faire réparer ledict
chemin (. . .) Item du samedy dix neufiesme jour du dict moys et an pour avoir
esté au palais (. . .) Item du lundy vingt et ungiesme jour du dict moys et an pour
avoir esté chez le greffier de la vicomté de l’eau pour recueillir l’ordonnance de
la sudicte sentance . . .” In the same year, the village can have many difficulties
or none. In this case, they bought ornaments for the church. See Antoine Fol-
lain, “Comptes civils d’une paroisse de Haute-Normandie: le Petit-Quevilly,” in
L’argent des villages. Comptabilités paroissiales et communales, fiscalité locale
du XIIIe au XVIIIe siècle. Actes du colloque d’Angers des 30–31 octobre 1998,
edited by Antoine Follain, 212–238. (Rennes: Association d’histoire des sociétés
rurales, 2000).
29. For example, the village of Orvault in Brittany has important archives from the
mid-15th to the 18th century. A medievalist colleague partly studied the years
1460–1500. Nobody has undertaken a complete study.
30. In the 18th century, intendants (and their delegates) start interacting with com-
munities; but they had few secretaries and there were hundreds or thousands of
villages in their territories.
Babeau, Albert. Le Village sous l’Ancien Régime. Paris: Didier, 1878.
Brassart, Laurent, Jean-Pierre Jessenne, and Nadine Vivier, eds. Clochemerle ou
république villageoise? La conduite municipale des affaires villageoises en Europe
XVIIIe XXe siècle. Lille: Presses universitaires du Septentrion, 2012.
Charbonnier, Pierre, Antoine Follain, and Patrick Fournier, eds. Les espaces collec-
tifs dans les campagnes XIe-XXXe siècle. Clermont-Ferrand: Presses universitaires
Blaise Pascal, 2007.
Centre culturel de l’abbaye de Flaran. Communautés [Les] villageoises en Europe
occidentale du Moyen Age aux Temps Modernes, 4e Journées internationales
d’histoire de l’abbaye de Flaran (1982). Auch: Centre culturel de l’abbaye de
Flaran, 1984.
Follain, Antoine. “Les paysans, la terre et l’impôt à Camembert au XVIIe siècle. Un
système fiscal bloqué.” Enquêtes rurales 6 (1999): 39–82.
Follain, Antoine, ed. L’Argent des Villages. Comptabilités paroissiales et commu-
nales, fiscalité locale du XIIIe au XVIIIe siècle. Rennes: Association d’Histoire des
Sociétés Rurales, 2000.
Follain, Antoine. “Le contentieux des réunions de communes en France.” Histoire et
Sociétés Rurales 25 (2006): 131–157.
Follain, Antoine. Le village sous l’Ancien régime. Paris: Fayard, 2008.
Follain, Antoine, and Gilbert Larguier, eds. L’impôt des campagnes, fragile fon-
dement de l’Etat dit modern (XVe-XVIIIe siècle). Paris: Comité pour l’histoire
économique et financière de la France, 2005.
Jacquart, Jean. “Immobilisme et catastrophes, 1560–1660.” In Histoire de la France
rurale . . ., tome 2, L’Âge classique (1340–1789). Paris: Le Seuil, 1975.
Jacquart, Jean. “Réflexions sur la communauté d’habitants.” Bulletin du centre
d’histoire économique et sociale de la région lyonnaise 3 (1976): 1–25. Reprint:
Paris et l’Île-de-France au temps des paysans, XVIe et XVIIe siècles. Recueil
d’articles, 157–181. Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 1990.
Jeanneau, Cédric, and Philippe Jarnoux, eds. Les communautés rurales dans l’Ouest
au Moyen âge et à l’époque moderne: perceptions, solidarités et conflits. Brest: Ed.
Centre de Recherche Bretonne et Celtique, 2016.
Pélaquier, Elie. De la Maison du père à la maison commune. Saint-Victor-de-la-Coste,
en Languedoc rhodanien (1661–1791). Montpellier: Publications de l’Université
Paul Valéry, 1996.
Saint Jacob (de), Pierre. Documents relatifs à la communauté villageoise en Bour-
gogne du milieu du XVIIe siècle à la Révolution. Dijon-Paris: Bernigaud & Les
Belles lettres, 1962.
Saint Jacob (de), Pierre. Les Paysans de la Bourgogne du Nord au dernier siècle
de l’Ancien Régime. Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1960. Reprint: Rennes: Association
d’Histoire des Sociétés Rurales, 1995.
Italian Republics and
Imperial Cities
6 Governing in a Republican
State
A Case Study of Genoa From
Medieval to Modern Times*
Carlo Bitossi
Of all the Italian states that were republics in the late 15th century, only
three, Venice, Lucca and Genoa (excluding the small community of San
Marino), were still so by the time Bonaparte launched his Italian campaign
in 1796–1797. These three republics differed greatly from one another in
(a) territorial and demographic terms, (b) their status within the Italian and
European state system and (c) their internal institutional mechanisms. Of
the three oligarchical republics, whose political and institutional structure
was the result of different events, Venice was the most powerful and Lucca
the least. Genoa presents the most complex institutional characteristics and,
at the same time, is the least represented in international historiography.
This paper concentrates on Genoa, developing the argument in eight related
points, and using Venice and Lucca as comparative examples.1
1. Genoese political history in late medieval and early modern times is
marked by two bicentenary periods. The first ranges from 1339, when pop-
ular and perpetual dogeship was established, to 1528, when the Commune
Ianuae gave way to Respublica Genuensis. The second period ranges from
1576 to the demise of the old regime in Genoa in 1797.2 The government
rules changed in 1528 and 1576: in both cases, the new regime introduced
was oligarchical, but with different characteristics. The intervening half-
century must be considered a transitional phase between the age of popular
dogeship and foreign domination and the consolidation of the oligarchic
republic under the Leges novae in 1576.
This chronology clearly differentiates the Genoese and Venetian politi-
cal trajectories. During the 14th century, Venice consolidated its oligarchic
system, starting with the closing of the Great Council in 1297; however, in
Genoa the faction known as popolo seized power in the first half of the 14th
century, with the Doge holding office for life, that is, the so-called “perpet-
ual dogeship” (a concept which the Genoese appear to have borrowed from
Venice). The new regime marginalised the great aristocratic houses that had
previously ruled the commune, by conferring power on pairs (diarchie) of
captains of the people, such as the Ghibelline Doria and Spinola, and the
Guelph Fieschi and Grimaldi.3 However, the assumption that political strife
in Genoa was a matter of four great (indeed, the greatest) families is wrong.
90 Carlo Bitossi
The families mentioned above led their respective factions, but their suc-
cess would not have been possible without the support of dozens of smaller
and/or less important families who were nevertheless influential in the city’s
political structure. What distinguished the four great families was their abil-
ity to build autonomous domains in territories under the sovereignty of
the commune: the Grimaldi in Monaco and Oltregiogo, the Doria farther
west, the Spinola in Scrivia Valley and the Fieschi on the Riviera and in the
mountains to the east. These families’ efforts to accrue what were veritable
“states” predated the advent of popular dogeship, but clearly benefited from
it, especially in the case of the Fieschi family. If anything, Genoese political
history can be compared with that of Lucca, despite the occassional loss of
independence and the succession of different political regimes; it should, at
any rate, be noted that the city never fell under the personal rule of a single
person or family.
In Genoa, artisan guilds were never granted formal political representa-
tion. However, the popular faction was conventionally divided into merca-
tores and artifices, even if these denominations did not strictly correspond to
specialised professions and most of the ruling class had become rich through
trade: wool in the 15th century and silk in the 16th century. Shipowners,
acting alone or forming partnerships, were part of this trading/ruling class,
for they played a crucial role in the activity of Genoa’s Mediterranean trade.
2. A distinguishing feature of Genoese politics were the alberghi. The term
is sometimes considered synonymous with “family clan,”4 but it would be
more precise to describe them as cooperatives formed by a certain number
of small families around a larger one, which allowed them to engage in trade
by extending their network of solidarity. Therefore, this was a private, not
a public, undertaking. However, the pursuit of private ventures could also
result in the assumption of a political role (e.g. governing a territory); the
Giustiniani and their company (“maona”), for example, came to control the
island of Chios, which was important for its mastic production, from 1346
to 1566, and the alum mines of Phocaea. In the 15th century, the Lomellini
governed Corsica for some time. In these cases, a private company exer-
cised stately power, privatising profits but taking advantage of government
support at times of war. The building of Genoa’s colonial empire differed
radically from Venice’s, where state initiative was paramount. Another dis-
similarity with Venice was that, while the lagoon city began by building the
“Stado da mar,” that is the maritime and colonial empire, and, the “Stado
di terraferma” was created only afterwards, Genoa was rapidly taking con-
trol of most of the Ligurian coast, from Corvo (namely from the Gulf of
La Spezia) to Monaco and building strongholds on the islands of Sardinia
and Corsica, while simultaneously occupying a number of colonies from
the Black Sea to the Near East. This was in some cases a result of private
initiative and in other cases was brought about through the settlement of
colonists from the motherland. Even the expansion of the commune on the
Ligurian Riviera adopted a twofold strategy: direct rule was imposed in
Governing in a Republican State 91
the eastern Riviera while in the west the submission of the main towns was
negotiated, and the newly incorporated communities were granted statutory
autonomy and a limited degree of self-government.
In the early 17th century, political writer Andrea Spinola compared the
coastal towns’ convenzionate, linked to Genoa by “conventions,” to the
socii et foederati of Ancient Rome.5 Furthermore, the city’s main families,
especially the nobility, had a strong presence in the commune because they
owned castles and other properties, and also exercised considerable influ-
ence through their patronage networks. In the political struggle that con-
fronted the city’s political factions, these networks were mobilised, and thus
they represent a centrifugal force, but they also connected the local elite
with the interests of those who ruled la Dominante, and therefore also ful-
filled a centripetal function.
Establishing an albergo meant adopting a single common surname, which
was most often coined for the occasion (Giustiniani, De Franchi, Imperiale,
Centurione). The albergo system was adopted by both noble and popular
families. This juxtaposition characterised Genoese political history from
1339 to 1528. Among the noble alberghi were the Cattaneo, Centurione,
Imperiale and Gentile, and the popular alberghi included the Giustiniani, De
Franchi and De Fornari. The number of alberghi increased during the 14th
century, reaching around 100 at the end of the 14th and the beginning of
the 15th centuries, after which their numbers declined.6 Occasionally, even
important noble families such as the Pallavicini, found themselves forced to
form an albergo, in this case alongside the Gentile family, but as soon as they
could they reclaimed their original name.7 The multiplication of these family
groups, which had no parallel in Venice or Lucca, was probably a response
to the Genoese political crisis of the 14th century and the resulting political
instability. Although the dogeship was meant to be a lifelong position, in
reality only a few doges held the office until their deaths.8 Others held the
post for varying lengths of time, including very short periods: between 1390
and 1396, Genoa had seven doges (two of whom served twice) as a result of
internecine conflict between factions and doges being ejected from power.
3. During the 15th century, the colours white (Ghibelline) and black
(Guelph) were another sign of partisan affiliation. Nobiles and populares,
and, secondly, mercatores and artifices were therefore also identified as albi
or nigri, respectively. Generally, an entire family or the whole albergo would
adopt the same colour, but there were exceptions to the rule. For example,
the Cattaneo family were albi; but the members of one family in the albergo
were nigri.
In the 16th century, it was widely debated whether the distinction between
noble and popular families was real or symbolic. The debate centred on
whether nobiles were, in fact, the older ruling families and populares those
which had reached the government at a later date, or whether, in 1339, at
the time of the political split, families had declared themselves nobiles or
populares for pure convenience. Indeed, over time the popular faction was
92 Carlo Bitossi
engrossed by newly wealthy families that reached politically relevant posi-
tions, but it is equally true that, in 1339, several illustrious families which
had been active in the former government system chose to join the popular
faction in order to maintain their influence. The houses of Giustiniani, De
Franchi, De Fornari and Sauli were thus referred to as the populares “of
the first government.” With the exception of the Sauli family, they were all
“alberghi” created after the beginning of popular dogeship.
From the beginning of the 15th century onwards, the Adorno and the
Fregoso (or Campofregoso), two of the most important popular families
in government circles, competed for the dogeship. The regulae established
at the beginning of perpetual dogeship in 1339 and modified in 1363 with
Gabriele Adorno, and also in 1413 with Raffaele Adorno, excluded the
nobility from the dogeship and the command of the commune’s fleet, both
of which were reserved for the popular faction. However, apart from the
eight senior citizens (anziani) who assisted the doge, it should be noted that
nobles were always admitted after 1363, and were a continuous presence
after 1396. The first legislation of the popular dogeship seemed to have
provided for the distribution of government posts in three equal parts, to
be allocated to nobiles, mercatores and artifices. However, during the 15th
and the beginning of the 16th century, posts of anziani were divided fifty–
fifty between nobiles and populares, with the latter, in turn, represented by
50% mercatores and 50% artifices.9 In the second half of the 15th century,
Philippe de Commines perceptively summed up the situation by writing
that, in Genoa, the nobles could not be doges but could create the doge
by lending their support to one of the popular factions.10 In addition to
Commines’ comments, it should also be observed that the nobles themselves
were divided in their support for popular leaders, with some backing the
Fregoso and others the Adorno.
4. During the period of perpetual dogeship, Genoa submitted several
times to foreign lords: the Visconti of Milan in the 14th and first half of the
15th century: the Sforza—their successors in the Duchy of Milan—in the
second half of the 15th century; and the kings of France between the 14th
and 15th centuries, and again in the second half of the 15th and early 16th
century. A foreign lord was usually called upon by factions that were losing
the partisan fight. However, as soon as the factions reached a sufficiently
broad-based agreement, the foreign lord was removed by an uprising. The
repeated change of doges, perpetual in name but ephemeral in reality, and
the recurring submission to foreign lords could suggest that, from the 14th
to the 16th century, Genoa experienced a long period of political instability,
which prevented Genoa from establishing and defending an extended colo-
nial empire like that of Venice.
This pessimistic view was expressed by more than one Genoese political
writer and by more than one foreign observer during the 16th and 17th
centuries (for example, Machiavelli in his Istorie fiorentine), and was so
readily quoted by 19th-century historiography as to become a cliché. In
the mid-16th century, the then-official historian of the republic, Jacopo
Bonfadio (not a Genoese himself, incidentally), held a less pessimistic view
and presented foreign domination almost like the temporary hiring of an
arbitrator by the town’s ruling class—an arbitrator who was called in and
dismissed when no longer needed.11
Describing the history of Genoa from the 14th to the 16th century as a
series of conflicts is an accurate account: factions and factional conflicts
existed, doges were overthrown and the city was handed over to foreign
rulers. Lurking beneath the conflict was a strong consociational thread: the
sharing of power between the factions and colours, which sought, when-
ever possible, to keep representation in government as balanced as practi-
cable. Indeed, one family or one individual never claimed Genoa’s lordship.
During the 15th century, stately ambitions were perhaps exhibited by the
Fregoso, but, even then, they were never able to rise above the others. Thus,
Genoa never emerged, as Venice did, with a strong and cohesive ruling class;
institutional offices for colonial expansion or foreign policy initiatives were
thus never centralised. Genoa never experienced (as did other Italian repub-
lics) a personal or family lordship. Furthermore, unlike other republics, the
temporary defeat of one faction did not result in its annihilation or even in
its complete exclusion from the city and offices, as the main families had
established bases of local power within the commune or elsewhere within
the state’s boundaries so that victory or defeat was never really complete
and conclusive.
5. The Banco di San Giorgio (essentially Società delle compere e dei ban-
chi di San Giorgio), founded in 1407 during the rule of the French Marshal
Boucicault in the name of Charles VI of Valois, was a stable element and
an example of shared management. In a famous passage of his Istorie fio-
rentine (VIII, 26), Niccolò Machiavelli discussed San Giorgio’s good gover-
nance and described the commune as unstable and precarious. From then
on, those commenting on Genoa’s affairs presented the Banco as a kind of
state within the state, especially since the commune gave San Giorgio the
power to rule over a series of frontier territories, and even Corsica, for more
than a century (1453–1562).12
Created at the height of the factional strife, San Giorgio stood as an
element of stability within the commune, consolidating its debt. In addi-
tion to banking and ruling territories, the Banco managed the bulk of the
commune’s, and later the republic’s, public debt. For this reason, it was
the recipient of some of the most lucrative sources of revenue, such as the
port customs. All governments, regardless of their political allegiance, were
expected to respect the Banco’s privileges. As such, San Giorgio attracted
foreign capital from both individuals and religious communities, which saw
it as a safe investment option.
The assembly of shareholders (comperisti) did not reflect distinctions of
colour or faction. When the restitution of Corsica’s administration to the
republic was discussed in 1561, hundreds of “comperisti”13 joined in the
94 Carlo Bitossi
assembly. However, the governing bodies of the Banco, primarily the eight
Protectors, were equally divided between the noble and the popular parties,
and the popular party, in turn, was comprised equally of merchants and arti-
sans. The creation of San Giorgio counterbalanced the management of the
commune’s finances, entrusting them to a body collectively managed by the
city’s elite. This prevented any regime from tampering with monetary mat-
ters in order to benefit a party, family or individual. The governing bodies of
San Giorgio adopted the representation model followed by the commune.
However, from the outset, the bank acted as a powerful factor of stability
and continuity, and helped to minimise the negative consequences of the
frequent changes of government.
It is unclear whether access to government in San Giorgio was a family’s
or an individual’s first step to entering the ranks of the commune’s govern-
ment, or vice versa. However, the correlation between membership of the
Banco’s and the commune’s government bodies is evident, although some
families appear to be over- and others under-represented.
6. Genoa’s political history, therefore, is different from that of Venice and
Lucca, but also from the other Italian republics in the 14th and 15th cen-
turies. Perhaps Genoa’s political instability prevented her from becoming
a major player in the Italian state system and harmed the defence of her
colonial empire, which was dismantled (with the exception of Chios) in
the second half of the 15th century. However, the ability to lean on strong
states such as Milan and, even more so, France, was in turn an element
of strength and support for the Genoese governing class, whose businesses
interests spread all over the Mediterranean, and who managed to shift their
investments and trade from the east to the west, reinforcing their already
deep-rooted and traditional presence in the Iberian Peninsula, particularly
in Castile and Portugal. The private nature (individual, family or corpo-
rate) of Genoese expansion and the refusal of the Genoese to build strong
state institutions and incur the necessary protection costs, made the Genoese
political community remarkably resilient, and this burgeoning resilience was
accompanied by the ability to successfully shift to different trade routes as
circumstances demanded. We should also note that politics in Genoa always
had a double nature: while republican institutions can be seen as unstable
and even discontinuous, San Giorgio always stood as a bulwark of stability
and continuity.
This coexistence of conflicting forces was made possible by the Italian
political system and by the balance of powers prevailing in the Oltralpe,
which interfered very little with the peninsula’s affairs. The picture of Italy
was radically altered with the beginning of the Italian wars, as the pres-
ence of France was becoming more significant, and the town factions had
to gauge their strategies, not only relating to the balance of power within
the city but also relating to international events. In this uncertain context,
the episode of 1506–1507 introduced an explosive element.14 In 1506, the
French governor of Genoa was expelled on the initiative of some important
families of the popular faction, mainly the Giustiniani and De Franchi. Simi-
lar episodes had already taken place in the previous century, but this time
the nobles requested the intervention of Louis XII, who attacked the city.
Faced with this danger, the popular leaders stepped aside and allowed the
patriotic plebeians to elect a doge, Paolo da Novi, an entrepreneur and well-
off silk dyer who enjoyed the support of the silk weavers.
The repression of the uprising left few doubts concerning what French
dominance meant: a fortress and a garrison, the withdrawal of the city stat-
utes and the establishment of a French governor. Before being beheaded and
quartered, Paolo da Novi (doge for a month) seemed to warn the people
against the heads of the factions and to compel them to accept the king’s
rule. During these events, there was an attempt to divide the government
between three factions: nobles, merchants and artisans. But this was not, of
course, to follow.
The formation of the Habsburg Spanish imperial system and the strength-
ening of the Spanish presence in Italy gave the Genoese factions a new frame-
work of reference. The Italian wars started with Francis I’s and Charles of
Habsburg’s rising to their thrones, which further reduced the Genoese elite’s
margin of manoeuvre and pushed them to come up with a solution that
gave political institutions the same kind of stability found in San Giorgio;
this was an unpleasant position to be in, involving the relocation of the
main government offices. Genoese political elite, as those of other Italian
states, had to choose between two radically different hegemony models:
the French, which entailed the submission of the city’s elite to the king, and
the Spanish, which guaranteed the city’s independence and the continued
dominance of the Genoese elite in exchange for accepting the imposition
of a Spanish protectorate.15 The Spanish Habsburg option was undoubt-
edly more advantageous for the factions' leaders. This choice required a
renewed covenant between nobiles and populares, which was accompanied
by a switch in allegiance on the part of Andrea Doria (who owned and com-
manded the most important Genoese fleet of galleys). This agreement was
quickly put in place between the spring and autumn of 1528.16 The 1528
reform completely redefined the rules of political competition in Genoa. The
heads of both factions agreed to draw up a book in which all those who
were entitled to access the main governing bodies and those candidates who
were eligible to the dogeship would be listed. The doge became a two-year
position which was to be assigned, by tacit agreement, alternately to ex-
nobles and ex-populares.
The creation of the Liber civilitatis conclusively confirmed the eligibility
of merchants and artisans, who had previously been confined to the pop-
ular faction, to government positions. Therefore, even though the reform
was endorsed by Andrea Doria, a nobleman of ancient ancestry, and finally
gave the nobles the possibility of accessing the dogeship, it was not a tri-
umph for their faction. On the other hand, while previously no limitations
existed concerning access to high government positions, there is no denying
96 Carlo Bitossi
that, from 1528 onwards, political representation narrowed to those whose
names were written in the Liver civilitatis. However, the compromise of
1528 included two original clauses: the first of these provisions was the sur-
prising allocation of all the families and people mentioned in the Liber civil-
itatis into 28 alberghi, which were named after the most populous houses
(with an exception in favour of the archbishop’s family). In this way, the
albergo, an institution of private law, also became a means of political repre-
sentation. We do not know by what criteria the approximately 400 families
of the city were divided into the 28 alberghi. It was also established that the
members of the alberghi would temporarily adopt a double surname (e.g.
Silvestro Invrea would become Silvestro Doria Invrea), but, over time, they
would drop their original surname and keep only the albergo’s (Silvestro
Invrea would become Silvestro Doria). After 1528, all those who were writ-
ten in the Liber were nobiles, but at the same time, former nobles came to
be known as Old nobles and former populares as New nobles. Thus, the
factions changed names to “Old” and “New.”
This system, which is without parallels anywhere else, likely imposed the
fusion of factions through a “confusion of names,” as claimed by Francesco
Guicciardini in Storia d’Italia. It was a way to totally change the criteria of
political representation, erasing the distinction between nobiles and popu-
lares. The second of the novel provisions noted above concerned access to
the Liber civilitatis: this was left permanently open, at the discretion of the
rulers, and it was possible to add a number of people to the ranks of the
nobility every year, based on their merit and suitability.
In 1528, therefore, the Genoese ruling class was restricted but not com-
pletely closed: until 1546, the Liber kept adding people who should have
been listed in 1528 but had been forgotten, generally because they were
absent from the city.
The radical reform of 1528 was set to have an important effect on the
Genoese political game and factional strife. Could it work? Essentially, the
reform had been a choice of the ruling class, who preferred to be under
Charles V’s protectorate than subordinate to the king of France.17 On this
issue, the strong support lent to the Habsburgs by Genoese merchants,
financiers and shipowners, as well as the internal solidarity of the Genoese
elite, were major factors.18 The main issues of contention concerned the
criteria of representation. The shared management model in operation in
Banco di San Giorgio since the beginning of the 15th century was once
more used as the frame of reference for political representation. As such,
from 1528 onwards, access to the governing bodies of San Giorgio and
those of the Republic followed the same criteria, namely being included
in the Liber civilitatis. The Banco’s meeting continued to be open to all
shareholders, both nobles and non-nobles. However, the office of protectors
and other high political positions were the prerogative of those listed in the
Liber civilitatis. Therefore, the top echelons of representation in both of the
republic and the Banco, were socially homogeneous.
In the following decades, reasons for dissatisfaction emerged, especially
after the failed attempt by the Fieschi family to overthrow the government
in January 1547, and the reform of the electoral vote for the key posts under
the so-called “Garibetto” law. Dissatisfaction spread among the “new”
nobles, who were more numerous than the “old” and who felt aggrieved
by the equal sharing of posts. Furthermore, many did not want to drop the
family surname; others, such as Oberto Foglietta, author of a controversial
pamphlet distributed in 1559 (Della republica di Genova), wanted to scale
down the role of Andrea Doria and other galley owners who boycotted the
construction of a state fleet. The “new” nobles’ bitterness was also directed
against the “old” nobles’ sense of superiority and their desire to distinguish
themselves in both social status and everyday behaviour.
In March 1575, the last of Genoa’s civil wars erupted owing mainly to the
fact that new inclusions in the Liber civilitatis had come to an end in 1559—a
de facto measure that went against the spirit of the 1528 law, to the dissat-
isfaction of many silk entrepreneurs and wealthy artisans who saw access
to nobility barred and thus felt bound to seek the support of the plebeians
by stirring discontent against the tax system.19 In 1575, the “new” nobles
took power and the “old” left the city to organise an army and reclaim gov-
ernment. They hoped for the king of Spain’s support. Instead, in September
1575, Philip II decreed a quiebra (bankruptcy) which severely damaged the
interests of the “old” nobility. At the same time, the “new” nobles watched
the rise of a radical wing among their own ranks with apprehension. In
Casale, the leaders of the two factions came to an agreement through the
mediation of the pope, the king of Spain and the emperor, and, in March
1576, the Leges novae or Casale Laws gave the Genoese political system
its final shape, which was only marginally modified over the course of the
next two centuries and thus survived until 1797.20 The compulsory fusion
of all the noble families into 28 alberghi was abolished, and everyone who
so wished regained their original surname.
As the balance between the old factions was the main problem to be
solved, a mixed system was adopted, halfway between a draw and an elec-
tion. The government (Senate) was increased from eight to 12 members and
was supported by another eight-member chamber, which was responsible
for the republic’s financial administration. The governing bodies of the
San Giorgio Bank were to remain separate from the political institutions.
One quarter of the 20 members of the Collegi (Senate and Chamber) were
renewed every six months in a process which involved the extraction of
five names from an urn (called bussolo del Seminario) . The list of eligible
names (120) was supplied by the Casale legislators and renewed every year
to account for the members who had already been elected, died or joined
the ranks of the Church. In this way, equality was guaranteed, because the
names of “old” and “new” nobles were inserted in equal numbers. The draw
could result in unequal representation, but, this was balanced out in the
long run. The dogeship remained an elected two-year post, with the tacit but
98 Carlo Bitossi
constant alternation of “old” and “new” doges. Enrolment in the Liber civil-
itatis, which was rebranded after the 1580s’ as Liber nobilitatis, was open
to a maximum of ten people per year at the discretion of the Minor Council.
In 1576, and the years immediately after, approximately 90 families
among the popular allies of the “new” nobles were rewarded with admis-
sion to the Liber. Subsequently, the new names were added much more
rarely, and from 1603 to 1628 the book was de facto closed only being
reopened after the 1625 war against the Duke of Savoy and a conspiracy
organised by some rich populares. From the 1620s onwards, the practice of
accompanying the request for admission to the ranks of the nobility with
donations to the republic prevailed: it was not a real sale of nobility titles,
as was the case in Venice following the Candia War, though both systems
resembled each other very much. This practice continued until the end of the
republic. In this way, the non-noble, yet rich and upwardly mobile, middle
class were never capable of challenging the governing class; traders, bank-
ers and wealthy professionals became, in time, noble and thus gained access
to the highest government offices. Some of the most important houses in
Genoa in the late 18th century (for example, the Cambiaso) had held a posi-
tion among the nobility for just a couple of generations.21
During the 17th century, Spanish and French commentators, in describing
the political and social structure of Genoa, underlined the lack of politi-
cal representation of the “second order,” also referred to as “non-enrolled
order,” which was the middle class of professionals and trades. Although this
class was possibly dissatisfied with the ruling nobility, the only conspiracy
that took place at this time was that lead by Giulio Cesare Vacchero (1627),
who requested the support of the Duke of Savoy and was, in any case, eas-
ily repressed. Thereafter, there was no other attempt at agitation from the
“second order,” most likely because the ruling class remained open to new
entries. Some minor magistracies (e.g. the Censori) were occupied by non-
nobles. In general, the most important and wealthy families held high offices
and undertook the most transcendental and delicate tasks, whereas the less
wealthy nobles held minor posts, such as commissions in the fleet and army,
and undertook government commissions in the dominions abroad. In the
18th century, the richest were called “seminary gentlemen,” because their
names were put in the seminary’s urn from which the names of Senate and
the Chamber members were drawn; the less wealthy nobles, called “gentle-
men of attendance,” urged the Council to endow them with minor govern-
ment tasks, from which they made their living.22
A process of social division within the ruling class also took place in Ven-
ice and Lucca, where the resentment of the so-called “poor nobles” brew
throughout the 18th century.
7. The republic of Genoa was a city state: until 1768, the territory of
the Dominante included the mainland (the coast of Liguria from the Gulf
of La Spezia to near Monaco) and a portion of the hinterland beyond the
Apennines, as well as Corsica. Different communities in the mainland were
governed by different rules, depending on whether they had negotiated their
submission to Genoa or not.23 The “covenant” towns were situated largely
in the western Riviera: in some cases, they had the option of choosing their
podestà from a list of names proposed by the government, which was made
up of Genoese noblemen.24 However, having their own statutes and fixed
agreements, they had a base to complain against the government when they
understood that the agreement was not being honoured. In the 18th cen-
tury, Sanremo, for instance, rebelled twice against the government, in 1729
and 1753; the second time, the town was conquered manu militari and its
statutes revoked.25 However, these episodes and other less important ones
were exceptions. Genoa ruled its dominions directly through “podestà,”
captains and governors, but also indirectly through networks of solidarity
and patronage woven around the numerous properties owned by the Geno-
ese nobility in the dominions. In the underdeveloped areas of the mainland,
such as the hinterland of the eastern Riviera, the governors were happy,
especially between the 16th and 18th centuries, to play the widespread con-
flict that divided local clans (parentele), a conflict that did not endanger the
stability of the Genoese state.26
Different specific considerations must be made concerning Corsica. Until
1562, the island was administered by the Banco di San Giorgio, and later it
was governed directly by the republic through a governor based on Bastia,
who administered the island with the assistance of a very small network of
captains, podestà and lieutenants.27 Notable Corsicans had two bodies of
representation: the Nobili XII for northeast Corsica (“Di qua dai Monti”)
(“On this side of the mountains”) and the Nobles VI for southwest Corsica
(“Di là dai Monti”) (“Beyond the mountains”). They were understood as
spokespersons for the island’s interests and dealt directly with the governor
but not with the government in Genoa. Following the rebellions and civil
wars that marked the mid-16th-century, the assumption of direct rule by the
republic was followed by a period of economic and demographic recovery.
Eventually, however, the Corsican notables requested access to the Genoese
nobility or, failing that, to have their own book of nobility, so they could
represent the island as political leaders of the republic or, at the very least, in
Corsica. During the 17th century and in the opening years of the 18th cen-
tury, only a few Corsican families were admitted to the Liber nobilitatis. The
refusal by the Genoese government to accept the demands of the Corsican
notables was one of the main causes of the island’s lasting rebellion, which
began in December 1729 as an anti-fiscal protest, but soon had the sup-
port of some members of the local elite and became impossible to suppress.
From the 1730s onwards, Genoa controlled only the main coastal strong-
holds of the island, while it had to lean on loyalist notables to control the
interior.28 The inability of the republic to overcome its nature as a city state
compromised the chances of maintaining control over the island, where the
supporters of transferring the island to a different sovereign (e.g. the king of
Spain) or, eventually, of independence, never had unanimous support either.
100 Carlo Bitossi
Eventually, in 1768, Corsica was ceded to France, which had become the
republic’s ally.
8. The republic was an oligarchic regime, but the noblemen concerned
had informal communication channels through which to make their pro-
tests heard: anonymous letters were deposited at the doge’s palace and in
some magistrates’ pigeonholes. In addition, the same noblemen wrote anon-
ymous notes that were left in some special containers in the Minor and
Major Council rooms: these notes expressed criticism of the nobles, and it
was not uncommon for notes to contain complaints about a wide variety of
issues, including those that affected non-nobles.
The political structure also had a forum for conducting popular politics:
the cassacce. The ruling posts of these confraternities were elective, which
gave rise to a sharp competition between brotherhood members, especially
the richest. In the mid-18th century, the nobleman Gian Francesco Doria
remarked with satisfaction that the people were content to compete in that
arena, instead of posing a threat to the ruling oligarchs. The most critical
period for the patrician government system was 1746–1748, when Genoa
entered the Austrian War of Succession with France and Spain, but was
abandoned by their allies and occupied by imperial troops. A rebellion broke
out in which a sector of the nobility which had the support of the people
created a sort of parallel government (Quartier generale del popolo; that is
“Headquarters of the People”). After the war and the re-establishment of
the status quo ante, a number of popular families who had participated in
the rebellion but had not threatened the oligarchs’ authority was rewarded
with ennoblement. Before the matter was settled, however, some Genoese
patriots and some non-Genoese intellectuals came up with a new institu-
tional design for the republic which would create a census-based govern-
ment for both nobles and non-nobles; in the event, this was not achieved
until the opening years of the 19th century, after the fall of the oligarchic
republic.29 Only then did the middle class have official and stable represen-
tation in Genoa’s government. However, the experiment lasted only three
years: in 1805, Genoa was annexed by the French Empire.30
In conclusion, the governance of the republic of Genoa was character-
ised by a constant state of balanced conflict, the constant division of power
between two factions, one of which remained open to the entrance of new
actors. Even after the 1528 reform, which was amended in 1576, Genoa was
ruled by an oligarchy, which, however, allowed for the co-optation of the
mercantile sector of the population, both by simple merit and by the pay-
ment of a sum of money. In this, Genoa differed from the Venetian model,
which also had to resort to mercenary ennoblement from the mid-17th cen-
tury onwards. On the other hand, the long internal conflict between the
factions had prevented the city from building a state comparable to that of
Venice. Until the modern age, Genoa’s government resembled more a coali-
tion of families than a true state. The long survival of this solution was pos-
sible only because the republic relied time after time on powerful allies, the
Habsburg Spanish imperial system from 1528 to the end of the 17th century
and France from the 1730s to the 1790s. In this regard, the historical trajec-
tory of the Genoese presents original features that are often not accurately
recognised.
Notes
* This article is part of my work with the research group “The Polycentric Model
of Shared Sovereignty (Sixteenth–Eighteenth Centuries): An Alternative Path
for The Construction of the Modern State” (HAR2013–45357-P), directed by
Manuel Herrero Sánchez and financed by the Spanish Ministry of Science and
Innovation.
1. For Venice, see the volumes on the Renaissance and early modern period in
Storia di Venezia dalle origini alla caduta della Serenissima (Rome: Istituto
della Enciclopedia Italiana, 1996–1999), vols. 3–8, including Girolamo Arn-
aldi, Giorgio Cracco, Alberto Tenenti, eds. La formazione dello Stato patrizio;
Alberto Tenenti, Ugo Tucci, eds. Il Rinascimento. Politica e cultura; also Alberto
Tenenti, Ugo Tucci, eds. Il Rinascimento. Società ed economia; Gaetano Cozzi,
Paolo Prodi, eds. Dal Rinascimento al Barocco; Gino Benzoni, Gaetano Cozzi,
eds. La Venezia barocca; and Piero del Negro, Paolo Preto, eds. L'ultima fase
della Serenissima. For Lucca, Marino Berengo, Nobili e mercanti nella Lucca
del Cinquecento (Turin: Einaudi, 1993); Simonetta Adorni Braccesi, “Una città
infetta.” La repubblica di Lucca nella crisi religiosa del Cinquecento (Flor-
ence: Olschki, 1994); Rita Mazzei, La società lucchese del Seicento (Lucca:
Maria Pacini Fazzi Editore, 1977); Matteo Giuli, Il governo di ogni giorno.
L’amministrazione quotidiana in uno stato di antico regime (Lucca, XVII-XVIII
secolo) (Rome: Ecole française de Rome, 2013).
2. Dino Puncuh, ed., Storia di Genova. Mediterraneo, Europa, Atlantico (Genoa:
Società Ligure di Storia Patria, 2003); Steven A. Epstein, Genoa and the Geno-
ese, 958–1528 (Chapel Hill & London: The University of North Carolina Press,
1996).
3. Giovanna Petti Balbi, “Tra dogato e principato: il Tre e il Quattrocento,” in
Storia di Genova, ed. D. Puncuh (Genoa: Società Ligure di Storia Patria, 2003),
233–324.
4. Jacques Heers, Il clan familiare nel Medioevo (Naples: Liguori, 1976); Edoardo
Grendi, “Profilo storico degli alberghi genovesi,” in La repubblica aristocratica
dei genovesi (Bologna: Il Mulino, 1987), 49–102.
5. Andrea Spinola, Scritti scelti, a cura di Carlo Bitossi (Genoa: Sagep, 1980).
6. Grendi, “Profilo storico.”
7. Giulio Pallavicino, Inventione di Giulio Pallavicino di scriver tutte le cose
accadute alli tempi suoi [1583–1589], edited by Edoardo Grendi (Genoa: Sagep,
1976).
8. Luigi M. Levati, Dogi perpetui di Genova, 1339–1528 (Genoa: Marchese &
Campora, 1930).
9. Philippe de Commines, Memorie (Turin: Einaudi, 1960), 22.
10. Vito Piergiovanni, Lezioni di storia giuridica genovese. Il Medioevo (Genoa:
Ecig, 1984).
11. Jacopo Bonfadio, Annalium genuensium . . . libri quinque (Genoa, 1586).
12. Giuseppe Felloni, ed., La Casa di San Giorgio: il potere del credito (Genoa:
Società Ligure di Storia Patria, 2006); Matthias Schnettger e Carlo Taviani, eds.,
Libertà e dominio. Il sistema politico genovese: le relazioni esterne e il controllo
del territorio (Rome: Viella, 2011).
102 Carlo Bitossi
13. Giovanni Salvago, Histories, in Biblioteca di Economia, Genov, Fondo Doria di
Montaldeo, scat. 417, n. 1912, fsc. 1°.
14. Carlo Taviani, Superba discordia. Guerra, rivolta e pacificazione nella Genova
di primo Cinquecento (Rome: Viella, 2008).
15. Manuel Herrero Sánchez, Carlo Bitossi, Dino Puncuh and Yasmina Ben Yessef,
eds., Génova y la Monarquía Hispánica (1528–1713), 2 vols. (Genoa: Atti de la
Società Ligure di Storia Patria, 2011).
16. Arturo Pacini, “I presupposti politici del ‘secolo dei genovesi.’ La riforma del
1528,” Atti della Società Ligure di Storia Patria 104 (1990); Arturo Pacini, “La
Repubblica di Genova nel secolo XVI,” in Storia di Genova, ed. Dino Puncuh
(Genoa: Società Ligure di Storia Patria, 2003), 325–390.
17. Arturo Pacini, La Genova di Andrea Doria nell’Impero di Carlo V (Florence:
Olschki, 1999).
18. Giorgio Doria, Nobiltà e investimenti a Genova in Età moderna (Genoa: Istituto
di Storia Economica, 1995).
19. Claudio Costantini, La Repubblica di Genova nell’età moderna (Turin: Utet,
1978).
20. Rodolfo Savelli, La repubblica oligarchica. Legislazione, istituzioni e ceti a
Genova nel Cinquecento (Milan: Giuffrè, 1981).
21. Carlo Bitossi, Il governo dei Magnifici. Patriziato e politica a Genova fra Cinque
e Seicento (Genova: Ecig, 1990); Carlo Bitossi, “L’antico regime genovese
(1576–1657),” in Storia di Genova, ed. Dino Puncuh (Genoa: Società Ligure di
Storia Patria, 2003), 391–508.
22. Carlo Bitossi, “La repubblica è vecchia.” Patriziato e governo a Genova nel
secondo Settecento (Rome: Istituto Storico Italiano per l’Età Moderna e Con-
temporanea, 1995).
23. Rodolfo Savelli, Repertorio degli statuti della Liguria (Genoa: Società Ligure di
Storia Patria, 2003).
24. Edoardo Grendi, Il Cervo e la repubblica. Il modello ligure di antico regime
(Turin: Einaudi, 1993).
25. Vittorio Tigrino, Sudditi e confederati. Sanremo, Genova e una storia partico-
lare del Settecento europeo (Alessandria: Edizioni dell’Orso, 2009).
26. Osvaldo Raggio, Faide e parentele. Lo Stato genovese visto dalla Fontanabuona
(Turin: Einaudi, 1990).
27. Antoine-Marie Graziani, La Corse génoise. Économie, société, culture. Période
moderne 1453–1768 (Ajaccio: Piazzola, 1997); Corsica genovese. La Corse à
l’époque de la République de Gênes XVe-XVIIIe siècles (Bastia: Musée de Bas-
tia, 2016).
28. Emiliano Beri, Genova e il suo regno. Ordinamenti militari, poteri locali e con-
trollo del territorio in Corsica fra insurrezioni e guerre civili (1729–1768) (Novi
Ligure: Città del silenzio, 2011).
29. Bitossi, “La repubblica è vecchia.”
30. Giovanni Assereto, Le metamorfosi della Repubblica. Saggi di storia genovese
tra il XVI e il XIX secolo (Savona: Elio Ferraris Editore, 1999).
Adorni Braccesi, Simonetta. “Una città infetta.” In La repubblica di Lucca nella crisi
religiosa del Cinquecento. Florence: Olschki, 1994.
Assereto, Giovanni. Le metamorfosi della Repubblica. Saggi di storia genovese tra il
XVI e il XIX secolo. Savona: Elio Ferraris Editore, 1999.
Benzoni, Gino and Antonio Menniti Ippolito, eds. Storia di Venezia dalle origini
alla caduta della Serenissima. 8 vols. Rome: Istituto della Enciclopedia Italiana,
1992–1998.
Berengo, Marino. Nobili e mercanti nella Lucca del Cinquecento. Turin: Einaudi,
1999.
Beri, Emiliano. Genova e il suo regno. Ordinamenti militari, poteri locali e controllo
del territorio in Corsica fra insurrezioni e guerre civili (1729–1768). Novi Ligure:
Città del silenzio, 2011.
Bitossi, Carlo. Il governo dei Magnifici. Patriziato e politica a Genova fra Cinque e
Seicento. Genoa: ECIG, 1990.
Bitossi, Carlo. “La repubblica è vecchia.” In Patriziato e governo a Genova nel sec-
ondo Settecento. Rome: Istituto Storico Italiano per l’Età Moderna e Contempo-
ranea, 1995.
Bitossi, Carlo. “L’antico regime genovese (1576–1657).” In Storia di Genova. Medi-
terraneo, Europa, Atlantico, edited by Dino Puncuh, 391–508. Genoa: Società
Ligure di Storia Patria, 2003.
Commynes, Philippe de. Memorie. Turin: Einaudi, 1960.
Graziani, Antoine-Marie, ed. Corsica genovese. La Corse à l’époque de la Répub-
lique de Gênes XVe-XVIIIe siècles. Bastia: Musée de Bastia, 2016.
Costantini, Claudio. La Repubblica di Genova nell’età moderna. Turin: UTET, 1978.
Doria, Giorgio. Nobiltà e investimenti a Genova in Età moderna. Genoa: Istituto di
Storia Economica, 1995.
Epstein, Steven A. Genoa and the Genoese, 958–1528. Chapel Hill & London: The
University of North Carolina Press, 1996.
Felloni, Giuseppe, ed. La Casa di San Giorgio: il potere del credito. Genoa: Società
Giuli, Matteo. Il governo di ogni giorno. L’amministrazione quotidiana in uno stato
di antico regime (Lucca, XVII-XVIII secolo). Rome: École française de Rome,
2013.
Graziani, Antoine-Marie. La Corse génoise. Économie, société, culture. Période
moderne 1453–1768. Ajaccio: Piazzola, 1997.
Grendi, Edoardo. La repubblica aristocratica dei genovesi. Politica, carità e commer-
cio fra Cinque e Seicento. Bologna: Il Mulino, 1987.
Grendi, Edoardo. Il Cervo e la repubblica. Il modello ligure di antico regime. Turin:
Einaudi, 1993.
Heers, Jacques. Il clan familiare nel Medioevo. Naples: Liguori, 1976.
Herrero Sánchez, Manuel, Carlo Bitossi, Dino Puncuh, and Yasmina Ben Yessef, eds.
Génova y la Monarquía Hispánica (1528–1713), 2 vols. Genoa: Atti de la Società
Levati, Luigi M. Dogi perpetui di Genova, 1339–1528. Genoa: Marchese & Cam-
pora, 1930.
Mazzei, Rita. La società lucchese del Seicento. Lucca: Maria Pacini Fazzi Editore,
1977.
Pacini, Arturo. “I presupposti politici del ‘secolo dei genovesi’. La riforma del 1528.”
Atti della Società Ligure di Storia Patria 104 (1990).
Pacini, Arturo. La Genova di Andrea Doria nell’impero di Carlo V. Florence:
Olschki, 1999.
Pacini, Arturo. “La Repubblica di Genova nel secolo XVI.” In Storia di Genova.
Mediterraneo, Europa, Atlantico, edited by D. Puncuh, 325–390. Genoa: Società
Petti Balbi, Giovanna. “Tra dogato e principato: il Tre e il Quattrocento.” In Storia di
Genova. Mediterraneo, Europa, Atlantico, edited by D. Puncuh, 233–324. Genoa:
Società Ligure di Storia Patria, 2003.
104 Carlo Bitossi
Piergiovanni, Vito. Lezioni di storia giuridica genovese. Il Medioevo. Genoa: ECIG,
1984.
Puncuh, Dino, ed. Storia di Genova. Mediterraneo, Europa, Atlantico. Genoa: Soci-
età Ligure di Storia Patria, 2003.
Raggio, Osvaldo. Faide e parentele. Lo Stato genovese visto dalla Fontanabuona.
Turin: Einaudi, 1990.
Savelli, Rodolfo. La repubblica oligarchica. Legislazione, istituzioni e ceti a Genova
nel Cinquecento. Milan: Giuffrè, 1981.
Savelli, Rodolfo. Repertorio degli statuti della Liguria. Genoa: Società ligure di sto-
ria patria, 2003.
Schnettger, Matthias, and Carlo Taviani, eds. Libertà e dominio. Il sistema politico
genovese: le relazioni esterne e il controllo del territorio. Rome: Viella, 2011.
Taviani, Carlo. Superba discordia. Guerra, rivolta e pacificazione nella Genova di
primo Cinquecento. Rome: Viella, 2008.
Tigrino, Vittorio. Sudditi e confederati. Sanremo, Genova e una storia particolare del
Settecento europeo. Alessandria: Edizioni dell’Orso, 2009.
7 Political Representation and
Symbolic Communication in
the Early Modern Period
The Imperial Cities of the Holy
Roman Empire*
Thomas Weller
1. The Imperial Cities of the Holy Roman Empire: Urban

Republicanism Versus Princely Rule?
When the question of political representation in the early modern period is
raised, the so-called “free imperial cities” (Reichsstädte) of the Holy Roman
Empire are often adduced as a case in point. We are talking about a group of
roughly 80 cities within the territory of the Holy Roman Empire (85, accord-
ing to the Reichsmatrikel of 1521, 51 of which preserved their status as a
Reichsstadt until the end of the Holy Roman Empire in 1806). These cities
were very heterogeneous in size, population, economic wealth and political
importance. Among the Reichsstädte, we can find political centres and impor-
tant commercial hubs, such as Augsburg, Nuremberg, Frankfurt, Cologne,
Lübeck or, later, Hamburg and Bremen, but also a few very small places, most
of them situated in southern Germany, such as the cities of Buchau and Aalen,
which resembled tiny villages rather than urban centres. This multifaceted
panorama becomes even more complex if we look at the political structure
and forms of self-governance in place in each of these cities. Regardless of their
differences, however, all of them shared one common feature: they possessed
a relatively high degree of political autonomy and did not recognise any other
political authority above them than the emperor of the Holy Roman Empire.1
For that reason, none other than Nicolò Machiavelli praised the imperial
cities as havens of political liberty and civic autonomy. According to the Flo-
rentine author, the “cities of Germany” were “absolutely free, yield obedience
to the emperor when it suits them” and did not “fear any other power they
may have near them.”2 Their citizens were honest, virtuous and maintained
“among themselves a perfect equality.” They did not permit any citizen to live
in the “manner of a Gentleman” and were “the greatest enemies of those Lords
and Gentlemen” who surrounded them.3 Obviously, this is a highly idealised
picture of the imperial cities, whose example Machiavelli used to criticise the
deplorable state of affairs in Italy. Nevertheless, the author of the Discorsi was
not the only 16th-century author who held the imperial cities in high esteem.
Three hundred years later, though, things looked very different. When the
Berlin writer and bookseller Friedrich Nicolai, one of the leading figures of
106 Thomas Weller
the German Enlightenment, visited Ulm in 1781, he had little good to say
about the imperial city and its inhabitants. In his travel account he drew a
disastrous picture of stagnation and decay. The city was heavily in debt and
the city council was pitched against part of the population in a lawsuit to be
ruled by the Aulic Council (Reichshofrat), one of the two supreme courts of
the Holy Roman Empire.4 According to Nicolai, the social and cultural gap
between the city’s ruling elite and the ordinary citizens was obvious:
Ulm is [. . .] an imperial city, which means that, although there are a lot
of reasonable, upright people [. . .] a rigid ceremonial is observed [. . .].
In this republic, the difference between patricians and burghers, between
councillors and citizens, is extremely sharp in any situation of life.5
Nicolai’s view of 18th-century Ulm is a typical example of the way in which

enlightened authors, and many historians that follow their testimony, per-
ceived the formerly illustrious imperial cities of the Holy Roman Empire at
the end of the Ancien Régime. Even 19th-century liberals who regarded the
premodern cities as cradles of corporative government and civic autonomy,
such as the legal historian Otto von Gierke, repeated this widely held view.6
Recent historiography has criticised and partly revised this overly nega-
tive view of the early modern imperial cities. However, controversy persists
regarding their role within the history of modern state building and political
representation. By pointing to similarities between the political culture of
the imperial cities and the Italian city states, some historians argue for the
existence and endurance of a so-called “urban republicanism” (Stadtrepub-
likanismus) north of the Alps.7 Others, by contrast, stress the strictly sec-
ondary role the imperial cities played within the political context of the
Holy Roman Empire, let alone foreign relations, after the Peace of Westpha-
lia. From this point of view, instead of claiming “republican” values opposed
to those of courtly and monarchical society, the imperial cities and their rul-
ing elites adopted the dominant model of the dynastic states and strove for
equality with the surrounding nobility.8
Obviously, the whole debate is very much centred on the question of
political representation—the topic of this volume. This chapter will take a
closer look at the specific modes of political representation, first within the
city walls and second with regard to foreign relations. As a conclusion, it
proposes a middle position between the two extreme views outlined above.
First of all, however, it seems necessary to clarify the underlying notion of
political representation.
2. The Early Modern Concept of Political Representation and

the Role of Symbolic Communication
In very general terms, “representation” means that something absent is
made present.9 Leaving aside the phenomenon of internal or mental rep-
resentations, this usually implies the use of external objects to serve as
Representation and Symbolic Communication 107
signifiers of an absent object.10 In this sense, a coat of arms or a flag sym-
bolically represents a political ruler or a state. Roger Chartier has pointed
out, however, that, for an early modern period observer, the idea of rep-
resentation was not necessarily a relationship between a (present) sign
and an (absent) object. In many cases, sign and object were perceived as
identical.11
Apart from this first meaning of the word, a second meaning comes into
play when the question of political representation is at stake. In political
and juridical terms, representation describes an act of attribution that can
be reduced to a very simple formula: if A represents B, anything that A does
is considered to be done by B. In other words, if a political ruler or a parlia-
ment makes a decision, it makes it in the name of the whole body politic,
and thus the decision is accepted as valid and binding for each and every
citizen. In our times, these two meanings of the word, representation as sym-
bolic communication and representation as political attribution, are usually
conceived as distinct matters.12 Only in recent years, due to the cultural turn
in the humanities, have sociologists, political scientists and also historians
discovered—or, to be more precise, rediscovered—the symbolic aspects of
political representation.13 It is more appropriate to speak of a rediscovery
because, for people in the early modern period, there was nothing odd about
the idea that the political and the “merely” symbolic aspects of representa-
tion were intrinsically linked.
The premodern concept of political representation arose in the context
of late medieval corporation theory, which dealt with the relation between
a corporation or universitas on the one hand and the natural persons who,
in their totality, constituted this corporation on the other.14 As an imagined
person (persona ficta), the universitas had no physical existence. Thus, the
question was how could it be turned into an entity that was able to act like a
natural person in legal and political matters? According to medieval jurists,
one way to achieve this goal was by means of a general assembly of all mem-
bers of the corporation; their decisions, taken unanimously or by the major-
ity, had to be accepted as binding for everybody. However, for larger polities
this was not feasible. For that reason, a distinctive part of the body politic,
usually its most prominent members, assumed the right to act on behalf of
the whole universitas. John of Segovia (1395–1458), one of the Castilian
representatives at the Council of Basle, described the relationship between
the general council and the corporate body of the Church as a representa-
tion by identity (representatio identitatis).15 This meant that a prominent
part was considered to be identical to the entire corporation and therefore
was entitled to take decisions on behalf of the universitas.16 What is striking
about this theory, at least from a modern point of view, is the fact that the
question of who belonged to this prominent part and on what grounds was
not even discussed. For the premodern concept of representation, however,
this question was rather irrelevant. Whether the members of the representa-
tive body were, for instance, elected or attained their office by birth did not
affect their ability to represent the universitas.
108 Thomas Weller
This becomes particularly clear if we look at medieval and early mod-
ern parliamentary institutions.17 The persons assembled in these assemblies
did not represent the “people” in the modern sense of the word; nor were
they elected.18 For that reason, the modern concept of representation is
not applicable to these institutions. According to Otto Brunner’s much-
quoted dictum, the territorial Estates “did not ‘represent’ the Land—they
‘were’ the Land.”19 The quality of “being the Land,” however, at no time
described a political reality but rather a political claim. In other words,
in order to become “the Land” the Estates had to convene regularly, and
only by doing so and acting as such did they reproduce the political entity
they represented. Thus, the instrumental functions of the territorial Estates
(political deliberation, approval of taxes, etc.) and the symbolic represen-
tation of the social and political order (being the Land) were one and the
same thing.20
Mutatis mutandis—the same holds true for the medieval and early mod-
ern cities and their specific form of self-governance. At first glance, however,
there was one important difference. Whereas the territorial estates in most
European regions originally arose from the curia regis and encompassed
feudal magnates who were territorial rulers themselves, the city council’s
authority in theory derived from the populus, that is, the community of citi-
zens.21 Therefore, according to Bartolus of Sassoferrato, the general assem-
bly of the citizens (adunantia, arrenga, parlamentum or consilium majus)
originally had the right to elect the city council (habet ab initio consilium
eligere). Once elected, however, the consilium represented the whole com-
munity (repraesentat totum populum).22 Thus, Bartolus’s notion of reprae-
sentare did not differ much from that of conciliarist theory. Not surprisingly,
John of Segovia explicitly mentions the city councils as a case in point for his
concept of representatio identitatis.23
Seventeenth-century German authors, such as the Esslingen syndic Philip
Knipschild, fell back upon this theory of representation when they tried
to describe the political reality in the imperial cities of the Holy Roman
Empire. According to Knipschild, the city was a nomen iuris which needed
rectores et mentores in order to become a persona representata.24 The cit-
izens had transferred all power to the city council, and, thus, it was the
city council that represented the civitas (Cum in civitatibus Imperialibus
populus omnem potestatem in Senatum transtulerit [. . .] et in talis magsi-
tratus civitatem repraesentet).25 However, in some cities the citizenry had
preserved certain rights of political participation and codetermination, par-
ticularly in matters of common interest such as decisions on peace and war,
alliances with foreign powers, changes in the city’s statutes, introduction of
new taxes and so forth. Thus, in these particular cases the city council did
not represent the civitas exclusively (Senatus in his civitatem non omnino
repraesentat), but the citizenry had to express its consent to the councillors’
decisions. This usually happened by summoning the representatives of the
guilds and other civic corporations to a general assembly, which, according
to Knipschild, represented the civitas in these cases (Et in his casibus civitas
non aliter quam per hoc generale consilium repraesentatur).26
3. Political Representation Within the City Walls

Knipschild wrote his book at a time when many imperial cities were being
torn apart by struggles between the city councils and the citizenry.27 Fre-
quently, these conflicts led to violent uprisings, although in the 18th century
they were often carried out as lawsuits before the aforementioned Aulic
Council (Reichshofrat) or the Imperial Chamber Court (Reichskammergeri-
cht).28 Many of these conflicts were initially caused by economic and social
tensions, dissatisfaction with taxation, political corruption or bad govern-
ment. Nevertheless, the question of political representation was always a
key issue. In 17th-century Cologne, for instance, one of the leaders of an
urban revolt argued that even though the town council had the political
authority, the political power “emanated from the people” (apud populum
potestas).29 In 1603, some citizens of Lübeck stressed that they recognised
the town council as “rectores” and “gubernatores Rei Publicae,” but not as
their “Dominos absolutos,” as they were not subjects but fellow citizens of
the councillors.30 Regardless of these assertions, early modern town revolts
were not modern democratic revolutions. The political authority of the city
council and its right to represent the city in the aforementioned sense gener-
ally remained undisputed. What was at stake was the extent to which other
civic corporations should participate in the process of political decision-
making and representation.
These conflicts did not always lead to violent revolts. More often, the
question of who had the right to represent the city was negotiated by means
of symbolic communication. As Richard Trexler has argued in his still-
groundbreaking study on Renaissance Venice, “[I]t was through ritual that
the medieval city achieved its identity.”31 And this was exactly the way in
which the rivalling political and social groups within the cities of the Holy
Roman Empire made their claims heard. Although there were written texts
that comprised the fundamental laws and privileges of the town, the politi-
cal order of the early modern city was first and foremost a “constitution in
actu.”32 This becomes particularly clear if we take a closer look at the pro-
cedures of political decision-making and government. As in the case of the
territorial Estates, technical and symbolic aspects of political representation
were inseparably linked.
The most paradigmatic case in point was the elections for town coun-
cils.33 Perhaps the biggest contrast to modern democratic elections was the
fact that the election’s outcome was usually predetermined or at least not
very surprising. Even when larger parts of the citizenry were involved in the
election procedure, as in Cologne, the circle of eligible candidates was very
restricted.34 Thus, the procedure always guaranteed the reproduction of a
ruling elite.35 In many cities, the councillors were appointed for life and it
110 Thomas Weller
was the members of the city council themselves who nominated their new
colleagues by co-optation. In these cities, the city council was frequently
divided into two or three groups of councillors who governed the city alter-
nately. Thus, what took place on election day was not an election, strictly
speaking, but merely a replacement of the governing council by the one that
had been in charge one or two years previously and was now appointed
again according to a predetermined cycle. For that reason, in many cities this
act was called Ratswechsel (change of the city council) and not Ratswahl
(election of the city council).
Although the outcome of the elections was usually of little importance,
the election procedure itself did matter. The appointment of the new city
council was a complex and highly formalised procedure that was always
framed by solemn ceremony. After weeks of preparation and announce-
ments, the election itself usually took place on an important religious feast
day. In many towns, this was the Chair of St Peter (Cathedra Petri), which
symbolically corresponded with the “seating” of the new city council in the
council’s chairs, a core element of the election ritual that took place either
in the town hall or the main church (as in Lübeck). In most cases, the elec-
tion was introduced by the tolling of the church bells and a public service,
which underlined the sacral dimension of the council’s government. In many
cities, special religious music that had been composed specifically for the
occasion was performed. Johann Sebastian Bach, for instance, wrote several
such election cantatas for the cities of Mühlhausen and Leipzig.36 When
the service was over, the councillors usually went in public procession to
the town hall, where the main ceremony took place, away from the public
gaze.37 During the liminal moment in which the old council was replaced by
the new one, the ordinary citizens were usually excluded. Once appointed,
however, the new city council was immediately presented to the citizenry,
and in many cities a public oath-taking ceremony took place.
On this occasion, the political order of the city and, particularly, the
relationship between the city council and the citizenry were symbolically
reconfirmed. The burghers had to swear loyalty and obedience to the city
council, whereas the councillors committed to respect the city’s statutes and
to do their best to pursue the common good. In the city of Ulm, this ritual,
although separated from the election, survived until the end of the Holy
Roman Empire and was reintroduced in the 20th century.38 Friedrich Nico-
lai mentions it only briefly in his travel account, maybe because the continu-
ance of this ritual did not fit well in his image of Ulm as a retrograde and
extremely hierarchical city dominated by a socially exclusive urban patrici-
ate. Consequently, he interprets the ritual as an act of homage of the citizens
to the newly elected mayor and the city council.39 However, it seems that,
at this time, for many of the citizens, the ritual had already lost its original
meaning. After 1650, the city council of Ulm had to remind the citizens
regularly that they were all bound to participate in the ceremony and that
they had to appear sober. Drunkenness was a serious problem, as the day
the oath was taken was also a public feast day—and this is obviously how
the citizens increasingly came to perceive it.
Although, on the one hand, the election and oath-taking ceremonies
affirmed the exclusive role of the councillors as a God-given authority, on
the other hand we can still detect elements of civic codetermination even in
those cities where the citizens hardly participated in the process of political
decision-making. Another case in point was the regular public reading of
the city statutes that was practised in many imperial cities. In Lübeck, for
instance, the so-called “Bursprake” took place four times a year. Interest-
ingly enough, on at least one occasion the city’s representatives adduced the
political participation of the citizens as an argument for the superior dignity
of the Lübeck city council in comparison to others. When the city of Lübeck
struggled over precedence with the city of Augsburg at the Peace Congress
of Osnabrück, the Lübeck delegates argued that they represented the whole
city, whereas their colleagues from Augsburg could only be considered rep-
resentatives of the city council.40
In all of these public rituals, the spatial arrangement of the participants
was crucial, as it symbolically reproduced and confirmed the political order
and the social hierarchies of the participants. However, this holds true not
only for political rituals strictly speaking, but also for a wide range of other
public ceremonies. In contrast to the territorial state and its representative
institutions, according to Rudolf Schlögl, in cities the physical presence
of the deputies was deemed to be important, in what we may term as a
“presence culture” (Anwesenheitsgesellschaft) that prevailed in the city.41
Whereas most of the territorial diets were socially exclusive and non-
permanent institutions, contact between city councillors and ordinary citi-
zens was extremely close and frequent. Town dwellers met one another on
hundreds of occasions in public spaces where they symbolically reconfirmed
the social and political order of the city. Taking a closer look at these ritu-
als, it becomes quite clear that the imperial cities’ inhabitants by no means
observed a “perfect equality” among themselves, as Machiavelli had argued.
On the contrary, struggles for precedence between corporations and individ-
uals were as frequent as within court society.42 Also, among the city council-
lors the ideal of equality was frequently challenged by competing principles
such as noble birth and family reputation.43
Another important medium of political representation was, of course, art
and architecture. This becomes particularly clear when looking at the town
hall, the symbolic centre of the city’s body politic. What is striking here is the
fact that any form of “republican” symbolism is missing. In most cases, the
iconography did not differ much from that of princely representation. What
are present, though, are the symbols that underlined the city’s status as an
imperial city: the imperial eagle, coats of arms or statues of the emperors
or the prince electors can be found on many public buildings.44 According
to the aforementioned Philipp Knipschild, this could even be proof of the
city’s political and juridical status (immediata Impereii subjectoc probatur
112 Thomas Weller
ex insigniis).45 The use of imperial symbols, however, was not an exclusive
feature of the imperial cities. In the case of Bremen whose political status as
a Reichsstadt was uncertain until the 18th century, the iconography of the
town hall, with the prominent figures of the emperor and the prince electors
at the market front, could be read as a political statement.
4. The Imperial Cities’ Foreign Relations

The example of Bremen underlines once again that the question of political
representation was not only a juridical matter. Like the exclusive right of the
council to represent the city within its walls, the political autonomy of the
city was also negotiated by means of symbolic communication. Therefore,
relations with foreign powers and particularly the city’s former or current
overlord were of crucial importance. In this regard, the solemn entries of
the Archbishop of Bremen to the city in 1580 and 1637 and that of the
Danish king and Duke of Holstein to Hamburg in 1603 were extremely
critical incidents. Whereas territorial princes interpreted the ritual reception
by the citizens as an act of hereditary homage (Huldigung), the respective
city councils did their utmost to prevent this (mis)interpretation.46 Even in
the case of Cologne, a city that in 1288 had liberated itself from its ruler,
the Archbishop and Prince-Elector of Cologne, and whose status as impe-
rial city had been confirmed by Emperor Frederick III in 1475, any visit of
the city’s former overlord led to delicate ceremonial and juridical problems.
The crucial question was where and in what manner the mayors and the city
councillors were to receive the archbishop. Since the city’s independence,
this happened outside the city walls, where the archbishop had to confirm
the city’s liberties before entering the town. The city councillors then con-
ducted the elector into the city and accompanied him as far as the so-called
“Pfaffentor” (the priests’ gate), which marked the limit of episcopal juris-
diction within the city walls. Apart from the obvious symbolic meaning,
this reception ritual also had a juridical significance. By placing itself at the
head of the episcopal procession, the city council claimed the so-called ius
conducendi. According to contemporary jurists, this right was one of the
key elements of the superioritas territorialis, the undisputed authority over
a territory. Precisely for that reason, the archbishops and electors of Cologne
refused to be conducted by the city’s representatives after 1550. Finally, both
parts agreed in a ceremony that left the critical question of the ius condu-
cencdi deliberately open.47
However, it was not only the symbolic communication with the cities’
former rulers that was an ambiguous and (always) risky matter. The same
holds true for the contacts with surrounding princes, even when the latter did
not claim direct dominion over the city. A beautiful example is the so-called
Martensmannlieferung (Martin’s man delivery), an annual gift of wine that
the city of Lübeck delivered to the dukes of Mecklenburg on the feast of St
Martin. The city of Lübeck always stressed the voluntary character of this
ritualised act of gift-giving, which dated back to the 13th or 14th century. The
dukes of Mecklenburg, in contrast, interpreted the annual wine present as a
tribute the city of Lübeck was obliged to pay them. Not surprisingly, the ritual
was always accompanied by ceremonial conflicts. On at least one occasion,
the dukes of Mecklenburg returned the gift because, instead of the promised
young wine or grape must, the city had obviously sent tainted wine.48
This incident shows how fragile the imperial cities’ political and juridical
status was in practice. Another case in point was the treatment of the impe-
rial cities at the imperial diets (Reichstage).49 Apart from the fact that the
participation of cities such as Bremen and Hamburg was accompanied by
protests until the 18th century (the first time that the right of both cities to
take their seats went undisputed was in 1741 and 1770, respectively), the
imperial cities’ representatives were always regarded as inferior to the other
participants of the Reichstag. The imperial diets consisted of three curiae or
colleges. The first one comprised the seven (eight after 1648 and nine after
1692) prince electors, the second one the secular and ecclesiastical princes,
and the third one the representatives of the imperial cities. Since each curia
had only one vote and the first two colleges used to coordinate their vot-
ing, the vote of the cities had no real importance. However, the social and
political inferiority of the city representatives became manifest not only in
the voting procedure but also at a symbolic level. In contrast to the other
participants at the Reichstag, the city representatives had to take their seats
behind a barrier, and, if one of them spoke in public, he had to stand up,
whereas the other representatives remained seated.
The Peace of Westphalia did little to improve this situation. Apart from
the cities’ inferior position at the Reichstag, which was perpetuated by the
Treaty of Osnabrück, the implementation of the new criterion of sover-
eignty in the field of foreign relations contributed to the increasing mar-
ginalisation of the cities. At this time, sovereignty was still conceived of as
a personal quality attached to a political ruler, generally a monarch. The
cities, in contrast, were neither a natural person nor were they governed
by a crowned head. This deficit was felt first and foremost in the field of
diplomatic ceremony. According to Abraham de Wicquefort, “[T]he most
distinctive feature of sovereignty was the right to send and to receive ambas-
sadors” (Il n’y a point de plus illustre marque de la Souveraineté que le droit
d’envoyer et de recevoir des Ambassadeurs).50 Therefore, after the Peace of
Westphalia, only monarchs and a very restricted number of early modern
republics had the right to be represented by fully accredited ambassadors,
whereas other political actors either had to content themselves with diplo-
matic representatives of lower rank (envoys or residents) or had no right to
diplomatic representation at all.51 Not surprisingly, the imperial cities found
themselves at the bottom of this ranking. After 1648, most contemporary
jurists questioned the ius legationis of the imperial cities.
However, there was one important exception to this general rule: From the
17th century onwards, the Hanseatic cities, among them the three imperial
114 Thomas Weller
cities of Lübeck, Hamburg and Bremen, not only established a consular
network that encompassed the most important trading ports of the Iberian
Peninsula and the Western Mediterranean (Lisbon, Cadiz, Malaga, Alicante,
Marseille, Livorno, Genoa, Venice) but also appointed diplomatic represen-
tatives to major European courts. By the end of the 18th century, the Hanse-
atic League, which now consisted solely of the three aforementioned cities,
still had permanent residents at the royal courts of Madrid, Lisbon, Paris,
London, Copenhagen and St Petersburg.52
For the vast majority of the imperial cities, however, things definitely became
worse after 1648. From the second half of the 17th century onwards, they
intensified their efforts to compensate for the increasing lack of acceptance by
the members of princely society in order to, at least, maintain a status differ-
ent to that of ordinary subjects. For that reason, contact with the surround-
ing princes and nobles became increasingly important. Gift-giving, acting as
godparents to the children of surrounding nobles or the solemn reception of
noble visitors were their preferred means of claiming noble status. At the end
of the 18th century, however, the continuation of these practices exposed the
imperial cities more and more to the ridicule of the enlightened public.53
5. Political Representation, Symbolic Communication and Early

Modern “Republicanism”—Conclusion
The preceding observations concerning the forms of political representa-
tion among the imperial cities of the Holy Roman Empire lead me to three
general conclusions
1. The early modern concept of political representation differed signifi-

cantly from our modern understanding of the term. The most widespread
model of political representation was that of representatio identitatis.
According to this idea, the representative body, a prominent part of the
body politic, was conceived of as identical to the whole political entity it
represented. The ways in which the members of this representative body
were appointed did not affect its faculty to represent the universitas, as
long as this happened in accordance with established rules. The idea of
representation by democratic mandate was a new one that arose in the
late 18th century and challenged this older concept.
2. In the early modern period, the technical and symbolic aspects of politi-
cal representation were inseparably linked. They literally constituted
two sides of the same coin. This also holds true for the imperial cities.
Within the city walls, the question of who had the right to represent the
city was negotiated by means of symbolic communication. Likewise, the
political autonomy of the city and its status as a Reichsstadt had to be
defended against competing claims on a symbolic level.
3. As to the debate over so-called “urban republicanism,” first of all we
should pay more attention to the temporal dynamics of the phenomena
we are talking about. At the beginning of the early modern period, the
political culture of the cities clearly differed from that of the evolving
princely states. Already at this time, however, allegedly “republican”
principles like equality of rights, shared duties and political participa-
tion of the citizens were challenged by diverging developments within
the city walls such as the gentrification and oligarchic closure of ruling
elites. It is quite obvious that, after the second half of the 17th century
at the latest, most cities adopted the dominant aristocratic model of
political representation rather than sticking to their own “republican”
traditions. The imperial cities do not constitute an exception to this
general rule. Nevertheless, even in those cities which were governed by
a socially exclusive patriciate, such as Ulm, remnants of civic codeter-
mination and political participation survived until the end of the Holy
Roman Empire, at least on a symbolic level.
Whether the term “republicanism” is appropriate to describe the specific

political culture of the imperial cities is another question. If we do use this
term, however, we should make it clear that there was no direct continu-
ity between this urban political culture and the modern democratic ideas
that arose in the context of the French Revolution.54 The imperial cities
of the Holy Roman Empire are the best case in point. As Friedrich Nico-
lai’s observations show, the traditional model of political representation
in the imperial cities was already in crisis before the French Revolution
shattered the Ancien Régime and the Napoleonic wars finally put an end
to the Holy Roman Empire. When the French revolutionary army con-
quered the region of Mainz and founded the first modern republic on Ger-
man territory, most inhabitants of the nearby imperial cities of Frankfurt,
Worms and Speyer were as reluctant to embrace the new ideals of liberty,
equality and fraternity as the population of Mainz and the surrounding
countryside.55
Notes
* This article is part of my work with the research group “The Polycentric Model
of Shared Sovereignty (Sixteenth–Eighteenth Centuries): An Alternative Path
for The Construction of the Modern State” (HAR2013–45357-P), directed by
Manuel Herrero Sánchez and financed by the Spanish Ministry of Science and
Innovation. I am grateful to Henning P. Jürgens for his helpful comments and
suggestions and to Joe P. Kroll for his careful reading of the text and his correc-
tions and stylistic improvements.
1. In accordance with the editors’ guidelines, bibliographical references have been
reduced to a minimum. For a recent survey, see Heinz Schilling and Stefan
Ehrenpreis, Die Stadt in der Frühen Neuzeit, 3rd rev. ed. (Berlin: De Gruyter,
2015); Thomas Lau, Unruhige Städte. Die Stadt, das Reich und die Reichsstadt
(1648–1806) (Munich: Oldenbourg, 2012); from a European perspective,
Christopher R. Friedrichs, Urban Politics in Early Modern Europe (London:
Routledge, 2000).
116 Thomas Weller
2. Nicolò Machiavelli, The Prince: Machiavelli’s Description of the Methods
of Murder Adopted by Duke Valentino & the Life of Castruccio Castracani,
trans. William K. Marriott (Rockville, MD: Arc Manor Publication, 2007),
chapter X., 39.
3. Nicolò Machiavelli, Discourses on Livy, trans. Harvey C. Mansfield and Nathan
Tarcov (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998), Book 1, chapter 55.
4. Friedrich Nicolai, Beschreibung einer Reise durch Deutschland und die Sch-
weiz im Jahre 1781, vol. 9 (Friedrich Nicolai, Gesammelte Werke, ed. Bern-
hard Fabian and Marie-Luise Spieckermann, vol. 19) (Hildesheim: Olms, 1994),
47–57.
5. “Ulm ist [. . .] eine Reichsstadt, das heißt, obgleich darin eine Menge verstän-
diger wackerer Leute sind [. . .] so herrscht doch daselbst ein gewisses steifes
Ceremoniel [. . .]. Der Unterschied zwischen Patriciern und Bürgern, zwischen
Ratsherren und Bürgern ist, bey allen Vorfällen des Lebens, in dieser Republik
sehr schneidend,” ibid., 117.
6. Anthony Black, ed., Community in Historical Perspective: A Translation of
Selections from Das Deutsche Genossenschaftsrecht by Otto von Gierke, trans.
Mary Fisher (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 134–147.
7. Heinz Schilling, “Gab es im späten Mittelalter und zu Beginn der Neuzeit in
Deutschland einen städtischen‚ Republikanismus? Zur politischen Kultur des
alteuropäischen Stadtbürgertums,” in Republiken und Republikanismus im
Europa der Frühen Neuzeit, ed. Helmut G. Koenigsberger (Munich: Olden-
bourg, 1988), 101–143; Heinz Schilling, “Stadt und frühmoderner Territorial-
staat: Stadtrepublikanismus versus Fürstensouveränität. Die politische Kultur
des deutschen Stadtbürgertums in der Konfrontation mit dem frühmodernen
Staatsprinzip?,” in Recht, Verfassung und Verwaltung in der frühneuzeitlichen
Stadt, ed. Michael Stolleis (Cologne: Böhlau, 1991), 19–39; Ruth Schilling,
Stadtrepublik und Selbstbehauptung. Venedig, Hamburg und Lübeck im 16. und
17. Jahrhundert (Cologne: Böhlau, 2012). For a critical appraisal of Heinz Schil-
ling’s arguments, see Wolfgang Mager, “Genossenschaft, Republikanismus und
konsensgestütztes Ratsregiment. Zur Konzeptionalisierung der politischen Ord-
nung in der mittelalterlichen und frühneuzeitlichen deutschen Stadt,” in Aspekte
der politischen Kommunikation im Europa des 16. und 17. Jahrhunderts. Poli-
tische Theologie—Res Publica-Verständnis—konsensgestützte Herrschaft, ed.
Luise Schorn-Schütte (Munich: Oldenbourg, 2004), 13–122.
8. André Krischer, Reichsstädte in der Fürstengesellschaft. Politischer Zeichenge-
brauch in der Frühen Neuzeit (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft,
2006); André Krischer, “Das diplomatische Zeremoniell der Reichsstädte, oder:
Was heißt Stadtfreiheit in der Fürstengesellschaft?,” Historische Zeitschrift 284
(2007): 1–30. Krischer’s observations coincide on many points with my own
findings regarding the territorial city of Leipzig: Thomas Weller, Theatrum
Praecedentiae. Zeremonieller Rang und gesellschaftliche Ordnung in der früh-
neuzeitlichen Stadt: Leipzig 1500–1800 (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchge-
sellschaft, 2006).
9. Hanna Fenichel Pitkin, The Concept of Representation (Berkeley: University of
California Press, 1967); Mónica Brito Vieira and David Runciman, Representa-
tion (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2008).
10. For the following, see Barbara Stollberg-Rilinger, “Rituals of Decision Mak-
ing? Early Modern European Assemblies of Estates as Acts of Symbolic Com-
munication,” in Political Order and the Forms of Communication in Medieval
and Early Modern Europe, ed. Yoshihisa Hattori (Rome: Viella, 2014), 63–95;
Barbara Stollberg-Rilinger, The Emperor’s Old Clothes: Constitutional History
and the Symbolic Language of the Holy Roman Empire, transl. Thomas Dunlap
(New York: Berghahn, 2015).
11. Roger Chartier, “The World as Representation,” in Histories: French Construc-
tions of the Past, ed. Jacques Revel and Lynn Hunt (New York: The New Press,
1995), 544–558.
12. For the concept of “symbolic communication,” see Barbara Stollberg-Rilinger, “Sym-
bolische Kommunikation in der Vormoderne. Begriffe—Forschungsperspektiven—
Thesen,” Zeitschrift für Historische Forschung 31 (2004): 489–527.
13. Pierre Bourdieu, “Political Representation,” in Pierre Bourdieu, Language and
Symbolic Power, ed. John B. Thompson (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University
Press, 1991), 171–202; Samuel Hayet and Yves Sintomer, eds. La représentation
politique (Raisons politiques 50/2) (Paris: Presses de Sciences Po, 2013); Paula
Diehl and Felix Steilen, eds., Politische Repräsentation und das Symbolische.
Historische, politische und soziologische Perspektiven (Wiesbaden: Springer,
2016).
14. Mager, “Genossenschaft,” 101–106; Hasso Hofmann, Repräsentation. Studien
zur Wort- und Begriffsgeschichte von der Antike bis zum 19. Jahrhundert (Ber-
lin: Duncker & Humblot, 1974).
15. John of Segovia, Liber de magna auctoritate episcoporum in concilio generali,
ed. Rolf de Kegel (Fribourg: Universitätsverlag, 1995).
16. Mager, “Genossenschaft,” 104–106; Hoffmann, Repräsentation, 211–219.
17. For a recent survey, see Michael A. R. Graves, The Parliaments of Early Mod-
ern Europe (Harlow: Longman, 2001); Tim Neu, Michael Sikora and Thomas
Weller, eds., Zelebrieren und Verhandeln. Zur Praxis ständischer Institutionen
im frühneuzeitlichen Europa (Münster: Rhema, 2009).
18. Stollberg-Rilinger, “Custodians without Mandate: In How Far Did German Ter-
ritorial Estates Represent the People?,” in La représentation politique avant la
représentation constitutionnelle, ed. Samuel Hayat, Corinne Péneau and Yves
Sintomer (Paris, 2016), forthcoming.
19. Otto Brunner, Land and Lordship: Structures of Governance in Medieval Aus-
tria, trans. Howard Kaminsky and James Van Horn Melton (Philadelphia, PA:
University of Pennsylvania Press, 1992), 349 (italics in original).
20. Stollberg-Rilinger, “Herstellung und Darstellung”; Stollberg-Rilinger, “Rituals
of Decision-Making”; Tim Neu, “Rhetoric and Representation: Reassessing Ter-
ritorial Diets in Early Modern Germany,” Central European History 43 (2010):
1–24.
21. Mager, “Genossenschaft”; Ulrich Meier, Mensch und Bürger. Die Stadt im Den-
ken spätmittelalterlicher Theologen, Philosophen und Juristen (Munich: Olden-
bourg, 1994), 116–126, 189–203. See also the contribution by Wim Blockmans
in this volume.
22. Bartolus de Saxoferrato, In secundam atque tertiam Codicis partem. Commen-
taria Tom. VIII (Venice: Giunti, 1615), fol. 16ra: ad C.10.31.2, no. 8; quoted in
Meier, Die Stadt, 193f; see also Hoffmann, Repräsentation, 219–221.
23. “Ut consulatus representat civitatem eodem utens nomine et potestate.” Speech
by John of Segovia in Deutsche Reichstagsakten, vol. 15, 681; Mager, “Genos-
senschaft,” 105; Meier, Die Stadt, 195; Hoffmann, Repräsentation, 212.
24. “Et civitas, universitas et collegium sunt nomina juris, et dicuntur personae
repraesentatae per eourum Rectores et mentores,” Philipp Knipschild, Tractatus
politico-historico-juridicus de iuribus et privilegiis civitatium imperialium, 3rd
ed. (Strasbourg: Beckius, 1740), lib. 5, cap. 1, no. 9, 384; see Mager, “Genos-
senschaft,” 108.
25. Knipschild, Tractatus, lib. 5, cap. 1, no. 4–5, 384.
26. Ibid., no. 10, 384f.
27. Knipschild’s treatise was first published in Ulm in 1657 and again in 1687.
These two first editions were followed in 1740 by a third one, cited above in
note 24.
118 Thomas Weller
28. Lau, Unruhige Städte; Christopher R. Friedrichs, “German Town Revolts and
the Seventeenth-Century Crisis,” Renaissance and Modern Studies 26 (1982):
27–51.
29. Gerd Schwerhoff, “Apud populum potestas? Ratsherrschaft und korporative
Partizipation im spätmittelalterlichen und frühneuzeitlichen Köln,” in Stadtregi-
ment und Bürgerfreiheit. Handlungsspielräume in deutschen und italienischen
Städten des Späten Mittelalters und der Frühen Neuzeit, ed. Klaus Schreiner and
Ulrich Meier (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1994), 188–243, 229.
30. “Sie erkenneten einen Erbarn Rath fur Rectores unnd gubernatores Reipublicae
Unndt nicht Dominos absolutos, deren sie nicht udertahnnen, soindern Mit-
burger”: quoted in Jürgen Asch, Rat und Bürgerschaft in Lübeck, 1598–1669
(Lübeck: Schmidt-Römhild, 1961), 43.
31. Richard C. Trexler, Public Life in Renaissance Florence (Ithaca: Cornell Univer-
sity Press, 1980), XXII.
32. For this concept, see André Holenstein, Die Huldigung der Untertanen. Rechtskul-
tur und Herrschaftsordnung, 800–1800 (Stuttgart: Fischer, 1991).
33. For a general overview, see Dietrich W. Poeck, Rituale der Ratswahl. Zeichen
und Zeremoniell der Ratssetzung in Europa (Cologne: Böhlau, 2003); Rudolf
Schlögl, ed., Urban Elections and Decision-Making in Early Modern Europe,
1500–1800 (Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2009).
34. Schwerhoff, “Apud populum potestas”; Gerd Schwerhoff, “Wahlen in der vor-
modernen Stadt zwischen symbolischer Partizipation und Entscheidungsmacht.
Das Beispiel des Kölner Ratsherrn Hermann von Weinsberg (1518–1597),”
in Technik und Symbolik vormoderner Wahlverfahren, ed. Christoph Dart-
mann, Günther Wassilowsky and Thomas Weller (Munich: Oldenbourg, 2010),
95–112.
35. Obviously, this was a general European pattern: see Schlögl, ed., Urban Elec-
tions; Poeck, Rituale der Ratswahl; Friedrichs, Urban Politics, 13–20.
36. Alfred Dürr, Johann Sebastian Bach. Die Kantaten (Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1999),
795–815.
37. The importance of this element becomes clear when looking at the example of
Bremen, where the procession of the newly elected town council was criticised
for religious reasons but never abolished: Schilling, Stadtrepublik, 91.
38. Wolf-Henning Petershagen, Schwörpflicht und Volksvergnügen. Zur Verfas-
sungswirklichkeit und städtischen Festkultur in Ulm (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer,
1998).
39. Nicolai, Beschreibung einer Reise, supplement to vol. 9, 14.
40. Günter Buchstab, Reichsstädte, Städtekurie und Westfälischer Friedenskongress.
Zusammenhänge von Sozialstruktur, Rechtsstatus und Wirtschaftskraft (Mün-
ster: Aschendorff, 1976), 82.
41. Rudolf Schlögl, “Vergesellschaftung unter Anwesenden. Zur kommunikativen
Form des Politischen in der vormodernen Stadt,” in Interaktion und Herrschaft.
Die Politik der frühneuzeitlichen Stadt, ed. Rudolf Schlögl (Konstanz: UVK,
2004), 9–60.
42. Weller, Theatrum Praecedentiae.
43. Schilling, Stadtrepublik, 105–140.
44. Ulrich Meier, “Vom Mythos der Republik. Formen und Funktionen spät-
mittelalterlicher Rathausikonographie in Deutschland und Italien,” in Mun-
dus in imagine. Bildersprache und Lebenswelten im Mittelalter, ed. Andrea
Löther et al. (Munich: Fink, 1996), 345–387; Stephan Albrecht, “Gute
Herrschaft—fürstengleich. Städtisches Selbstverständnis im Spiegel der
neuzeitlichen Rathausikonographie,” in Heiliges Römisches Reich Deutscher
Nation 962–1806. Altes Reich und neue Staaten 1495–1806 (Dresden: Sand-
stein, 2006), vol. 2, 201–213.
45. “Immediata Impererii subjecto probatur ex insigniis, veluti si civitas aliqua lon-
gissimo tempore, in portis, muris, curiis, praetoriis, aliisque aedificiis et locis
publicis, Aquilam et insignia imperatoris et Imperii, suspensa, depicta, vel incisa
habuerit, nemine ea evertente, tunc enim civitatem illam Imperialem et imme-
diate Imperiom subjectam esse”: Knipschild, Tractatus, lib. 1, cap. 12, no. 37;
Krischer, Reichsstädte, 96.
47. Krischer, Reichsstädte, 253–255.
49. Krischer, Reichsstädte, 44–59.
50. Wicquefort, L’Ambassadeur et ses fonctions (Amsterdam, 1746), 17.
51. Barbara Stollberg-Rilinger, “Völkerrechtlicher Status und zeremonielle Praxis
auf dem Westfälischen Friedenskongreß,” in Rechtsformen internationaler Poli-
tik. Theorie, Norm und Praxis vom 12. bis zum 18. Jahrhundert, ed. Martin
Kintzinger, Michael Jucker and Rainer Christoph Schwinges (Berlin: Duncker &
Humblot, 2011), 147–164; Thomas Weller, “Las repúblicas europeas y la Paz
de Westfalia: la representación republicana en las negociaciones de Mün-
ster y Osnabrück,” in Repúblicas y republicanismos en la Europa moderna
(siglos XVI-XVIII), ed. Manuel Herrero Sánchez (Madrid: Fondo de Cultura
Económica, 2016), 329–347.
52. Thomas Weller, “Merchants and Courtiers: Hanseatic Representatives at the
Spanish Court in the Seventeenth Century,” in Ambasciatori “minori” nella
Spagna di età moderna: Uno sguardo europeo, ed. Paola Volpini (Dimensioni e
problemi della ricerca storica 1/2014) (Rome: Carocci Editore, 2015), 73–98.
53. Krischer, Reichsstädte; Krischer, “Das diplomatische Zeremoniell.”
54. See Schilling, “Stadtrepublikanismus,” 120, 141; a contrary position is defended
by Peter Blickle, “Communalism, Parliamentarism, Republicanism,” Parlia-
ments, Estates and Representation 6 (1986): 1–13. For the criticism of teleologi-
cal approaches to early modern political representation, see also the contribution
by Wim Blockmans in this volume.
55. Franz Dumont, Die Mainzer Republik von 1792/93. Studien zur Revolution-
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by John B. Thompson, 171–202. Cambridge, MS: Harvard University Press, 1991.
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Scotland
8 Representation in the Scottish
Parliament to 1707 and
Scottish Representation in the
Parliament of Great Britain to
the 1832 Reform Act
John R. Young
The pre-1707 Scottish parliament (covering the period up to the 1707 Act
of Union between Scotland and England) was a single chamber (unicam-
eral) institution, unlike its English counterpart, with no separate House of
Commons and House of Lords.1 It was a representative assembly based on
the concept of estates: clergy (clerical estate), nobility (noble estate), barons
(estate of barons, also referred to as shire commissioners), burghs (estate of
burgesses) and officers of state (crown appointments). Different estates were
represented at different times in Scotland’s history, and several important
constitutional settlements in the history of the Scottish parliament impacted
on the representative nature of the estates.2
The first estate was the estate of the clergy. The clergy had been present
since the origins of the Scottish parliament, but, over time, the representa-
tion of the clergy was affected by the seismic event of the 1560 Reforma-
tion in Scotland and by several constitutional settlements, in 1640–1641,
1661–1663 and 1689–1690. Post-Reformation representation in a clerical
sense became increasingly focused on the General Assembly of the Church
of Scotland, under a Presbyterian church system, and the theoretical distinc-
tion between the church and the state, as articulated in the leading prot-
estant reformer Andrew Melville’s Second Book of Discipline (1578). The
employment of clerics in the state became a controversial political issue dur-
ing the post-1625 reign of Charles I. In parliamentary terms, the clerical
estate became increasingly associated with the perceived negative features
of the Lords of the Articles, the parliamentary standing committee that was
used for managing the legislative process. In general, the clerical estate was
controversial in parliament, especially in the parliaments of 1621 and 1633
during the reigns of James VI and Charles I. The Lords of the Articles were
abolished in 1640 as part of the 1640–1641 constitutional settlement, but
they were re-established in the Restoration parliament of 1661–1663, and
were finally abolished in 1690 as part of the Revolution settlement.3
The clerical estate was abolished on 2 June 1640. The Scottish estates
were redefined and deemed to consist of the estates of the nobility, barons
(shire commissioners) and burgesses. Hence, there was no clerical estate in
parliament, but the clerical estate was formally restored as a fundamental
124 John R. Young
part of the Scottish Restoration settlement of 1661–1663, with legislation
for calling in the bishops to the parliament of 8 May 1662.4 Nevertheless,
the clerical estate was abolished again at the Scottish Revolution settlement
of 1689–1690,5 when King James VII was forfeited of the Scottish crown
and was replaced by William II (William of Orange) as King of Scotland.
In terms of Scotland’s religious institutions, the General Assembly of the
Church of Scotland was in existence, 1690–1707, as per the Presbyterian
church structure that was restored at the Revolution in addition to the full
separation of church and state and the primacy of the General Assembly in
church affairs.6
The abolition of the clerical estate in 1640 had an important impact on the
estate of barons (shire commissioners). An important representative devel-
opment took place in 1587, with the development of elected shire commis-
sioners (see Figure 8.1). The 1587 statute “effectively introduced the system
of representation for the shires.”7 The statute was an attempt to enforce the
attendance of lesser tenants-in-chief of the crown or small barons, as previous
related legislation dating back to 1428 during the reign of James I had largely
been ignored. As per the 1587 legislation, the small tenants-in-chief were to
meet on an annual basis at the Michaelmas head court in each sheriffdom,
where they were to elect two wise men to represent them in parliament. With
the advent of elected shire commissioners, a fourth estate was essentially cre-
ated in 1587.8 Voting power was invested in the shire, as opposed to the
individual commissioner, but this situation changed in the June 1640 session
when the voting power of the shires was doubled in the aftermath of the
abolition of the clerical estate. An example from a shire constituency in the
Scottish Borders, Roxburghshire, can highlight this point. Previously, there
was only one vote for the shire, although there were two commissioners. Sir
William Douglas of Cavers and Robert Pringle of Stichill, for example, repre-
sented Roxburghshire, and they now had an individual vote (one vote each)
whereas under the previous system the vote was invested in the shire per se.9
The fact that the shires were the beneficiaries of representative legislation
in the 17th century was reflected in the enactment of expansionist legislation
as part of the Revolution settlement of 1689–1690 in Scotland. According to
the Act for an Additional Representation in Parliament of the Greater Shires
of 14 June 1690, 11 shires were allocated an additional two commissioners
(now four commissioners in total) and four shires were allocated an addi-
tional commissioner (now three commissioners in total). Therefore, the larger
shires were given greater representation.10 The 1690 legislation first came into
effect in the 1693 parliamentary session. In the 1690 parliamentary session,
for example, Aberdeenshire was represented by the two commissioners, Sir
John Forbes of Craigievar and James Moir of Stoneywood. In the 1693 parlia-
mentary session, Aberdeenshire was now represented by four commissioners:
the two commissioners from the 1690 session, plus Samuel Forbes of Foveran
and James Elphinstone of Logie.11 Renfrewshire was one of the shires that
received an additional commissioner as a result of the 1690 legislation. Sir
John Maxwell of Pollock and William Cunningham of Craigends represented
Scottish Representation 125
Figure 8.1 Scottish representation: Shires represented in the Scottish Parliament

before 1707.
Courtesy of the Trustees of the Scottish Medievalists.
Renfrewshire in the 1690 parliamentary session. In the 1695 session (the fifth
session of the 1689–1702 parliament), Renfrewshire’s three commissioners
were Maxwell, Cunningham and John Caldwell of that ilk.12
126 John R. Young
The estate of the burghs consisted of commissioners who were represen-
tatives of the royal burghs (see Figure 8.2), and they were elected by their
town councils. Each burgh had one commissioner with an individual vote,
but Edinburgh, as the capital, was represented by two commissioners by
the end of parliament’s existence in 1707. John Anderson of Dowhill, who
is buried in the graveyard of Glasgow Cathedral, represented the burgh of
Glasgow in the revolutionary convention of estates of 1689 and the par-
liamentary sessions of 1689–1702.13 Sir Patrick Johnston and Robert Ing-
lis, for example, represented the burgh of Edinburgh in all four sessions of
the parliament of 1703–1707.14 The burghal estate had close links to the
institution of the Convention of Royal Burghs, which usually met before
a parliament or parliamentary session to discuss economic and mercantile
policies and issues. The convention has been described as unique in Europe
and “in no other kingdom was the merchant community organised on a
national basis.”15 Burgh commissioners represented mercantile interests,
and oligarchic burgh councils tended to dominate the electoral process for
commissioners.16
Officers of state were appointed by the crown and were restricted to
eight in 1617. Officers of state included such offices as the chancellor, secre-
tary, lord advocate, treasurer, treasurer depute, privy seal, justice clerk and
clerk register. Officers of state voted in their own parliamentary estates, but,
as they were crown appointments, their role could be controversial. As per
legislation of 16 September 1641, parliamentary approval and consent were
required for the appointment of officers of state (as well as privy councillors
and lords of session—leading legal officials).17 Legislation of 11 January 1661,
which was enacted as part of the Restoration settlement of 1661–1663,
restored the royal prerogative in their appointment.18 Officers of state sat
in parliament until 1707, although there were attempts to limit their pow-
ers on several occasions as part of later constitutional reform programmes,
including the reform programme of Andrew Fletcher of Saltoun, whose limi-
tations of 1703–1704 included the demand for parliamentary consent for
the appointment of all civil and military appointments.19
Several trends in representation can be identified by the 17th and early
18th centuries. First, family dynasties often dominated shire and burgh rep-
resentation over periods of time. The Menzies family, for example, domi-
nated the burgh representation of Aberdeen in the northeast of Scotland
from the 1440s to the 1630s. Gilbert Menzies of Findon, his son Thomas
Menzies of Pitfodels, and his son Gilbert Menzies of Findon represented
Aberdeen burgh, 1513–1581.20 The Wedderburn family in Dundee domi-
nated the representation of this important eastern burgh from the 1580s to
the late 1670s. Alexander Wedderburne of Kingennie represented Dundee
in parliaments and conventions of estates from 1585 to 1621, and his eldest
son, Alexander Wedderburn of Kingennie, represented Dundee in the 1633
parliament. In turn, his son, Alexander Wedderburn of Kingennie and Easter
Powrie, represented Dundee in the Restoration parliament of 1661–1663
and the 1678 convention of estates.21
Figure 8.2 Scottish representation: Burghs represented in the Scottish Parliament
before 1707.
128 John R. Young
With regard to the Scottish Highlands, the Forbes of Culloden family
dominated the parliamentary representation of Inverness-shire and Nairn-
shire in the 17th and early 18th centuries, culminating in the premier role
played by Duncan Forbes of Culloden as a high-profile figure in Scottish
political and legal life in the post-1707 British political world. Duncan
Forbes of Culloden represented the burgh of Inverness in the 1625 conven-
tion of estates, the 1633 parliament and the parliamentary sessions of 1639–
1640 and 1649.22 His son, John Forbes of Culloden, represented Inverness
burgh in the parliamentary sessions of 1646–1647 and Inverness-shire in the
parliament of 1669–1674.23 His son, another Duncan Forbes of Culloden,
represented Nairnshire in the 1678 convention of estates, the 1681 parlia-
ment, the 1689 convention of estates, the parliament of 1689–1702 and the
parliamentary session of 1703.24 In turn, his son—another John Forbes of
Culloden—represented Nairnshire in the parliamentary sessions of 1704–
1707. This John Forbes of Culloden also had a post-1707 British parliamen-
tary career, representing Nairnshire in the British parliament, 1713–1715
and 1722–1727, as well as Inverness-shire, 1715–1722. The family was pro-
King William of Orange and anti-Jacobite in its outlook, and John Forbes
of Culloden was active on the pro-government Hanoverian side in the 1715
Jacobite rebellion.25 His brother, another Duncan Forbes of Culloden, had
a distinguished legal and political career, serving as lord president of the
Court of Session.26 The dominance of the Forbes of Culloden family in
Inverness-shire and Nairnshire fits into a wider profile of Highland shire
representation. Shire commissioners were usually local lairds, and represen-
tation was often dominated by dominant kindred groups in the area. Twelve
of the 17 men who represented Argyllshire c. 1612–1702 were Campbells,
11 of the 14 commissioners who represented the shire of Sutherland were
Gordons (and the other three representatives were members of client clans),
and it has been estimated that at least 50% of commissioners for the shire
of Caithness were Sinclairs.27
A second trend is that of parliamentarians who represented different
constituencies in their political careers. One such example is Sir Ludovick
Houston who represented the neighbouring constituencies of Renfrewshire
and Dunbartonshire in the west of Scotland in 1633–51, Dunbartonshire in
the 1633 parliament and Renfrewshire in the 1648 parliamentary session.28
Another significant example of this type of parliamentarian is Sir Archibald
Johnston of Wariston, who was one of the leading parliamentarians of the
1640s and a central figure in the covenanting movement. Traditionally, War-
iston had represented the shire of Edinburgh, but in the 1648 parliamentary
session he represented the geographically distant constituency of Argyllshire.
This was due to the factional influence and patronage of Archibald Camp-
bell, eighth earl and first marquis of Argyll, the leading politician in the
covenanting movement in Scotland and a leading protagonist in the civil
wars of Britain and Ireland during this period. Unable to secure his election
in his traditional constituency due to factional opposition as the politics of
the country and movement changed, Wariston secured parliamentary elec-
tion via Argyll’s influence.29
A third trend is that of the sons of noblemen representing shire and
burgh constituencies. John Campbell of Mamore, the second son of
Archibald Campbell, ninth earl of Argyll, for example, represented the shire
of Argyll (Argyllshire) in the parliamentary sessions of 1700–1702 and the
1703–1707 parliament. He also represented Dunbartonshire in the Brit-
ish parliament, 1708–1722 and 1725–1727.30 In the Campbell of Mamore
example, a nobleman’s son represented a shire constituency, whereas Wil-
liam Cochrane of Kilmaronock, the second son of William Cochrane, first
earl of Dundonald, represented the burgh of Renfrew in the 1689 con-
vention of estates and the parliamentary sessions of 1689–1695, as well
as representing Dunbartonshire in the 1703–1707 parliament.31 Two sons
of James Dalrymple, first viscount Stair, represented constituencies in the
1703–1707 parliament: Sir David Dalrymple of Hailes (burgh of Culross)
and Sir Hew Dalrymple of North Berwick (burgh of North Berwick. Sir
Hew Dalrymple previously held the burgh of New Galloway, 1690–1702).
The Dalrymple family was one of the most prominent legal families in
Scotland. Sir Hew Dalrymple, in particular, had a formidable legal reputa-
tion and was regarded as being one of the best lord presidents of the Court
of Session in Scotland, holding that office from 1698 to 1737. Sir David
Dalrymple also represented Haddington burghs in the House of Commons,
1708–1721, as well as being lord advocate of Scotland, for example, in
1709–1711 and 1714–1720.32
The Cochrane and Dalrymple case studies indicate a fourth trend in rep-
resentation: that of movement between estates, especially with regard to
promotion to noble rank and status. William Cochrane of Kilmaronock’s
father was William Cochrane of Cowdoun, who represented Ayrshire in
1644–1647. In 1647, he was made lord Cochrane of Dundonald, and then
first earl of Dundonald in 1669. Dundonald, therefore, sat in the noble
estate, for instance, in the 1669–1674 parliament.33 Sir John Dalrymple of
Stair, a key member of the Dalrymple family network, represented the burgh
of Stranraer in southwest Scotland in the 1689 convention and the 1689
parliamentary session. Stair played an important role in the Revolution of
1688–1690 in Scotland, and he was made earl of Stair in 1703 and sat in the
noble estate in the 1703–1707 parliament.34
There are also trends which transcend the 1707 cut-off point concern-
ing representation, as per the 1707 Act of Union. These were the small
size of the electorate, which was an important representative indicator
that remained in place until the 1832 Reform Act. The small size of the
electorate continued to facilitate the continued domination of constituen-
cies by families and family dynasties. This relationship between families
and representative domination can therefore be identified both before and
130 John R. Young
after the 1707 Act of Union, and it was a salient feature of Scottish politi-
cal life in the 18th and 19th centuries. The dukes of Argyll, for example,
were in control of the elections in Argyllshire, being the largest landown-
ers as well as being the chiefs of Clan Campbell. Campbell interest also
extended into Ayrshire and Dunbartonshire, as well as Ayr burghs, Inverary
and Campbeltown, as well as the expanding commercial city of Glasgow,
where Daniel Campbell of Shawfield had represented the burgh of Inver-
ary in the 1703–1707 parliament and later represented Glasgow burghs in
1716–1727 and 1728–1734.35 This was part of a wider pattern of politi-
cal management and control post-1707, and the domination of Scottish
politics by the Argathelian interest under John Campbell, second duke of
Argyll, and his brother Archibald Campbell, earl of Islay, who succeeded
him as third duke. This essentially constituted what came to be known as a
viceroy system of management, with the third duke of Argyll in particular
becoming a dominant force. The Argathelian interest was dominant until
c. 1765, but later in the 18th century Henry Dundas, first viscount Mel-
ville, dominated the Scottish political scene, especially in terms of electoral
representation, in what is known as the period of the Dundas despotism in
Scottish political history.36
With regard to the period that goes from the Reformation of 1560 to
the 1707 Union, it has been noted that the estate of the clergy was “drasti-
cally culled and eventually disappeared,” that the noble estate was divided
in 1587 into “a hereditary peerage that received summons and the untitled
barons represented by elected shire commissioners”37 (essentially a greater
and a lesser nobility which was nevertheless part of the same group),38 and
that the estate of the burghs was “numerically overshadowed by the grow-
ing landed interest.”39 Thus, the nobility were “the most powerful parlia-
mentarians and, over the centuries of parliament’s existence . . . noble power
not only endured but it increased at the expense of the other estates.”40 An
alternative viewpoint argues that the shire commissioners were not mere
adjuncts of the nobility and that they developed their own identity, espe-
cially in terms of the Covenanting parliaments of 1639–1651, and they have
also been labelled as the gentry.41 It has been more recently noted that a
broader social base was important for the administration of Covenanting
Scotland, 1637–1651, for example.42
Parliamentary Representation at the Time of the 1707 Act of Union

to the 1832 Reform Act
Shire and burgh representation at the time of the 1707 union was based
on 33 shire constituencies and 67 burgh constituencies. Attendance data
indicate that all 33 shires were represented for the first time in the 1681
parliament; full shire attendance took place in the 1685 parliamentary
session (the first parliamentary session of the new Catholic king, James VII)
and the parliamentary session of 29 October 1700–1 February 1701 (at
a time when Scotland was attempting to establish its own colony on the
isthmus of Panama and was in conflict with the global Spanish empire)
and the 1705 parliamentary session (which passed legislation to negotiate
a treaty with England and that the negotiating commissioners should be
chosen by Queen Anne and not the Scottish parliament). There was also
an important geographic dimension to burgh and shire representation,
such as the dominance of the Fife area of Scotland with regard to burgh
representation, reflecting the previous economic significance of that area
with European trade routes such as the Baltic region. The post-1707 rep-
resentative system adopted for shires and burghs is outlined in Figures 8.3
and 8.4. Scots also sat for non-Scottish constituencies in the House of
Commons post-1707, for example, c. 68 Scots sat for non-Scottish seats,
1820–1832.43
The system of Scottish representation in the post-1707 British parliament
was based on 16 elected peers in the House of Lords and 45 MPs in the
House of Commons: 30 MPs for shire constituencies and 15 MPs for burgh
constituencies. This was the system that was in place until the 1832 Reform
Act. Article 22 of the Act of Union provided for 16 elected peers in the
House of Lords, which was relatively small in terms of the existing size of
the nobility at the time of the union. These elected peers were entitled to
sit for the lifetime of a parliament only. Therefore, the electoral principle
applied to representation of the peerage in the Lords, marking a departure
from the pre-1707 system. In common with the English peerage, the Scottish
peerage was closed at the Union. No new peers could be created; therefore,
changes to the electorate were minimal. The first group of representative
peers could take their seats in the first parliament of Great Britain, which
met on 23 October 1707.44
The electorate for peerage representation in the House of Lords was the
peerage of Scotland itself. The electoral process for the peerage (as well as
for the 45 members in the commons) was laid out in the legislation of 4 Feb-
ruary 1707 in the period after the ratification of the Treaty of Union on
16 January 1707, legislation settling the manner of electing the 16 peers and
45 members to represent Scotland in the parliament of Great Britain. This
was to be done by open election and plurality of voices (a majority), as well
as proxies for those who were absent (a written mandate signed before wit-
nesses was required for proxies).45 Elections duly took place on 13 February
1707, and each estate elected its own representatives.46 The size of the Scot-
tish peerage on 1 May 1707, as per what is known as the “union roll” that
was presented to the House of Lords on 12 February 1708, was deemed to
be 154—which in theory represented a considerable increase since the 1603
Union of the Crowns when the peerage was estimated at 57. The figure of
154 was not entirely accurate, however, for a variety of reasons: some of
the peerages were now extinct, dormant or held by women (and therefore
132 John R. Young
Figure 8.3 Scottish representation: Shires represented in the Parliament of Great

Britain from 1707.
did not count), and more realistic figures of 134 or 135 has been provided
instead (and even here these figures did not take into account other issues,
such as the number of peers who were minors).47
Figure 8.4 Scottish representation: Burghs represented in the Parliament of Great

Britain from 1707.
Challenging the Ancien Régime

There was a significant demand for political and parliamentary reform as
part of a wider British process in the late 18th century and the opening
134 John R. Young
decades of the 19th century. The American and French Revolutions acted
as catalysts for reform movements, and there was a real fear of revolution
in Britain. The impact of the French Revolution led to the formation of
the Societies of the Friends of the People in Scotland and England in 1792.
Three general conventions of the Friends of the People were held in Scotland
in 1792–93, and delegates from the English Society were invited to the third
convention, which termed itself a British convention. Demands for universal
suffrage with annual elections, as well as expressed support for the French
Revolution, were issued in a manifesto from the third convention. The third
convention was broken up by the authorities, and prominent leaders from
the convention, most notably Thomas Muir of Huntershill, the “Father of
Scottish Democracy,” were subjected to show trials and transported to the
convict settlement at Botany Bay, Australia. Muir enjoys special status in
the memory of the reform movement in Scotland and is the most famous
of the five Scottish martyrs transported to Australia for sedition, including
the circulation of Thomas Paine’s Rights of Man (1791), and writing and
publishing pamphlets on parliamentary reform. A monument to the Scottish
political martyrs was erected on Calton Hill, Edinburgh.48
Despite the suppression of the Friends of the People, radical influences
continued, especially from Ireland and the United Irishmen movement. The
United Irishmen provided a model for the formation of the United Scots-
men, 1797–1802. The United Scotsmen were viewed by the government
as part of an intricate and well-organised national and international con-
spiracy. The movement was outlawed by legislation enacted in 1799, which
also applied to the United Englishmen, the United Britons and United Irish-
men, and the movement ultimately faltered in 1802. Continued demands
for reform, compounded and exacerbated by the economic downturn fol-
lowing the end of the Napoleonic Wars, resulted in the 1819 Peterloo mas-
sacre in Manchester, England, and the abortive insurrection in west central
Scotland known as the 1820 Radical War or the Scottish Insurrection of
1820. Both were brutally suppressed, but demands for electoral reform were
not curtailed. On 16 August 1819, a meeting of peaceful campaigners for
parliamentary reform and universal suffrage took place at St Peter’s Field,
Manchester, organised by the Manchester Patriotic Union. The meeting was
to be addressed by the well-known reformer Henry “Orator” Hunt, and up
to 100,000 people are estimated to have attended. It was broken up by a
cavalry charge from the Manchester yeomanry, resulting in 10–20 people
dead and 400–700 people injured.49 The 1820 Radical War relates to events,
c. 1–8 April, in west central Scotland. On 1 April, radicals announced that
a provisional government in Scotland should be established, and they also
called for a week of strikes in which 50,000–60,000 workers (mainly, but
not exclusively, weavers) duly participated. An armed rising was also called
for as part of a wider insurrection in Lowland Scotland and the north of
England. This did not materialise, but there were violent skirmishes between
c. 50 radicals and government forces at the “battle of Bonnybridge” on
5 April, as well as a violent attack on militia taking captured prisoners to
Greenock on 8 April. The leaders of the insurrection were executed and a
further 20 prisoners were punished by penal transportation.50
Population growth and the impact of urbanisation, industrialisation and
demographic change all contributed to the need for reform of the repre-
sentative system. By 1832, Scotland had been transformed into an increas-
ingly urbanised society. The rate of Scottish urban expansion was faster
than anywhere else in the British Isles and Europe from the late 18th cen-
tury onwards. In 1800, Scotland was the fourth most urbanised society
in Europe, and by 1850 it had become the second most urbanised society,
second only to England and Wales.51 Glasgow’s population had increased
spectacularly from 147,043 to 202,426 over a 10-year period, yet its council
was dominated by a merchant oligarchy and, in terms of the representative
system for the burghs established in 1707, Glasgow was tied in with the
burghs of Dumbarton, Renfrew and Rutherglen. The combined population
of these three burghs was 11,197 and, in theory, Glasgow, as per the existing
system, could be outvoted by them.52 The same principle applied to other
parts of Scotland. Perth (20,016) and Dundee (45,355) in the Perth district
were joined to the three other burghs of Cupar, Forfar and St Andrews,
with a combined population of 20,057. Furthermore, the expanding west-
ern industrial towns of Paisley and Greenock, with respective populations
of 31,460 and 25,577, were not represented at all.53
Representation and the 1832 Reform Act in Scotland

The Whig politicians Lord Advocate Francis Jeffrey and Solicitor General
Henry Cockburn were the key figures behind the 1832 legislation. As per
the 1832 legislation, entitled the Representation of the People of (Scotland)
Act, there were now 30 county constituencies returning one member each.
Clackmannan and Kinross, Elgin and Nairn, and Ross and Cromarty were
combined. Clackmannanshire and Kinross-shire became a single constitu-
ency. Bute-shire and Caithness-shire were given a separate MP in every
parliament. Cromartyshire and Nairnshire were each united with a neigh-
bouring shire to form Ross and Cromarty, and Elgin and Nairnshire. There
were now 33 county constituencies in total. With regard to the burghs, there
were 14 single-member burgh districts, including a new constituency of
Leith, Musselburgh and Portobello in the close vicinity of Edinburgh. Seven
of the other burgh districts (Dumfries, Dysart, Elgin, Haddington, Inverness,
Stirling and Wigtown) were left unchanged in terms of their composition.
Eight non-royal burghs (Airdrie, Cromarty, Falkirk, Hamilton, Kilmarnock,
Oban, Peterhead and Port Glasgow) were distributed among the rest of
the burghs. Three royal burghs (Peebles, Rothesay and Selkirk) ceased to
function as parliamentary burghs.54 Hence, the principle of the geographic
grouping of burghs as per 1707 (and which was based on the Cromwellian
burgh district grouping model of 1656 that was used for post-1707 burgh
136 John R. Young
representation) was maintained, albeit the geographic significance was
diminished in places. The western burgh of Ayr, for example, was merged
with the western Highland burgh of Oban. Edinburgh and Glasgow now
had two MPs. Aberdeen, Dundee, Greenock and Perth had one MP each.
The remaining burghs were combined in districts to elect 18 MPs. Indus-
trialised areas, such as Greenock in the west of Scotland, now had their
own MP.55
The impact of the 1832 Reform Act was considerable. The number of
MPs increased from 45 to 53, and there was a substantial expansion in
the franchise. The Scottish electorate increased from a nominal figure of
3,257 in the counties to 31,118. In the burghs, the electorate increased from
1,314 to 32,251. Collectively, this amounts to an increase of c. 4,500 to over
63,000.56 Comparison with England indicates the impact of the Scottish leg-
islation. The electorate had been “more profoundly changed in Scotland,”57
and the wider party impact was to enhance and strengthen the position of
the Whigs, who had been at the forefront of the reform campaign, at the
expense of the Tories who were far more unpopular in Scotland anyway.
The increase in the electorate in Scotland amounted to a staggering increase
of 1,400%.58 In a post-1832 context, there were further divisions of shire
and burgh constituencies in 1868 and 1885, but the longer-term trajectory
relates to legislation of the 1918 Representation of the People Act, which
marked the transfer in voting power from the east to the west of Scotland,
with both burgh and county constituencies now dominated by Glasgow and
the west. Population was now the determining factor for the proportioning
of seats, and the traditional system of the geographic unit of the shires as the
basis for constituency formation was abandoned.59
Notes
1. The author acknowledges the permission of the Trustees of the Scottish Medieval-
ists: The Society for Scottish Medieval and Renaissance Studies for the reproduc-
tion of four maps from Peter G. B. McNeill and Hector L. MacQueen, An Atlas
of Scottish History to 1707 (Edinburgh: The Scottish Medievalists and Depart-
ment of Geography, University of Edinburgh, 1996), 226–229: “Parliament:
The Shires before 1707,” “Parliament: The Shires from 1707,” “Parliament: The
Burghs before 1707” and “Parliament: The Burghs from 1707.”
2. See, for example, Julian Goodare, “The Estates in the Scottish Parliament, 1286–
1707,” Parliamentary History 15 (1996): 11–32; Kirsty F. McAlister and Roland
J. Tanner, “The First Estate: Parliament and the Church”; Keith M. Brown, “The
Second Estate: Parliament and the Nobility”; Alan R. MacDonald, “The Third
Estate: Parliament and the Burghs,” in The History of The Scottish Parliament,
Volume 3: Parliament in Context, 1235–1707, ed. Keith M. Brown and Alan
R. MacDonald (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2010), 31–66, 67–94,
95–121.
3. Keith M. Brown, et al., eds., The Records of the Parliaments of Scotland [here-
after RPS] (St Andrews, 2007–2017). www.rps.ac.uk 1690/4/22.
4. RPS, 1662/5/4.
5. RPS, 1689/6/36, 1690/4/13.
6. Keith M. Brown, “Toward Political Participation and Capacity: Elections, Vot-
ing, and Representation in Early Modern Scotland,” The Journal of Modern
History 88 (2016), 112; Albert Venn Dicey, “Thoughts on the General Assembly
of the Church of Scotland under the Constitution of 1690, 1690–1707,” Scot-
tish Historical Review 14 (1917): 197–215.
7. William Ferguson, “The Electoral System in the Scottish Counties before 1832,”
in The Stair Society: Miscellany Two (Edinburgh: Clark Constable, 1984), 261–
294, 263.
8. Ferguson, “The Electoral System,” 263–264; Alan R. MacDonald, “Scottish
Shire Elections: Preliminary Findings in the Sheriff Court Books,” Parliamen-
tary History 34 (2015): 279–284, 279–280. For the wider context, see Julian
Goodare, “The Admission of Lairds to the Scottish Parliament,” English His-
torical Review 116 (2001): 1103–1133.
9. RPS, 1640/6/2.
10. RPS, 1690/4/60.
11. RPS, 1690/4/2; 1693/4/2.
12. RPS, 1690/4/2; 1695/5/2.
13. Margaret Young, ed., The Parliaments of Scotland: Burgh and Shire Commis-
sioners, 2 vols. (Edinburgh: Scottish Academic Press, 1992–93), vol. 1, 15–16.
14. RPS, 1703/5/2; 1704/7/2; 1705/6/2; 1706/10/2.
15. MacDonald, “The Third Estate: Parliament and the Burghs,” 105.
16. Brown, “Toward Political Participation and Capacity,” 8.
17. RPS, 1641/8/55.
18. RPS, 1661/1/16; John R. Young, “Monarchs and Parliaments in a Scottish Con-
text: The Scottish Restoration Parliament and the Reassertion of the Royal Pre-
rogative of Charles II as King of Scotland,” in Ricordo di Antonio Marongiu.
Giornata di studio—Roma, 16 giugno 2009, ed. Maria Sofia Corciulo (Rome:
Rubbettino, 2013), 69–85.
19. John R. Young, “The Scottish Parliament and the Covenanting Heritage of
Constitutional Reform,” in The Stuart Kingdoms in the Seventeenth Century,
ed. Allan I. Macinnes and Jane Ohlmeyer (Dublin: Four Courts Press, 2002),
226–250.
20. Young, ed., The Parliaments of Scotland, vol. 2, 488–491.
21. Ibid., 722–725; RPS, 1633/6/8.
22. Ibid., vol. 1, 246.
23. Ibid., 247.
24. Ibid., 246–247.
25. Ibid., 247.
26. Ibid., 247; “Forbes, Duncan (1685–1747),” John S. Shaw, Oxford Dictionary
of National Biography, ed. H. C. G. Matthew and Brian Harrison (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2004); online ed., ed. David Cannadine, October 2006,
www.oxforddnb.com/view/article/9822; The History of Parliament: The House
of Commons, 1715–1754, ed. Romney Sedgwick, 2 vols. (London: Boydell &
Brewer, 1970), vol. 2, 43, 45.
27. Allan Kennedy, “Representing the Periphery: Highland Commissioners in the
Seventeenth-Century Scottish Parliament, c.1612–1702,” Parliaments, Estates &
Representation 36 (2016): 14–34, 21.
28. Young, ed., The Parliaments of Scotland, vol. 1, 362–363.
29. Allan I. Macinnes, Archibald Campbell, Marquess of Argyll, c.1607–1661: The
British Confederate (Edinburgh: John Donald, 2011), 37, footnote 22; Young,
ed., The Parliaments of Scotland, vol. 1, 381–382.
30. Young, ed., The Parliaments of Scotland, vol. 1, 100; Romney Sedgwick, ed.,
The History of Parliament: The House of Commons, 1715–1754, 2 vols. (Lon-
don: Boydell & Brewer, 1970), vol. 1, 522.
138 John R. Young
31. Young, ed., The Parliaments of Scotland, vol. 1, 126.
32. Young, ed., The Parliaments of Scotland, vol. 1, 174–175; Eveline Cruickshanks,
Stuart Handley and David W. Hayton, eds., The History of Parliament: The House
of Commons 1690–1715, 5 vols. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002),
vol. 3, 451–452; Sedgwick, ed., The History of Parliament: The House of Com-
mons, 1715–1754, vol. 1, 600–601.
33. Young, ed., The Parliaments of Scotland, vol. 1, 126–127; RPS, 1669/10/2,
1670/7/2, 1672/6/2, 1673/11/2.
34. Young, ed., The Parliaments of Scotland, vol. 1, 176; “Dalrymple, John, first earl
of Stair (1648–1707),” John R. Young, Oxford Dictionary of National Biogra-
phy, online ed., ed. David Cannadine (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004).
www.oxforddnb.com/view/article/7052.
35. Cruickshanks et al., eds., The House of Commons 1690–1715, vol. 1, 153, 444–
446; Sedgwick, ed., The House of Commons 1715–1754, vol. 1, 381–382, 384,
397, 520.
36. Sir Lewis Namier and John Brooke, eds., The History of Parliament: The House
of Commons 1754–1790, 3 vols. (London: Boydell & Brewer, 1964), vol. 1,
173; John Simpson, “Who Steered the Gravy Train, 1707–1766?,” in Scotland in
the Age of Improvement: Essays in Scottish History in the Eighteenth Century,
ed. Nicholas T. Phillipson and Rosalind Mitchison (Edinburgh: Edinburgh Uni-
versity Press, 1970 edn), 47–72; “Argathelians (act. 1705-c.1765),” Alexander
Murdoch, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, see online ed., ed. David
Cannadine (Oxford: Oxford University Press, October 2016). www.oxforddnb.
com/view/theme/95333; “Dundas, Henry, First Viscount Melville (1742–1811),”
Michael Fry, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, ed. H. C. G. Matthew
and Brian Harrison (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004); online ed., ed.
David Cannadine, May 2009. www.oxforddnb.com/view/article/8250; Michael
Fry, The Dundas Despotism (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1992).
37. Brown, “Toward Political Participation,” 7.
38 Ibid., 9–10.
39. Ibid., 7.
40. Brown and MacDonald, preface to The History of the Scottish Parliament, xiii.
41. John R. Young, “The Scottish Parliament and the Covenanting Revolution: The
Emergence of a Scottish Commons,” in Celtic Dimensions of the British Civil
Wars, ed. John R. Young (Edinburgh: John Donald, 1997), 164–184; Allan I.
Macinnes, “The Scottish Constitution, 1638–1651: The Rise and Fall of Oli-
garchic Centralism,” in The Scottish National Covenant in Its British Context
1638–51, ed. John Morrill (Edinburgh: John Donald, 1990), 106–133, 114–
116; MacDonald, “Scottish Shire Elections,” 293.
42. Laura A. M. Stewart, Rethinking the Scottish Revolution: Covenanted Scotland,
1637–1651 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), 303.
43. David R. Fisher, ed., The History of Parliament: The House of Commons 1820–
1832, 7 vols. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), vol. 1, 275.
44. Ruth Paley, ed., The History of Parliament: The House of Lords 1660–1715,
5 vols. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016), vol. 1, 35, 135.
45. RPS, 1706/10/293.
46. RPS, 1706/10/307.
47. See Paley, ed., The House of Lords 1660–1715, vol. 1, 135–149 for a full dis-
cussion on this issue. A full list of the Union Roll is provided at appendix 15,
372–376.
48. “Muir, Thomas (1765–1799),” H. T. Dickinson, Oxford Dictionary of National
Biography, ed. H. C. G. Matthew and Brian Harrison (Oxford: Oxford Uni-
versity Press, 2004); online ed., David Cannadine, September 2010. http://
oxforddnb.com/view/article/19498; Gerard Carruthers and Don Martin, eds.,
Thomas Muir of Huntershill: Essays for the Twenty First Century (Edinburgh:
Humming Earth, 2016).
49. Ruth Mather, “Discovering Literature: Romantics and Victorians: The Peterloo
Massacre,” in The British Library (London). www.bl.uk/romantics-and-victorians/
articles/the-peterloo-massacre. See also, for example, Donald Read, Peterloo: The
“Massacre” and Its Background (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1973).
50. Peter Berresford Ellis and Seumas Mac a’ Ghobhainn, The Scottish Insurrec-
tion of 1820 (Edinburgh: Birlinn Ltd, 2016 edn). For the wider dimension to
the rising, see Christopher A. Whatley, Scottish Society 1707–1830: Beyond
Jacobitism, towards Industrialisation (Manchester: Manchester University
Press, 2000), 263–330; Henry W. Meikle, Scotland and the French Revolution
(Glasgow: James MacLehose and Sons, 1912); Bob Harris, ed., Scotland in the
Age of the French Revolution (Edinburgh: John Donald, 2005); Bob Harris,
The Scottish People and the French Revolution (London: Pickering & Chatto,
2008); Gordon Pentland, “The Debate on Scottish Parliamentary Reform,” The
Scottish Historical Review 85 (2006): 100–130; Elaine W. McFarland, Ireland
and Scotland in the Age of Revolution: Planting the Green Bough (Edinburgh:
Edinburgh University Press, 1994).
51. Thomas M. Devine, The Scottish Nation 1700–2000 (London: Allen Lane, the
Penguin Press, 1999), 105–169; Bob Harris and Charles McKean, The Scottish
Town in the Age of the Enlightenment 1740–1820 (Edinburgh: Edinburgh Uni-
versity Press, 2014), 21–23.
52. This information has been taken from Fisher, ed., The House of Commons
1820–1832, vol. 1, 109.
53. Fisher, ed., The House of Commons 1820–1832, vol. 1, 109. Dundee was the
fastest growing town in Scotland.
54. Fisher, ed., The House of Commons 1820–1832, vol. 1, 146.
55. Robert S. Rait, The Parliaments of Scotland (Glasgow: James MacLehose and
Sons, 1924), 274–248.
56. Fisher, ed., The House of Commons 1820–1832, vol. 1, 146.
57. Iain G. C. Hutchinson, A Political History of Scotland 1832–1924: Parties, Elec-
tions and Issues (Edinburgh: John Donald, 1986), 1.
58. Hutchinson, A Political History of Scotland, 1.
59. Rait, The Parliaments of Scotland, 237, 274, 277–278.
Brown, Keith M., and Alan R. MacDonald, eds. The History of the Scottish Parlia-
ment, Volume 3: Parliament in Context, 1225–1707. Edinburgh: Edinburgh Uni-
versity Press, 2010.
Brown, Keith, M., et al., eds. The Records of the Parliaments of Scotland. St Andrews,
2007–2017. www.rps.ac.uk.
Cannadine, David, Brian Harrison, and H. C. G. Matthew, eds. The Oxford Dic-
tionary of National Biography. Oxford: Oxford University Press, online edition,
2004–2016. www.oxforddnb.com/.
Cruickshanks, Eveline, Stuart Handley, and W. Hayton David, eds. The History of
Parliament: The House of Commons 1690–1715, 5 vols. Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2002.
Fisher, David R., ed. The History of Parliament: The House of Commons 1820–
1832, 7 vols. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009.
Namier, Sir Lewis, and John Brooke, eds. The History of Parliament: The House of
Commons 1754–1790, 3 vols. London: Boydell & Brewer, 1964.
140 John R. Young
Paley, Ruth, ed. The History of Parliament: The House of Lords 1660–1715, 5 vols.
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016.
Rait, Robert S. The Parliaments of Scotland. Glasgow: James MacLehose & Sons,
1924.
Sedgwick, Romney, ed. The History of Parliament: The House of Commons 1715–
1754, 2 vols. London: Boydell & Brewer, 1970.
Young, John R. “The Scottish Parliament in the Seventeenth Century: European
Perspectives.” In Ships, Guns and Bibles in the North Sea and Baltic States, c.
1350-c.1700, edited by Allan I. Macinnes, Thomas Riss and Frederick Pedersen,
139–172. East Linton: Tuckwell Press, 2000.
Young, Margaret, ed. The Parliaments of Scotland: Burgh and Shire Commissioners,
2 vols. Edinburgh: Scottish Academic Press, 1992.
Part III
The Spanish Monarchy

The Crown of Aragon: Aragon,
Valencia and Sardinia
9 Constitution and Political
Representation in the
Crown of Aragon
Tomàs de Montagut
1. The Notion of Constitution1

Today, from a formal point of view, the term “constitution” refers to the
supreme legal framework, the keystone to the legal system of all constitu-
tional states. Its regulatory power is greater than all other laws, and it is
drawn up, revised, abolished or partly repealed according to specific, estab-
lished procedures. Any constitution, in this formal sense, consists of a dog-
matic part, which regulates citizens’ rights, duties and fundamental liberties,
and an organic part, which establishes the structures and functions of the
legislative, executive and judicial branches of the state and the relations
between them, as well as the state’s territorial organisational structure.
From this perspective, neither the Crown of Aragon nor any of the king-
doms and domains that were part of it during the Ancien Régime (12th–18th
centuries) had a constitution: its forms of political organisation emerged well
before the birth of the contemporary constitutional state. From a material
perspective, however, the term “constitution,” as analysed by Constantino
Mortari in the 1930s, is more broadly defined as the regulatory structure of
the political and legal system of any society.
The maxim ubi societas, ibi ius reminds us of the legal historian Francesco
Calasso, who stated that where there is a society, there is law, and, therefore,
there is also a constitution. As is well known, the Crown of Aragon became
a political society through the aggregation of several territories that fol-
lowed the marital union of Ramon Berenguer IV, Count of Barcelona, and
Petronila of Aragon, the daughter and heir to the King of Aragon, Ramiro II.
This historic process, which began in the 12th century, validated the con-
struction of a fragmentary legal order, and thus we can speak of its political
constitution. The political structure or system evolved over time, taking the
following forms: (i) marital union (under Ramon Berenguer IV), (ii) per-
sonal union (during the reign of Alfonse the Chaste—1162–1196—and up
to the Corts Generals2 of Monzón, held in 1289), and (iii) territorial union
(from the Monzón Corts session of 1289 to the abolition of the Council of
Aragon in 1707 by Philip IV/V, the first Bourbon king to ascend the Spanish
throne). It must also be kept in mind that, during the General or Universal
146 Tomàs de Montagut
Corts sessions of the Crown of Aragon, convened by Peter the Ceremonious
in the second half of the 14th century, a short-lived structure was conceived,
that of the United Kingdom of the Crown of Aragon, on the occasion of the
universal proferta (tribute) being granted to the monarch to contribute to
his government expenses.
The aim of this chapter is to broadly analyse these historical processes of
union between the kingdoms and lands of the Crown of Aragon, as well as
the monarchs’ mechanisms of ascendant and descendant political represen-
tation and those of the populus, who were subject to the monarchs’ political
authority.3
2. The Crown of Aragon and Its Medieval Origins

As Percy E. Schramm stated, “[I]n 1150, when Petronila turned fourteen,
the wedding, establishing the Marital Union of the lands (Aragon and Cat-
alonia) on a solid legal foundation, was celebrated in Lleida.”4 The 12th
century also witnessed the beginning of the process that led to the adoption
of European notions of ius commune in both territories, with the dissemina-
tion of Bolognese legal and political precepts and the assimilation of modern
legal concepts. These ideas contributed to bringing forth the monarch’s pub-
lic authority and the rebirth of a system for the enactment of laws.5
One of the received categories of ius commune was that of iurisdictio:6
that is, the public authority granting its holder legislative, governance, judi-
cial and grace powers. The notion of iurisdictio was the cornerstone of the
political constitution of the Crown of Aragon because, by admitting differ-
ent degrees and levels of government, the iurisdictio created the conditions
for the harmonious and regulated coexistence of different public authorities
within the community of communities that was the Crown of Aragon.
The personal union of the monarchy began under the reign of Alfonse
the Chaste (1162–1196), son and heir to Ramon Berenguer and Petronila;
in other words, Catalonia had not associated itself with Aragon by acci-
dent, nor Aragon with Catalonia. The iurisdictio generalis of the two ter-
ritories was distinct and kept separate, though the title-holder or ruler of
both (King/Prince Alfonse) was the same person. Hence, we can qualify this
union as a personal one, comprising two different political subjects with
no common institutional elements, except for the figure of the king. The
political relations between the two territories were ones of equality and not
hierarchy (aeque principaliter). Indeed, the monarch’s two “dignities” or
offices (the royal one of Aragon and the one relating to the core-county of
Barcelona, that is, King of Aragon and Count of Barcelona) were of equal
political importance.7
The initial constitutional statutes of the Crown of Aragon allowed the
monarchs to dispose of their territories either inter vivos or mortis causa.
This was based on a feudal principle that regarded territory as the personal
patrimony of the ruler, in opposition to the principles of ius commune and
Representation in the Crown of Aragon 147
their public conceptualisation of the land. In fact, the notion of iurisdictio
leads to a political consideration of the territory as belonging to the univer-
sal community. In these conditions, territory is considered indivisible and
inalienable. The public, objective association of nature was superimposed
on the old private, political and subjective association of feudal obedience,
based on homage and fealty. That is, anyone born within the territory of the
union had to abide by the rules and orders of the monarch, who was respon-
sible for, and entitled to exercise the Crown’s iurisdictio universalis and the
iurisdictiones generales of the kingdoms and the territories comprising it.8
In sum, during the 12th century, the public-political association of nature
was successfully superimposed on the private-political association of fidel-
ity. The new public, jurisdictional concept of territory legitimised the rebirth
and primacy of public authority.
On the other hand, the new objective conception of law conveyed by ius
commune was at the foundation of natural law in all Christian kingdoms,
and was embodied in ratio scripta in canonical law and Justinian’s corpus
iuris civilis, interpreted by the legal experts in Bologna in order to provide
legal and political answers to the new issues and demands posed by local
and territorial European societies. According to the prevailing legal prin-
ciples, Roman civil law had been inspired and granted by God to the Roman
people, and the imperial model it offered had been assumed by the Church
to create the Respublica Christiana, the only political community possible,
where the Holy Roman Empire and the various Christian monarchies coex-
isted under the tutelage of the Church.9 From the 11th-century Gregorian
reform onwards, the pope also claimed the imperial right to appoint kings.10
On 10 November 1204, Peter the Catholic was anointed king by the
Bishop of Porto and then crowned by Pope Innocence III himself, who
invested him with the appropriate regalia. All of this took place in Rome,
the see of the pope.11 In the coronation document, King Peter declared that
the Roman pontiff, successor to Saint Peter, was the Vicar of Christ, and that
it was through him that kings reigned and princes obtained their principali-
ties and ruled in the kingdom of man. In other words, King Peter clearly
acknowledged that the pope could grant the kingdom to whomsoever he
wished. Hence, he requested the pope’s protection, and, in exchange, offered
his kingdom, committing to the payment of an annual tax (cens) to the Holy
See. This royal concession is documented by King Peter in a text in which
he calls himself Ego, Petrus Dei gratia, rex Aragonum, comes Barchinone
et domnus Montis-Pessulani,12 the three main titles made up the personal
union of the Crown of Aragon at the time (1204), which was now enfeoffed
to the pope: the Kingdom of Aragon, the proto-county of Barcelona and the
lordship of Montpelier.
According to Bonifacio Palacios, by the time of the coronation of Peter
the Great of Aragon (1276–1285), which took place in Zaragoza in Novem-
ber 1276, it is clear that “representatives of the Crown of Aragon were in
attendance.”13 The coronation ceremony was not only held in the king’s own
territory but was also attended by representatives from the different territo-
ries of the Crown. It is likely that, during his coronation ceremony in 1276,
Peter the Great made use of the concession granted his grandfather Peter the
Catholic by Pope Innocence III in 1205, according to which the successors
of Peter the Catholic could be “solemnly crowned in Zaragoza by the Met-
ropolitan of Tarragona, once permission is obtained from the Holy See.”14
Nevertheless, in 1260, Peter the Great, while his father James I was still
alive, stood up against his father’s testament, which distributed the kingdoms
of the Crown of Aragon among his sons. Peter drew up a notarial protesto
to defend the indivisibility of the lands subject to the Crown and declared
that he and his successors could receive the anointment, blessing and crown
in any city they deemed appropriate totius nostri jurisdictionis and by min-
istry of any archbishop or bishop nostri districtus. In other words, he pro-
tested against the patrimonial conception of the kingdom that allowed it to
be divided by a bequeath mortis causa; at the same time, he rejected the papal
mandate that the coronation be obligatorily carried out in Zaragoza by the
Archbishop of Tarragona. Thus, according to this perspective, the consecra-
tion and coronation could be undertaken in any city subject to the universal
jurisdiction of the monarch; that is, in any city in Aragon, Catalonia, Valen-
cia, the Balearic Islands or any other lands held by the monarch.15
Through consecration via the quasi-sacrament of anointment, the mon-
arch became minister and representative of God in his realm. This “descend-
ing” divine power allowed him to govern his people and made him worthy
of the crown.16 On the other hand, through the coronation, the king also
became a representative of his people, as established in the ratio scripta con-
tained in the texts of the Roman-canonical European ius commune. Thus,
regarding the matter of whether, according to ius commune, kings were made
by election or succession, the great jurist Vicente Arias de Balboa, when issu-
ing his decisive verdict on the right of succession to the throne of the Crown
of Aragon at the Compromise of Casp (1413), explained that, among the
Romans, kings were voted in until the people, who were responsible for the
elections, transferred the empire and public authority to the emperor. Later,
Emperor Constantine transferred the Western Empire to the Church. The
latter did away with the [Byzantine] Empire; Pope [Leo III] transferred the
empire from the Greeks to Charlemagne in the year 800, and other popes
transferred it to the Holy Roman emperors. “And so,” states Arias,
in a way, it was the Church that decided who would be emperor, instead
of the Roman [or Byzantine] Emperors [choosing their successors], since
certain princes and prelates were granted the faculty of selecting the
emperor, [with the Church] retaining the rights to confirm and crown.
From this perspective, the right to represent that descended from God, and
the one ascending from the people, held both by the pope and the kings and
emperor, were harmonised when, as Vicente Arias concluded,
both principalities (the spiritual one of the Church and the temporal
one of the kings and emperor) and their public institutions, the com-
monwealth and the exchequer, were handed down by God and promul-
gated by the people through divine inspiration, and law was thought to
have been discovered by God for the Romans through natural reason.17
This view of the monarch as a double representative, who was subject to

the power of the pope, can be considered part of a pontifical theocratic
approach that was clearly rejected by King Alfonse the Liberal (1285–1291),
son and successor to Peter the Great (1276–1285), when he protested at his
coronation ceremony in Zaragoza in 1286 that “the crown Alfonse receives
from the Bishop of Huesca, he does not receive as the representative of the
Roman Church, neither for the Church, nor against it.”18 He was declaring
the Crown of Aragon and its monarchs exemptio imperii: that is, he was
stating that the monarch of Aragon ruled in the territories of his jurisdiction
like the emperor over the territories of his empire, and, therefore, did not
recognise any superior secular power. Power emanated directly from God,
whom the monarch represented in his kingdoms and territories, but also
from the people as demonstrated by the incorporation of the oath, for both
kings and vassals, to the coronation ceremony. Both oaths were the converg-
ing expressions of will that defined the pact which allowed the monarch to
assume iurisdictio or public authority.19 In addition, the official protocol
for crowning ceremonies, which was contained in the Huesca pontifical and
was probably applied for crowning Alfonse the Liberal (1286), alludes to
the election of the king when the metropolitan asks the attending bishops:
“Do you know whether he is worthy of and capable for this ministry?” and
the bishops reply: “We know and believe he is ideal and illustrious for the
Church of God.”20
In any case, this glimmer of ascending power and legitimacy of a mon-
arch, selected according to the representative principles of ius commune,
could easily be altered by the Christian monarchies’ iura propria. In this
regard, Vicente Arias de Balboa recalled that “[the royal dignities of] both
kings and emperors were and are assumed today by election and not by
succession, except where, by custom, a king’s access to the royal dignity
be expressly established through legitimate succession.”21 The crowning of
Alfonse the Benign in Zaragoza in 1328 also referred to all the kingdoms
and domains of the Crown and thus clearly constituted a symbol of the real
union of these territories and their configuration as a universal community,
compatible with the general communities of the kingdoms and lands that
comprised it, with whom a more symbiotic than hierarchical power relation
was established. “All the estates of the Crown were notified and asked to
send their representatives to Zaragoza,” and, at the coronation ceremony,
the monarch “stepped up to the altar, took the crown in his hands and
placed it on his head himself. After this, the three infantes present [. . .]
arranged it.”22
The same policy of affirming royal authority was followed by Alfonse the
Kind’s son and successor, Peter the Ceremonious, who in 1353 promulgated
the ordinance, written in Catalan and eloquently entitled De la manera con
los reys d’Aragó se faran consagrar e ells mateiys se coronaran (“On the
manner in which the kings of Aragon will have themselves consecrated and
will crown themselves”).23 The selection of Zaragoza as the coronation city
is justified in this ordinance, which indicates that by order of the Pope, the
consecration must take place in Zaragoza, capital of the Kingdom of Ara-
gon. Said kingdom is a principal title and name of the king, as are the other
kingdoms and territories of the Crown. But, just as the emperors of the Holy
Roman Empire receive the principal crown, which is the imperial crown, in
Rome, the capital of their empire, so [the King] wishes the Crown of Ara-
gon, which is also the universal crown, to be received in Zaragoza, which is
the capital of one of its principal kingdoms.
In any case, Peter the Ceremonious did not allow the archbishop, who
was leading the ceremony as a delegate of the pope, to crown him, but
rather took the crown from the altar and crowned himself. In addition, the
King of Aragon’s God-given legitimacy was reinforced, because all refer-
ences to a possible election of the monarch by the people were avoided in
the ceremony, as was established by ius commune. Thus, in the corona-
tion ritual stipulated in the 1353 ordinance, the king promised the Holy
Church and the people subject to him, by expression of the divine will, that
he would make and uphold law, justice and peace. At that point, the metro-
politan had to consecrate the king, for the monarch, “this high and illustri-
ous gentleman, to whom the kingdom belongs by legitimate succession,” to
be anointed with “royal dignity.” The metropolitan replied with the words:
Sabets vosaltres a ell pertanyer lo regne per legítima successió (“Know ye
that the kingdom belongs to him by legitimate succession”), to which all
those attending replied: E nos conexem e creem a aquell pertanyer lo regne
per legítima successió (“Yea, we know and believe the kingdom belongs to
him by legitimate succession”). Hence, through the universal laws in force
throughout the Crown of Aragon, which most certainly reflected an ancient
custom, the kings were not elected but rather were granted royal dignity
through universal legitimate succession.24
3. The Crown of Aragon as a Territorial Union

As we know, during the 13th century, Kings James I the Conqueror (1213–
1276) and Peter the Great (1276–1285) were able to dispose of their king-
doms and dominions, dividing them among their sons (Peter the Great and
James II of Majorca in the former case, and Alfonse the Liberal and James I
of Sicily in the latter). At the Universal General Corts session celebrated in
Monzón in 1289, an official change in the legal conception of the territory
can be perceived. Chapter 32 of these Cort chapters declared that the islands
of Majorca, Ibiza and Minorca could not be divided, sold or separated from
the lordship (iurisdictio universalis) of Catalonia and Aragon. They were
to remain under the royal lordship (dominion). The heading of this dispo-
sition, which was used later by compilers of general law in Catalonia to
refer to the whole title within which this norm was included, first indicated
the prohibition of separating the territories of Majorca and Tortosa from
(1413 and 1495),25 and then the union of the Kingdom of the Mallorcas
and the city of Tortosa with, the Royal Crown (1588–1589 and 1704).26
The prohibition of separation and perpetual union are the two sides of the
constitutional coin: the Crown of Aragon, as a territorial union of the king-
doms and domains of the king, was imbued with universal jurisdiction. As
an auxiliary means for such universal public authority, an administrative
organisation emerged, which was also of universal nature and allowed the
monarch to exercise his powers. Beginning with King James III of Majorca’s
Leges Palatinae (1337) and their subsequent Catalan version, promulgated
by Peter the Ceremonious in 1344 (Ordinacions de la Casa i Cort or the
“Ordinances of Household and Court”), the Crown’s administrative struc-
ture was organised into four major departments. Two of these departments
dealt with issues pertaining to the king’s household (the office of majordom,
i.e. steward, and that of chamberlain) and the other two with those pertain-
ing to his court: the Chancery (with the chancellor, the Royal Council, Pro-
thonotary and oïdors or judges) and the office of Accounts Master (Mestre
Racional), who was the president of the exchequer, and ruled over several
subordinate administrators, such as the Treasurer and the Accounts Scribe.
The so-called “union privileges” of 1319, 1342, 1343 and 1348 estab-
lished that all the kingdoms and lands of the king were united under a single
Crown, holder of a domain and a universalis iurisdictio of quasi-imperial
nature that should likewise have a universal successor. According to these
privileges, the king pledged, on his own behalf and on behalf of his universal
successors, to take the oath of abiding by the union of his kingdoms and
lands before receiving the oath of homage and fealty from his vassals, who
were subject to the monarch’s stated universalis iurisdictio. In this way, the
former personal union became a territorial union, with a quasi-imperial politi-
cal format, which was a significant qualitative leap in the Crown of Ara-
gon’s political constitution. This constitutional framework would remain in
place until the Crown’s extinction in 1707. Hereafter, we will briefly study
some critical moments in the evolution of this political constitution, taking
into account the outcome of the General Corts of Monzón in 1363 and the
events that took place between 1382 and 1389.
The war between the Crowns of Castile and Aragon ended with the peace
treaty of 1361. Nevertheless, war broke out again after the surprise attack
launched by Peter the Cruel of Castile in September 1362. To deal with this
emergency, Peter the Ceremonious convened the General Corts of all the
Crown’s kingdoms in Monzón. The assembly was attended by representa-
tives of the three Estates from Catalonia, Valencia, Aragon and Majorca. In
this parliamentary context, the king was considered the head of the republic
of all his kingdoms and lands. As such, it was his duty to organise the mili-
tary defence of the Crown:
Item com al senyor rey que es cap de la cosa pública de tots sos regnes
e terres se pertanga la defensió d’aquella, per ço placia al dit senyor que
do per sa mercè alguna quantitat de monedes en deffensió de la dita
cosa pública.27
(And as it pertains to the lord king, who is the head of the common-
wealth of all of his kingdoms and lands, to defend the former, hence
may it please said lord to grant by his mercy some quantity of coins in
defence of said commonwealth.)
At the General Corts sessions held in 1362–1363, a universal donation was

established, put into writing and signed in the following documents: (i) the
donation charters and articles of the Principality of Catalonia’s General
(government body), (ii) the donation charters of the royal cities and burghs of
Aragon, (iii) the donation charters of the prelates, noblemen and knights of
Aragon, and (iv) the donation charters of the Kingdom of Valencia’s General
(government body). Despite this apparent multiplicity, which was due to the
need to issue different donation charters, all the charters and articles were
associated by the fact that representatives of the three realms of the Crown
had to agree on how the charges would be allocated and collected. Although
a “Universal” for all the provinces (a Universalis Universitas, representing
the three kingdoms and the principality as a unified whole) was not spe-
cifically indicated, it was stipulated that a universal committee should be
established to hold all the provinces of this quasi-empire to account. This
committee met in Gandesa—a Catalan burgh near Monzón that was cen-
trally located within the territory of the union—with the aim of taking bal-
anced and equitable stock of all the various contributions. Also stipulated
was the creation of a universal committee for the Crown of Aragon with the
authority to introduce provisions and amendments to the donation charter
concerning the new general tributes or generalitats.
This conveys a vision of the Crown of Aragon as a territorial union (i.e.
a union of the monarch’s kingdoms and lands), but from the perspective of
the General Corts of the Crown, a tendency existed to perceive it as a united
kingdom and not merely a union of kingdoms. A united kingdom is a form
of political organisation with a greater level of cohesion and centralisation
of power, whereby a universal system of taxation is supervised by a commit-
tee, also of a universal nature, which audits the accounts and settles disputes.
4. The Vision of the Crown of Aragon as a United Kingdom

At the Monzón General Corts held in 1382–1384, a doctrinal debate arose
between Peter the Ceremonious and the members of the Estates regarding
the definition of the legal and constitutional nature of the Crown of Aragon.
On 15 January 1384, the Infante Martin, on behalf of the entire Assembly,
offered the monarch a document that endorsed the idea of a single common-
wealth or universal Respublica, comprising a head (the king) and members
who were the king’s natural subjects, independently of the nation to which
they belonged. Consequently, there was a single common interest or public
good that had to be defined at the Corts sessions by agreement between the
king and the Estates of the Crown.
Therefore, when the General Corts of the Crown were in session, the king
and the Estates could not hold opposing views, because the Corts of the
Crown were not an amalgamation of different parties, but, rather, the Assem-
bly and its members represented a single Respublica or commonwealth:
La qual és et consisteix en Vós, senyor, que sots cap et príncep, et en la

dita Cort representant tots vostres vassalls et sotmesos qui són membres
de la dita cosa pública.28
(Which is and consists of Thee, lord, who are head and prince, and
of the stated Cort, representing all your vassals and subjects, who are
members of said commonwealth.)
The united kingdom model represented a greater level of coalition and col-
lective legal solidarity than the territorial union and therefore could do
much more to undermine the prerogatives of a monarchy that was already
governed by the rule of law and the submission of the king to law-prescribed
pacts.
In this regard, the monarch’s reply to the text proposed by the Estates,
submitted on 1 April 1384, recalled that the Crown of Aragon was a com-
munity of communities. It was possible for the different kingdoms and
Estates to have interests which differed from those of the monarch, who, as
head of the Crown, was not to give in to the interests of any given party in a
conflict, or go against the common good of the Crown, which was a mysti-
cal body or corporation of public law:
The stated lord (king) says that, not only in the mystic body which is
comprised of the head and various distant members, but also in the
body that lives in spiritual unity, the head and members through various
operations and in another manner are different in quality and proper-
ties and have prerogatives that are diverse and at times contrary by
nature or art, whence it follows that the interest, profit and sustenance
of one of the members is not coequal, but at times is an injury to the
head and to the other members, and, therefore, it can be concluded
that in the mystical body, which is said to be comprised in the present
case of the lord king, as the head, and his commonwealth as members,
where this composition can be granted, it is true that said lord, insofar
as head, is of one quality and nature, and that the said commonwealth,
as members, is of another, and therefore their interest is different and
at times contrary, since it may be that a single thing is subjective and
harmful for the commonwealth, insofar as members are concerned, and
advantageous, honourable and of great pre-eminence for the lord king,
as head.29
Despite this negative reply, Peter the Ceremonious finally gave his consent to
the Estates’ requests regarding the suspension of certain officials accused of
corruption and the creation of a parliamentary committee to study, propose
and negotiate the reform of public justice together with the king.
This tension between the king and the kingdoms reappeared in the Gen-
eral Corts sessions of 1388–1389, during the reign of John I. The dispute
revolved around the same theoretical issues, namely: (i) whether there was
only one or various general or universal interests of the mystical body, and
(ii) whether the king or the Estates ultimately represented the mystical body
of the Crown and its general or universal interests.30 Considering the turn
this doctrinal confrontation between the king and the kingdoms was tak-
ing, it is hardly surprising that the subsequent monarchs, Martin I (1398–
1410) and Ferdinand I (1413–1416), did not convene the General Corts of
the Crown, and promulgated their public and legislative policies through
the particular Corts of each territory. They probably preferred to follow the
prudent advice of the aphorism: divide ut imperas (divide and conquer). In
this manner, the Crown of Aragon, insofar as a union aeque principaliter of
territorial nature was concerned, did not become a united kingdom. Its his-
toric medieval evolution as an imperial system did not lead to the emergence
of a “universal” nor its correlative deputation of the Crown’s “universal.”
There was not even a universal donation. The Crown of Aragon continued
to function as a mystical body, formed by the union of the kingdoms and
lands of the monarch, who was its sole representative. As such, he was enti-
tled to a limited universal jurisdiction—specific powers defined within the
material framework of government, war matters, foreign relations, finance
and the administration of justice. In any case, the Crown and its universal
jurisdiction had to coexist and coordinate with the other holders of gen-
eral jurisdiction (the kingdoms and exempt lands of the empire) and special
jurisdiction (lordships, municipalities and other public law corporations).
5. The Crown of Aragon During the Modern Period

(16th Century—1707)
After the death of King Ferdinand the Catholic in Madrigalejo on 23 January
1516, his successor to the throne was Joanna I (1506–1555); she was already
queen of Castile and thus the Crowns of Castile and Aragon were united in
her person. Officially, she co-ruled with her son, the emperor Charles V. This
was to be the golden age of the Hispanic Monarchy, which held a hegemonic
imperial position throughout the 16th century. This empire, which was com-
posed of a variety of kingdoms and territories with different characteristics
and independent legal systems, began to decay during the following centu-
ries, until it finally disappeared after the disastrous war against the United
States in 1898, which resulted in the loss of Spain’s last American and Asian
colonies. Between the 16th and the early 18th centuries, the Hispanic Uni-
versal Empire was ruled under a polysynodial system which involved gov-
erning through territorial councils, such as those of Castile and Aragon.31
This also implied respecting the principles of the political constitution of the
Crown of Aragon as a territorial union. Despite the growing authoritarian-
ism and monarchical absolutism of the Habsburgs, an attitude rooted in
Castilian forms of government, in practice, the government of the whole
monarchy was inspired by the political and administrative principles of the
Crown of Aragon. In his extraordinary work on the history of Catalan pub-
lic law, Professor Víctor Ferro reminds us that the common institutions of
the monarchy for the realms and lands of the Crown of Aragon during the
early 18th century were still the monarch himself, the Royal Household and
Court, the Royal Council of Aragon and the Chancellery, the succession of
the firstborn, the general governance, the General Corts of the Crown and
the general lieutenancy of the Crown of Aragon.32
During the modern period, the Hispanic Empire was controlled from the
Kingdom of Castile, while the Crown of Aragon played a lesser political
role. During this period, the representative institutions of the Crown of Ara-
gon underwent a process of transformation that allowed them to remain
alive and well as a universal community of the realms and lands under the
King of Aragon and Count of Barcelona. Among the institutions mentioned
by Professor Víctor Ferro, we can now concentrate on the Universal or Gen-
eral Corts of the Crown and on the Royal Council of Aragon or Council of
Aragon.
During the early modern period, the Universal or General Corts of the
Crown of Aragon were summoned in Monzón by Ferdinand the Catholic in
1510 and 1512; by Charles I in 1528, 1533–1534, 1537, 1542, 1547 and
1552; and by Philip II in 1563–1564 and 1585.33 On those dates, not only
did procurators and representatives of the Catalan Estates gather, but also
their Aragonese and Valencian counterparts. In contrast with the medieval
period, the king only appeared before the joint assemblies of all the rep-
resentatives of the kingdoms for a few sessions, such as the opening and
closing sessions of the Corts. In Monzón, the daily parliamentary practice
consisted of simultaneous but separate meetings of each of the represented
territories.34 Since only the proceedings of the Catalan Corts of Monzón,
held in 1585, have been published in full, we still cannot claim a complete
knowledge of the operation and the results of all this parliamentary activity
and its interactions.
However, we have been able to verify the existence of significant commu-
nication channels between the Estates and the particular Corts in the differ-
ent territories, which became evident in 1585 when the Universal Corts of
Monzón continued playing a cohesive and vindicating role within the Crown
of Aragon as universal community of the realms and lands of the monarch.
Interaction between particular Corts played a role in decisions pertaining
to such areas as parliamentary protocol and procedure, tax-related matters
and the defence of the Crown of Aragon.35 As for the Council of Aragon,
we should refer to the research undertaken on this institution by Professor
Jon Arrieta,36 beginning with the institution’s medieval origins in the Royal
Council of the court and its formalisation by the pragmatic Ferdinand the
Catholic in 1494. Under the Habsburgs, the council underwent a period of
instability with Charles I and of institutional consolidation in government
matters with Philip II, and was finally abolished under Philip V of Bourbon
in 1707, in the framework of his policy of centralisation and homogenisa-
tion. As indicated by Arrieta, the personal element of the Council of Aragon
during this whole period is relevant and illustrates the Council’s usefulness
with regard to the cohesion of the composite monarchy of the Habsburgs;
this cohesion was achieved through its cursus honorum and its interaction
with other territorial and functional bodies, both in the Crown of Aragon
and of the rest of the Hispanic Universal Empire.37
Finally, during the early modern period and until the abolition of
the Council of Aragon in 1707, the composite political constitution of the
Crown of Aragon remained in force, also within the—similarly composite—
framework of the Hispanic Universal Monarchy. The formal demise of the
Council of Aragon, in the light of the policy set forth by the Bourbons,
aimed to transform the composite monarchy of “the Spains” (las Españas)
into a uniform monarchy of a single Spain cast in a Castilian mould, but
this had little positive reformist impact on the empire as a whole. Indeed,
shortly after incorporating and assimilating the Crown of Aragon into that
of Castile, the Hispanic Monarchy had to sign the Treaty of Utrecht (1713),
leading to severe territorial losses and the beginning of the last phase of
decay for the Spanish Empire.
Notes
1. This paper is part of the research project DER2016–75830-P “De la Iurisdictio
a la Soberanía: formas de organización política y jurídica de las monarquías
hispánicas (siglos XIII-XX),” which is subsidised by the Spanish Ministry of
Education and Competitiveness and recognised by the Generalitat de Catalunya
(Government of Catalonia) as research group 2014 SGR 295.
2. The Corts were general sessions of the political and legislative assembly consist-
ing of the meeting of the king with representatives of the three estates. They
could be general or universal (Corts Generals or Corts Universals), i.e., with
representatives from all three (or four, depending on the period) estates of the
Crown, or particular, i.e. only one of the realms of the Crown met with the king.
The latter were thus either the Corts of Aragon, Catalonia or València. In any
case, Corts sessions generally bore the name of the town in which they were
held, hence Corts of Monzón, of Lleida, of Barcelona, etc.
3. Tomàs de Montagut Estragués, “La Constitució política de la Corona d’Aragó,”
in El Compromiso de Caspe (1412) cambios dinásticos y constitucionalismo
en la Corona de Aragón, ed. I. Falcón (Zaragoza: Obra Social de la Caja,
2013), 104.
4. Percy E. Schram, “Ramon Berenguer IV,” in Els primers comtes-reis: Ramon
Berenguer IV, Alfons el Cast, Pere el Catòlic (Barcelona: Editorial Teide,
1960), 31.
5. Francesco Calasso, Medio Evo del Diritto, I: Le Fonti (Milan: Giuffrè, 1954).
6. Pietro Costa, Iurisdictio: Semantica del potere politico nella pubblicistica medi-
evale (1100–1433) (Milan: Giuffrè, 2002).
7. Próspero de Bofarull, ed., Colección de Documentos inéditos del Archivo Gen-
eral de la Corona de Aragón (Barcelona: José E. Monfort, 1850), vol. 5, 271.
8. Ernst H. Kantorowicz, Los dos cuerpos del rey. Un estudio de teología política
medieval (Madrid: Akal, 2012), 244–280.
9. Vicente Arias de Balboa, “El derecho de sucesión en el trono,” in El derecho de
sucesión en el trono. La sucesión de Martín I el humano (1410–1412). Edición
y Estudio Introductorio, ed. A. Pérez Martín (Madrid: Centro de Estudios Políti-
cos y Constitucionales, 1999), 7.
10. Percy E. Schram, “Ramon Berenguer IV,” 22.
11. Joan F. Cabestany, “Alfons el cast,” in Els primers comtes-reis: Ramon Beren-
guer IV, Alfons el Cast, Pere el Catòlic (Barcelona: Editorial Teide, 1960), 116.
12. Bonifacio Palacios Martín, La Coronación de los reyes de Aragón 1204–1410.
Aportación al estudio de las estructuras políticas medievales (Valencia: Anúbar,
1975), 300.
13. Ibid., 99.
14. Ibid., 301.
15. Ibid., 102.
16. Kantorowicz, Los dos cuerpos del rey . . ., 338–380.
17. Vicente Arias de Balboa, “El derecho de sucesión en el trono,” 7–11.
18. Bonifacio Palacios Martín, La Coronación de los reyes de Aragón 1204–1410, 121.
19. Ibid., 115.
20. Ibid., 317.
21. Vicente Arias de Balboa, “El derecho de sucesión en el trono,” 13.
22. Bonifacio Palacios Martín, La Coronación de los reyes de Aragón 1204–1410,
204, 216.
23. Francisco M. Gimeno, Daniel Gozalbo and Josep Trenchs, eds., Ordinacions
de la Casa i Cort de Pere el Cerimoniós (València: Universitat de València,
2009), 241.
24. Ibid., 253–254; de Bofarull, ed., Colección de Documentos inéditos del Archivo
General de la Corona de Aragón, 284–287.
25. Constitucions y Altres Drets de Cathalunya. Compilació de 1495. Edició fac-
símil (Barcelona: Editorial Base, 2004), 370.
26. Constitutions y Altres Drets de Cathalunya, compilats en virtut del Capitol de
Cort LXXXII. de las Corts per la S.C. Y R. majestat del Rey Don Philip IV. nos-
tre senyor celebradas en la Ciutat de Barcelona any M.DCCII (Barcelona: Joan
Pau Martí and Josep Llopis, 1704), 494.
27. Josep Maria Pons Guri, Actas de las Cortes Generales de la Corona de Aragón
de 1362–63 (Madrid: Ministerio de Cultura, 1982), 99.
28. Tomàs de Montagut, “La Justicia en la Corona de Aragón,” in La Adminis-
tración de Justicia en la Historia de España. Actas de las III Jornadas de Castilla-
La Mancha sobre investigación en Archivos. Archivo Histórico Provincial de
Guadalajara. Guadalajara, 11–14 noviembre 1997 (Guadalajara: ANABAD
Castilla-La Mancha, 1999), 650–655.
29. See the royal text in its original Catalan in Josep Maria Sans i Travé (coord.),
Cort General de Montsó 1382–1384, Textos Jurídics Catalans (Barcelona:
Departament de Justícia-Generalitat de Catalunya, 1992), vol. 8, 185.
30. Tomàs de Montagut, “La reforma de la administración de justicia en las Cortes
Generales de Monzón de 1388–1389,” Anales: Anuario del centro de la UNED
de Calatayud 7, no. 1 (1999): 5–16.
31. Jesús Lalinde Abadía, La iniciación histórica al derecho español (Barcelona,
Caracas & Mexico: Ariel, 1978), 417–418. “Beginning in the late 14th century,
the Royal Council in Castile was slowly transformed into an administrative
body which dealt with certain matters, sometimes even without the interven-
tion of the king. Under the Catholic Monarchs, this so-called “governmental”
function was further developed, even though, at the same time, the Council also
acquired a “legal” function, becoming an administrative-legal body of a territo-
rial and a collegiate nature. For this reason, with the union of the crowns, the
council obtained its specific name, i.e. the Royal Council of Castile or simply
Council of Castile . . . During the late 15th century, the Council of Aragon was
created, having the same territorial and arbitrary character, but less political
leverage than the Council of Castile. It was chaired by the vice-chancellor and
included representatives from all the territories and, in the 16th century, from
Flanders, Burgundy, Italy and Portugal as well. The affairs of the [Council of
Aragon] were transferred to the Council of Castile at the time of the unifica-
tion of the monarchy under Philip V, and the remaining Councils were termi-
nated when their respective territories ceased to be under the jurisdiction of
the Crown. Around 1526, the Council of the Indies was segregated from the
Council of Castile.”
32. Víctor Ferro, El Dret Públic Català. Les Institucions a Catalunya fins al Decret
de Nova Planta (Capellades: Eumo Editorial, 1987), 27.
33. Rafael Conde, Ana Hernández, Sebastià Riera and Manuel Rovira, “Fonts per
a l’estudi de les Corts i els Parlaments de Catalunya. Catàleg dels processos de
Corts i Parlaments,” in Les Corts a Catalunya. Actes del Congrés d’Història
Institucional (Barcelona: Departament de Cultura-Generalitat de Catalunya,
1991), 47–54.
34. Note that the particular Corts of Aragon, Valencia and Catalonia would still
gather individually during the early modern period in cities or towns other than
Monzón. In the case of the Principality of Catalonia, for instance, we should
note: the Corts of Barcelona of 1493, 1503, 1519–1520, 1529, 1564 (continu-
ation of those of Monzón of 1563/1564), 1599, 1626–1632, 1701–1702 and
1705; the Corts of Lleida of 1515; the General Parliament of Barcelona of 1653;
and the General Assemblies of the Arms of Barcelona of 1640 and 1713. For
the Kingdom of Aragon, the Corts of the kingdom were held in Zaragoza in
1498–1494,1495–1497,1498–1499, 1502–1503, 1515 (concluded in Calata-
yud), 1518–1519, 1528 (started in Monzón as General Corts and continued
in Zaragoza as particular Corts), 1645–1646, 1677 (concluded in Calatayud),
1684–1686 and 1702; in Tarazona in 1495–1497 and 1592; and in Barbastro in
1626 (concluded in Calatayud). For the Kingdom of Valencia, the last Valencian
Corts were summoned in the city of Valencia in 1645.
35. Tomàs de Montagut, “Les Corts Generals de la Corona d’Aragó. (Notes per al
seu estudi),” in Felipe II y el Mediterráneo. IV. La monarquía y los reinos (II),
ed. E. Belenguer (Madrid: Sociedad Estatal para la Conmemoración de los Cen-
tenarios de Felipe II y Carlos V, 1999), 134–135.
36. Jon Arrieta, El Consejo Supremo de la Corona de Aragón (1494–1707) (Zara-
goza: Institución Fernando el Católico, 1994).
37. Jon Arrieta, “El papel de los juristas y magistrados de la Corona de Aragón en
la ‘conservación’ de la monarquía,” Estudis: Revista de Historia Moderna 34
(2008): 9–59, 56. “My intention with this article was to establish the relation-
ship between the survival of the Monarchy and the daily work of judges and
ministers, [where the latter is] understood as the sum of the contributions of
hundreds of [judges and ministers] it means that the daily work of judges and
ministers is understood as a composite of many, many people working together
to produce a corpus of practice serving as a support for the monarchy . . . . In
the Crown of Aragon, and taking into account only those who had access to
the Supreme Council, the officials who could be included in this section were
more than one hundred, the majority of them already having served in the royal
service for several years in their respective courts of law, where they basically
held the same office. Consider the fact that these lawyers built their careers in a
specific space in time allowing them to coexist on the Council of Aragon with
their direct colleagues of other realms of the Crown and, indirectly, with the
members of other Councils.”
Arias de Balboa, Vicente. “El derecho de sucesión en el trono.” In El derecho de
sucesión en el trono. La sucesión de Martín I el humano (1410–1412). Edición
y Estudio Introductorio, edited by A. Pérez Martín. Madrid: Centro de Estudios
Políticos y Constitucionales, 1999.
Arrieta, Jon. El Consejo Supremo de la Corona de Aragón (1494–1707). Zaragoza:
Institución Fernando el Católico, 1994.
Arrieta, Jon. “El papel de los juristas y magistrados de la Corona de Aragón en
la ‘conservación’ de la monarquía.” Estudis: Revista de Historia Moderna 34
(2008).
Bofarull, Próspero de, ed. Colección de Documentos inéditos del Archivo General de
la Corona de Aragón, Tomo 5. Barcelona: José E. Monfort, 1850.
Cabestany, Joan-F. “Alfons el cast.” In Els primers comtes-reis: Ramon Berenguer IV,
Alfons el Cast, Pere el Catòlic. Barcelona: Editorial Teide, 1960.
Conde, Rafael, Ana Hernández, Sebastià Riera, and Manuel Rovira. “Fonts per a
l’estudi de les Corts i els Parlaments de Catalunya. Catàleg dels processos de Corts
i Parlaments.” In Les Corts a Catalunya. Actes del Congrés d’Història Institucio-
nal. Barcelona: Departament de Cultura-Generalitat de Catalunya, 1991.
Constitucions y Altres Drets de Cathalunya. Compilació de 1495. Edició facsímil.
Barcelona: Editorial Base, 2004.
Constitutions y Altres Drets de Cathalunya, compilats en virtut del Capitol de Cort
LXXXII.de las Corts per la S.C.Y R. majestat del Rey Don Philip IV.nostre senyor
celebradas en la Ciutat de Barcelona any M.DCCII. Barcelona: Joan Pau Martí y
Josep Llopis, 1704.
Cort General de Montsó 1382–1384, Textos Jurídics Catalans, Vol. 8. Barcelona,
1992.
Costa, Pietro. Iurisdictio: Semantica del potere politico nella pubblicistica medievale
(1100–1433). Milan: Giuffrè, 2002.
Ferro, Víctor. El Dret Públic Català. Les Institucions a Catalunya fins al Decret de
Nova Planta. Capellades: Eumo Editorial, 1987.
Gimeno, Francisco M., Daniel Gozalbo, and Josep Trenchs, eds. Ordinacions de
la Casa i Cort de Pere el Cerimoniós. València: Publicacions de la Universitat de
València, 2009.
Kantorowicz, Ernst H. Los dos cuerpos del rey. Un estudio de teología política medi-
eval. Madrid: Akal, 2012.
Lalinde Abadía, Jesús. La iniciación histórica al derecho español. Barcelona, Cara-
cas, & México: Ariel, 1978.
Montagut Estragués, Tomàs de. “La Justicia en la Corona de Aragón.” In La Admin-
istración de Justicia en la Historia de España. Actas de las III Jornadas de Castilla-La
Mancha sobre investigación en Archivos. Archivo Histórico Provincial de Guada-
lajara. Guadalajara, 11–14 noviembre 1997. Guadalajara: ANABAD Castilla-La
Mancha, 1999.
Montagut Estragués, Tomàs de. “La reforma de la administración de justicia en las
Cortes Generales de Monzón de 1388–1389.” Anales: Anuario del centro de la
UNED de Calatayud 7, no. 1 (1999).
Montagut Estragués, Tomàs de. “Les Corts Generals de la Corona d’Aragó. (Notes
per al seu estudi).” In Felipe II y el Mediterráneo. IV La monarquía y los reinos
(II), edited by E. Belenguer. Madrid: Sociedad Estatal para la Conmemoración de
los Centenarios de Felipe II y Carlos V, 1999.
Montagut Estragués, Tomàs de. “La Constitució política de la Corona d’Aragó.” In
El Compromiso de Caspe (1412): cambios dinásticos y constitucionalismo en la
Corona de Aragón, edited by I. Falcón. Zaragoza: Obra Social de la Caja, 2013.
Palacios Martín, Bonifacio. La Coronación de los reyes de Aragón 1204–1410. Apor-
tación al estudio de las estructuras políticas medievales. Valencia: Anubar, 1975.
Pons Guri, Josep Maria. Actas de las Cortes Generales de la Corona de Aragón de
1362–63. Madrid: Ministerio de Cultura, 1982.
Schram, Percy E. “Ramon Berenguer IV.” In Els primers comtes-reis: Ramon Beren-
guer IV, Alfons el Cast, Pere el Catòlic. Barcelona: Editorial Teide, 1960.
10 Political Representation in the
Kingdom of Aragon During
the Ancien Régime*
Gregorio Colás Latorre
1. Political Representation: the Junta de Brazos

(Estates Assembly), the Cortes, the Diputación,
and the Council
The image of Aragon as a kingdom in the grip of an indomitable aristocracy,
concocted at the end of the 19th century, survives to this day despite recent
historiographical approaches. If that tenet still held, it would be justified to
claim that representation was an insignificant issue, given the overwhelming
hegemony of a self-absorbed nobility that prevented society from evolving
at the rate dictated by the times. Fortunately, for the Aragonese first and
foremost, and historians afterwards, reality was rather more complex than
what even relatively recent studies would have us believe, in spite of the
ius maletractandi and other unsettling practices, such as the Privilegio de
Veinte.1 Despite these anachronisms, the notions of justice and power, and
the need to control them, were quite a novelty for that period. The presump-
tion of innocence, the prohibition against torture, and the institution of the
Justicia, about which more will be said later, are all good examples of this.
Politically and institutionally, Aragon was more than its aristocracy. In
line with Western practice, the nobility was the second estate in a triad in
which the clergy came first and the producers third. As early as 1283, the
nobility and the third estate had wrested from the monarchy the Privilegio
General,2 one of the most important constitutional texts to be produced
in medieval Europe. After a few years of uncertainty, it was definitively
confirmed in the Cortes held in Zaragoza in 1348 and completed with the
Fueros (charters)3 De iis quod dominus Rex, and Quod in dubiis non cra-
sis, and Quod dominus rex from 1301. The principles of the constitution
were negotiated (settled) by the monarch and his kingdom, represented by
the nobility and the most important councils in the land. The institutional
framework created at this time came into shape in the late 15th century and
was slightly modified in the early 16th century. In the late medieval period,
there was a clear separation between the king and the kingdom, that is,
between the monarchy’s specific powers and those of its subjects. The king
dealt with matters of justice, public order, and foreign policy. The kingdom
162 Gregorio Colás Latorre
was responsible for day-to-day matters in the life of the Aragonese people.
While the monarch chose his own officials, the jurisdiction of the subjects,
which belonged to the realm and, locally, to the council, were exercised by
representatives of the people, who were chosen by lot.4
As in the Crown’s other dominions, the estates were called Brazos when
they acted in their institutional capacity. In the case of Aragon, there were
four: ecclesiastical, nobility, knights and members of the gentry, and uni-
versities. The last brazo, that of the universities, was alluded to as the
“royal arm” in Catalonia and Valencia, and represented the municipal col-
lective that embodied the third estate. The four brazos represented the
kingdom and were summoned by the Diputación when a quick response
was needed for a serious challenge.5 The meeting was known as the Junta
de los Cuatro Brazos (meeting of the four estates). In 1592, Philip II for-
bade the Junta to be summoned without prior royal consent. Among the
meetings held during the 17th century,6 invariably with the king’s or the
viceroy’s permission, the one held in 1684 under the shadow of the nova-
tores stands out. Its purpose was to find a solution to the economic stagna-
tion that characterised the Baroque period. Several treatises on economic
policy, some of which were quite significant, were written in order to
achieve that objective.7
The four brazos, as part of the Junta, were able to seek solutions to urgent
problems but only within the standing legal framework. Their structure mir-
rored that of the Cortes, but it was here, in the grand Assembly convened
by the monarch, where they truly fulfilled their role as the kingdom’s repre-
sentatives. Prelates, abbots and representatives of cathedral chapters formed
the ecclesiastical brazo. The lower clergy was left outside. The nobility and
the knights and members of the gentry, who constituted the second and
third brazos, only had to prove their status to attend. All their members
attended in person, although they could also send a representative. The uni-
versities, or fourth brazo,8 called the third estate in the French terminology,
were based on the urban councils under royal jurisdiction (with some excep-
tions), and were represented by members of the urban elite, the so-called
“citizens.” It was the only brazo that acted by representation. Originally it
was only made up by cities. Over time, however, the institution opened up
to a wider membership, the requirements for which had to be regulated.
Once these requirements were met, the council would request acceptance
of the new members. Then it was up to the brazo to decide.9 In the late
17th century, 32 universities, not including the Cinco Villas—Ejea, Tauste,
Sos, Uncastillo and Sádaba—were part of the brazo of knights and gentry.
Except for Monzón (1495) and Caspe (1678), which belonged to the order
of St John of Jerusalem, and Alcañiz (1626), which belonged to the order of
Calatrava, the other universities were under royal jurisdiction. Other coun-
cils tried to be granted this honour, but met with the brazo’s opposition. The
brazo’s position remained unmoved, despite there being a current of opinion
in favour of keeping the admission threshold low, although we do not know
Representation in the Kingdom of Aragon 163
how widespread this current was.10 In total, around 30 cities enjoyed the
privilege of representing the majority of the Aragonese people: an estimated
90–95% of the population.
Jerónimo Martel argued that the two most important functions of the
Aragonese Cortes were to procure the reparation of wrongdoings by jus-
tice rather than by supplication (as was the case in other kingdoms) and
to channel the king’s and the kingdom’s legislative power. Perhaps Martel
was not entirely precise in his estimate, but his assertions are not easy to
contradict. Neither the reparation of wrongdoings, which fell under the
provisions of the Justicia (making it unnecessary to set up a court for
that purpose), nor the power to legislate can be disputed. But the Cor-
tes were—and had traditionally been—rather more than that. They elected
the deputies of the Justicia, voted the subsidies and, until 1592, played an
essential role in configuring two of the most important institutions in Ara-
gon: the Diputación and the Justicia.11 In the late 14th century, the servicio
(tax) voted in the Cortes of 1362–1363 compelled the kingdom to create
a committee—Deputies of the General Tax12—to collect and manage the
tribute. At first this committee was temporary in nature, and it was estab-
lished for every tax contribution and disbanded afterwards. Gradually, in
a process which is fairly well known,13 the committee turned into a perma-
nent body. At the same time, the duties that the committee had been given
by the Cortes increased until it became the most important institution in
Aragon in the 15th century. The Diputación, for its part, emanated from
the brazos and came into shape, after several alternatives had been con-
sidered, in the Cortes of 1495 with the passing of the reform presented by
Ferdinand II. The names of the eligible parties were divided into ten bags,
two per brazo, except the universities, who had four, that is, Zaragoza,
cities, towns and communities. The capital, whose presence was strong in
the kingdom’s institutions, drew names every year, while the others did
so every three years. The Diputación, therefore, sprang from the brazos,
who also participated in shaping the institution of the Justicia. This unique
Aragonese institution was created in 1283 with the Privilegio General, as
a specialised judge appointed to deal with violations of the fuero. Later, in
the Cortes held in 1348, the Justicia also assumed the role of interpreting
the Fueros and defending the rights of the Aragonese people.
In Aragon, the Tribunal de Contrafaccions (Court of Contraventions),
an institution Catalonia resolutely fought for, was the result of “pactism.”
Before we go on, it should be pointed out that the Justicia was the represen-
tative of a collegiate body, and that his importance stemmed from the pre-
eminence of the institution which he represented. The Justicia was appointed
by the King, and, until 1592, it was a position for life; it should be noted,
however, that the institution was really run by his deputies. Chosen at first
by the Justicia and later by the Cortes, their number was set at five in 1528.
Candidates were nominated by the brazos (four per brazo) and included
doctors in both civil and canon law. Of the 16 candidates nominated, five
were directly appointed and the remaining 11 went through the process of
drawing names from a bag when a deputy left his post. The deputies were
assisted by notaries, bailiffs, gatekeepers and so on, who made up the office
of the Justicia. Fairly soon, new bodies appeared in order to control the
operation of the Justicia’s office, which Bartolomé Leonardo de Argensola
justified in these terms: “Our elders believed that the court, which had been
introduced to right wrongs, had to be subjected to a rigorous investigation
every year in order to preserve its integrity.”14 From 1390 onwards, the
audit was performed by four inquisitors who heard the cases filed against
court officials and servants. Those deemed guilty were sentenced by the Cor-
tes. In 1467, the Cortes were replaced by 17 lay judges (judicantes), chosen
from the brazos like the investigating judges. Finally, in 1592, Philip II took
over this court, which had originally been created to curb and redress abuses
of power. Until that date, it can be argued that the Aragonese people and
their monarch had made representation the basis of their political and insti-
tutional structure.
2. The Representativeness of Institutions

Aragon had actively participated in the building of its own institutions, but
also in crafting the legal framework that outlined the actions of the kingdom
and its king. The Junta de Brazos, the Brazos in Cortes, and the Diputación
represented the land and played an active role in shaping the institution of
the Justicia in the above-mentioned terms. The town or city councils, for
their part, represented the local institutions. The above-mentioned bodies
claimed to embody, and practically exercised, territorial and local represen-
tation. That is obvious. However, whether they actually were representative,
or to which extent they were so, is quite a different issue. I will address this
in the second part of the chapter.
My proposal, which is only a research hypothesis to be explored further in
the near future, is based on two prior considerations. First, the socio-political
categories of the Ancien Régime were substantially different from those that
slowly evolved in the 18th century and took hold in Europe after the French
Revolution. Obviously, there was no democratic representation system based
on the model of liberal democracies. That would have been difficult, given
that the individual as a political entity and the concept of equality were yet
to be discovered. De facto and de iure social stratification, which was, to
some extent, independent of economic variables, and the resulting inequal-
ity, set Ancien Régime society and our own clearly apart. These values were
embodied in the concept of status.15 Birth and rank not only determined a
man’s importance, his place in society and in the political and institutional
order, but they were also faithfully expressed even in the most insignificant
public and religious acts. To this we could add the economic and technical
limitations of late feudalism. In a commentary to the French revolutionary
statement that “men are born free and with equal rights,” Pierre Goubert
categorically states: “Men are born and remain free and equal in rights. Nei-
ther the feudal regime nor the Ancien Régime ever accepted this principle.”16
Further down, he points out another important fact:
Mentally, the Ancien Régime distinguished by . . . a very blinkered pro-

vincial and local way of life, and a uniformly weak, sometimes non-
existent concept of state, nation and fatherland, except for the worship
of the monarch or the physical presence of danger.17
Hemmed in by economic and technical difficulties, medieval man mainly

depended on the town council. The municipal body was responsible for the
everyday life of its members, while the monarchy remained at a distance as
an almost supernatural reference that only now and then saw fit to show
itself, and almost always in order to complicate one’s existence. Obviously,
Aragon was no exception to this dynamic. The fate of the Aragonese people
lay in the hands of their respective town councils and, to a lesser extent,
in those of the Diputación. A mere glance at the records of any municipal-
ity betrays the extent to which the population depended on the council.
Municipal granaries, provisions for importing and exporting products, wine
and oil prices, ploughing and irrigation policies, provisions for the textile
industry, hygiene and teaching (if we can call it that) and so on, depended
on the municipal authority. As such, we are justified in considering that, dur-
ing that period, the Council was the embodiment of the state. The monarch,
that remote entity, only let himself be felt when he needed his subjects’ help.
When the latter were plagued by food shortages, illness or concerns, they
did not appeal to the court. They went instead to the town square, where
the Town Hall would be, to demand solutions and redress. Either out of a
sense of responsibility or out of fear for their neighbours’ reactions, council
authorities had to take into account not only their own interests but also
those of the people in town, which were their own as well. The same applied
when they were summoned to the Cortes as part of the fourth brazo, or
common estate. Both compromise and fear of possible turmoil made rep-
resentation as well as representativeness possible. Either on their own or
as part of the brazo, municipal leaders felt solidarity with the people they
represented and took into account their concerns, wishes and needs.
Local people did not elect their council. Municipal leaders were not
appointed as an expression of the will of the people they governed, but
because they met the requirements set forth in the edicts. These conditions
and municipal regulations turned them into representatives and protectors
of their neighbours, but they did not owe them their position. Nevertheless,
responsibility, fear, compassion or all of them combined led them to feel
invested in their fate and to present the community’s problems to the higher
authorities. It is here, in the moral grounding of authority and in shared
interests and needs, that we should seek for the roots of representation. In
a world like that of the Ancien Régime, in which privilege was structural,
where equality not only was unacceptable but also unheard of, it makes no
sense to talk about the ratio between the represented and the representa-
tives, between the cities and the regions they represent, between feudal and
royal jurisdiction. Within this institutional framework, the council was the
key political and social unit around which the third estate organised.
Arguably, the composition of the Cortes and the third estate would seem
to contravene or contradict any notion of representativeness. The existence
of three privileged brazos has led to the consideration of the Cortes as yet
another instrument of their power.18 However, these considerations neglect
to take into account the procedures and the legal corpus that the Cortes
had produced since their inception. Those in favour of this perspective have
even gone as far as claiming that the Cortes did not legislate. Obviously, if
the assembly acted on what the majority of the brazos decided, it would be
hard not to consider the Cortes as just another expression of a social struc-
ture based on privilege. But instead the fueros or laws could only be passed
unanimously in each brazo and by the four brazos, and in consequence it
did not matter too much that there were three privileged brazos. Double
unanimity—within each brazo and among the four brazos—counteracted
numerical superiority, ensuring that the fourth brazo had a voice that could
prevail over the other three. The importance of unanimity is obvious, as the
weight of the common estate in the Cortes, the merits of the assembly and
(to a certain extent) pactism itself depended on it. That is why the subject
needs to be approached carefully, especially because some studies emphati-
cally deny the existence of a common will to legislate.
The requirement for unanimity was (almost paradoxically) confirmed by
the 1592 fuero that ended it: “In the Cortes, the majority in each brazo shall
be the brazo”; and by the fuero approved afterwards, “On the cases when
the previous fuero does not apply,”19 followed by a list of exceptions. The old
formula was kept for torture cases, galley sentences (thieves excluded), prop-
erty confiscation, and taxation. These two fueros confirm that, before 1592,
a law could only be enacted with the unanimous agreement of the assembly.
It is impossible to repeal a law that does not exist. The fact that later treatise
writers revisited the subject proves that the elimination of the principle of
unanimity was the cause of some turmoil. Argensola,20 Martel,21 Murillo22
and so on did not make things up. They only echoed the fuero passed at
the unfortunate meeting of Tarazona. The documentation pertaining to the
Cortes currently held in municipal archives supports the notion of unanimity,
and confirms other matters highlighted by Jerónimo Martel, and previously
by Jerónimo de Blancas, in their respective treatises.23 I will only add that the
fuero was used sensibly and not indiscriminately. It was called upon when
the matter at hand warranted it. As Javier Gil Pujol has pointed out, “In
Aragon they were proud of the unanimity requirement, but certainty in the
principle of unanimity was as unequivocal as flexibility in the practice was
clear.”24 In 1592 the kingdom fought against substituting majority for una-
nimity.25 It even managed to maintain unanimity in those matters considered
sacred by the Aragonese people. The splitting of the aristocracy into nobility
and knights and other members of the gentry did not turn the assembly into
a mere instrument of their interests, even though their privileged standing
secured their presence in the Cortes and the chamber in the first place.
Only the constitution of the third estate was based on representation,
but it appertained the councils, not the individual subjects. Some 30 com-
munities enjoyed the privilege of representing Aragon’s productive sector.
A large proportion of the territory, including all lands under feudal juris-
diction, and most of those under ecclesiastical jurisdiction, were thus left
out. Furthermore, municipalities were represented in the assembly by rep-
resentatives chosen by chapter and council, according to their own statutes.
Their officers, as the municipal authorities were called in Jaca and Huesca,
were selected from the local elites. Based on this, one might conclude that,
while councils represented the third estate, they could not be regarded as
representative. Only a fraction of the residents had full voting rights in the
Cortes. The representatives have even been accused of exercising represen-
tation purely in their own interest. However, if the scope of the analysis is
broadened beyond the numerical data, it is possible to reach a different set
of conclusions that may come closer to the truth.
The brazo comprised the cities of the realm, a few towns and the com-
munities of Teruel, Daroca and Calatayud. At the end of the 17th century
there were a total of 29 councils (which included the settlements within
their corresponding jurisdictions) plus the representatives of the three com-
munities. This amounted to 228 communities, totalling more than 13,564
households. In 1495, these communities ranged from Murillo’s 35 house-
holds, 45 in Loarre, 70 in Berbegal and 75 in Tamarite de Litera, all the way
to the 3,968 to be found in Zaragoza. The census included small, medium
and, of course, large communities like Zaragoza, Calatayud and Huesca.
The territory was well represented. As a result of its composition, the fourth
brazo brought before the Cortes the problems of the people it represented,
problems that were similar to those experienced in the rest of the kingdom.
Common hardships and aspirations made the deputy into an unwitting rep-
resentative of the councils who lacked the privilege of representation. The
validity of this assumption must take into account the nature of the council
and what it represented for the common people. Our hypothesis is cogni-
zant of those opinions that have accused the leading oligarchies of using
representation and municipal government for their own ends. In the case of
Aragon, however, such a claim is questionable if presented as a generalised
state of affairs. As Encarna Jarque has pointed out, some of these universi-
ties were so small that it is difficult to speak of a leading oligarchy beyond
the strict meaning of the term: a minority government. Furthermore, behind
every deputy and every member of the Cortes, there was such a large num-
ber of people that it is difficult to believe they all had the same interests, or
that the monarchy would be able to corrupt them all. Nevertheless, it is true
that representatives could be offered bribes, and that sometimes they took
them, as can be gleaned from Jaca’s warning to its deputy in 1585: “[H]e
may not negotiate about his own affairs.”26 This representative was also the
Justicia, who would later be impeached. However, except for this warning,
contacts between the council and its deputy, and the laws approved in the
Cortes, conveyed few complaints or accusations of venality, although this
obviously does not preclude that some cases of bribery occurred.
As a representative of the common estate, the council came up against
one of the hardest objections to overcome in the feudal world. The main
demand of feudal vassals, or at least of some of them, as demonstrated by
their belligerence, was to come under royal jurisdiction. In 1585, the Cortes
approved the fuero De rebellione vasallorum, which has scandalised some
historians, who seem to ignore the fate suffered by rebels throughout his-
tory. In the Cortes held as late as 1626, a petition presented by the universi-
ties against the absolute authority of the lay feudal lords was rejected. Based
on these facts, it would be easy to conclude that the feudal system did not
allow for any representativeness. However, it would not be fair to leave it at
that. To begin with, some of the issues related to the lord–vassal system fell
outside the powers of the assembly. They threatened the established order,
which the institution had the duty to protect. The overlord system was an
institution linked to the very existence of feudalism. Making sense of the
fuero De rebellione vasallorum is not easy, not because of moral issues,
which carry little value in history, but because it seems pointless given the
overlords’ absolute authority or ius maletractandi. Did they need a fuero
to keep the peasants submissive? If so, what would happen if absolute
authority were considered the paradigm of oppression? Furthermore, after
their expulsion, the new inhabitants refused to pay taxes at the same rate
as the Moriscos had done, but nothing was said about absolute authority.
The overlords must have waived their financial aspirations while keeping
their other prerogatives. These issues need to be borne in mind before mak-
ing any hasty judgements. Finally, the Cortes were not an instrument of
social change but of continuity. Representativeness permeated the spheres
of financial and social life, which did not directly affect the world of vassal
and overlord relationships.
The call to convene the Cortes set in motion a ritual that evolved over
time. The head juror sent word to the council and asked for the nomina-
tion of representatives. After these had been elected, they were accredited
and swore to uphold a set of guidelines or Instructions. But all of this is
just anecdotal. What really matters is the control that the council held over
its envoys. The Instructions were the representative’s roadmap, and had
to be followed to the letter. According to he book of common records in
1537: “By unanimity, they instructed the representatives about what to do
in the Cortes . . . They swore to uphold it under the authority of the council
of Huesca.”27 The one for 1585 states, “Instructions that the representa-
tives of Huesca must follow to act and decide in the Cortes that his Royal
Majesty . . . .”28 Compliance could be total or limited to issues that were
considered non-negotiable. In 1542, Huesca agreed that its representatives
“may act and negotiate this issue as they see fit, since unanimity exists about
it.”29 On 2 October 1547, the deputy asked for advice on five points that
were being discussed in Monzón. The city replied: “[D]o what you can with-
out halting the brazo.”30 But this was not always the case. When the deputy
informed his city council that the city’s issues were neither being addressed
nor rectified, the response from the council was categorical: “[I]n case his
Majesty intends to conclude the Cortes without addressing our query, with-
hold assent and service to his Majesty.”31 Such determination forced Charles
V to explain himself. In order to ensure that the approval of the subsidy was
not interrupted and that allegiance to the prince did not suffer accordingly,
he sent the abbot of San Victorián to explain the situation. Huesca lifted
its veto but expressed its discontent in no uncertain terms when it added
that the king’s concession to Barbastro was unacceptable. The representa-
tive was, therefore, merely an extension of the council. He did not have a
decisive vote unless the university expressly gave it to him. The directive to
“consult the city” is stated repeatedly under various forms.32 In December
1563, the deputies did not hesitate to halt the brazo until they had con-
sulted with the city.33 In the instance that we have just been referring to,
conversely, the council ordered the brazo not to be halted. Reactions to the
deputies acting of their own accord is another point in the discussion about
the role that both parties played in the Cortes. In 1519 the representative
of Barbastro, Pedro Díez, was the target of a harsh reprimand for giving in
under the pressure posed by the universities and the monarchy on the issue
of the Holy Brotherhood.34 Jaca’s reaction in 1586 was far more severe. Its
representative, Diego de Harto, was accused of not having complied with
the orders he received. All his explanations were in vain. The city politically
disqualified him and sentenced him to pay for his expenses in Monzón. As
he was short on cash, he was forced to hand over the house where he lived.35
Being a representative was undoubtedly an honour, but it was not without
complications. The envoy was caught between royal pressure and that of the
brazo and his council.
As the spokesperson for his university, the representative defended the
proposals put forward by the citizens or by the elites he was a member of.
The oligarchy, which governed the council, was part of the brazo through
the deputy and thus acted as the representative of the third estate. It cer-
tainly could manage local affairs and those of the realm (to the extent it was
able to do so), for its own gain. But the texts do not seem to support this
notion. Since most universities were rather modest, their leaders were too
hard pressed to have any other ambitions beyond survival, like the rest of
his co-citizens residents. However, it is also difficult to find any consensus
between a citizen from Zaragoza, Calatayud or Huesca, a representative of
the communities of Teruel, Calatayud or Daroca, and a deputy of the towns
with representation in the Cortes. The documents exchanged between the
councils and their representatives are very revealing concerning the way in
which the Aragonese elite acted as leaders of the council and of the fourth
brazo. The record is clear: the minority seems to have been fully awake
to the fact that they were representing the fourth brazo together with the
other universities, as well as the realm. The documents kept in the archives
manifest this awareness. I have been able to study the documents of Jaca
and Huesca, which I consider to be representative of the behaviour of the
other universities as well, since I found no reason to believe that these two
cities were any different than the others. Curiously, despite the accusations
of self-absorption levelled against the elites, I have not been able to find
any reference to such selfishness. I have even come to the conclusion that
the citizen group shows a clear awareness of its political role as part of the
kingdom. In 1563, Jaca warned its representatives that if the king’s position
“went against freedoms and damaged the kingdom, they should not agree
but rather explicitly condemn it.”36 In the Cortes held in 1585, Jaca enjoined
the envoy to “agree with the other universities in the kingdom’s other gen-
eral matters . . . provided it benefitted the laws of the realm, neither adding
nor subtracting to them, and always in consultation.”37 When the coun-
cil was called to the Cortes, it concerned itself with matters related to its
residents and the Aragonese people in that thirtieth of representation that
corresponded to the brazo in the Cortes. This is also shown by the topics
discussed by the deputies. The actual situation may have been different, but
here I am only referring to what the record conveys. In Jaca, the council’s
concerns in the 16th century included collecting monies owed by the king
for expenses made on his behalf, the safety of the city and the land, and
Canfranc’s pursuit of a seat in the Cortes. But it also concerned itself about
issues that affected its residents: various tolls, the treatment of livestock
farmers, the price of oil, the fees on the wine coming from Navarre, the
Zuera bridge toll and so on. This is why Jaca compelled the king to pay his
debts; asked for the appointment of a governor not hailing from the moun-
tains; requested the cancellation of tolls and charges, an exemption from
wine fees and the prohibition to export oil when it reached a certain price;
and, systematically opposed Canfranc being granted a seat in the Cortes.
Along with the rest of the kingdom, it demanded that the Inquisition “only
intervene in matters concerning the Catholic faith”38 and that the perror-
rescencias39 be reformed due to the damage they inflicted on the poor. Jaca
took care of its residents, and that concern made their commitment exten-
sive to all of the Aragonese people. Huesca did the same, but acting from a
higher position of authority, owing to its status as a wealthier, more popu-
lous, university city, more closely connected with the kingdom’s problems
due to its location. That double perception of representation (council and
kingdom) emerges from or is outlined in the titles of Huesca’s instructions.
In 1563, the council gave its representatives two instructions. The first one
was entitled: “Universal matters these representatives must address for the
universal good of the kingdom.”40 The second one, written down right after
the first one in the minutes, said: “Subjects that the representatives must
negotiate at court and with his Majesty on behalf of the university.”41 In
the next Cortes, celebrated in 1585, the council also differentiated between
local interests and the kingdom’s universal interests. Huesca stands out as
an extraordinary vantage point from which to examine the problems that
affected the entire territory. As a council, Huesca seemed to have at least
two interests: the city’s loss of ecclesiastical jurisdiction as the seat of the
diocese, after the concession of a vicariate to Barbastro, and the defence of
the university. From at least 1542, the council seemed committed to improv-
ing the quality of its Estudio General (the oldest university in the kingdom),
providing the institution with more funds to hire better teaching staff and
thus attain the same privileges for its graduates as those enjoyed by gradu-
ates and doctors from Salamanca, Valladolid, Bologna and Alcalá. Later
on, Huesca focused its efforts on preventing Zaragoza from obtaining a
university, which would have been a serious competitor to its own. Other
general matters illustrate its status as a representative of the third estate.
Like Jaca, Huesca requested “reforming and limiting” the perrorrescencias,
as they “obstructed the administration of Justice.”42 It also pointed out that
they worsened the situation of the poor. It advocated the elimination of tolls
because “this would be a universal benefit for the entire kingdom.”43 It also
mentioned other affairs: the need to improve the Árguis Pass, which would
be helpful for many mountain dwellers, problems related with the census,
the practice of drawing names from a bag, the declaration and inventory of
deeds, the presence of an appointed prosecutor (procurador astricto) in all
towns and cities, and so on. The preparations made for the Cortes held in
1585 is even more suggestive. According to the minutes of the municipal ses-
sion dated 30 May, the head juror submitted three drafts to the plenary, each
with its own rubric: “Subjects and topics for the practical instruction of the
representatives in the Cortes.” Its numerous articles contain what must have
been a rather substantial proportion of the people of Huesca’s concerns
as citizens and residents of the Kingdom of Aragon. The first draft chiefly
focused on matters pertaining to the people of Huesca. The second one dealt
with economic issues: eliminating tolls and increasing the salaries of the
main authorities in the kingdom and so on. The third one was clearly politi-
cal and seems to have been written by legal experts. It denounced abuses
and injustices, and proposed some changes in the legislation to put an end to
them. The instructions seem to demonstrate that councils with representa-
tion in the Cortes had a clear awareness of their mission and that they went
there to represent and defend the interests of the Aragonese people, which
they interpreted and defended according to their residents’ needs, plights
and hardships. Other texts unequivocally express this awareness and the
role of the universities in the Cortes. Statements such as “universal matters,
the universal good of the kingdom,”44 “the common good of this city and
kingdom,”45 “common and universal profit of this city and kingdom,”46
seem to bear witness to their concern for the common good of the Ara-
gonese nation.
All this may be no more than words: a false semblance. But the most
prosaic instructions: wine fees, oil price, the Árguis Pass, together with the
more elevated ones: social peace, justice, care for the poor and so on, con-
firm this general concern about the Aragonese people. A care that seems to
be present alongside the concern about problems and affairs that directly
affected the council’s prestige and power. The Cortes were an institution
in which the brazos represented the kingdom. But the issues addressed in
them suggested that, through mechanisms that were fully characteristic of
the Ancien Régime, and while not forgetting that the role of these institu-
tions was to preserve the social system rather than change it, they were
also representative of the hopes, needs and desires of a great number of the
Aragonese people.
Notes
* [[Endnote data missing]]
1. A privilege in Zaragoza of uncertain origin: 20 outstanding men of the com-
munity, elected for that purpose, decided how grievances perpetrated against the
city should be redressed.
2. On the Privilegio General, Jesús Lalinde Abadía, “El pactismo en los Reinos de
Aragón y Valencia,” in El pactismo en la historia de España. Simposio celebrado
los días 24–26 de abril de 1978, ed. Luis Legaz and Lacambra (Madrid: Insti-
tuto de España. Cátedra Francisco de Vitoria, 1980), 123–132; Esteban Sarasa
Sánchez, ed., El privilegio General de Aragón. La defensa de las libertades ara-
gonesas en la Edad Media (Zaragoza: Cortes de Aragón, 1984); Gregorio Colás
Latorre, “Los fueros de Aragón y su dimensión social,” in Fueros e instituciones
de Aragón, ed. Gregorio Colás Latorre (Zaragoza: Mira Editores, 2013), 19–74.
3. Privilegio General and Fueros in Pascual Savall and Dronda and Santiago Penén
y Debesa, eds., Fueros, Observancias y actos de Corte del Reino de Aragón.
Edición facsimilar (Zaragoza: Justicia de Aragón- Ibercaja, 1991), vol. 1, 11–21,
25, 45, 10. Translations of Fueros, in Manuel Delgado E. Fueros. Observancias
y actos de Corte del Reino de Aragón. Preliminary study, translations, additional
texts and indices, T. III, 59–63, 64 and 72.
4. The names of the candidates were written on strips of paper or parchment. Each
paper was rolled and inserted into a wooden or waxen ball that was then intro-
duced inside a bag. During the election, balls were drawn out of the bag, the
papers were extracted, the names were read out loud and the person appointed
took over the position.
5. Mid-century political tensions forced the brazos to be convened against the
Regent’s will. Gregorio Colás Latorre and José Antonio Salas Auséns, Aragón
en el siglo XVI. Alteraciones sociales y conflictos políticos (Zaragoza: Departa-
mento de Historia Moderna, 1982), 450–459.
6. Other sessions took place in 1601, 1632, 1634, and 1641. Xavier Gil Pujol, “Las
Cortes de Aragón en la Edad Moderna: Comparación y reevaluación,” Revista
de las Cortes Generales 21 (1990): 114.
7. Diego José Dormer, Discursos históricos-Políticos, sobre lo que se ofrece tratar
en la Junta de los Ilustrisimos Quatro Brazos del Reyno de Aragon . . . (Zara-
goza: Herederos de Diego José Dormir, 1683). In contrast with the meetings
held in the previous century, the meeting was now held “in accordance with the
provisions set forth by his majesty in the Cortes of 1678.” José Gracián Serrano,
Exhortación a los aragoneses al remedio de sus calamidades escrita por Marcelo
Nabacuchi, secretario de Estado de la gran república de Venecia. Traducida al
idioma español por Ramón de Peguera, natural del principado de Cataluña.
Que da a la luz pública José Gracián Serrano y Manero y dedicada a los cuatro
ilustrísimos estados del reino de Aragón en su nobilísimo congreso para el nuevo
establecimiento del comercio (Zaragoza: Pascual Bueno impresor, 1684).
8. Encarna Jarque Martínez, “Ciudades, villas y lugares en el sistema parlamenta-
rio aragonés (Siglos XVI-XVII),” in El Concejo en la Edad Moderna. Poder y
gestión de un mundo pequeño, ed. Encarna Jarque Martínez (Zaragoza: Prensas
de la Universidad de Zaragoza, 2016), 234–237.
9. Jarque Martínez, “Ciudades, villas y lugares . . .,” 240.
10. Ibid., 241.
11. Ángel Bonet Navarro, Esteban Sarasa Sánchez and Guillermo Redondo Veintemi-
llas, El Justicia de Aragón: Historia y Derecho (Zaragoza: Cortes de Aragón, 1985).
12. They were elected by the brazos to collect and manage the General Tax.
13. Ángel Sesma Muñoz, La Diputación del Reino de Aragón en la época de Fer-
nando II (1479–1516) (Zaragoza: Institución Fernando el Católico, 1977);
Ángel Sesma Muñoz and José Antonio Armillas Vicente, La Diputación de
Aragón: del Reino a la Comunidad Autónoma (Zaragoza: Oroel, 1991).
14. Bartolomé Leonardo de Argensola, Alteraciones populares de Zaragoza. Año
1591, ed. Gregorio Colás Latorre (Zaragoza: Institución Fernando el Católico,
1996), 191.
15. For an accurate overview of everything that is implied by the term status, see
Pérez Zagorin, Revueltas y revoluciones en la Edad Moderna. I. Movimientos
campesinos y urbanos (Madrid: Cátedra, 1985), 82.
16. Pierre Goubert, El Antiguo Régimen (Buenos Aires: Siglo XXI, 1971), vol. 1, 18.
17. Ibid., 31.
18. “The nobility and ecclesiastical estates did not welcome this and they had the
majority in the Cortes. The former had two brazos, the upper and lower nobility; of
course, there was the clergy as well.” Ernest Belenguer Cebría, Fernando el Católico
(Barcelona: Península, 2009), 172. There are even more radical opinions. “These
Cortes neither represented the kingdom nor defended the interests of the Aragonese
people.” Luis González Antón, Las Cortes de Aragón (Zaragoza: Librería General,
1978), 127. The same author states that “[the brazos] defended above all their own
interests.” Luis González Antón, Las Cortes en la España del Antiguo Régimen
(Madrid: Siglo XXI, Institución Fernando el Católico, 1989), 160.
19. Savall y Dronda et al., Fueros, Observancias y actos de Corte del Reino de
Aragón, vol. 1, 425–426.
20. Lupercio Leonardo de Argensola, Información de los sucesos del reino de
Aragón en los años de 1590 y 1591 en que se advierte los yerros de algunos
autores. Edición facsimilar (Zaragoza: Rolde, 1991), 11–13, 179, 197.
21. Jerónimo Martel, Forma de Celebrar Cortes en Aragón. Edición facsimilar, ed.
Esteban Sarasa Sánchez and Guillermo Redondo Veintenillas (Zaragoza: Cortes
de Aragón, 1984), 2.
22. Diego Murillo, Excellencias de la Imperial ciudad de Çaragoça (Barcelona:
Sebastian Matevad, 1616), 37.
23. The actions taken by Barbastro and its representative in the 1518 Cortes and
their failed attempts to restore the Brotherhood show that unanimity was in
place, and confirm the procedure in the Cortes. Gregorio Colás Latorre and
José Antonio Salas Auséns, “Movimientos sociales en Barbastro y su comarca a
principios del siglo XVI,” Revista Estudios 79 (1979): 186–190.
24. Gil Pujol, “Las Cortes de Aragón en la Edad Moderna . . .,” 110.
25. Leonardo Blanco Lalinde, La actuación parlamentaria de Aragón en el siglo
XVI. Estructura y Funcionamiento de las Cortes aragonesas (Zaragoza: Cortes
de Aragón, 1996), 165–181.
26. Archivo Histórico Municipal Jaca (hereafter: AHMJ), Actos Comunes, 1584–1585,
s.f. 1585. 1—VII.
27. Archivo Histórico Muncipal Huesca (hereafter: AHMH), Actos Comunes,
1536–1537, Dc. 1537, 13—VIII.
28. AHMH, Actos Comunes, 1585–1586, s.f.
29. Ibid., 1541–1542, s.f., Dc. 1542–7-VIII.
30. Ibid., 1546–1547 s.f. Dc.1547, 16-X.
31. Ibid., 1542, s.f. Dc. 1542, 8—IX.
32. AHMH, Actos comunes del Concejo 1563–1564, s.f. Dc. 1564, 3–1.
33. AHMJ, Actos Comunes 1563–1564, s.f. Dc. 1563, 15/XII.
34. Gregorio Colás Latorre and José Antonio Salas Auséns, “Movimientos sociales
en Barbastro y su comarca a principios del siglo XVI,” Revista Estudios 79
(1979): 186–190.
35. AHMJ, Actos Comunes, 1586–1587 s.f. Dc. 1586, 4—I. The seizure of his
homes must have created a problem for him. Unfortunately, we do not know
how the matter ended. The answer is in the minutes book in which someone has
crossed-out with black ink two and a half lines out of the four or five in which
the municipality’s action are described. As the original text is written in ochre
ink, this made the text totally illegible.
36. AHMJ, Actos Comunes, 1563–1564, s.f. 1563, 18—VII.
37. Ibid., 1584–1585, s.f. 1585, 1—VII.
38. AHMJ, Actas, 1563, s.f.
39. This would be known as a writ of certiorari (claim) by a higher court.
40. “The universal matters that these representatives must address for the universal
good of the kingdom.” AHMH, Actos Comunes 1563–1564, s.f. Dc. 1563, 13–I.
41. “The subjects that the representatives have to deal with in the court and with his
Majesty on behalf of the university.” AHMH, Actos Comunes 1563–1564, s.f.
Dc. 1563, 13–I.
42. AHMH, Actos Comunes 1563–1564, s.f. 1563, 12–IX.
43. Ibid., 1584–1585, s.f., Dc.1585, 7–VI.
44. Ibid., 1563–1564, s.f. Dc. 1563, 12–IX.
45. Ibid., 1584–1585, s.f. Dc. 1585, 7.VI.
46. “Common and universal benefit of this city and kingdom,” AHMH, Actos
Comunes, 1584–1585, s.f. Dc. 1585, 7–VI.
Belenguer Cebría, Ernest. Fernando el Católico. Barcelona: Península, 2009.
Blanco Lalinde, Leonardo. La actuación parlamentaria de Aragón en el siglo XVI.
Estructura y Funcionamiento de las Cortes aragonesas. Zaragoza: Cortes de
Aragón, 1996.
Bonet Navarro, Ángel, Esteban Sarasa Sánchez, and Guillermo Redondo Veintemi-
llas. El Justicia de Aragón: Historia y Derecho. Zaragoza: Cortes de Aragón, 1985.
Colás Latorre, Gregorio. “Los fueros de Aragón y su dimensión social.” In Fueros e
instituciones de Aragón, edited by Gregorio Colás Latorre, 19–74. Zaragoza: Mira
Editores, 2013.
Colás Latorre, Gregorio, and José Antonio Salas Auséns. Aragón en el siglo XVI.
Alteraciones sociales y conflictos políticos. Zaragoza: Departamento de Historia
Moderna, 1982.
Dormer, Diego José. Discursos históricos-Políticos, sobre lo que se ofrece tratar en
la Junta de los Ilustrisimos Quatro Brazos del Reyno de Aragon . . . Zaragoza:
Herederos de Diego José Dormir, 1683.
Gil Pujol, Xavier. “Las Cortes de Aragón en la Edad Moderna: Comparación y
reevaluación.” Revista de las Cortes Generales 21 (1990): 79–115.
González Antón, Luis. Las Cortes de Aragón. Zaragoza: Librería General, 1978.
González Antón, Luis. Las Cortes en la España del Antiguo Régimen. Madrid: Siglo
XXI—Institución Fernando el Católico, 1989.
Goubert, Pierre. El Antiguo Régimen, Vol. 1. Buenos Aires: Siglo XXI, 1971.
Gracián Serrano, José. Exhortación a los aragoneses al remedio de sus calamidades
escrita por Marcelo Nabacuchi, secretario de Estado de la gran república de Vene-
cia. Traducida al idioma español por Ramón de Peguera, natural del principado
de Cataluña. Que da a la luz pública José Gracián Serrano y Manero y dedicada a
los cuatro ilustrísimos estados del reino de Aragón en su nobilísimo congreso para
el nuevo establecimiento del comercio. Zaragoza: Pascual Bueno impresor, 1684.
Jarque Martínez, Encarna. “Ciudades, villas y lugares en el sistema parlamentario
aragonés (Siglos XVI-XVII).” In El Concejo en la Edad Moderna. Poder y gestión
de un mundo pequeño, edited by Encarna Jarque Martínez, 234–237. Zaragoza:
Prensas de la Universidad de Zaragoza, 2016.
Lalinde Abadía, Jesús. “El pactismo en los Reinos de Aragón y Valencia.” In El
pactismo en la historia de España, Simposio celebrado los días 24–26 de abril de
1978, edited by Luis Legaz y Lacambra, 113–119. Madrid: Instituto de España.
Cátedra Francisco de Vitoria, 1980.
Leonardo de Argensola, Bartolomé. Alteraciones populares de Zaragoza. Año 1591,
rdited by Gregorio Colás Latorre. Zaragoza: Institución Fernando el Católico,
1996.
Leonardo de Argensola, Luperico. Información de los sucesos del reino de Aragón en
los años de 1590 y 1591 en que se advierte los yerros de algunos autores, escrita . . .
Edición facsimilar. Zaragoza: Rolde, 1991.
Martel, Jerónimo. Forma de Celebrar Cortes en Aragón . . . publicala el doctor don
Juan Francisco Andrés de Uztarroz con algunas notas. Edición facsimilar. Zara-
goza: Cortes de Aragón, 1984.
Murillo, Diego. Excellencias de la Imperial ciudad de Çaragoça. Barcelona: Sebas-
tián Matevad, 1616.
Salas Auséns, José A. “Las Cortes aragonesas de 1626: el voto del servicio y su pago.”
Revista Estudios (1975): 95–112.
Sancho y Dronda, Pascual y Santiago Penén y Debesa, eds. Fueros, Observancias
y actos de Corte del Reino de Aragón. Edición facsimilar. Zaragoza: Justicia de
Aragón-Ibercaja, 1991.
Sarasa Sánchez, Esteban, ed. El privilegio General de Aragón. La defensa de las lib-
ertades aragonesas en la Edad Media. Zaragoza: Cortes de Aragón, 1984.
Sesma Muñoz, Ángel. La Diputación del Reino de Aragón en la época de Fernando
II (1479–1516). Zaragoza: Institución Fernando el Católico, 1977.
Sesma Muñoz, Ángel, and José Antonio Armillas Vicente. La Diputación de Aragón:
del Reino a la Comunidad Autónoma. Zaragoza: Oroel, 1991.
Zagorin, Pérez. Revueltas y revoluciones en la Edad Moderna. I. Movimientos
campesinos y urbanos. Madrid: Cátedra, 1985.
11 Political Representation in
the Kingdom of Valencia
During the Modern Period
(16th–18th Century)*
Carmen Pérez Aparicio
1. Introduction: The Political System in the Kingdom

of Valencia: Pactism
The goal of this chapter is to analyse the role played by Valencian representa-
tive institutions during the early modern period, in the context of the pactist
system that regulated the relationship between the king and his kingdom.
The focus will be on general institutions, that is, the Corts, Estates and Gen-
eralitat, although those of a local nature, including the city of Valencia (the
capital of the kingdom), will also be taken into consideration. In the case of
Valencia in particular, the local council could play a role that transcended
the territory over which it had jurisdiction. This study will begin with the
kingdom’s foundational basis, established by James I in 1238, and will fol-
low the trajectory of its institutions all the way up to the decree abolishing
the Furs (the Valencian code of laws), signed by Philip V in 1707, which
marked the end of the representative system and the triumph of absolutism.
Presenting a synthesis of such a complex and extensive matter requires
focus on the most relevant aspects: first, the origin of representative institu-
tions and their powers, and second, the difficulties that these institutions
had to face owing to the authoritarian policies implemented by the Hispanic
Monarchy during the 16th and 17th centuries.
The political system in the Kingdom of Valencia, just like in the other
territories of the Crown of Aragon was contractual in nature. The explicit
expression of this pact was solemnised through the oath which each mon-
arch took at the beginning of his reign. In this oath, the monarch vowed to
respect the laws approved by the Corts as well as the privileges, usages and
customs of the kingdom. Following this ceremony, he was recognised as
king and endowed with the full use of his powers. The first reference to the
royal oath can be found in a privilege of 11 April 1261, in which it is stated
that, on 7 April, James I summoned the Corts Generals in Valencia and took
the oath before them. This document also states that his successors were
obliged to do the same within a month of ascending the throne. One year
later, as stated in another privilege, of 5 December 1262, his firstborn son
took his own oath, committing to renew this oath after his succession was
Representation in Valencia 177
effective; following this, the three Braços (the three estates) that made up the
Corts Valencianes—swore loyalty to Prince Peter as successor to the Crown.
Even if, at that time, James I ordered them to take an oath of allegiance to
his son, it was only under James II that the referred royal oath was comple-
mented with another oath which guaranteed the union of the kingdoms. At
the same time, it established the explicit obligation of the subjects to pay
homage and swear loyalty to the king.1
The differences with the Crown of Castile are remarkable: there, the king’s
pledge only committed him to the cities and towns which were represented
in its Cortes and to the promise that he would not alienate the royal inheri-
tance, after which he received the oath of loyalty from the estates. In other
words, he retained full legislative power to approve or repeal laws, including
those passed by the Cortes, while in the Crown of Aragon, the new monarch
committed himself in front of the three Braços to respect the Furs approved
in the Corts and was thence unable to modify or repeal them without doing
so through the same Corts.2
2. The Representative Institutions of the Kingdom—

Corts, Estates and Generalitat: Origins and Jurisdiction
The Corts
The highest level of political representation rested with the Corts Generals,
defined by the prestigious jurist Mateu y Sanz as “the universal congrega-
tion of the People of the entire Kingdom, summoned by its King, to address
and resolve all that is convenient for the good governance and service of his
Majesty.”3 It was summoned on the initiative of the monarch, who accord-
ing to the Furs of 1363, was compelled to do so every three years. How-
ever, under certain conditions, the Corts Generals could be convened by the
king’s firstborn son, or by the firstborn of the firstborn.4
The representation of the Corts was estamental in nature. The Estates,
known as Braços—Ecclesiastic, Military or Nobiliary, and Royal—were
represented by a different number of members, in a distribution of seats
which changed over time. During the last Corts, which were held in Valencia
in 1645, the Braç of the Church was represented by 18 voices, comprising
the mitred clergy, the cathedral chapters, vassal lords, abbots and repre-
sentatives of military orders. The Military Braç was the largest of all in
number—more than 800 noblemen were entitled to take part in the Corts
of 16045—since all the members of the nobility could take seats, although
some of the aristocratic privileges granted were excluded from this right. In
1645, the syndics of 33 realengo cities and towns (under the direct jurisdic-
tion of the king) took seats in the Royal Braç.6 Of the three Braços, that of
the nobility without doubt wielded most political weight. This was not only
because the decisions of the Braç needed to be reached by unanimous vote,
178 Carmen Pérez Aparicio
nemine discrepante—compared to those of the other two Braços, which
required only a majority—but also because membership was based on life-
long and inherited rights which did not depend on the dignity or the office
held. In this way, the holders of this right could benefit from the experience
and merits accumulated throughout the family history and undertake the
necessary preparations for assuming the important role they would play on
the political stage. The importance of this Braç is also highlighted by the
fact that in the Kingdom of Aragon the votes of the Braços and that of their
members had equal value. In Catalonia, the disentiment—or disconformity
with a procedure of grace or justice—could be raised by any of its members.
In contrast, the Castilian nobility stopped attending the Cortes from 1538
onwards.
On the other hand, even if the authority to summon the assembly was
in the hands of the king, the initiative for legislation lay with the Braços,
which were the only institutions with the power to submit legislation, the
so-called Furs (presented collectively by the Corts as a whole) and Actes de
Cort (presented by only one or two Braços). The king retained the power to
approve, reject or restrict these proposals. The unanimity of the Braços was
also required to denounce Contrafurs (violations of the Furs) committed by
the king or his ministers and to demand reparations. In these cases, the ver-
dict was entrusted to a Court of Contrafurs, a paritarian body in which both
the king and the Braços were represented and whose sentence could not be
appealed. In exchange for passing the legislative proposals of the Corts,
the king was offered subsidies of soldiers, money, military equipment and
other defence and fortification-related expenses, among others, but always
on a voluntary basis. Naturally, the collection of these subsidies required
an administrative structure and a time frame, which were organised by the
Junta del Servei (Subsidy Board), a body which was appointed by the Braços
and dissolved once the subsidy was paid.
Besides the Corts, the Braços could also be summoned in the form of the
Parlament, on the initiative of the king or his firstborn, when the grounds
for summoning the assembly were not matters of general interest—which
was the jurisdiction of the Corts—but rather particular issues; in any case,
decisions had to undergo the same process as in the Corts. Nevertheless,
Mateu makes the point that assemblies summoned by a magistrate, owing
to the incapacity of the king, were also given the name of Parlament, for
instance, when, during the period of the Furs the Parlament was convened
after the death without a heir of King Martin the Humane in 1410.7
Estates and Generalitat

It is useful to recall that, when outlining the constitutional framework, the
dialogue between the king and his kingdom was not limited to the—usually
brief—period in which the Corts Generals were in session. Quite the oppo-
site: after the Corts were dissolved, the Braços, which by that time had been
turned into Estates, maintained their position in the foreground of political
developments; the king, for his part, was interested in ensuring that the
subsidies were effectively and immediately satisfied. After a period in which
collection of the subsidies had been entrusted to different bodies created ad
hoc, the Corts of the different kingdoms, in a plenary assembly celebrated
in 1363, decided to create the Deputations of the General, also known in
Catalonia and Valencia as the Generalitat. Peter the Ceremonious endowed
these institutions with sources of revenue with which, among other things,
to address the payment of subsidies and ensure the defence of the territory.
They were, therefore, institutions that emanated from the Corts, in which
the Braços were represented by an equal number of members, and became
the highest administrative body in their respective kingdoms. From the
15th century onwards, Deputations had a permanent character, and each
one developed its own mechanisms for electing its members. The operation
of these bodies was regulated in detail, and soon their political role was
consolidated, especially in Aragon and Catalonia, where the Deputation
and the Generalitat became the ultimate representative institutions at the
political level and were closely involved in the defence of the constitutional
system.8
In the case of Valencia, in 1418 the fiscal and administrative functions
of the Generalitat were consolidated and regulated, but not the political
ones, which remained under the direct authority of the Three Estates. This
resulted in greater participation, because the Deputation of the General
was governed by six deputies whereas the Assemblies of each Estate were
attended by all members residing in the kingdom’s capital.9 These estate
assemblies appointed the Juntes d’Electes of the Estates, in which all three
estates were again represented by the same number of members; the Juntes
d’Electes carried the true political representation of the kingdom outside of
the Corts. This duality was maintained while the Furs were in force, allow-
ing the Estates to act autonomously, in opposition to the Generalitat Valen-
ciana due to the royal selection of candidates to take the offices traditionally
reserved for the Military Estate.10
The temporary commissions appointed by the Corts for the collection
and payment of subsidies preceded the creation and regulation of the Gen-
eralitat. This institution, which had a permanent nature, was created in
the Corts of 1418 to assume the control over these matters. However, in
none of the different compilations of the Furs and Actes de Corts during the
medieval period is it possible to find evidence for the role reserved to the
Estates therein, even if this role was as important as acting as the kingdom’s
political representatives and interlocutor before the king. Perhaps this fact,
as well as the political representativeness assumed by the Catalan Gen-
eralitat from 1422 onwards, explains the initial interest of 20th-century
historiography in its Valencian namesake, which was wrongly considered
to be equally representative. The construction of the Generalitat’s head-
quarters began in 1421, with the erection of a magnificent palace where the
Deputation of the General, the Assemblies of the Military Estate and the
Junta d’Electes of the Estates had their seat.11
All in all, however, the fact that the activity of the Estates was not reg-
ulated in the Furs—which was considered unnecessary anyway—did not
undermine their political clout. “The custom, which is the best interpreter
of the laws,” in the opinion of Mateu y Sanz, had turned the Estates into
a cornerstone of the political system, as corroborated in Fur LXXXIX of
the Corts of 1585. This law acknowledged the freedom that each of the
Estates had enjoyed, since the conquest of the kingdom, to elect officials
and make decisions concerning those matters that were under their milieu.12
There was nothing surprising about the fact that, being the depositaries—
through the Braços—of the royal oath, they had the right and the obligation
to watch over compliance and to demand reparations whenever the law
had been violated. They also had the duty to assist the king whenever he
required it. These attributions turned the Estates, de facto, into the highest
representatives of the kingdom, even before the creation of the Generalitat;
the fact the activity of the Estates was not regulated by Furs is a demonstra-
tion of their complete autonomy: in practice they could meet, deliberate and
decide unopposed. In any case, the question that must be answered is why
the Valencian Estates decided to retain this authority for themselves instead
of following the path set out by Aragon and Catalonia.
At this point, we must refer—albeit briefly—to the historiographical con-
troversy surrounding permanent political representation in the Kingdom of
Valencia outside the Corts. In this regard, it should be noted that, in the
context of the transformation undergone by Valencian historiography since
the 1960s, Sebastián García Martínez was the first to bring to light, in 1968,
the previously unknown political role played by the Three Estates in Valen-
cia. He did so based on the work of the prestigious jurist Mateu y Sanz
on the Corts, which was published in 1677 after an exhaustive analysis of
unpublished documents, namely, the minutes of the assemblies held by the
Military Estate and the Junta d’Electes of the Estates, kept in the Arxiu del
Regne de València.13
However, later works have ignored these seminal studies and have con-
cluded that the Valencian and the Catalan Generalitats exercised equivalent
political roles. In this context, we should note the extensive study on the
Generalitat carried out by the medievalist Rosa Muñoz in 1987.14 Since
the publication of this work, some authors have tried to clarify the histo-
riographical trajectory of the topic, among them Vicente Giménez Chornet,
who, in 1992, drafted a historiographical timeline of both interpretive cur-
rents.15 Afterwards, he provided arguments endorsing the idea that represen-
tation fell largely to the Estates, but this did not prevent other opinions from
being expressed, such as that defending the political co-representativeness
of the Estates and the Generalitat. One of the arguments put forward is
that the defence of the constitutional system, more precisely the denuncia-
tion of the Contrafurs, was jointly managed by both institutions.16 Even so,
this conclusion neglects the fact that Valencian legislation explicitly guar-
anteed the universal right to appeal to the king’s justice. This means that
any institution—Estates, Deputation, city or town—or vassal could directly
address the king or, depending on the case, the lloctinent general (lieutenant
general or viceroy), to deal with matters concerning the public interest and to
request reparation for grievances. The fact that the Deputation of Valencia,
on some occasions, assumed the defence of the Furs and privileges, espe-
cially of those that regulated its authority and organisation, did not turn
it into the maximum representative of the kingdom at the political level;
nor was it credited with more representation than it already had. The same
logic applies to the cities and towns that sent syndics and ambassadors to
the king in order to defend their Furs and privileges—something which has
previously been noted by David Bernabé.17
Moreover, those who tried to prove this point have overlooked not only
the fact that the defence of the Furs and privileges was not the exclusive task
of the Three Estates but also that political representativeness, which was
put into practice at the highest level, could not be reduced to this function
alone. Also, and even more significantly, while the Furs were in force, the
Estates exercised their powers without the Generalitat laying claim to them,
although the spirit of emulation that prevailed between both institutions—
often for reasons of protocol—could cause some friction. These controver-
sies were generally settled without the need to curtail the scope of action
of the Estates. As such, as corroborated by the recent study on the Military
Estate in the 16th century carried out by Isabel Lorite,18 we are dealing here
with two representative institutions of the kingdom which had different and
complementary—and not equivalent—fields of action. This is demonstrated
by the fact that the political pre-eminence of the Estates was never chal-
lenged when transcendental decisions, sometimes in the context of some
of the most critical episodes of the history of Valencia, had to be made:
the Compromise of Caspe, the Germania Revolt, the Moriscos (“Moorish”)
issue, the defence of the coastline, brigandage or the proclamation of the
Archduke Charles as king of the Valencians.
Nevertheless, as previously noted, fighting legal infractions—as impor-
tant as it was—was not the only task of the Estates. They also embodied the
political representation of the kingdom, often as a part of other tasks. One
of the most important among these was, undoubtedly, to urge new kings to
take the oath before the Braços in the Corts in due time and form, some-
thing that was also asked of the crown prince when reaching the age of 14.
In exceptional circumstances, the royal oath was even pledged before the
Estates. Other tasks that need to be emphasised are the granting of subsidies
to the king and the organisation of the coastal defences. Regarding the for-
mer, it should be noted that the granting of subsidies to the king on behalf
of the kingdom when the Corts were not in session was the exclusive pre-
rogative of the Three Estates. On the other hand, cities and towns, especially
the city of Valencia, or even individuals, could also decide to meet the needs
of the monarchy by handing voluntary subsidies or donations. In any case,
the Estates filled their function by means of the remarkably efficient Juntes
d’Electes of the Estates, which were created ex profeso to resolve specific
matters and were immediately dissolved after the problem had been solved.
3. From Pactism to Absolutism: The Rise of Monarchic

Authoritarianism in the Early Modern Period
After discussing the origin and jurisdictions of the representative institu-
tions, the next step is to analyse their trajectory throughout the early mod-
ern period, in the context of the monarchy’s authoritarian policy. In this
regard, it should be noted that the arrival of the House of Austria stands
as a milestone in the relationship between the king and his kingdom. They
worked side by side when the solution to their problems benefited both
sides, but clashed violently when the monarchs gave preference to their
dynastic interests or turned the existing problems into a pretext to push for-
ward their authoritarian policies at the expense of the Furs and privileges.
After the Crown of Aragon lost leverage within the context of the broad
composite monarchy of the Habsburgs, the difficulties inherent in main-
taining worldwide leadership, the restrictions the pactist system presented
for the development of royal authoritarianism and growing taxes made the
relationship between the two main institutions (the king and the kingdom)
increasingly tense.
The Royal Oath

Regarding the obligations the monarch assumed when ascending the throne,
the first and foremost was to summon the Corts in the kingdom’s capital
and swear in their presence that he would observe the Furs and privileges
in exchange for the recognition of his sovereignty by the assembly. On this
point, it should be noted that, in general, the terms and conditions set out
by the Furs were poorly complied with and, in the long run, the role of
the Corts was transferred to a representation of the Estates. As such, many
historians have interpreted these changes as unequivocal evidence of the
weakness and retreat of the pactist system after the arrival of the Austrian
dynasty. However, without dismissing this interpretation, it should be noted
that, despite the systematic delays undergone by the oath-taking ceremony,
this formality remained an indefeasible obligation, without which the pow-
ers of the monarch were limited. Only the precarious health of Charles II
and the start of the War of Spanish Succession, after the arrival of the first
Bourbon king of Spain, constituted (apparently) sufficient grounds for post-
poning the ceremony sine die; however, this met with the open disapproval
of the kingdom, even if Charles II had included a clause in his will in which
he ordered his subjects to recognise Philip of Bourbon as their king after he
had taken the compulsory oath. In any case, the exceptional circumstances
surrounding Charles II and Philip of Bourbon did not deter Archduke
Charles, who, in the middle of the war, visited the city of Valencia to take
the oath in the cathedral.19
As for the obligation to take the oath in the kingdom’s capital, even though
it was always formally respected, sometimes the ceremony only involved the
ratification of the actual oath, which had been previously taken in Monzón,
that is, outside the kingdom, during a meeting of the Corts. Also, on these
rare occasions the oath was taken or ratified in the presence of the represen-
tative of the Estates, not of the Corts Generals, which, even if it reduced the
solemnity of the ceremony, altered neither its value nor its significance. The
fact that the kingdom, represented by its institutions, accommodated these
changes, even if serious objections were made in order to avoid precedents,
was a sign of their limited nature. This becomes even more obvious when
comparing the response given to those monarchs who, in exceptional cir-
cumstances, tried to take the oath by delegation, and received a clear and
firm refusal from the Estates or Braços in return, since they were wary of the
serious danger that such a precedent could create for the future. In any case,
even if the oath was taken in somewhat unorthodox circumstances, this did
not exempt the monarchs from their obligation to respect the Furs, privi-
leges, usages and customs of the kingdom and rule accordingly; nor did it
deprive the Estates of their authority to implement the necessary decisions.
The Corts
The Corts increasingly became the main stage on which the confrontations
between the king and his kingdom were played out. They were the arena
where all the ongoing complaints against Contrafurs were presented, and also
where the king was forced to abide by the decisions of a paritarian Tribunal
without possible appeal. They also acted as a rampart against which some of
the main defence and military projects crashed; these projects were proposed
by the monarch during times of international upheaval and were met with
this refusal because they were considered financially unacceptable or unnec-
essary for the kingdom. The Corts, in return, experienced the development
of monarchic authoritarianism when they saw rejected all the bills proposed
by the Braços, which were seen as an additional bulwark against Contrafurs.
Also, the Corts were the obvious place to convey the discontent caused by the
development and outcome of the last Corts celebrated in 1645. Starting with
the reign of Philip II, the intervals between the assemblies became increas-
ingly longer.20 The Crown called upon them only in difficult moments, which
could also be considered a sign of weakness and, even though the subsidies
provided by the kingdom were increased significantly during the reigns of
Philip III and Philip IV, this was not enough to compensate for the reduction
in the arrival of precious metals from America.21 For this reason, the deterio-
ration of the international position of the Crown during the reign of Philip
IV, the refusal of the realms of the Monarchy of Aragon to accept the Union
of Arms presented in the Corts of 1626 and the constitutional crisis of 1640
contributed to the increasingly tense relationship between king and kingdom.
In this regard, it should be noted that, in 1626, the Military Braç firmly
opposed the institution of a subsidy in the form of troops. This service aimed,
among other things, to defend any territory of the monarchy, something to
which the kingdom was not bound. Not even the threat of terminating the
privilege of the nemine discrepante, from which the nobility benefited in their
deliberations, could overcome their resistance to a project that, even if only
temporary, did not respond to the kingdom’s needs and could set a danger-
ous precedent. Philip IV had to settle, at that time, for the usual monetary
subsidy, even if it was higher than previous ones.22
The tensions became acute again in 1640, following the rebellion in Cata-
lonia. The fear, which was shared by the king and the kingdom, of a possible
contagion, was not enough for the Valencian Estates to completely satisfy
the immediate demands for military assistance, and Philip IV was forced to
summon a new session of the Corts in 1645. On this occasion, the Braços
showed themselves willing to collaborate militarily in the defence of the
Catalan stronghold of Tortosa, which was considered the first defence line
of the kingdom. Despite this fact, the king took advantage of the gravity
and urgency of the crisis to shut down the Corts without making a decision
concerning the bills presented by the Braços. This resulted in new confron-
tations, especially when the bills were addressed much later, and it became
obvious that they no longer responded to the expectations of that time. The
discontent of the Braços became evident through their exercising their right
to reply in the hope of obtaining better results.23
The Corts were not summoned again. This fact has been used as an irre-
futable argument by those who consider that, with its resigned attitude, the
Valencian political class had signed the death sentence of its highest repre-
sentative institution and, along with it, its own. At any rate, it remains dif-
ficult to explain why, after several centuries of stubborn defence of pactism,
this political philosophy was de facto given up, suddenly and without
condition—something even Olivares could not have imagined in the memo-
rial attributed to him. This makes it necessary to analyse the circumstances
that concurred during the rule of Charles II: we need to explain why the Corts
were no longer summoned and, furthermore, why, in spite of this, the King-
dom continued—although not every time—conceding subsidies. The analy-
sis of the subsequent period demonstrates that contemporaries—both the
political class and the Crown—had a very different view. Especially, the
arrival in 1677 of Juan José of Austria to the Royal Court and his incorpo-
ration to the government boosted an initiative to summon the Corts in the
realms of the Crown of Aragon despite the precarious health of Charles II.
The first step, which took the king to Aragon in 1677, allowed the Valencian
regent of the Council of Aragon, Don Lorenzo Mateu y Sanz, to publish,
in that same year, his aforementioned Tratado de la celebración de Cortes
Generales del Reino de Valencia (Treatise on the procedure of the Corts Gen-
erals of the Valencian Kingdom). In his dedication to Juan José, the author
asked for his mediation with the monarch, appealing for the Valencians to
be granted the same opportunity to meet; he even offered to compile all the
necessary information to make the announced Corts successful. Moreover,
the Valencian Estates, which were hopeful that the assembly would be sum-
moned imminently, constituted a Junta d’Electes in charge of elaborating the
bills that would be presented to the king. The royal visit to Catalonia and
Valencia was foreseen to take place in 1679, and the preparations began.
However, soon voices were raised within the Council of Aragon and the
Council of State which opposed the session of the Corts in the principality
of Catalonia. The party opposing the meeting were convinced that the Cata-
lans were about to demand that the king’s prerogatives concerning the royal
selection of candidates to occupy the offices of the main institutions would
be suspended, and that military presence in the territory be brought to an
end. Both measures were introduced after the revolt of 1640. The court’s
fear of the demands to be posed by the realms and the death of Juan José of
Austria finally frustrated the assembly. On the other hand, that Valencians
were concerned about the future of the pactist system was reflected in an
important compilatory work of Furs and Actes de Corts carried out by the
jurist Don Juan Bautista Bravo del Vado.
Finally, with the arrival of Philip V to the Spanish throne, the hopes of
having the Corts summoned were revived, especially after Philip V acknowl-
edged his obligation—and the convenience—of summoning the Catalan
Corts in 1701, knowing that its latest session had been celebrated as far
back as 1599. Once again, the Valencian Estates set up the Junta d’Electes;
these had been created years before to draft the appropriate bills, some
of which were meant to consolidate the constitutional order. However,
the international declaration of war against the Bourbons in 1702 ruined
expectations once more. Armed conflict on the peninsula also prevented
Archduke Charles from summoning the Corts during his visit to Valencia
between October 1706 and March 1707. Nevertheless, the possibility of
requesting a Union of Arms-style army from the realms of the Crown of
Aragon was taken into consideration, on the condition that their respective
Corts be summoned. The project faced large obstacles, among them sum-
moning the Corts in an extremely uncertain military context, as well as the
huge economic effort that their organisation involved. Yet, at that time, it
was believed that the realms would be willing to consider this possibility,
in exchange for Charles III of Austria’s commitment to bring back the rela-
tionship between the king and the kingdom to a framework that resembled
that which had been in place at the time of Ferdinand the Catholic. This
would mean curtailing the authoritarian attitudes theretofore promoted by
the Habsburgs; in other words, it would guarantee dynastic continuity at
the same time as political change in the defence of pactism.
The Defence of the Constitutional System
Contrafurs committed by the king were a permanent source of conflict with
the kingdom throughout the 16th and 17th centuries, especially from the
reign of Philip II onwards, when the enactment of unconstitutional prag-
máticas (royal decrees) and some of the policies implemented by the vice-
roys triggered a counteroffensive from the Estates. Traditionally, in these
cases, ambassadors of the kingdom were sent to the Court, but these embas-
sies did not always receive the expected reassurances. The king, who was
judge and part in the conflict, agreed to rectify his position only on rare
occasions and, in general, refused to recognise the unconstitutionality of
his or his ministers' actions. In such circumstances, the last resort for the
Estates was to wait for the next assembly of the Corts and set up a Tribunal
de Contrafurs, whose sentence was not open to appeal.
In this context, recurrence of this problematic topic in the Corts, from
the reign of Philip II onwards, reveals the tension between the king and the
kingdom under the rule of the Habsburgs. Even if the monarchs were forced
to offer reparations for the Contrafurs, obey the sentences of the Corts and
validate the proposals of the Braços to preserve and guarantee the freedom
of the Estates to send embassies and regulate their own procedures, neither
the king nor any of his successors recanted their authoritarian policies and
in fact systematically rejected all the bills presented to better prosecute royal
officials who commited Contrafurs, or to create a permanent Tribunal in the
capital of the kingdom. In this way, each time the Estates considered it nec-
essary to file a complaint and send an ambassador, they had to set up an ad
hoc Junta de Contrafurs. Eventually, a Junta de Contrafurs was constituted
in 1645 to sit permanently until the next session of the Corts. This proved
to be a rather insignificant interlude in the already long-running confronta-
tion between the king and the kingdom, given that it neither prevented the
continued commission of Contrafurs nor ensured a swift and favourable
response and compensation from the king. It served only to expedite the
operation of the embassies and set a deadline for the royal response, be it
positive or negative. In this regard, we should ask ourselves whether the
crisis of 1640 and the clause in the will of Philip IV, in which he ordered his
heir and successors to guard and safeguard the laws of each territory, were
not a confirmation of the inherent dangers of the rise of authoritarianism in
an unfavourable international context, and whether they had any effective
repercussions on the foral (of the Furs) territories. What was at stake was
the conservation of the monarchy in the face of the risk of disintegration.
The reign of his successor, Charles II, did not bring about substantial
changes in the relations between the king and the kingdom. On the contrary,
Contrafurs were still the main concern of the Estates, which took advantage
of the favourable expectations of the Corts to be summoned in 1677 by
creating a Junta d’Electes to draft the bills to be presented. A significant
number of them aimed at ensuring the continuity of the permanent Junta de
Contrafurs, created in 1645, and at establishing a protocol for complaints.
In 1701, in view of the possibility of Philip V summoning the Valencian
Corts, these drafts were re-used by the Estates, which intended to continue
addressing the same problems, but without any result as, in the end, the
assembly was not summoned.
The Granting of Subsidies

The granting of subsidies, as has been noted previously, was one of the main
reasons the kings summoned the Corts. However, the Monarchy’s financial
shortcomings were a permanent problem that often had to be addressed
when the assembly was not in session. Requests for voluntary donations
were frequently sent to the institutions—Estates, cities and towns—and
individuals (mainly members of the nobility).
In this area, it is interesting to note that, in addition to attending the
urgent requests from the monarchy, the subsidies granted outside the Corts
were conditioned not only by the peremptoriness of the royal need, and
the kingdom’s capacity to render them but also by the king’s response to
complaints concerning Contrafurs. In 1543, for example, the Military Estate
opposed the requested subsidy while reparations for the Contrafur com-
mitted against Don Luis Lladró were not forthcoming.24 Also, in 1667, a
Junta d’Electes refused to grant the subsidy requested by Mariana of Austria
because of the royal refusal to address a complaint presented by the ambas-
sador of the kingdom.25 Both examples highlight the fact that the granting
of subsidies, inside as well as outside the Corts, required negotiation and
compromise on both sides, and that the making of reparations for Contra-
furs, also outside the Corts, could facilitate the process.
All in all, the requests for subsidies and donations outside the Corts, which
undeniably became general practice during the foral period, significantly
intensified during the reigns of Philip IV—before and after 1645—and
Charles II. This phenomenon was connected to the exceptionally difficult
times the Hispanic monarchy was experiencing. In both cases, the requests
were addressed to the kingdom, represented by the Three Estates. The
estates proceeded with the constitution of the corresponding Junta d’Electes
to represent the Braços—following the model of the last of these Juntas, cre-
ated by the Corts of 1645—and thus substantiate the subsidy. The Junta was
dissolved as soon as it fulfilled its purpose, just as had happened with the
Juntes de Servei, constituted in previous assemblies of the Corts.
In every case, regardless of whether the Crown was asking for soldiers
or money, the response could be positive or negative, depending on the cir-
cumstances. These were particularly difficult for the best part of the second
half of the 17th century, when the monarchy was attacked in its own terri-
tories, including the peninsula, by the French. Also, even if the response was
often favourable and always voluntary (even if limited to one campaign),
the Valencians’ insistence that it be directly linked with the defence of Valen-
cia and Catalonia seems logical; the defence of the Crown of Aragon, after
all, was regarded as a natural duty by the representatives of the kingdom.
In 1697, after the war with France had ended, the request for subsidies was
resumed again by Philip V, who received, in 1704, a regiment to be deployed
in Cadiz, and later by the Archduke Charles, who was granted regiments,
from both the kingdom and the city of Valencia, in 1706. All this demon-
strates that, despite the rise of authoritarianism, the voluntary character of
subsidies remained unaltered. This, together with the royal obligation to
rule according to the laws approved by the Corts, was the fundamental basis
of the pactist system.
Political Representation in the Local Context: The City of Valencia

We must not finish this brief exposition without making an—equally brief—
reference to the representative local institutions: the municipalities. Realen-
gos (under royal jurisdiction) were endowed by the Crown with important
powers as well as a set of electoral systems and a regulatory apparatus that
contemplated two main bodies: the Particular Council, which was numeri-
cally and socially more restricted, and the General Council, which was open
to a broader basis of popular representation. In this context, we should
highlight the importance of the big cities and realengo towns. They all com-
municated directly with the king, with whom they maintained a close rela-
tionship, concerning both the presentation of complaints and the voluntary
contributions to satisfy the king’s needs. The city of Valencia held a twofold
position as capital of the kingdom and sole member of the Royal Estate,
on the one hand, and part of the Valencian Commons, together with the
kingdom and the Deputation of the Generalitat, on the other. No studies are
available on the possible coordination of the Commons to deal collectively
with difficult situations, like those which deal with the Conference of the
Three Commons of Catalonia in the context of the War of the Succession.
Nevertheless, it is obvious that, in such circumstances, they acted in coor-
dination on different occasions, for instance, when they denounced before
Philip V the weak state of the kingdom’s defences, owing to the shortage of
troops, and decried the dangers of the Austrophile rebellion.
The Triumph of Absolutism

The fact that even in extremely difficult circumstances the pactist system
resisted giving way to monarchical absolutism explains why—after the vic-
tory the Bourbon in Almansa, on 25 April 1707, and the recovery of Valencia
on 8 May—Philip V launched his project to make the monarchy a homoge-
neous entity. The first measure, which was announced by General Duke of
Berwick before the syndics of the Three Estates on 11 May, was to suspend
the Furs and privileges. This was followed by a royal decree on 5 June,
which prohibited the Assemblies of each Estate and of the Junta d’Electes
of the Estates, including the Junta de Contrafurs. It is telling that the Gener-
alitat was maintained temporarily, because the administrative character of
this institution did not pose an obstacle to the exercise of royal absolutism.
Finally, the royal decree of 29 June applied the right of conquest in order
to abolish the Furs and privileges, as well as implement the laws of Castile,
opening the territory to the political and military control of the Crown and
to a new tax regime.26 The Corts were no longer summoned.
With regard to the local context, the municipal institutions were main-
tained but stripped of their most relevant powers and of the bodies that
afforded some degree of popular representation. In the large realengo
municipalities, the traditional system of representation and election was
replaced by direct appointment—and even the buying and selling—of
offices. Instead of being subject to annual elections, these positions began
to be granted for life. All these measures met with general dismay, which
was translated into several—frustrated—attempts to recover the Furs, either
by means of supplication or rebellion. In this way, the representative institu-
tions of the kingdom disappeared, as well as the representativeness of the
local institutions.
4. Conclusion
The undeniable rise of monarchic authoritarianism throughout the early
modern period left its mark on the relations between the king and the rep-
resentative institutions, which, eventually resulted in the undermining of the
Corts and increasing contributions to the needs of the monarchy. Neverthe-
less, the kingdom had succeeded in not letting go of the king’s obligation to
swear to comply with the laws, as condition sine qua non for assuming full
use of his powers, and to always rule according to them. The complaints
against Contrafurs, even if they were not always met with a quick and sat-
isfactory response, led to the dispatch of an ambassador, whose presence
at the Court was always ill-received since it was evidence of the existing
disagreements between the king and one of his realms. Above all, the vol-
untary nature of the subsidies demonstrated the financial dependence of the
monarch and was a trump card and a key negotiating asset in the hands of
the realms.
Notes
* This study was funded by the “Nuevas perspectivas de Historia Social en los
territorios hispánicos del Mediterráneo occidental en la Edad Moderna” proj-
ect (HRA2014–53298-C2–1) from the Spanish Ministry of Economy and
Competitiveness.
1. Sylvia Romeu, Les Corts valencianes (Valencia: Eliseu Climent, 1985), 107–110.
2. Antonio Ubilla y Medina, Succesión de el Rey D. Felipe V, nuestro Señor, en
la Corona de España, diario de sus viajes . . . (Madrid: Juan García Infanzón,
1704). As Secretary of the Universal Office, Ubilla joined Philip V on his trip to
different territories of the monarchy and collected in his diary the texts of the
respective pledges.
3. Lorenzo Mateu y Sanz, Tratado de la celebración de Cortes Generales del Reino
de Valencia (Madrid: Julián de Paredes, 1677), 3.
4. Ibid., 21.
5. Mª Lluïsa Muñoz Altabert, Les Corts valencianes de Felip III (Valencia: Univer-
sity of Valencia, 2005), 80–101.
6. Mateu y Sanz, Tratado de la celebración, 74–113, 141–147. The Ecclesiastical
Estate comprised the Archbishop of Valencia; the Bishops of Tortosa, Segorbe
and Orihuela; the cathedral chapters of Valencia, Tortosa, Segorbe and Orihuela;
the abbots of Poblet, Benifassà and the Valldigna; the priors of Valldechrist and
San Miguel de los Reyes; the general of the Order of the Blessed Virgin Mary of
Mercy; the master of Montesa; and the commanders of the Orders of Calatrava,
San Juan and Santiago. At a later date, 1653, the Order of Alcántara was also
granted the privilege to vote in the Corts. Sylvia Romeu, Les Corts valencianes
(València: Eliseu Climent, 1985), 97–98. In 1690, the pavordes (deans, linked to
the archdiocese) of the cathedral of Valencia requested to be admitted into the
Ecclesiastic Estate. Historical Library of the University of Valencia, Varia, 66 / 3.
7. Mateu y Sanz, Tratado de la celebración, 246–250.
8. In the Kingdom of Aragon, the Deputation shared the duty of defending the
constitutional order with the Justicia Mayor of the kingdom.
9. This circumstance considerably reduced the number of its members with respect
to the Braços, especially in the Military and Royal Estates, up to the point where
the Royal Estate was constituted only by the city of Valencia. On the contrary,
the members of the Ecclesiastic Braç, residing outside the capital, could partici-
pate in the assemblies of their Estate by means of delegation.
10. José María Castillo del Carpio, La Generalitat valenciana durante el siglo XVI
(Valencia: University of Valencia, 2013), 35–42.
11. José Martínez Aloy, La Diputación de la Generalidad del Reino de Valencia
(Valencia: Printing house Hijo de F. Vives Mora, 1930).
12. Furs, Capítols, Provisions e Actes de Cort, fets y atorgats per la SCRM del Rey
don Phelip nostre senyor. Any MDLXXXV (Valencia: Pedro Patricio Mey,
1588), 14. There is a facsimile edition with introductory study by Emilia Salva-
dor Esteban, Cortes valencianas del reinado de Felipe II (Valencia: University of
Valencia, 1973), 103.
13. Sebastià García Martínez, Els fonaments del País Valencià Modern (Valencia:
Editorial Lavinia, 1968), 91–96. This matter has been addressed in more detail
in his book Valencia bajo Carlos II. Bandolerismo, reivindicaciones agrarias y
servicios a la Monarquía (Valencia: Municipality of Villena, 1991), 282–308.
Following the same line of interpretation, we should highlight the contributions
of Giménez Chornet, Pérez Aparicio, Lorite and Guillot, among others.
14. Mª Rosa Muñoz Pomer, Orígenes de la Generalidad valenciana (Valencia: Gen-
eralitat Valenciana, 1987), 366–372.
15. Vicente Giménez Chornet, “La representación política en la Valencia foral,”
Estudis. Revista de Historia Moderna 18 (1992): 7–28.
16. Emilia Salvador Esteban, “Las Cortes de Valencia y las Juntas de Estamentos,”
in Felipe II y el Mediterráneo, ed. Ernest Belenguer Cebrià (Madrid: Sociedad
Estatal para la Conmemoración de los Centenarios de Felipe II y Carlos V,
1999), vol. 4, 146–149; “Las Juntas de Estamentos en la Valencia foral moderna.
Notas sobre su extinción,” in Josep Fontana. Història i projecte social (Barce-
lona: Crítica, 2004), 370–379; Josep Martí Ferrando, Instituciones y sociedad
valencianas en el imperio de Carlos V (Valencia: Generalitat Valenciana, 2002),
20–30.
17. David Bernabé Gil, El municipio en la corte de los Austrias. Síndicos y emba-
jadas de la ciudad de Orihuela en el siglo XVII (Valencia: Institució Alfons el
Magnànim, Deputation of Valencia, 2007), 114–173.
18. Isabel Lorite Martínez, “Pactismo y representación del Reino: las Juntas del
Estamento Militar de Valencia (1488–1598)” (unpublished PhD diss., Univer-
sity of Valencia, 2015), 7–44.
19. Carmen Pérez Aparicio, “El juramento de los Fueros valencianos y el archiduque
Carlos,” Saitabi 60–61 (2010–2011): 375–394.
20. As shown in the following chronological sequence: 1484, 1510, 1528, 1533,
1537, 1542, 1547, 1552, 1564, 1585, 1604, 1626 and 1645.
21. Muñoz Altabert, Corts valencianes, 109–113, 213–224; Dámaso de Lario
Ramírez, El comte-duc d’Olivares i el Regne de València (Valencia: Eliseu Cli-
ment, 1986), 105–135; Lluís Guia Marín, Cortes del reinado de Felipe IV. II
Cortes valencianas de 1645 (Valencia: University of Valencia, 1984), 148–151.
22. Lario Ramírez, Comte-duc, 97–135.
23. Guía Marín, Cortes del reinado, 156–192.
24. Archive of the Kingdom of Valencia, Real, 523, ff. 42v-44r. Deliberations of the
Military Estate of 17 and 18 August 1543.
25. Archive of the Kingdom of Valencia, Real, 542, ff.223v-224v. Letter from
the Electes de Contrafurs to the ambassador of the kingdom on 28 February
1668. Carmen Pérez Aparicio, “Centralisme monàrquic i resposta estamental:
l’ambaixada valenciana del señor de Cortes (1667–1668),” Pedralbes. Revista
d’Història Moderna 13 (1993): 327–340.
26. Carmen Pérez Aparicio, “Las relaciones entre el Rey y el Reino. Felipe V y los
Estamentos valencianos,” in Homenaje a la Profesora Emilia Salvador Esteban,
ed. Ricardo Franch Benavent and Rafael Benítez Sánchez Blanco (Valencia: Uni-
versity of Valencia, 2008), 472–473.
Bernabé Gil, David. El municipio en la corte de los Austrias. Síndicos y embajadas de
la ciudad de Orihuela en el siglo XVII. Valencia: Institució Alfons el Magnànim,
Deputation of Valencia, 2007.
Castillo del Carpio, José María. La Generalitat valenciana durante el siglo XVI.
Valencia: University of Valencia, 2013.
Furs, Capítols, Provisions e Actes de Cort, fets y atorgats per la SCRM del Rey don
Phelip nostre senyor. Any MDLXXXV. Valencia: Pedro Patricio Mey, 1588. There
is a facsimile edition with an introductory study by Emilia Salvador Esteban. Cor-
tes valencianas del reinado de Felipe II. Valencia: University of Valencia, 1973.
García Martínez, Sebastià. Els fonaments del País Valencià Modern. Valencia: Edito-
rial Lavinia, 1968.
García Martínez, Sebastià. Valencia bajo Carlos II. Bandolerismo, reivindicaciones
agrarias y servicios a la Monarquía. Valencia: Municipality of Villena, 1991.
Giménez Chornet, Vicente. “La representación política en la Valencia foral.” Estudis.
Revista de Historia Moderna 18 (1992): 7–28.
Guía Marín, Lluís. Cortes del reinado de Felipe IV. II Cortes valencianas de 1645.
Valencia: University of Valencia, 1984.
Lario Ramírez, Dámaso de. El comte-duc d’Olivares i el Regne de València. Valencia:
Eliseu Climent, 1986.
Lorite Martínez, Isabel. “Pactismo y representación del Reino: las Juntas del Estamento
Militar de Valencia (1488–1598).” Unpublished PhD diss., University of Valencia, 2015.
Martí Ferrando, Josep. Instituciones y sociedad valencianas en el imperio de Carlos
V. Valencia: Generalitat Valenciana, 2002.
Martínez Aloy, José. La Diputación de la Generalidad del Reino de Valencia. Valen-
cia: Printing house Hijo de F. Vives Mora, 1930.
Mateu y Sanz, Lorenzo. Tratado de la celebración de Cortes Generales del Reino de
Valencia. Madrid: Julián de Paredes, 1677.
Muñoz Altabert, Mª Lluïsa. Les Corts valencianes de Felip III. Valencia: University
of Valencia, 2005.
Muñoz Pomer, Mª Rosa. Orígenes de la Generalidad valenciana. Valencia: Generali-
tat Valenciana, 1987.
Pérez Aparicio, Carmen. “Centralisme monàrquic i resposta estamental: l’ambaixada
valenciana del señor de Cortes (1667–1668).” Pedralbes. Revista d’Història Mod-
erna 13 (1993): 327–340.
Pérez Aparicio, Carmen. “Las relaciones entre el Rey y el Reino. Felipe V y los Esta-
mentos valencianos.” In Homenaje a la Profesora Emilia Salvador Esteban, edited
by Ricardo Franch Benavent and Rafael Benítez Sánchez Blanco, 451–474. Valen-
cia: University of Valencia, 2008.
Pérez Aparicio, Carmen. “El juramento de los Fueros valencianos y el archiduque
Carlos.” Saitabi 60–61 (2010–2011): 375–394.
Romeo, Sylvia. Les Corts valencianes. Valencia: Eliseu Climent, 1985.
Salvador Esteban, Emilia. “Las Cortes de Valencia y las Juntas de Estamentos.” In
Felipe II y el Mediterráneo, edited by Ernest Belenguer Cebrià, Vol. 4, 139–157.
Madrid: Sociedad Estatal para la Conmemoración de los Centenarios de Felipe II
y Carlos V, 1999.
Salvador Esteban, Emilia. “Las Juntas de Estamentos en la Valencia foral moderna.
Notas sobre su extinción.” In Josep Fontana. Història i projecte social, 370–385.
Barcelona: Crítica, 2004.
Ubilla y Medina, Antonio de. Succesión de el Rey D. Felipe V, nuestro Señor, en la
Corona de España, diario de sus viajes . . . Madrid: Juan García Infanzón, 1704.
12 Political Representation in the
Kingdom of Sardinia in the
Modern Period
Entry in Force and Retrospection on
the Pact-Based Culture1
Lluís J. Guía Marín
From a political and institutional perspective, political representation in the

Sard (Sardinian) Kingdom was conditioned throughout the modern period
by its status as a kingdom within the Crown of Aragon (despite the dynastic
discontinuity that prompted the transfer from Sardinia to Savoy). Sardinia
had been related to the Iberian Peninsula for a long time, originally with the
Crown of Aragon, alongside which it later became a part of the Hispanic
Monarchy. Over a period of nearly 400 years of coexistence, the Sard King-
dom slowly adapted in economic, legal, political-institutional and cultural
terms to progressively assimilate to the core members of this confederate
Crown.
The hostilities that led to the conquest and the incorporation of the island
into the Catalan-Aragon monarchy gave way to the island’s redreç (reorgan-
isation) during the reign of Ferdinand the Catholic, who launched a process
of political and institutional homogenisation with the rest of the Crown.
The intensity of this process, which involved important socio-cultural trans-
formations, was felt most strongly towards the end of the 16th century. As
such, during the early 17th century, Sardinia was pressed into complete inte-
gration within the monarchy’s political and institutional structure. In this
context, the accession of the Sardinian regents to the Council of Aragon was
a symbolic act as well as an expression of the consolidation of a hybrid elite.
On the eve of the dynastic crisis caused by the Spanish War of the Suc-
cession, which would detach Sardinia from the territories of the Hispanic
Monarchy, the island relied on solid legal, political and institutional foun-
dations, with the parliament exerting political representation in a heavily
hispanised kingdom. This system, as stipulated in the clauses of the cession,
would remain in force under Savoyard sovereignty. Although political rep-
resentation in the 18th century was characterised by a considerable degree
of continuity, a large number of small changes can be observed. Despite the
resistance of the Estates, the political strength of the autochthonous institu-
tions would be eventually weakened by the absolutist ambitions of the new
dynasty.
194 Lluís J. Guía Marín
Resistance, which was initially led by the nobility, was marked by hetero-
geneous elements of a diverse political nature. In their confrontation with
the Savoyards during the revolution of the late 18th century, Sard patri-
ots called upon the legitimacy of the representative institutions they had
inherited from the Crown of Aragon. The Estates took the initiative and
summoned an assembly of the parliament, which had not operated since
Charles II, to claim back its representative function—in a clear challenge to
the absolutist Savoyard state. It was the swan song of these representative
institutions, which had retained their legal validity and political strength in
a territory that was geographically and politically distant from the other
members of the Crown of Aragon and which had been absorbed into the
new framework of Bourbon Spain.
There were some other, minor, forums of representation related to the
parliamentary institution of Sardinia: the assemblies of the Estates of the
realm and the commissions of deputies, called Juntas de las Primeras Voces
(Assemblies of the First Voices, with one representative for each Estate).
Other institutions, such as embassies or court delegations, completed the
list of the best-known mechanisms of political representation in Sardinia.
My interest in the trajectory of the Sard parliaments began years ago,
when I began by analysing the functional dynamics of the Estates, under-
stood as institutional structures, and the way in which they interacted with
the monarchy during the periods when the parliament was not summoned.
From this starting point, I saw that it was necessary to establish a com-
parison with similar institutional settings in the Iberian territories, especially
Valencia. All this was done in order to shed new light on the nature of
political representation in these “minor” kingdoms. I had the opportunity to
study the historiography of the Sardinian parliaments,2 which experienced
a distinctive turning point in the Acta Curiarum congress, held in Cagliari
in 1984. At that time, the publication of all parliamentary processes (an
enormous number of volumes) began under the patronage of the Consiglio
Regionale della Sardegna.
The Sard Parliament had a clear identity from an early date, and became
the arena for the confrontations that were to arise between the island and
the foreign monarchy that ruled it. Nevertheless, we should point out that,
beneath a façade of solidity (which was based on secular tradition and
stability) lie fragile foundations, largely as a consequence of the pressure
exerted by the monarchy upon a structurally weak kingdom.
Before analysing the character of Sardinia’s representative assemblies, we
should clarify the dual terminology of corts and parliaments. Very often,
the differences between the representative assemblies of the Iberian coun-
tries and the parliamentary meetings of the Italian kingdoms are magnified,
while the unique case presented by the Sard Kingdom is overlooked. Sar-
dinia had always been a special case since it was placed, and not as a coin-
cidence, under the tutelage of the Council of Aragon. It is well known that
the representative assemblies in the Iberian Peninsula and those in Sardinia
Representation in Sardinia 195
had one fundamental difference: starting from the reign of Ferdinand the
Catholic, the Sard parliaments were presided over by the viceroys, while the
Corts of Aragon, Catalonia and Valencia were directly overseen by the king.
However, despite this dissimilarity, numerous analogies also existed. In Sar-
dinia, for example, the internal structure of the bracci (arms or Estates), as
well as the summoning mechanisms, authorisations, oaths, redress of griev-
ances, and negotiation of laws and compensation, were undertaken accord-
ing to models that were little different from those in force in the Kingdom of
Valencia. Even in terms of terminology: the Sardinian documents continued
using the words Corts or Courts to designate the assemblies.3 Obviously, the
term parliament was also used, though it is difficult to assess exactly how
often. In fact, I raise this matter as I believe that the ambivalent designation
of the Sard assemblies and their double terminology should not be ignored.
At the same time, they should neither be placed a priori at a level below than
of their Iberian counterparts.
It is important to assess the transcendence of having the viceroy preside
over the assembly, instead of the king, which was theoretically more con-
ducive to autonomy. In Sardinia, the presidency of the viceroy was consid-
ered an extraordinary circumstance, a result of the monarchs’ inability to
perform this task. It is worth highlighting how the presidency of the viceroy
enabled, contradictorily enough, the decennial periodicity with which the
Sard Corts met during the 16th and 17th centuries. This periodicity was
not at all respected in Catalonia, Aragon or Valencia. This means that the
Sard Parliament was remarkably stable, even if this did not translate into
substantial political authority; it is clear that the presidency of the vice-
roy downplayed the political clout of the parliament, as he acted as a filter
between the Estates and the Crown. The viceroys and their client network,
comprising prominent members of the nobility and lawyers of Sardinian
origin who resided at the royal court, oversaw the granting of rewards and
graces. On the other hand, in the Corts of Valencia, Catalonia or Aragon,
the king’s presence added more strength to the assemblies. In fact, the mon-
arch tried to take advantage of the gaps in the system in order to weaken
these institutions and postpone their meetings.
Aside from specific nomenclatures, presidencies, periodicity and other
matters of detail, the relationship between the monarchy and each of its ter-
ritories was essentially the same; ultimately, these differences illustrate how
the same problem could be addressed from different institutional settings. In
Sardinia, the internal structure of the Estates was similar to that in Valencia.
In fact, both territories had copied—through a complex process— the model
of the Principality of Catalonia. Often, it is the case that more similarities
can be found between different copies of the same model than between these
and the original, especially concerning procedures which were of interest to
the monarchy. For example, in Sardinia, the subsidy granted the King was
detached from his endorsement of the legislation passed by the assembly;
as such, parliament closed after agreeing on the royal subsidy, even before
the king had enacted the laws agreed upon by the chamber. Obviously, the
monarch’s lack of interest in complying with his part of the “pact” gave rise
to dissent. The last assembly of the Corts of Valencia in 1645 faced a similar
problem. Only the need to maintain some coherence between the elites of
one kingdom and the other “forced” the monarch to respect the pact-based
system in place.
The ecclesiastical arm, for its part,4 included the episcopal dignities and
the cathedral chapters and was not expected to cause difficulties for the
Crown. The royal patronage of the Church neutralised any type of resis-
tance against the royal resolutions which had to be endorsed by the parlia-
ment. With regard to internal power struggles, despite the attempts of the
Church of Sassari to claim pre-eminence over that of Cagliari, the primacy
of the latter was respected (the monarchy had no interest in allowing argu-
ments of this nature to weaken the capital). Clagliari’s function as territorial
head of the kingdom and its position in the representative structure, was not
to be challenged on religious or other grounds. Basically, it was thought best
to avoid interfering with a plural representation system which had shown to
be useful to the Crown.
With regard to the Military Estate, we need to highlight the large number
of its members.5 Every beneficiary of military privileges had the right to
attend the Corts, or any other parallel meeting of the Estates. These meet-
ings of the Estates outside the Corts were summoned only in extraordinary
circumstances. Moreover, in kingdoms such as Valencia, they gathered more
frequently and were more strictly regulated. The way the Military Estate
was organised in Sardinia, divided into two groups with a territorial basis, is
interesting. These groups were equivalent to administrative divisions: one in
Cagliari, the other in Sassari. The members of the second group demanded
the right to hold independent meetings and would even ask for the parlia-
ment to be convened in the north of the island.
As in other regions, the military estate had a strong influence on repre-
sentative institutions and thus assumed the political leadership of the island.
Most of the territory was under seigneurial jurisdiction, and important fam-
ilies owned extensive properties. Most of these bloodlines (the Maça from
Liçana in Mandas, the Centelles and the Borja in the so-called “Sard states
of Oliva,” the Carròs in Quirra and the Alagó in Villasor) were originally
from Valencia, at least until well into the 18th century when some titles, as a
result of family alliances, were transferred to foreign lineages. Despite their
long absence from the island, their influence was felt inside the Estates as
well as in the relationship between the kingdom and the monarchy.
The Military Arm was characterised by internal divisions. Rivalries were
the result of several factors, such as the logical disparity of interests between
the territorial and the non-fief-holding nobility—this was a diverse group,
formed by land administrators, royal officials and merchants of Iberian
or Genoese origin and based on the main cities. The competition between
nobles from Sassari and their counterparts from Cagliari was another source
of conflict. This antagonism frequently resulted in the formation of different
factions; a similar phenomenon can be attested in Catalonia, Valencia or
Sicily. These disputes, which had medieval precedents, grew after the con-
quest, with the arrival of new players from overseas. Over time, the differ-
ences in origin, whether you call them ethnic or geographical, had become
less distinct at the heart of the dominant elites. As a result, in the 16th
century, these elites, called Sardo-Catalan in specialised historiographical
works, were considered “native” Sards and members of the Crown of Ara-
gon in equal measure. At the same time, they were fully identified with the
political “space” of the Hispanic Monarchy.
With regard to the royal estate, we should take into consideration the
importance of the political and economic role played by some municipal
governments in the Crown of Aragon and the leadership they exercised in
their respective territories. To a large extent, they had to bear the burden of
royal demands, cope with the expenses of their own administration and deal
with the other communities that occupied a lower rank in the kingdom’s
political structure. The same applies to the royal estate of Sardinia and,
especially, to its capital.6
The internal composition of the royal estate was basically the same as in
Catalonia or Valencia and only included municipalities under the royal juris-
diction, even if their number was small: Cagliari and six other cities, namely
Sassari, l’Alguer, Bosa, Castillo Aragonés (Castel Aragonese), Oristano and
Iglesias. The capital benefited from a clear institutional and political pre-
eminence, favoured as it was by continuous royal support. This pre-eminent
position was behind the tense relationships that the capital maintained
with some of the other cities, which rejected the idea of Cagliari being the
Crown’s point of reference in the island. This tension was not dissipated by
the monarchy, because the internal division of the Estates meant a weaker
resistance to royal demands.
Antagonism against Cagliari came from the most representative northern
city, Sassari, and caused some truly bizarre situations, but the insistent pres-
sure of the Sassarians, including the Sardinian first regent on the Council
of Aragon, Francisco de Vico,7 to promote their city (ecclesiastical primacy,
particular assemblies of the military estate, university, etc.) was neutralised
by the Crown in pursuance of its own interests. Moreover, Sassari could not
count on the support of cities such as l’Alguer, a traditional ally of Cagliari.
The fact that an oligarchy of Catalan origin was more present in Cagliari
and l’Alguer than in other cities could go to the roots of these rivalries,
although the hostility persisted well after the ethnic origins of the elites had
faded.
To summarise, the characteristics of the Sardinian parliaments and its
privileged groups, as well as the royal policy towards them, were not too
different from those in the Iberian territories of the Crown of Aragon.
As well as parliaments, Sardinia also had other specific representative
Estate assemblies. In order to understand these particularities, it should
be noted that the relationships between this Estates-based society and the
Crown was similar to those encountered in other territories; moreover, since
these institutions shared a legal-political base, this had an impact on the
political-institutional development during Aragonese sovereignty. However,
the institutional solutions that crystallised in the Sard Kingdom lacked some
of the political resources that can be found in their Aragonese, Catalan or
Valencian counterparts. This was the result of a higher level of royal con-
trol in the development of the representative institutions, which was to be
expected since the kingdom had been acquired by conquest.
On the other hand, during the lead-up to the political-institutional con-
solidation of the kingdoms of the Crown of Aragon, we can see the adoption
of identical institutional forms, and their adaptation to the particularities of
each territorial framework. These were initially rather vague but were out-
lined more clearly during the early modern period. As such, the institutions
which were initially commonly used, such as the general lieutenancy or the
royal audience, were later split into territorial compartments. In every case
(with the exception of Majorca), the political-institutional landscape was
based on the homologous and consolidated (or in process of consolidation)
royal institutions, among which we may highlight viceroyalties, audiences,
assemblies of the Royal Heritage and kingdom-wide representative institu-
tions, chiefly Corts and parliaments.
Only a few differences can be found between the royal institutions in dif-
ferent kingdoms, which is a reflection of the fact that they had been created
by the same monarchy and responded to the same interests. Therefore, as
previously noted, there were also few differences between the structure and
operation of the Sard parliaments and those of representative assemblies
such as the Valencian Corts. The differences are more obvious in a series of
minor institutions which had to do with the representation of the Estates,
although similarities can also be found in this regard.
The first obvious difference is that Sardinia lacked a Diputació or Depu-
tation (a permanent body of elected officials), which could be found in the
Iberian kingdoms. In Sardinia, the institutionalisation of this organ, which
would have occurred after the conquest had been assimilated, and after the
initial political-institutional foundations of the kingdom had been established,
did not take place. On the other hand, deputies of the Estates were appointed
by the Corts or some other organ to resolve matters of general interest.
The most visible of these Deputations were those in charge of organising
the collection of taxes for the royal subsidy. Unlike the consolidated Ibe-
rian assemblies, the Sard Estates never achieved complete autonomy in the
administration of taxes. The allocation of funds to the royal treasure was
not purpose-oriented, as was the case in Catalonia, Aragon or Valencia. In
Sardinia, the Estate commissions, created for the levy of any type of subsidy,
were controlled by officers of the Royal Heritage. As such, the establish-
ment of these commissions was generally directed by the monarchy. The
best example of this practice was the organisation of the coastal defences of
Sardinia, which was a particularly complex task. A similar solution, even if
only as an exceptional measure, was adopted in Valencia, where the Junta
de Electos de la Costa (Commission of Elected Members for the Coastal
Defence), institutionalised in the Corts held in 1547, was the only organ
presided over by the viceroy. Obviously, these commissions did not achieve
the institutional autonomy that would have allowed Sardinia to endow its
institutions with a permanent representative character.
Furthermore, there was no dichotomy between the solutions applied
in the Iberian territories and those in Sardinia. In the case of Valencia, Depu-
tations, even if fully consolidated, never achieved all the political attribu-
tions of its Aragonese and Catalan counterparts, although it must be said
that it was not merely an administrative organism either. Another Valencian
particularity should be noted, as it will lead us to reconsider the solutions
applied in Sardinia. The existence of the Valencian Estate assemblies, as well
as that of the numerous boards of elected deputies of the Three Estates, is
well known. Both assemblies and boards played a pre-eminent role in the
kingdom’s political representation, even though other institutions, such as
the Deputation or the city of Valencia, head of the kingdom, also had a
representative function. This diversification of political representation was
encouraged by the monarchy in order to avoid the consolidation of Depu-
tations into a unique, more institutionalised organism capable of accruing
much power. The Crown’s attitude is in apparent contrast to the policy
adopted in Catalonia, where there was an initial attempt at valencianisation
(the expression is not mine but Miquel Pérez Latre’s), during which time the
Juntes de Braços (Assemblies of the Arms) were tolerated in order to reduce
the power of the Catalan Diputació during the late 16th century. After this
attempt, when it became clear that the result was quite the opposite of that
intended, the reverse policies were adopted, and it became increasingly more
difficult to summon these assemblies. Clearly, the monarchy was facing an
adversary which was much better coordinated than expected and, contra-
dicting previous policies, decided to go backwards and accept the Deputa-
tion as single representative agent.8 For the Crown of Aragon as a whole,
historiography has revealed the importance of these Estate organs (Assem-
blies of the Arms or Estates) during the periods in which the Corts were not
summoned,9 as well as their progressive consolidation as an alternative to
parliaments.
In the case of Sardinia, these assemblies were problematic. They seem
limited almost exclusively to the Military Estate, as only their meetings
have left significant—though not complete—records. These meetings, which
are often reminiscent of the Valencian model, demonstrate the similarities
between the political-institutional structures and the political and social tra-
jectories of the privileged groups in both kingdoms. I have undertaken sev-
eral comparative studies from this perspective.10 The comparison between
Sardinia and the Iberian kingdoms—Valencia, for instance—was, in my
opinion, not capricious; it is easy enough to demonstrate that the leadership
of the nobility in the Estates assemblies (and other fora) in both kingdoms
followed similar lines, and that the process of consolidation of nobility-
specific assemblies were also similar. In parallel, in both kingdoms it was the
noble estate that led the way in general assemblies where all three estates met
(ecclesiastics, nobles and citizens). As such, a reference to the assemblies of
the Sard Estates and their “autonomous” dynamics, beyond parliamentary
assemblies, can give us a more complete picture of the political-institutional
representative landscape in the island.
Certainly, the frequency of the parliamentary sessions gave the Sard
Estates more opportunities to negotiate their demands with the monarchy
in exchange for subsidies, even though the process was completed with the
viceroy as intermediary. As in other territories, problems arose when the
parliaments were not summoned. Sardinia developed its own institutional
forms, which were probably less satisfactory for some privileged groups that
had an eye on the territories that lay across the sea but were in tune with
the rest of the Crown. What was the mechanism of inter-Estate relation-
ships that was finally imposed, and in what way did the Estates relate to the
monarchy?
The establishment of special commissions, in which representatives of all
three Estates participated (although they were not left to operate unsuper-
vised), became general practice in the different institutions of the Crown,
including the municipal institutions. In this regard also, Sardinia was no
exception. Even if it could not count on its own Deputation, it organised,
as previously noted, meetings of the Military Estate. Moreover, there were
frequent meetings of the Committee of the First Voices of the Estates, which,
due to its representative character, acted as a privileged interlocutor with the
monarchy; in short, a solution in Valencian style, only with a smaller impact.
To understand how it came to this, we should highlight some facts. In
1485, the Military Arm stated the need to summon meetings, just like
their Valencian counterparts.11 The initial need to maintain control over
the island and its nobility, which was prone to indiscipline, led the king
to make convening these meetings more difficult. Under pressure from the
Sardinian nobility’s persistent claim regarding their right to self-assembly,
the monarchy was forced to allow some meetings of the Estate during the
17th century. This was done on the condition that the sessions were com-
municated beforehand to the viceroy and that a royal officer—generally the
Royal Prosecutor—was in attendance. In the political landscape at the time,
it was impossible to obtain better results. Under the strict tutelage of the
monarchy, a system was set up to respond to the demands of the Military
Estate and allowing them to meet more frequently and maintain an active
political role.
The meetings of the Military Arm became more frequent and, in fact,
acquired a semi-official character. These meetings resulted in the drafting
of initiatives, which were subsequently communicated to the viceroy or the
monarch himself. The position of the Estate’s syndic was likewise important,
and the post was renewed on a regular basis; the syndic was, however, sub-
ordinated to the first voice, the most important aristocrat in Cagliari. The
first voice was a keystone in the kingdom’s political representation system.
How were the other two Estates organised? Their meetings were not regu-
lated, but their internal hierarchy also contemplated the leadership of rel-
evant figures, which held the status of first voice. The next step was for these
first voices to appear in their official capacity before meetings and assem-
blies, in order to deal with matters of general interest. The officialisation of
their role, which was also encouraged by the monarchy, was a particularly
important event, as they became the kingdom’s most representative body; as
such, the need to establish agile mechanisms in the relationship between the
Estates and the Crown, in periods when the parliament was not assembled,
was fulfilled.
The meetings between the viceroy and these representatives selected by
the Estates were frequent although often had only protocolary content, such
as the expression of congratulations on royal marriages or condolences on
the death of members of the royal family. There were also many important
issues that brought the first voices together: subsidies; the solemn ceremo-
nies that officialised the reception of the kingdom at the beginning of a new
reign, which was performed by the viceroys in the name of the king; and the
oath of fidelity to the monarchs—a ceremony that was eventually renovated
in the 18th century. It is clear how the Assemblies of the First Voices moved
to the foreground of political representation and even assumed functions
that nominally corresponded to parliament.
In parallel to, or rather as a logical consequence of, the top-level relation-
ship between the first voices and the royal authorities, the usual technical
commissions still existed. These commissions were formed by members of
each of the Three Estates, and concentrated on the resolution of urgent mat-
ters, such as arbitrating measures against the plague or the defence of the
coast. There are many documentary references in the Sard archives certifying
the existence of these small forums in which the Estates were represented.
As an example, in 1721 the Estates were summoned by the viceroy to arbi-
trate measures against the plague, emphasising the fact that the arbitrated
measures needed to meet with the common approval of the Three Estates:
ecclesiastical, military and royal.12
The officialisation of the position of the first voices was a logical con-
clusion of the system, and the monarchy itself addressed the Sard Estates
through them. We can assume that the information was subsequently passed
on by the first voices to their respective Estates. In the case of the Military
Estate, communication was fluid, owing to the fact that the meetings of this
order were regulated. Concerning the Ecclesiastic Estate, things were a little
more complicated; the first voice of the estate was also its maximum author-
ity, namely, the Archbishop of Cagliari, at least when he was present in his
diocese. Obviously, problems arose in his absence or when the bishopric was
vacant. A particularly grave conflict arose in 1676, when the Archbishop
of Oristano claimed this pre-eminence.13 If the relationships at the heart
of the ecclesiastical arm were complicated (including a hidden war of prel-
ates), this was even more the case within the royal arm. During the periods
when the parliaments were not summoned, Cagliari (represented by its Con-
seller en cap, or head councillor) was the Estate’s only intermediary with the
Crown. This “middleman’s” role with the rest of the Estate was performed
systematically during the late 17th century;14 this pattern continued under
the House of Savoy.15 The capital’s exclusive pre-eminence also imitated
the Valencian model, in whose assemblies of elected members of the Three
Estates, which were created outside the Corts, the only representative of the
royal arm was a deputy sent by the city of Valencia. This also demonstrates
the important representative function of the kingdoms’ capitals, which went
well beyond their specific municipal interests. The use made of the Estates’
first voices made it possible for the Crown not to summon parliament in the
late 17th and the early 18th centuries. In this way, an automatic mechanism
for the renewal of the royal subsidies was put in place and consolidated and
remained in force until 1834. Something similar occurred in Valencia during
the second half of the 17th century, when the frequency of the assemblies of
elected members of the Three Estates made it unnecessary to summon the
Corts.
In addition to these minor institutions, the legitimacy of which was
linked to the representativeness of the Estates, we should also refer to other
important mechanisms of communication with the monarchy, which were
common also to other territories. I am here referring to embassies which,
instructed by the Estates, addressed the royal court directly and presented
the kingdom’s demands to the sovereign. The dissolution of a parliament
had originally triggered this mechanism. The parliament had been dis-
banded, but the viceroy’s decrees and the chapters presented by the assem-
bly still needed to be harmonised, because the viceroy had failed to do so,
either for reasons of political prudence or for the preservation of the royal
interests. As a result, the assembly decided to address the crown directly,
using a mechanism that was to become part of the usual protocol; in fact,
embassies were already contemplated in the rules of the Sard Parliament,
a tool to remediate the king’s frequent absenteeism. It was, somehow, the
“final act” of the parliament, which was represented at court by different
actors on behalf of the Three Estates. Some of these legations had serious
repercussions, such as the one led by Agustin de Castellví, on the eve of the
so-called “Camarasa Crisis.”16
While the embassies related to the dissolution of parliament are of enor-
mous interest, the links that existed between the kingdom and the mon-
archy during periods in which the parliament was not assembled should
not be overlooked either. The difficulty of obtaining satisfaction for local
demands caused the Estates to convene mechanisms aimed to bring their
claims directly to the attention of the monarch. Some of these institutional
solutions, frequently used during the 16th and 17th centuries, were to
send extraordinary embassies or to keep syndics at court. Looking at the
other territories of the Crown, it becomes clear that this was not exactly an
original feature. The viceroys did everything in their power to prevent the
application of these mechanisms, especially if they were critical with their
administration. Despite these opposition, the Sard Estates often dispatched
ambassadors, syndics or missatgers (the name hardly matters) to bring their
requests to the highest level. On one of these occasions, at the beginning of
Philip IV’s reign, the marquess of Cúller took it upon himself to present a
series of complaints, rooted in the undergoing struggle between the Estates
and the viceroy, to the court.17
The capital Cagliari, for its part, sent its requests directly to the king
by means of extraordinary syndics, as was also done by other cities. Joan
Aymerich did so during the early years of the reign of Charles V, while, in
the mid-17th century, this task was entrusted to the syndic Bernabé Cama-
cho de Carvajal.18 As such, the Sard “nationals” who were present at court
could act as intermediaries, playing the role of occasional consuls.19 All of
these practices continued under the sovereignty of Savoy, one of the first
delegations being the one led by the marquis of Villaclara, in Turin.20 These
intermediaries would become one of the most useful mechanisms in the rela-
tionship between the kingdom and the Crown, particularly when the parlia-
ments were no longer being summoned.
As previously noted, the change to a new system, in which the summoning
of the parliament was systematically postponed, took place in the middle of
the Spanish War of the Succession. The responsibility for this phenomenon
lay with both contenders, Philip of Bourbon and Charles of Austria. Vittorio
Amedeo gladly took up the baton: without even having to plead the extraor-
dinary circumstances of the war, the new dynasty would no longer summon
the parliament. The decisions would be taken by the monarch alone, despite
the requirements of the legal-political principles with which he had commit-
ted to comply. People who study the 18th century have pointed out that the
Savoyards considered summoning parliament on a couple of occasions,21
in 1727 and 1751 to be precise, but that in the end, the absolutist interests
of the monarchy prevailed over the uncertain potential benefits of a good
relationship with the Sard elites.22
It is worth pointing out that, despite everything, the memory of the legal-
political structure inherited from the Crown of Aragon was preserved by
Sard society during the late 18th century.23 Occasionally, this contributed
to raise the political temperature, when, for example, the sovereign simply
ignored an intense ongoing debate about the legitimising function of parlia-
ment. In fact, the nobility submitted a memorandum24 in protest against
the reform of Sard municipalities of 1771.25 This document was not just a
reminder of the parliamentary sessions, but also a reflection on the meaning
of this institution in Sardinian history. The parliament was legally alive and,
in theory, it could still be summoned. Later, the end-of-the-century “patriots”
would exalt parliamentary legitimacy as the only way to beat absolutism.
During these episodes of confrontation, the legitimacy of the Piedmon-
tese dynasty was strongly questioned, because they were failing to comply
with the clauses of the cession. The nobility argued that the viceroy, sent
by Vittorio Amedeo, had received the Sard Kingdom from the hands of the
imperial plenipotentiary after its liberation from the Bourbon domination,
and that this act had taken place with “the intervention [endorsement] and
testimony of the first voices of the estates,” thus highlighting their represen-
tative role. The commitments undertaken by the new monarch—who put
his “royal word of honour” at stake—were acknowledged by all, with the
Estates acting as representatives of the kingdom. The barons, who claimed
to be part of the kingdom’s political representation, argued that the king had
broken his word. Years later, other groups would use the same arguments,
which had been fine-tuned during this process.
The barons’ claim was made previously to and in parallel with statements
about new notions of “national” representation. These ideas emerged dur-
ing the revolutionary crisis of the late 18th century, in which the matter of
political representation became a key issue. During a self-summoned assem-
bly, the Sard patriots of 1792–1793 accused the monarchy of violating the
conditions of the cession and the kingdom’s fundamental laws.26 Unlike the
barons, who were worried about their particular privileges and those of
their estate, the assembly endeavoured to redefine political representation
and the relationship between the Sard nation and the Crown.
In anti-absolutist circles, there was a growing desire to bring the Estates
back to life and transform parliament into a point of reference on which
to build the autonomy of the kingdom. The Estates had not convened in
a parliamentary session since the reign of Charles II but still had the right
to self-assembly. This was one among the many demands, dating back to
the period of Spanish sovereignty, to which the Savoyards never gave a sat-
isfactory response; another such demand, one which was at the roots of
the Camarasa Crisis, in the 17th century, was that certain offices would be
reserved for natives Sards. These controversies frequently mixed new and
old issues, a common trend in a Western Europe that was rapidly sliding
down the road which led to the dissolution of the Ancien Régime. Also in
Sardinia, revolutionary demands were concealed beneath calls to bring back
past institutions and political practices.
In 1792, after the outbreak of the war between France and the House
of Savoy, Sardinia was invaded. The inactivity of the viceroy prompted the
Military Estate to self-summon their assembly and mobilise the kingdom’s
militias to entrust them with the defence of the island. This generated a reac-
tion of popular enthusiasm and unforeseen solidarity, forcing the French
invaders to retreat. Despite the key role played by the Sard troops in the
victory, the monarchy did not change its policies, and continued privileging
the Piedmontese. This fact, anecdotal as it seems, triggered the Sard reaction.
The Estates, which were well aware of the difficult political relationship
with the king, including decades of unjustified distrust towards them and
contradictory reforms, assumed an increasingly critical attitude towards the
Piedmontese authorities.
The final conflict was triggered by the posing of the “Cinque domande”
(the five requests) to the king:
1) To summon parliament on a regular basis to address matters of common

interest and discuss the subsidy traditionally raised by the kingdom;
2) To confirm old privileges and laws, even those that had been previously
forsaken;
3) To reserve appointments of public, military and ecclesiastic offices exclu-
sively for Sards;
4) To create a ministry in Turin, exclusively dealing with Sardinian matters;
5) To create a state council in Cagliari, controlling the legitimacy of the
provisions laid out for Sardinia by the Crown.
These claims embodied an extensive programme of political regeneration,

in which the parliament played the most important role. The fifth request
was in the manner of the old demands of the Catalan and Valencian Corts
to establish a Tribunal de Contrafaccions (Court of Contraventions) or Tri-
bunal de Greuges (Court of Grievances) in their respective territories. These
institutions settled matters concerning acts undertaken by the king and his
ministers and which were in violation of the constitution. The Catalans had
achieved this goal under Philip of Bourbon in 1702, an agreement later
endorsed by Charles of Austria in 1705; eventually, the war would annul all
these constitutional developments. Is it possible that the Sards remembered
this tradition in the Iberian territories of the Crown of Aragon, which had
been cut off by the Nueva Planta Decrees?27
The self-summoned parliament, demanding political representation for the
kingdom, was accusing the monarchy of violating the conditions of the cession
and the kingdom’s fundamental laws. Mattone does not hesitate to state that
La rivendicazione—avanzata dai paladini delle gerarchie tradizionali-

dello status quo ante il trattato di Londra e dell’antico assetto istituzi-
onale del Regno, con al centro il Parlamento, l’unica autorità in grado
de limitare l’assolutismo monarchico, ed i capitoli di corte, frutto di un
accordo tra il sovrano e gli Stamenti, preparerà il terreno favorevole per
l’afermazione delle nuove idee di rappresentanza “nazionale,” emerse
nella crisi rivoluzionaria di fine secolo. (The claim—made by the paladins
of the traditional hierarchies—of the status quo established by the Treaty
of London and the Kingdom’s old institutional order, to have the Parlia-
ment in the centre, as the only authority capable of limiting monarchical
absolutism, and for the chapters of the court to be the result of an agree-
ment between the sovereign and the Estates, prepared the ground for the
affirmation of new ideas of “national” representation, which eventually
emerged during the revolutionary crisis at the turn of the century.)28
In parallel, in the writings of the intellectual leaders of Sarda Rivoluzione,
ideas could be found that were representative of the European revolution-
ary effervescence of the late 18th century. The parliament was considered
representative of the Sard “nation” and its “fundamental laws” (the old
chapters of the court, tutored by international agreements) acquired the
rank of political constitution of the kingdom.29 The abolition of the Ancien
Régime seemed to have been brought forward by a couple of decades, the
feudal regime was questioned and the possibility of expelling the Savoyards
from Sardinia and turn the island into a republic became plausible.30 To
some extent, this was made possible by the memory and traditions coming
down from the Crown of Aragon, as these fundamental laws on which this
political constitution was based were none other than those enacted by this
Crown.
All of these projects of political reform came to nothing, owing to internal
divisions in the island. The fact that the court of Turin moved to Cagliari in
1799, escaping from the instability of the Terraferma, weakened the revo-
lutionary movement, and the Estates’ most moderate sectors renounced the
“Cinque domande” and reaffirmed their loyalty to the Crown.31
The kingdom’s autonomy and political representation remained diluted
during the initial decades of the 19th century. In 1847, with the political
complicity of the Estates, which approved this measure, a royal decree
was the final chapter of the Regnum Sardinae, after nearly half a mil-
lennium of history. By accepting the decree of “Perfetta Fusione,” the
Estates’ representatives accepted the union of Sardinia and the Terra-
ferma. This decree put an end to Sard customs, laws, habits and privileges
granted by the kings of the Crown of Aragon and the Hispanic Monarchy,
and Sardinia renounced the right to preserve its own forms of political
representation.
Notes
1. This work was partially supported by the Spanish Ministry of Economy and
Competitiveness (MINECO) under the projects “Nuevas perspectivas de Histo-
ria social en los territorios hispánicos del Mediterráneo Occidental en la Edad
Moderna” (Ref. HAR2014-53298-C2-1-P) and “La redefinición del espacio
europeo y mediterráneo en el siglo XVIII. Política, diplomacia y conflictos” (Ref.
HAR2015-65987-P) framed in the “National Plan of Research, Development
and Innovation,” and by Consiglio Nazionale delle Ricerche (CNR) of Italy
under the project “Studio, valorizzazione e fruizione del patrimonio culturale”
(Commessa CNR AD.017.029).
2. Antonio Marongiu, I Parlamenti sardi. Studio storico istituzionale e compara-
tivo (Milan: Giuffrè, 1979); Antonello Mattone, “Corts catalane e Parlamento
sardo: analogie giuridiche e dinamiche istituzionali (XIV-XVII secolo),” in Rivista
di storia del diritto italiano 64 (1991): 19–44.
3. Lluís Guia Marín, Sardenya, una Història pròxima. El regne sard a l’època mod-
erna (Catarroja & Barcelona: Ed. Afers, 2012), 86–87.
4. Raimondo Turtas, Storia de la Chiesa in Sardegna. Dalle origini al 2000 (Rome:
Città Nuova,1999).
5. Franceso Floris and Sergio Serra, Storia della nobiltà in Sardegna. Genealogie e
araldica delle famiglie nobili sarde (Cagliari: Ed. Della Torre, 2007).
6. Bruno Anatra, “Istituzioni urbane nella Sardegna di Antico Regime,” in
Autonomía Municipal en el mundo mediterráneo, ed. Remedios Ferrero Micó
(Valencia: Corts Valencianes, 2002), 123–131.
7. Francesco Manconi, “Un letrado sassarese al servizio della Monarchia Ispan-
ica. Appunti per una biografia di Francesco Ángel Vico y Artea,” in Sardegna,
Spagna, Mediterraneo dai Re Cattolici al Secolo d’Oro, ed. Bruno Anatra and
Giovanni Murgia (Rome: Carocci, 2004), 291–333.
8. Miquel Pérez Latre, La Generalitat de Catalunya en temps de Felip II. Política,
administració i territori (Catarroja & Barcelona: Ed. Afers, 2004), 54–64.
9. The proceedings of the remarkable international conference on the “Cortes
Generales de la Corona de Aragón en el siglo XVI” (Monzón, 10–13 June 2002)
were compiled by José A. Armillas Vicente and published in a special issue of Ius
Fugit. Revista interdisciplinar de Estudios Histórico-jurídicos 10/11 (2003).
10. Marín, Sardenya, 43–113.
11. Joan Dexart, Capitula sive Acta Curiarum Regni Sardiniae (Cagliari: Galcerin,
1641), I-66.
12. Archivio Capitolare e Arcivescovile di Cagliari, ACAC, 166, document 165,
20–1–1721.
13. Archivio di Stato di Cagliari, ASC, Reale Udienza, RU, Cl. IV 67/2, Carte Reali
1622–1719, 34r-36r, 31–8–1676.
14. Archivio Comunale di Cagliari, ACC, Archivio Storico, AS, Carte Reali, 27,
27–8–1675.
15. ASC, Segreteria di Stato e Guerra, SSG, Seconda serie, 54, 37r-40v, 23–4–1721.
16. Francesco Manconi, “Don Agustín de Castelví, ‘padre della patria’ sarda o nobile-
bandolero?,” in Banditismi Mediterranei, ed. Francesco Manconi (Rome: Ed.
Carocci, 2003), 107–146.
17. ACC, Fondo Aymerich, 9, document 3, 1624.
18. ACC, Copie de carte reali, 35, n. 6,10-V-1520; and ACC, AS, 81, Lettere dei
Consiglieri 1569–1574, 1648–1652, 55r.
19. ACC, AS, Carte Reali, 27, 30–8–79.
20. ASC, SSG, Seconda serie, 54, p. 51.
21. Maria Ada Benedetto, “Nota sulla mancata convocazione del Parlamento sardo
nel secolo XVIII,” in Liber Memorialis Antonio Era (Brussels: Ed. DartCorten,
1963), 113–168.
22. Antonello Mattone: “Istituzioni e riforme nella Sardegna del Settecento,” in Dal
trono all’albero della libertà (Rome: Ministero beni culturali e ambientali. Uffi-
cio centrale per i beni archivistici, 1991), 325–419.
23. Lluís Guia Marin, “In Memoriam de la Corona d’Aragó. Reformes i reacció a
Sardenya en la segona meitat del segle XVIII,” in Estudis. Revista de Historia
Moderna 37 (2011): 305–323.
24. Archivio di Stato di Torino, AST, Corte, Paesi, Sardegna, Político, cat. 9, vol. 1,
n. 23.
25. Italo Birocchi and Margherita Capra, “L’istituzione dei Consigli comunitativi in
Sardegna,” in Quaderni Sardi di Storia 4 (1983–1984): 138–158.
26. Italo Birocchi, La Carta autonomistica della Sardegna tra antico e moderna. Le
“Leggi fondamentali” nel triennio Rivoluzionario (1793–96) (Torino: G. Giap-
pichelli Editore, 1992).
27. Josep Capdeferro i Pla and Eva Serra i Puig, El Tribunal de Contrafaccions de
Catalunya i la seva activitat (1702–1713) (Barcelona: Generalitat de Catalunya,
2015).
28. Antonello Mattone, “La cessione del Regno di Sardegna dal trattato di Utrecht
alla presa di possesso sabauda (1713–1720),” Rivista Storica Italiana 104, no. 1
(1992): 5–89, 55.
29. Antonello Mattone, “‘Leggi patrie’ e consolidazione del diritto nella Sarde-
gna sabauda,” in I. Birochi and Antonello Mattone, Il diritto patrio tra diritto
comune e codificazione (secoli XVI-XIX) (Rome: Viella, 2006), 507–538.
30. Mattone, Istituzioni, 393; La cessione, 64–65.
31. Mattone, La cessione, 65.
Anatra, Bruno. “Istituzioni urbane nella Sardegna di Antico Regime.” In Autonomía
Municipal en el mundo mediterráneo, edited by Remedios Ferrero Micó, 123–131.
Corts Valencianes: Valencia, 2002.
Benedetto, Maria Ada. “Nota sulla mancata convocazione del Parlamento sardo nel
secolo XVIII.” In Liber Memorialis Antonio Era, 113–168. Brussels: Ed. DartCor-
ten, 1963.
Birocchi, Italo. La Carta autonomistica della Sardegna tra antico e moderna. Le
“Leggi fondamentali” nel triennio Rivoluzionario (1793–96). Torino: G. Giap-
pichelli Editore, 1992.
Birocchi, Italo, and Margherita Capra. “L’istituzione dei Consigli comunitativi in
Sardegna.” Quaderni Sardi di Storia 4 (1983–1984): 138–158.
Capdeferro, Josep i Pla Eva, and Serra i Puig. El Tribunal de Contrafaccions de Cata-
lunya i la seva activitat (1702–1713). Barcelona: Generalitat de Catalunya, 2015.
Armillas Vicente, José Antonio, ed. “Actas del Congreso Internacional Cortes Gene-
rales de la Corona de Aragón en el siglo XVI (Monzón, 10–13 de junio de 2002).”
Special issue, IUS FUGIT. Revista interdisciplinar de Estudios Histórico-jurídicos
10/11 (2003).
Dexart, Joan. Capitula sive Acta Curiarum Regni Sardiniae. Cagliari: Galcerin, 1641.
Floris, Francesco, and Sergio Serra. Storia della nobiltà in Sardegna. Genealogie e
araldica delle famiglie nobili sarde. Cagliari: Ed. Della Torre, 2007.
Guia Marín, Lluís. “In Memoriam de la Corona d’Aragó. Reformes i reacció a Sard-
enya en la segona meitat del segle XVIII.” Estudis. Revista de Historia Moderna
37 (2011): 305–323.
Guia Marín, Lluís. Sardenya, una Història pròxima. El regne sard a l’època mod-
erna. Catarroja & Barcelona: Ed. Afers, 2012.
Lepori, Maria. Faide. Rome: Viella, 2010.
Manconi, Francesco. “Don Agustín de Castelví, ‘padre della patria’ sarda o nobile-
bandolero?” In Banditismi Mediterranei. Secoli XVI–XVII, edited by Francesco
Manconi, 107–146. Rome: Ed. Carocci, 2003.
Manconi, Francesco. “Un letrado sassarese al servizio della Monarchia Ispanica.
Appunti per una biografia di Francesco Ángel Vico y Artea.” In Sardegna, Spagna,
Mediterraneo dai Re Cattolici al Secolo d’Oro, edited by Bruno Anatra and
Giovanni Murgia, 291–333. Rome: Carocci, 2004.
Manconi, Francesco. Cerdeña, un reino de la Corona de Aragón bajo los Austrias.
Valencia: Ed. PUF, 2010.
Marongiu, Antonio. I Parlamenti sardi. Studio storico istituzionale e comparativo.
Milan: Giuffrè, 1979.
Mattone, Antonello. “Corts catalane e Parlamento sardo: analogie giuridiche e din-
amiche istituzionali (XIV-XVII secolo).” Rivista di storia del diritto italiano 64
(1991): 19–44.
Mattone, Antonello. “Istituzioni e riforme nella Sardegna del Settecento.” In Dal
trono all’albero della libertà, 325–419. Rome: Ministero per i beni culturali e
ambientali. Ufficio centrale per i beni archivistici, 1991.
Mattone, Antonello. “La cessione del Regno di Sardegna dal trattato di Utrecht
alla presa di possesso sabauda (1713–1720).” Rivista Storica Italiana 104, no. 1
(1992): 5–89.
Mattone, Antonello. “Leggi patrie e consolidazione del diritto nella Sardegna
sabauda.” In Il diritto patrio tra diritto comune e codificazione (secoli XVI–XIX),
edited by Italo Birochi and Antonello Mattone, 507–538. Rome: Viella, 2006.
Pérez Latre, Miquel. La Generalitat de Catalunya en temps de Felip II. Política,
administració i territori. Catarroja & Barcelona: Ed. Afers, 2004.
Turtas, Raimondo. Storia de la Chiesa in Sardegna. Dalle origini al 2000. Rome:
Città Nuova, 1999.
The Crown of Aragon:
The Catalan Case
13 Political Participation in
Catalonia
From Zenith to Suppression
Joaquim Albareda
The study of political representation in assemblies and territorial and local

institutions during the Ancien Régime—an issue that has been paid little
attention to date—is now being addressed by an increasing number of histo-
rians.1 Needless to say, the existence and activities of these institutions need
to be analysed, bearing in mind the specific context of the Ancien Régime
and its privilege-based society, as stated by Antonio Marongiu:
Although there was no element of popular choice or election, parlia-

ments represented the community and expressed, if not the will, at least
the interests of subjects [. . .] In this respect, parliamentary assemblies
were representative.2
It is certain that the avenues leading to representation vary according to each

society, its permeability and the vitality of the relevant social agents. Obvi-
ously, a vigorous society with strong horizontal bonds presents the most
suitable conditions for the development of solid representative institutions.
These institutions, in return, strengthen the social and economic dynam-
ics.3 Furthermore, Peter Blickle argued that the representative systems of
the Ancien Régime (state assemblies, parliaments, diets, courts, municipal
councils) provided the “common man” with a wide range of possibilities for
participation.4 At the same time, he underlined the representative institu-
tions’ potential for promoting social justice:
On the whole, it is possible to identify the tendency in the political con-

tracts towards the creation of a rule of law which was not just meant to
protect the privileges of the aristocracy and clergy, but rather to guaran-
tee the subjects’ status rights, to protect property by means of approv-
ing taxes, and to tie legislation to a parliamentary consensus [. . .] That
is, rulership based on noble descent and dynastic tradition (dominium
regale) had to be complemented by a basis in law and order (dominium
politicum).5
The Catalan case fits with the trend, detected throughout continental Euro-
pean, towards parliamentary expansion. This trend started in the 13th
214 Joaquim Albareda
century and ended up being neutralised, or in some instances even anni-
hilated, by the triumph of absolutism (in 1714, in the particular case of
Catalonia). Nevertheless, significant differences between the Catalan case
and the European model are evident, mainly due to the vitality of Cata-
lan constitutionalism. This is particularly evident during its final stage—
at the beginning of the War of the Spanish Succession and throughout the
conflict—to the extent that royal sovereignty was eroded to a considerable
degree: the attributions and competences assumed by Catalan institutions
at that time transcended the design of the medieval parliamentary model,
as outlined by Michel Hébert.6 Moreover, Catalan constitutionalism dem-
onstrated the ability to consolidate and widen the political representation of
the Royal Estate, and even that of the “common man,” rather than follow-
ing the general trend towards oligarchisation. This trend has been contex-
tualised by Olivier Christin, a specialist in French history, who highlighted
the persistence of the republican discourse and of the electoral mechanisms,
which were a part of the political strategy of urban elites’.7 In short, both
evolutions—the erosion of royal sovereignty and the increased representa-
tion of the Royal Estate—gave rise to substantial political developments,
whose characteristics we will try to outline.
1. Origins of Constitutionalism
The characteristic juridical and political order of Catalonia began taking
shape after the emancipation of the counties from the Carolingian empire,
largely achieved through the actions of the Catalan barons (987). The Corts
of 1283 institutionalised the role of the Estates of the Principality and their
co-legislative function, alongside that of the king. Finally, the Corts were
able to assume a wide range of powers, owing to the weakness of the king
and the nobility, which allowed the urban bourgeoisie to play an increas-
ingly important role in the political scene.8 In this context, the role of nego-
tiation in the resolution of conflicts of interest becomes clear, as pointed out
by Wim Blockmans. Historians have always considered the Corts a model of
medieval parliament. This is how it was described by Charles Howard McIl-
wain, who pointed out that its organisation and consistency during the 14th
century were significantly superior to those of the English Parliament and
the French Estates General.9 In reality, the assembly fulfilled the duties of a
well-established parliament, as stated by Michael Graves: the right to con-
sent and control the royal taxes—in addition to collecting them—and the
capacity to legislate and to present objections to the king’s allowance before
its approval in the courts. Similarly, one should not forget the oath, pledged
between king and kingdom—which was represented by the three “braços”
(arms): the royal, the military and the ecclesiastic—and the existence, besides
the Corts, of an executive organ of permanent representation.10 In fact, the
Diputació del General (Deputation of the General)—an executive organ
created in 1365 with fiscal attributions—was eventually and permanently
Political Participation in Catalonia 215
turned into the country’s key governmental and law enforcement institution.
As a result, in 1628 the jurist Andreu Bosch was able to define the Catalan
institutional structure as an example among the “well-governed republics.”
Firstly, it was “a general body or republic for all, the Prince being its head
and the three estates—ecclesiastic, military and royal—its arms, all of which
gather in Courts and establish laws.” Secondly, the braços formed
another republic and politic government to look after the preserva-

tion, profit and growth of all, with the particular title of Deputation or
General, whose power and jurisdiction stems from the king. These two
republics hold the democratic government, which belongs to many, in
everything related to the enactment of laws and to the government of
the country [. . .], since in all the other spheres the general government
of all is a monarchy, with only one head, our King, who holds the title
of Count.11
While analysing these matters, the historian Pierre Vilar wrote that medi-
eval Catalonia, between 1250 and 1325, was one of the most precocious
attempts to form a nation state.12 After the union aeque principaliter of the
Crowns of Castile and Aragon in 1479, each of these territories kept their
own judicial and political order within the newly created composite mon-
archy, even if both of them were ruled by the same monarch. As such, and
despite repeated friction with the monarchy, which was aggravated by the
latter’s demands for contribution to cover imperial expenses,13 Catalonia
managed to preserve its government system; a system based on the constitu-
tions, the Corts and the Deputation of the General, including its own state
tax apparatus, public debt and currency until 1714.14
The constitutionalism this system was based upon, understood here as
a historical evolution which involved the survival of traditional laws and
institutions whose goal was to preserve public “liberties,” had the objective
of restricting the king’s power and organising the res publica.15 In his analy-
sis of the civil war in Spain between 1705 and 1714, Agustín López de Men-
doza, count of Robres, emphasised the different political constitutions in
place in the Crown of Aragon, to which Catalonia belonged, and the Crown
of Castile. He argued that, in the Crown of Aragon the resolutions from the
Corts, which were agreed with the sovereign, were legally binding (as was
the case in England and the Empire, for those emanating from Parliament
or the Diet). On the other hand, in Castile the Cortes only had the right to
issue petitions, and the king could enact laws without the need to summon
the assembly. Therefore, López de Mendoza argued that the kings in Ara-
gon “were not absolute,” as opposed to Castile, where “they have always
been so.”16 For one, in the Crown of Aragon, the scope of royal action was
greatly restricted, as stated by the viceroys—the king’s alter nos in the terri-
tory. For instance, in 1704, the viceroy of Catalonia, Francisco de Velasco,
complained to Felipe V that “he felt crushed by the constitutions.”17 These
constitutions included formal rights that protected the interests of the Cata-
lans and limited the growing royal power at a time when fiscal and military
pressure from the state was reaching its peak. These rights were essentially
republican in nature, not as a rejection of monarchy but as a reflection of a
pact aimed at safeguarding the common interest.18
The political culture that emanated from this pact was reflected in a clear
feeling of identity and obedience to these laws, as illustrated, for example,
by the leaflet Lealtad catalana (published during the struggle with Bourbon
troops in 1714), which stated that
only the resolutions, taken in the Cortes of a kingdom or province, can

be attributed to the nation [. . .] the nation which can only be repre-
sented by its united estates. The whole Catalan nation, united under
these estates, decided to defend the king, under whose reign it was living.
[Charles III]19
On the other hand, El emperador político (1700–1706), a work by the jurist

Francisco Solanes, is an exponent of the concept of patriotism in pursuit of
the common interest, which is even given priority over the king.20 The sys-
tem illustrated by these writings could be defined as “monarchic republican-
ism,” the central tenet of which was the rule of the law as it was understood
by Solanes, who claimed that “the prince does not stand above the law, it is
the law which stands above the prince. The genuine king is he who submits
himself to his country’s laws and regulations.”21
2. A Changing Society
It would be difficult to understand the vitality of this political system—and
the choice made by the Catalans who sided with the House of Austria against
Philip of Bourbon during the War of the Spanish Succession—without tak-
ing into account the following processes of economic transformation and
social change that took place during the 17th century: first, the development
of an increasingly integrated economy with a well-defined internal market,
whose main asset was maritime activity, and second, the emergence of an
external trade model, with the export of agricultural products and importa-
tion of industrial goods, especially textiles but also salted goods, sugar and
tobacco.22 This model continued to exist until the middle of the 19th century
and boosted the production of spirits and their export to England and the
Seven United Provinces, as well as woollen cloth production for domes-
tic consumption. It was also characterised by regional specialisation and
internal trade, with Barcelona playing a leading role as a mercantile centre
where capital could accumulate. In fact, Barcelona-based entrepreneurs were
responsible for spreading the new model throughout the region by setting up
production and trade centres in other Catalan towns and villages.
This process of economic transformation boosted the rise of dynamic
social groups with links to trade which gained access to the lower ranks of
the nobility and actively participated in the institutions of government. It
is worth remembering that the strength of Catalan constitutionalism, and
the fact it was benefiting from such wide social support, were the result of
the social permeability that allowed those individuals to first access and
later participate in political institutions and municipalities. Without any
doubt, the best example of this is to be found in Barcelona’s ruling class,
where patricians, who occupied position halfway between the merchants
class and the traditional nobility, played a key role (in this regard, condi-
tions in Barcelona and northern Italy were very similar). The patricians,
who commanded considerable economic resources, filled the ranks of the
ciutadans honrats (literally, “honoured citizens”), which constituted the
lowest rank of the nobility and were present in force in the city’s governing
organs while also participating in the Royal Estate of the Catalan Corts
(and not in the Military estate that represented the titled nobility). The sig-
nificant growth of this collective, with around 700 new members between
1530 and 1700, led James Amelang to highlight a distinctive feature of
Barcelona’s elites: it was an open oligarchy, which included merchants,
notaries and masters of the major guilds in addition to the beneficiaries
of royal privileges. As such, well-defined channels for social promotion
existed in Catalonia, in contrast to most other European cities, where
closed hereditary nobility prevailed. An example of the latter is Venice,
which stood in sharp contrast to Amsterdam, to name just two symbolic
examples.23 According to Andreu Bosch, writing in 1628, in Catalonia
“from the very humblest estates they may raise themselves, step by step, to
burgesses or citizens.”24
The result was the emergence of a cohesive ruling class, formed by tra-
ditional nobility and honoured citizens, with a strong sense of identity.25
According to Amelang, the strong Catalan autobiographical literary tradi-
tion demonstrates the way the res publica is understood by this group. The
example posed by Jeroni Pujades, a lawyer and the official chronicler of
the Principality, is a case in point. Amelang writes that the keys to his men-
tal universe are “memory, history, duty, rights, citizenship.”26 Moreover, we
know that the political participation of these leading groups in Barcelona’s
Consell de Cent was stimulated by the constant mobility of political person-
nel, which was far from being monopolised by a hereditary caste, as was the
case for the Castilian city councils. The Consell had 144 members, and 275
different people took a seat in it between 1698 and 1714 (128 honoured
citizens, 86 knights and 61 merchants). Of these, only 35 members sat in the
Consell for as much as half of this period, which indicates that membership
was far from endogamous.27 In contrast, as we shall see later, there was an
obvious presence of craftsmen in the municipal governments, in particular,
that of Barcelona.
3. Updated Constitutionalism: the Corts
of 1701 and 1705
Following a trend that was common to the whole European continent, in
1700 Catalan constitutionalism faced a critical situation, owing to the fact
that the king had not summoned the Corts since 1599. In the eyes of the
Catalan leaders, the change of dynasty offered the ideal opportunity to play
the loyalty card to the king, in exchange for a meeting of the Corts and a
chance to revamp the legal setting. This was achieved in two stages: with
Philip V (1701–1702) and with Charles III (1705–1706), with the War of
the Succession ongoing. As such, we can argue that the political and eco-
nomic wager of the Catalans in the War of the Succession,28 aligning them-
selves with the maritime powers and the Empire, in addition to the obvious
dynastic motives, was aimed at further developing constitutionalism. The
project also furthered the economic interests of the ascending social groups
and, in general, those of the “common man,” thanks to the mechanisms of
representation and participation offered by institutions which were particu-
larly inclusive and which restricted the monarch’s power at a time when
absolutism was advancing steadily throughout the continent.
After the negotiation process had overcome multiple difficulties, the
results achieved by the Corts of 1701–1702 were viewed as very positive.
The economic measures implemented met the demands of the merchants: a
free port in Barcelona, the dispatch of two ships per year to America, the
creation of a mercantile company, unified tax declarations for the boats
arriving to the Principality, the consolidation of the right to export of wine,
spirits and agricultural products to peninsular ports without surcharges,
and protectionist measures for the importation of foreign wines, spirits and
also woven fabrics. Moreover, the Diputació (Deputation) recovered the
right to collect the “nova ampra,” a war-tax that the king had comman-
deered for himself in 1661. Other measures concerned the financial con-
trol of the Diputació, with the goal of avoiding graft, and thus controlling
the fraudulent entry of foreign cloth for army supplies. Another important
achievement was the creation of the Tribunal de Contrafaccions (Court of
Contraventions), whose task was to guarantee that officers who were con-
nected to the king or the barons complied with the law. The authority of
the Real Audiencia (Royal Audience: the royal court of justice) and royal
officers was also restricted.29 The systematic mechanism of public control
for officials and members of the Diputació at the end of their service, the
Visita del General, was also reformed.30
The Corts of 1705–1706 were even more successful for the Catalans, the
majority of whom, by then, had chosen to side with Charles III. The affinity
of the new king with the Catalan Commons, shown in earlier documents
presented before the Estates, seems unquestionable. The production of new
types of cloth was thriving, as a result of a policy that aimed to attract
foreign craftsmen (as long as they were not French). In order to promote
free trade, commercial activities were encouraged and fiscal obstacles elimi-
nated; measures were taken to avoid the meddling of royal officers in the
traffic of goods and livestock by means of taxes, and to prevent royal minis-
ters from blocking the export of wine. At the same time, the entry of foreign
wines was subjected to import taxes. The expeditions to the Indies increased
from two to four ships per year, and the obligation to join the Cadiz fleet
was suspended. A committee was organised in order to study the creation
of a nautical mercantile company, and the free port of Barcelona was rati-
fied. The royal lezda, a tax on the entry of goods into cities and towns,
and the rights of the captaincy general over foreign imported products were
abolished.31
In sum, these economic measures produced a calculated balance between
a certain level of protectionism—always vis-à-vis France, the real commer-
cial enemy—and measures to boost the competitiveness of the domestic
industrial sector, in addition to provisions to encourage freer trade. It was,
therefore, a weighted policy, capable of responding to the different interests
that existed within the Royal Estate, which were, by no means, united. These
measures opened promising prospects concerning economic growth and
were also beneficial for the popular sectors, to the extent that tight bonds
were created between production—both industrial and agricultural—and
the commercial sector, both in relation to spirits and textiles.
In the political arena, the Corts approved several measures to achieve
more effective control over the authority of the king and the nobility con-
cerning law enforcement. The Tribunal de Contrafaccions (literally, Court
of Contraventions), which was considered the zenith of the Catalan culture
of “juscentrism,” in the expression of Josep Capdeferro and Eva Serra, was
further developed.32 In effect, it subordinated the monarchy more efficiently
to the law, by placing extreme mechanisms to guarantee the king’s compli-
ance.33 In the opinion of viceroy Velasco, it “enslaved” royal justice to such a
degree that, in the concessions made to the Catalans, the only thing missing
was a statement from the king renouncing his task of administering justice
in Catalonia.34 The Corts also introduced auditing systems to evaluate the
royal officers at the conclusion of their mandate.35 But, without any doubt,
the most radical measure, which was a result of the dynamics of war, was
a declaration that permanently excluded the Bourbons from the Hispanic
Crown.
The Corts of 1705–1706 satisfactorily addressed two issues which had
not been resolved during the meetings held in 1701–1702: the intervention-
ism of the king’s ministers concerning the election of members to the Consell
de Cent and the Diputació, and the difficult problem of billeting the troops
(this issue was particularly problematic during the Nine Years’ War with
France between 1689 and 1697). Nevertheless, it needs to be stressed right
away that many of the resolutions issued by the Corts could not be carried
out. The dynamics of the war, the increasingly executive policies of Charles
III and, above all, the overwhelming burden of the troops deployed on the
territory—which was worsened by the constant lack of financial resources—
prevented the enactment of many of these laws.
A comparison between the two assemblies of the Estates is illustrative:
if, in the first Corts, a total of 96 constitutions and court chapters were
enacted, this number was doubled in the Corts of 1706, although it is also
true that the majority of these dispositions were essentially redefined and
improved versions of those from 1702.36 The most relevant fact, as stated
by Victor Ferro, is that the measures proposed, which were designed to rein-
force the assembly’s control over the royal ministers and guarantee compli-
ance with the law, were pushed to the limit. One of the most important
measures forbid royal officers from prosecuting members of the Diputació
and individual members of the Military Estate, administrators, members,
lawyers and municipal officers and councillors, or from forcing them to tes-
tify against someone else. In the same vein, the principle of secrecy of corre-
spondence was established. It was determined that the royal ministers could
not arrest citizens of the Principality without legitimate cause and that, in
any case, they would recover their freedom within 15 days. Furthermore,
during the trials no penalty could be enacted against the accused without
giving them the opportunity to defend themselves, and a testimony would
be taken within a period of one month. All of these measures represented
a significant breakthrough in the area of guaranteeing civil liberty. More-
over, following the tone of 1702, the authority of the Royal Audience (the
royal court of justice) was restricted, and provisions were adopted to reduce
abuses committed by judges, royal officers, lawyers, clerks and notaries.
In exchange, both Corts approved a generous subsidy to the king (1.5 and
2 million Catalan lliures, respectively). In order to distribute this burden, a
general criterion was established, “based on the universality of the new tax
and its equitable and progressive character.” The tax was collected by the
municipal councils.37
Needless to say, not everything was consensual, and conflicting inter-
ests arose between the Estates during the meetings held by both Corts, for
instance concerning the redemption of real estate census and the collection
of tithes, which resulted in the extension of several articles of the 1599 Corts,
which benefited the interests of the nobility and contradicted the previous
trend of concentrating jurisdiction in the royal hands. The royal Arm pro-
tested against this measure, and also against the chapter, defended by the
military and ecclesiastical arm, that took away the right of local councils to
impose taxes on trade. The royal Arm was unsuccessful on both counts. The
Royal Archive was consolidated through various court chapters which also
regulated its modus operandi, and the position of Chronicler of the Principal-
ity of Catalonia was created. For this role, the Corts appointed Pau Ignasi
de Dalmases, a member of an illustrious family of merchants, whose house
hosted the active Academia dels Desconfiats (Academy of the Untrusting).38
Finally, we need to underline the fact that the constitutions—the third
compilation of which was published in 1704—rather than just sanctioning
baronial privileges, as could be expected of an Ancien Régime institution,
were an instrument that protected the social rights of the majority in such
areas as tax legislation, military duties, justice administration, economic reg-
ulation and individual guarantees, as recalled in the pamphlet Despertador
de Catalunya, published in 1713.39 Therefore, it is not surprising that Philip
V wrote that the Corts of 1701 and 1705 “left the Catalans more Republi-
can than the abusive Parliament of England.”40
4. Representation and Political Participation

So how was political participation defined in this institutional framework?
Despite the lack of systematic studies on this matter, we can state that sev-
eral indicators support the idea of the evolution of the Catalan political
model, which was based on the constitutions, towards an open and partici-
pative system. Evidence of this may be found in the expansion of the social
base of the Corts, which was the result of social change and of the pressure
posed by the municipalities. Between 1701 and 1705, the presence of cities
and towns grew, from 28 to 39, while the number of deputies represent-
ing the nobility increased from 468 to 476. It is worth pointing out that
the inhabitants of villages in jurisdictional fiefs and of rural communities
(even if they were under royal jurisdiction) were not present at the Corts,
and neither were the guildsmen. The number of ecclesiastic representatives,
on the other hand, went from 32 to 27. At the same time, in 1702, the
number of individuals who could be elected by the arm of the cities to the
Deputation of the General of Catalonia increased from 89 to 100, and that
of the oïdors (account auditors) from 119 to 153.41 The representatives of
the Royal Estate in the Corts were honoured citizens, doctors (of law, phi-
losophy or medicine), merchants, “artistes” (members of non-mechanical
trades: notaries, surgeons, apothecaries) and peasants. Moreover, between
1701 and 1706 the presence of the “common man” grew significantly with
the increase in the number of artistes, which went from five to 13, and,
importantly, of the peasants, who saw their number grow from one to 12.42
The representatives of the Royal Estate, especially the syndics and municipal
representatives, presented the most laws in the Corts, addressing the needs
of the commons.43
The picture that we are trying to present would be incomplete without
referring to two institutions which would play a key political role between
1697 and 1714: the Assembly of the Military Estate (the “Military Arm”)
and the Conferència dels Comuns (literally, Conference of the Commons).
The new Military Arm was created in 1602 (formed by knights and hon-
oured citizens: ennobled bourgeois) and acted in parallel with the Estate of
the old nobility, which was also represented in the Corts, and assumed a
political role on the front line of the defence of the constitutions.44
The composition of the Conferència dels Comuns was similar, comprising
representatives of the Diputació, the Consell de Cent and the new military
arm, but this body, which was in theory merely advisory, was strongly deter-
mined to have a share in the governance of the Principality. The aim of this
institution was to coordinate the remaining institutions towards a more effi-
cient defence of the constitutions, as well as to compensate for the loss of the
political relevance of the Diputació which resulted from the viceroy’s con-
trol of this body’s membership.45 In addition to being an extremely active
political body, it expanded the system’s social basis, offering the possibility
of political participation to emerging social groups. In fact, the Conferència
set out Catalonia’s political guidelines during the complex period between
1697 and 1714, since almost all of its reports, which were issued during 517
meetings, were accepted by the remaining institutions, as demonstrated by
Eduard Martí.46
In any case, political participation was most effective in the municipal
councils, in particular in Barcelona’s Consell de Cent, which had extensive
powers. As pointed out by James Amelang, in the whole Iberian Peninsula
it is nearly impossible to find another case in which the power of the guilds
increased as much as in Barcelona (and Catalonia). The collective spirit in
this institution was more reminiscent of certain cities of the empire than of
the Italian communes, where popular political representation was already
declining. As such, while craftsmen had been excluded from the urban coun-
cils in most European cities, in Catalonia they were given a clear opportu-
nity for political representation thanks to the creation of the sixth conseller
(councillor), a popular victory obtained in 1641 during the Guerra dels
Segadors (Catalan Revolt) against Philip IV.47
Therefore, in Barcelona, as well as in the royal Catalan cities and towns,
political participation of the “common man” is evident in the presence of
craftsmen in the city’s government. The opposite happened in Valencia,
which was also part of the Crown of Aragon, where the six sworn positions
were monopolised by knights and honoured citizens until 1707.48 It was,
indeed, an honoured citizen and historian who, in 1629, praised the excel-
lence of Barcelona’s municipal system and the balance between different
social groups: the powerful, the poor and the humble, claiming that “they all
have their share in the administrations and common benefits.”49
First of all, let us examine who occupied the seats of the artists and crafts-
men in the plenary session of Barcelona’s Consell de Cent between 1700
and 1714. The assembly comprised 144 members, 32 each from the groups
of honoured citizens, merchants, artistes and craftsmen, and 16 each from
the knights and nobles. They were chosen for a period of two years, and
each year half of the seats were renewed. The artistes who sat on the Con-
sell de Cent usually comprised 14 notaries, six barbers and two chandlers,
while the remaining ten seats were divided among druggists and apothecar-
ies. The representation of craftsmen was more diverse, usually comprising
a silversmith, a tailor, a wool carder, a cordwainer, a carpenter, a currier
and a tanner. Sometimes, the mason and the gardener would take turns, as
would the tanner and the dyer. The trades of blacksmith, esparto craftsman,
botero (maker of wineskins), sailor, baker, weaver of linen or wool, hatter,
mercer, locksmith, cotton merchant, saddler, ropemaker, cutler, brickmaker,
shopkeeper and mattress maker, among other less-known crafts, should also
be noted.50
With regard to the six consellers (the administrators who became the
true municipal political leaders), the first three were reserved for the hon-
oured citizens, knights and nobles, although there was a clear supremacy of
the honoured citizens over the knights and nobles: more precisely 69.5%
(against 10.5% for the knights and 20% for the nobility).51 The fourth posi-
tion was for the merchants.
The fifth and sixth conseller were chosen by lot (drawing names from a
bag). Table 13.1 shows the occupations of those who held these positions
in the period between 1702 and 1713, excluding 1710. Except for that year,
the records show the name of the conseller and also his occupation.52
To date, no evidence exists concerning how this participation affected
political decision-making processes (the records do not reflect the interven-
tions of the consellers), and whether it resulted in the implementation of
“popular political measures.”53 That said, we can highlight the paradigmatic
case of the fifth conseller Mateu Hereu. He was a modest barber-surgeon
who, in 1704, was imprisoned for refusing to reveal the secret of a delibera-
tion in the Consell de Cent to the viceroy. This occurred at the time of the
failed conspiracy of 1704 in favour of the Archduke Charles of Austria. On
this occasion, the Conference of the Commons expressed their strong sup-
port for Hereu.54 Also, the portrait of the cordwainer Josep Torner (kept
in the Museu d´Història of Barcelona), dressed and apparelled as the sixth
conseller (a position he held on two occasions, in 1671 and 1676), per-
fectly conveys the pride of the “common man” who gains access to a posi-
tion of such prestige and benefits from political rights that were outside the
reach of most of the European urban middle classes.55 Even so, it is worth
remembering that a considerable part of the city’s inhabitants were excluded
Table 13.1 Occupation of Barcelona’s consellers (1702–1713)
Year Fifth Conseller Sixth Conseller
1702 Notary Milliner

1703 Barber Carpenter
1704 Apothecary Tailor
1705 Notary Gardener
1706 Apothecary Wool carder
1707 Notary Potter
1708 Notary Carpenter
1709 Notary Tanner
1711 Barber Silversmith
1712 Notary Esparto craftsman
1713 Notary Glovemaker
from these rights and benefits: people who practised crafts which were not
included in the guild system, the guilds’ apprentices, women and ethnic and
religious minorities.
Be that as it may, in 1706, in the middle of the Spanish War of the Succes-
sion, the marquess of Gironella declared himself openly in favour of putting
an end to this political system. In his opinion, the Catalans were “by nature
and temperament not only strong supporters of inherited liberties, but also
ambitious enough to extend them if the circumstances allow it.” For this
reason, he encouraged the king not to lose
the opportunity to put his entire realm under one single law, to exalt the
authority of the true nobility and reduce that of the plebeians, and to
adjust these circumstances which were of such vital importance to the
Royal Service [. . .], considering that Catalonia does not consist of the
republican body, formed by its universities, but of its individuals.
And he insisted on the fact that a considerable portion of the members of the
Consell de Cent were “craftsmen and artists and commoners.”56
The political weight of the Consell de Cent became particularly visible
during the final 13 months of Catalan resistance against the Bourbon troops,
starting in July 1713, when Catalonia was abandoned by its allies, as agreed
in the Treaties of Utrecht, and Barcelona was under the control of a com-
plex political structure; in this context, the advisory commissions played an
important role, in addition to the Conference of the Commons. According
to a Bourbon officer, the government was in the hands of 24 persons of dif-
ferent skills, and even more advisors were added until they reached a total
of 50 or 60.57 “The people is their lord,” claimed Philip V.58
The 5,500 men of the Coronela, the urban militia raised by the guilds in
traditional urban republican style, were pitched to defend the city against
Europe’s most powerful ground troops. This commitment boosted expecta-
tions concerning political participation, and claims for broader basis for the
city’s government ensued, as had already occurred during the Catalan Revolt.
It was the “republican moment,” during which Charles III and Elisabeth
Christine of Brunswick fled to Vienna in an atmosphere of political and social
radicalisation, as did many other wealthy individuals who had abandoned the
city and moved to territory already under the control of the Bourbon forces.59
During the Utrecht peace negotiations, the ambassadors of the Catalan
Commons tried to have their voices heard: in 1712, Francesc Berardo, mar-
quis of Montnegre, was sent to Vienna by the Diputació; in March 1713, Pau
Ignasi de Dalmases, a member of an important merchant family, was sent
to London by the Consell de Cent; and Felip Ferran de Sacirera was sent to
The Hague by the Assembly of the Military Estate. Montnegre was received
by Charles VI on 8 February and 15 November of 1713, with the second
visit happening in the presence of the queen. An audience was also granted
to him by Queen Anna of England on 4 May 1713, in the presence of her
military advisors Peterborough and Stanhope.60 For his part, after realising
that article XIII of the peace treaty between Great Britain and Spain did
not guarantee the “liberties and privileges” of Catalonia, the ambassador
Dalmases requested an audience with Queen Anna, which took place on
28 June 1713, in the presence of Peterborough. In this occasion, he requested
that “by all means possible, she guarantee Catalonia all its privileges and
preserve all the liberties, laws and exceptions from which it had benefit-
ted until that day and from which it still was benefitting,” given the fact
that the Catalans had fulfilled the English requirements of rising up on the
side of Charles III, and also since they considered that “this country [Eng-
land] being so free and so fond of freedom, should protect the other country
[Catalonia] which could be called free because of its prerogatives, request-
ing its protection and shelter,” and he added that “the laws, privileges and
liberties are very similar and almost identical to those of England.”61 Even
if this last statement was not strictly true, given the considerably greater
political strength that the English Parliament had gained in the course of the
Glorious Revolution, this helps to illustrate the model to which the Catalan
leaders aspired.
Furthermore, Felip Ferran was received in The Hague on 18 September
1714 by the new king, George. The envoy asked the new monarch to inter-
vene, in order to keep “Catalonia with the whole of Spain” under the house
of Austria, or for Catalonia, Aragon and Valencia to be handed over to
the emperor or to one of the archduchesses. If that was not possible, he
requested that Catalonia, Mallorca and Ibiza be united in a republic under
the protection of the emperor and his allies. These proposals were suggested
to England for the first time in 1712 by the imperial representative Hoff-
man, after which we find it formulated at least five more times until 1714. In
parallel, we find six references to the specific option of creating a republic in
Catalonia, put forward by ambassadors Dalmases, Montnegre and Ferran,
as well as by the secretary of state in Vienna, Ramon de Vilana Perlas. Other
diplomatic proposals were more modest: that the constitutions which had
been approved during the last Corts be respected.62 The “case of the Cata-
lans” dragged on until the signature of the treaty of Rastatt (1714), but the
French side did not pay any heed to it—despite the insistence of the imperial
representative, Prince Eugene of Savoy.63
Meanwhile, in Barcelona some individuals who had been excluded from
the Junta (assembly) of 36 persons that led the resistance, along with the
artisan officers of the Coronela, urgently claimed their right to participate
in the resolutions, just as in the “House of Commons in England,” which
resulted in the arrest of several people (for example, the Coronela officer
Ramon Rodolat and the milliner T. Clos). Another testimony states that
these actions aimed to bring “the plebs” to the assemblies, with the objective
of creating “a lower house.”64
In the end, this representation system developed by Catalan society was
put to an end in the name of the “fair right of conquest” proclaimed by
Philip V at the end of the War of the Succession. The absolute monarch
abolished the Catalan constitutions, eliminated the Corts, the Diputació and
the municipal representation, and replaced the institutional representative
structure with the Nueva Planta decrees, thus establishing a hierarchical and
militarised government which was controlled by a captain general, through
the direct appointment of offices that were then sold at a later stage.65
Notes
1. This work was carried out within the framework of the project La política exte-
rior de Felipe V y su repercusión en España (1713–1740), MINECO, HAR2014–
52645-P and the Grup d’Estudi de les institucions i de les cultures polítiques
(segles XVI-XXI), GRC 2014 SGR1369, AGAUR. Generalitat de Catalunya.
2. Antonio Marongiou, Medieval Parliaments: A Comparative Study (London:
Eyre & Spottiswoode, 1968), 223–225, 228.
3. Josep Fontana offers perspective on political representation in modern times:
“Political Representativity and Social Progress: An Interpretative Approach,”
in Proceedings of the 53rd Congress of the International Commission for the
History of Representative and Parliamentary Institutions, ed. Jaume Sobrequés
(Barcelona: Parlament de Catalunya, 2005), vol. 1, 106–114.
4. Peter Blickle, ed., Résistance, représentation et communauté (París: PUF, 1998),
436–437.
5. Peter Blickle, “Representing the ‘Common Man’ in Old European Parliaments,”
in Proceedings of the 53rd Congress, vol. 1, 117–132 (quote on 126–127); See
also: André Holenstein, “Introduction,” in Empowering Interactions: Political
Cultures and the Emergence of the State in Europe, 1300–1900, ed. Wim Block-
mans, André Holenstein and Jon Mathieu (Farnham: Ashgate, 2009), 1–30.
6. This was a free zone which stimulated dialogue, negotiation and exchange of
ideas between the king and the political organs, represented through a “jeu com-
plexe de paroles, de gestes, et déngagements qui tisse les liens subtils entre des
princes qui jamais ne disposent dún pouvoir absolu et des sujets qui jamais
ne leur disputent radicalement leurs competences.” Michel Hébert, Parlementer.
Assemblées représentatives et échange politique en Europe occidentale à la fin
du Moyen Age (Paris: Éditions de Boccard, 2014), 589.
(Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 2014), 13–22.
8. Josep Fontana, La formació dúna identitat. Una història de Catalunya (Vic:
Eumo, 2014), 33.
9. Thomas N. Bisson, Límpuls de Catalunya. L´època dels primers comtes-reis
(1140–1225) (Vic: Eumo, 1997), 141; regarding the corts, vid: Eva Serra, “La
vida parlamentària a la Corona dÁragó: segles XVI i XVII: una aproximació
comparativa,” in Proceedings of the 53rd Congress, vol. 1, 501–536; Xavier Gil,
“Parliamentary Life in the Crown of Aragon: Cortes, Juntas de Brazos, and Other
Corporate Bodies,” Journal of Early Modern History 6, no. 4 (2002): 362–395.
10. Michael A. R. Graves, The Parliaments of Early Modern Europe (London:
Longman, 2001), 192–216.
11. Andreu Bosch, Summari, índex o epítome dels admirables y nobilíssims títols de
honor de Cathalunya, Rosselló i Cerdanya [1628] (Barcelona & Sueca: Curial,
1974), 370, 371–372.
12. Pierre Vilar, Catalunya dins l’Espanya moderna (Barcelona: Edicions 62, 1973),
vol. 1, 86.
13. Antonio Miguel Bernal, España, proyecto inacabado. Los costes/beneficios del
Imperio (Madrid: Marcial Pons, 2005), 350–369.
14. Manuel Sánchez, El naixement de la fiscalitat dÉstat a Catalunya (segles XII–
XIV) (Vic: Eumo, 1995), 10–11.
15. Charles H. McIllwain, Costituzionalismo antico e moderno, under the supervi-
sion of N. Matteucci (Bologna, 1940), 36.
16. Agustín López de Mendoza, Historia de las guerras civiles de España (Zaragoza,
1882), 17, 18, 19. (2nd edition and preliminary study under the supervision of
J. M. Iñurritegui), Memorias para la historia de las guerras civiles de España
(Madrid: Centro de Estudios Políticos & Constitucionales, 2006), vols. 15–97.
17. Joaquim Albareda, Els catalans i Felip V. De la conspiració a la revolta (1700–
1705) (Barcelona: Vicens Vives, 1993), 149.
18. Angela De Benedictis, Politica, governo e istituzioni nellÉuropa moderna (Bolo-
gna: Il Mulino, 2001), 367–391.
19. Joaquim Albareda, Escrits polítics del segle XVIII, Tom V, Escrits del “moment
republicà” de 1713–1714 (Vic: Eumo, 2011); Lealtad Catalana purificada, Bib-
lioteca de Catalunya (henceforth: BC), Fullets Bonsoms, n. 9009, 37.
20. José M. Iñurritegui, “Las virtudes y el jurista: el Emperador político de Fran-
cisco Solanes y el amor a la patria,” in Proceedings of the 53rd Congress, vol. 1,
429–446.
21. Francisco Solanes, El Emperador político y política de emperadores (Barce-
lona: Joseph Llopis, 1706), vol. 3, 27–28; Neus Ballbé Sans, “Francisco Solanes:
pensament polític i pràctica de govern a Nàpols durant el virregnat austríac
(1707–1734)” (unpublished PhD diss., Universitat Pompeu Fabra, 2017).
22. Josep Fontana, “En els inicis de la Catalunya contemporània. L’economia a la
segona meitat del segle XVII,” in El segle de l’absolutisme, 1714–1808, coord.
Ramon Grau (Barcelona: Arxiu Històric de la Ciutat, 2002), 13–21; Albert
Garcia Espuche, Un siglo decisivo. Barcelona y Cataluña. 1550–1640 (Madrid:
Alianza Editorial, 1998).
23. Peter Burke, Venecia y Amsterdam (Barcelona: Gedisa, 1996), 56–57.
24. Bosch, Summari, 370.
25. James Amelang, “Gent de la Ribera” i altres assaigs sobre la Barcelona moderna
(Vic: Eumo, 2008), 25–30.
26. Amelang, Gent de la Ribera, 124–125.
27. Eduard Martí, “La classe dirigent i la Conferència dels Tres comuns. Una relec-
tura del poder del Consell de Cent en el tombant del segle XVII,” in Presenta-
tion, held during the 12th Congress on the History of Barcelona, Historiografia
barcelonina. Del mite a la comprensió, 30 November–1 December 2011, Arxiu
Històric de Barcelona. Unpublished text, provided by the author.
28. Joaquim Albareda, La guerra de Sucesión de España (Barcelona: Crítica, 2010).
29. Joaquim Albareda, “Estudio introductorio. La puesta al día del constitucio-
nalismo,” in Constitucions, capítols i actes de cort. Anys 1701–1702 i 1705–
1706 (Barcelona: Editorial Base, 2004), 35–64; Jaume Bartrolí, “La Cort de
1701–1702: un camí truncat,” Recerques 9 (1979): 57–75.
30. Ricard Torra i Prat, “La fiscalización de la actividad de los oficiales de la Gener-
alitat de Cataluña en la época moderna. La Visita del General de Cataluña y su
funcionamiento,” Cuadernos de Historia del Derecho 22 (2015): 295–317.
31. Mònica González, “Les Corts catalanes de 1705–1706,” LÁvenç 206 (1995):
30–33; Germán Segura, “Las constituciones catalanas de 1706: la cumbre del
sistema pactista catalán,” Espacio, Tiempo y Forma. Serie IV: Historia Moderna
18–19 (2005–2006): 155–175; Albareda, “Estudio introductorio,” 35–64.
32. Josep Capdeferro and Eva Serra, El Tribunal de Contrafaccions de Catalunya i
la seva activitat (1702–1713) (Barcelona: Textos Jurídics Catalans, 2015), 13.
33. Víctor Ferro, El Dret Públic Català. Les institucions a Catalunya fins al decret
de Nova Planta (Vic: Eumo, 1987), 423.
34. Archives Diplomatiques. Ministère des Affaires Étrangères. Correspondance
Politique Espagne, 143, 7-VI-1704 (henceforth: ADMAE, CPE).
35. Albareda, “Estudio introductorio,” 35–64.
36. Ferro, El Dret, 423.
37. Agustí Alcoberro, “Essent just que cada un pague per lo que percebeix. Les
arrels parlamentàries del cadastre borbònic,” in Lárticulació del territori a la
Catalunya moderna, coord. Jaume Dantí (Barcelona: Dalmau, 2015), 291–327
(the reference on p. 306).
38. Albareda, “Estudio introductorio,” 47–48, 58–59.
39. Joaquim Albareda, ed., Escrits polítics del segle XVIII, I. Despertador de Cata-
lunya i altres textos (Vic: Eumo, 1996), 170–176.
40. Archivo Histórico Nacional, Estado (henceforth: AHN, E), 3376–1, nr. 10,
28-XII-1711.
41. Eva Serra, “La representació municipal en les institucions catalanes de línici del
segle XVIII (1701–1706),” in Lárticulació del territori a la Catalunya moderna,
coord. Jaume Dantí (Barcelona: Rafael Dalmau, 2015), 175–251.
42. Joaquim Verde i Llorente, “Participació i representació polítiques a la Cort gen-
eral del Principat de Catalunya (1599–1706). Una perspectiva comparada euro-
pea i espanyola” (Master’s thesis, Universitat Pompeu Fabra, 2014), 124, 138.
43. Eva Serra, “La potencialitat democràtica de la Catalunya histórica,” LÁvenç
418 (2015): 26–35 (reference on p. 32).
44. Eduard Martí, “El braç militar i la conferència dels Tres Comuns,” in Política,
economia i guerra. Barcelona 1700, ed. A. Garcia Espuche, et al. (Barcelona:
Ajuntament de Barcelona, 2012), 125–134.
45. Eva Serra, “El pas de rosca en el camí de láustriacisme,” in Del patriotisme al
catalanisme, ed. J. Albareda (Vic: Eumo, 2001), 71–103.
46. Eduard Martí, La Conferencia de los Tres Comunes (1697–1714). Una
institución política decisiva en la política catalana (Lleida: Milenio, 2008),
414–415.
47. Amelang, Gent de la Ribera, 124–125, 213–214. On municipal representation:
Josep M. Torras i Ribé, Els municipis catalans de lÁntic Règim, 1453–1808
(Barcelona: Curial, 1983), 47–116.
48. Alberta Toniolo, “El govern urbà i la producció gremial,” in Crisi institucional
i canvi social. Segles XVI i XVII, Història, Política, Societat i Cultura dels Paï-
sos Catalans, dir. Eva Serra and Xavier Torres (Barcelona: Enciclopèdia Cata-
lana, 1997), vol. 4, 110–111. Josep Camañes, who was originally from Valencia
but living as a refugee in Barcelona during the War of the Spanish Succession,
described in his diary the admiration he felt for the participation of the crafts-
men in the Consell de Cent. Albert Garcia Espuche, Una societat assetjada. Bar-
celona 1713–1714 (Barcelona: Empúries, 2014), 346–347.
49. Esteban de Corbera, Vida i hechos maravillosos de doña María de Cervellón,
s. F., f. 26. Quoted by Xavier Torres, “Entre la corona i el principat: el repub-
licanisme barceloní (segles XVII-XVIII),” in 14th Congress on the History of
Barcelona (Barcelona, 25–27 November 2015). My gratitude to the author, who
provided me with the text of the paper.
50. Eduard Martí has generously provided me with this information from the Arxiu
Històric de la Ciutat de Barcelona. Llibre de Deliberacions 1B.II.210–224.
51. Eduard Martí, “La Conferència dels Comuns i el Braç militar. Dues institucions
decisives en el tombant del segle XVIII” (unpublished PhD diss., Universitat
Pompeu Fabra, 2008), vol. 2, 941–942.
52. Data extracted from the Manual de Novells Ardits, Dietari del Antich Consell
Barceloní (Barcelona: Instituto Municipal de Historia, 1971–1975), edited by
Enrique Gubern Hernández and Pedro Voltes Bou, 24, 53, 123, 200; vol. 25, 83,
161; vol. 26, 55, 122, 178; vol. 27, 55, 124; vol. 28, 44, 109. For a global vision:
Manel Risques, dir., Història de lÁjuntament de Barcelona. Dels orígens a 1808
(Barcelona: Enciclopèdia Catalana, 2007).
53. William Beik, “La participation politique du menu peuple dans la France mod-
erne,” in Pouvoirs, contestations et comportements dans lÉurope moderne, dir.
Bernard Barbiche, Jean-Pierre Poussou and Alain Taillon (Paris: PUPS, 2005),
43–59.
54. Garcia, Societat, 25–26; Albareda, Catalans, 153, 162.
55. Amelang, Gent de la Ribera, 34.
56. Josep dÁlós Ferrer, marquess of Gironella, “Memorial sobre los negocios de
Cataluña,” Bibliothèque Nationale de France (Richelieu), Ms. Espagnol 53, nr.
2214, pp. 1–55v.
57. ADMAE, CPE, 230, Houdetot, 22-VII-1714, 167.
58. Instrucción al duque de Populi. AHN, E 2864, 2-IV-1713.
59. Eduard Puig, La resistència catalana. Barcelona, 1713–1714 (Vic: Eumo,
2014).
60. Albareda, La guerra, 386–387.
61. Ibid., 395–396.
62. Ibid., 407–409.
63. J. F. Michaud and J. J. F. Poujoulat, Nouvelle collection des Mémoires relatifs a
l´Histoire de France, XXXIII, Maréchal de Villars (Paris: Didier et Cie., 1866),
227–235.
64. BC, Ms. 173, Annals consulars de la ciutat de Barcelona, III:128v.; Salvador
Sanpere i Miquel, Fin de la nación catalana (Barcelona: Tipografia LÁvenç,
1905), 325.
65. Joaquim Albareda, “Del tiempo de las libertades al triunfo del dominio abso-
luto borbónico,” in Historia de las Españas, ed. Juan Romero and Antoni Furió
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cional per a lÉstudi de la Història de les Institucions Representatives i Parla-
mentàries, edited by Jaume Sobrequés, Vol. 1, 429–446. Barcelona: Parlament de
Catalunya, 2005.
López de Mendoza, Agustín. Historia de las guerras civiles de España. Zaragoza,
1882. reedición y estudio preliminar a cargo de J. M. Iñurritegui, Memorias para
la historia de las guerras civiles de España, Vols. 15–97. Madrid: Centro de Estu-
dios Políticos y Constitucionales, 2006.
Martí, Eduard. La Conferencia de los Tres Comunes (1697–1714). Una institución
política decisiva en la política catalana. Lleida: Milenio, 2008.
Martí, Eduard. El braç militar de Catalunya (1602–1714). València: PUV, 2016.
Serra, Eva. “La vida parlamentària a la Corona dÁragó: segles XVI i XVII: una
aproximació comparativa.” In Actes del 53è Congrés de la Comissió Internacional
per a lÉstudi de la Història de les Institucions Representatives i Parlamentàries,
edited by Jaume Sobrequés, Vol. 1, 501–536. Barcelona: Parlament de Catalunya,
2005.
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Barcelona: Curial, 1983.
Vilar, Pierre. Catalunya dins lÉspanya moderna, 4 vols. Barcelona: Edicions 62,
1973.
14 The Configuration of the
Tribunal de Contrafaccions
of Catalonia in the Corts of
1701–1702
Josep Capdeferro1
1. Introduction
This work examines two fundamental preliberal representative institutions
of modern Catalonia: the Tribunal de Contrafaccions, which had judicial
or political-judicial functions, and the Corts, which had a parliamentary or
proto-parliamentary function.2
Between 2012 and 2014, my research, carried out alongside Eva Serra
(Professor Emeritus of Barcelona University), focused on the Tribunal de
Contrafaccions of Catalonia. This chapter, however, will centre on the ori-
gins of the Tribunal in the 1701–1702 sessions of the Catalan Corts and
is the result of archival work undertaken independently in the summer of
2016. The Corts sessions of 1701–1702, along with those held in 1705–
1706,3 endowed Catalonia with a dynamic and efficient parliamentary sys-
tem, which was wholly exceptional in the Europe at the onset of the 18th
century. The laws passed in those political meetings were a significant quali-
tative leap ahead from an economic, social and political perspective. They
allowed for a substantial expansion of both the rights of the Catalans—who
thus gained a status which approached that of citizens—4 and the guaran-
tees for those rights, enabling people to demand the rights be upheld and not
violated or undermined.
By way of preamble, it is essential to note that, in the Principality of Cata-
lonia, the political culture of King-in-Parliament had deep roots, going back
to the early Middle Ages, which meant that: 1) the Three Estates placed
substantial limitations on the king, mainly in the spheres of taxation and
legislation; 2) the laws agreed on in the Corts—fundamentally constitucions
and capítols de Cort—were sacrosanct, resulting in a diffuse form of histori-
cal constitutionalism; and 3) there were mechanisms, some of which had
been in place since at least 1410, for representative institutions to verify
observança, that is, observance of these laws by the monarch and his agents.
First, I will briefly sum up the role of the Tribunal de Contrafaccions, a
body about which hardly anything was known up to five years ago. Second,
I will explain in much greater depth how the Tribunal developed during
the three months of the Catalan Corts sessions beginning on 12 October
232 Josep Capdeferro
1701 and concluding on 14 January 1702. I will analyse the initial discord
between the Three Estates and the path they took to overcome it. Finally, I
will look at the arduous negotiations between the Estates and King Philip V
(for the Catalans, actually Philip IV) to give the Tribunal a definitive shape.
2. Some Notes on the Tribunal de Contrafaccions

In old Catalan, the general sense of the verb contrafer was to transgress or
contravene, that is, to break the law, and the noun contrafacció designated
any contravention of law or illegal act. More specifically, these terms were
used to designate acts committed by the authorities or their officials in vio-
lation of the main regulations of the legal system, primarily the usatges of
Barcelona (11th-13th century) or the above-mentioned constitutions and
capítols de Cort, enacted, between the 13th and the early 18th centuries by
the Crown, following intense negotiations with the Estates.5
Several of these constitucions, passed over the course of the 15th century,
crystallised in the Poc valria of 1481. This established a valuable mecha-
nism to prevent and prosecute the contraventions committed by the king’s
officials. The Reial Audiència, the highest royal court in Catalonia, was
appointed to try these contraventions. Its partiality became obvious very
soon. This led the Estates, during the 16th- and 17th-century Corts sessions,
to repeatedly request the monarch set up an ad hoc tribunal to prosecute
these claims; half of the members of the tribunal were to be appointed by the
king and the other half by the Estates. At the Corts sessions of 1626–1632,
this request was tenaciously put forward, greatly contributing to the clash
between the monarchy and the Estates. Finally, in the early 18th century,
against the background of the Spanish War of the Succession, a Tribunal
de Contrafaccions was regulated in the Catalan Corts, which were sum-
moned by both King Philip V, in 1701–1702, and King Charles III (Arch-
duke Charles of Austria) in 1705–1706, but the regulations enacted in
each session differed significantly. The Tribunal underwent three stages:
first, a very active stage from 1702 to 1705; second, a seemingly lethargic
phase, in which the activity of the Tribunal was less obvious, but which
was, nevertheless, very effective in inhibiting contraventions and achieving
extrajudicial settlements; and third, a promising but ephemeral stage in the
pre-republican context of 1713.
The Tribunal de Contrafaccions was conceived to try illegal acts com-
mitted by both royal and seigneurial officials. Its purpose was not to ques-
tion or undo the feudal regime—which survived, despite showing signs of
decrepitude—but it rather acted as an effective bulwark against the arbi-
trariness of either public or private power networks.
The Diputació del General or simply Diputació or Generalitat, a perma-
nent Committee of Estates of Catalonia, with extensive fiscal, financial and
political powers, acted as a complement or a counterpart to the Tribunal
Catalonia’s Tribunal de Contrafaccions 233
de Contrafaccions. This institution played the part of prosecutor before the
Tribunal, thus contributing to protect the Catalan legal order.
The mixed composition of the Tribunal de Contrafaccions, which aimed
for perfect parity between Rex and Regnum, that is, the king and the Estates,
is the most striking feature, especially in the context of the history of politi-
cal representation. Three of the judges represented the monarchy (pre-
eminent members of the Reial Audiència of Catalonia), and the other three
represented the Estates: the Archbishop of Tarragona or the most senior
Catalan cathedral canon who happened to be in Barcelona, the protector
(chief) of the Assembly of the Military Estate6 and Barcelona’s conseller
en cap or conseller segon (first or second councillor). Parity was important
because in the case of a hung vote, one of the judges’ names was drawn by
lot to cast the decisive vote; that is, the deciding vote was not cast by a judge
designated by the king. My aim in this work is not to give details on each
of the judges but only to emphasise that they came from institutions with
very different natures and governance systems, and with disparate electoral
cycles—biennial in the case of the Assembly of the Military Estate, annual
in the case of the Barcelona municipal government—which must have posed
a real challenge to the smooth operation of the Tribunal de Contrafaccions.
The Tribunal’s polyarchic composition had repercussions on an organ-
isational level. When a judge tried a case, he used the auxiliary personnel
from his institution of origin—for instance, the councillor of Barcelona
was assisted by the secretary of the city (escrivà major). This gave rise to a
dispersal of records that has, paradoxically, proven positive for historians,
since it allowed for at least some to survive. The majority of these records
were destroyed when the Spanish War of the Succession ended. At that
time, Philip V suppressed the Catalan representative institutions through
the Nueva Planta Decree in 1716, and its apparatus of power embarked
in a harsh policy of repression and material destruction on many levels—
including the obliteration of the records—in retaliation against the subjects
who had broken their oath of allegiance.
The extant manuscript documents of the Diputació del General, consist-
ing of deliberations ordering the payment of itemised invoices, printed doc-
uments produced for the Tribunal de Contrafaccions (or passed by it), legal
allegations, sentences and other decisions, have played a decisive role in our
gaining knowledge of how the institution operated, the 19 cases it tried and
a good number of cases that never reached the Tribunal but may have fallen
within its purview. I will not describe them all individually but only indi-
cate the goal of some of them: limitation of judicial fees, limitation of fees
associated with the endorsement of documents with the royal seal, various
convictions imposed without due process or in violation of legal guarantees,
unjustified holding of suspects in prison, violation of passive electoral rights,
illegal appointments to public offices, defendants tried in an unauthorised
jurisdiction and so on.
A paradigmatic case brought before the Tribunal de Contrafaccions is
the so-called “Cardona Melons Case.” In some aspects, it may be equated
with a recurso de amparo before the contemporary Spanish Constitutional
Court. On August 1703, a man was exposed to public embarrassment for
several hours with no official proceedings whatsoever for supposedly hav-
ing stolen some melons from the garden of a local dignitary. Thereafter, a
private reconciliation took place between the accused and the sheriff who
had abused his seigneurial power. Nonetheless, the town’s community and
the Diputació brought the case before the Tribunal de Contrafaccions, in the
belief that it had not been the subjective rights of the accused that had been
violated, but rather the objective right of the Catalan community to a fair
trial. The sheriff was deprived of his position and disqualified from office in
the Duchy of Cardona for at least three years.7
Another significant case led to the conviction of a military judge who had
unduly condemned two civilians who, together with a soldier, had allegedly
raped a woman. The constitucions of Catalonia set strict limits to the appli-
cation of the military jurisdiction.
In sum, Catalonia’s Tribunal de Contrafaccions was the ultimate repre-
sentative of a political-legal tradition, based on pactisme (making pacts,
negotiating) and observança (rule of law). It was a highly relevant institu-
tion, not only because of the cases it conducted and passed sentence on but
also for the contraventions it halted and also those it prevented from ever
happening. Given the dynamic and changeable nature of law, the system of
randomly choosing an individual to cast the deciding vote from among the
king’s three judges and the Estates’ three proved necessary several times.
It reflected two factions “in balance,” and therefore true bilateralism. The
Tribunal provided an effective mechanism against the impunity of monar-
chic and seigneurial authorities and thus opened an effective path—and not
merely a declaration of principles—that led towards a society of citizens, as
opposed to one of subjects and vassals. It was a step forward for the prelib-
eral regimes of Southern Europe. It was known and appreciated by Catalans
of widely differing social status and geographic locations. Nevertheless, its
short duration and the Bourbon repression that began in 1715 nearly wiped
out all traces of it for almost 300 years.
3. Designing the Tribunal de Contrafaccions in

the 1701–1702 Corts
This section, which is divided into two subsections, deals with the par-
liamentary debates about the Tribunal de Contrafaccions and its organ-
isational structure during the 1701–1702 Catalan Corts.8 The topic is
attractive, because this was a novel kind of jurisdiction, of which there were
no parallels.9 The setting up of the tribunal, along with the billeting of the
troops, were the two matters that received the most attention by the Corts.
Alongside Eva Serra, I have examined the deliberations that took place at
the 1705–1706 Corts, which introduced modifications in the operation of
the Tribunal. The deliberations reflect that there were two major sources of
contention: the broadly shared need to overcome loopholes and incidents
resulting from the Tribunal’s original regulations, enacted in 1701–1702,
and the desire of some delegates to greatly expand its powers, making it an
absolutely unprecedented jurisdictional instrument and enabling it to over-
see the actions of nearly every official in the principality, whether royal,
seigneurial or municipal, with the only exception of the officials of the
Diputació del General.10
As is well known, parliamentary processes are often highly complex affairs,
and can involve many interrelated items. Although I will focus strictly on the
debate regarding the project to establish the Tribunal de Contrafaccions, I
would like to warn the reader that a complete overview of the institutions
involved in ensuring the observance of law would require expanding the
analysis to include bills associated with the Diputació del General and the
Assembly of the Military State. In order to keep things brief, I will also avoid
matters that, attractive as they are for grasping the 1701–1702 parliamen-
tary dynamics, are secondary vis-à-vis the topic at hand.
Debates Between the Three Estates (November of 1701)

I will begin with the internal stages of the complex regulatory process: the
debates between the Three Estates.
The first stage took place at the inter-Estates commission of constitu-
cioners, a committee composed by 18 elected individuals, six for each Estate,
that met regularly in order to set out bills, that is, proposals for new laws
or constitucions. Sometime during the first half of November, the commis-
sion, within which, it is safe to assume, different ideas existed about this
matter, made a proposal—which would be made effective through a set of
laws—for the setting up of a new Tribunal to try contrafaccions. This tribu-
nal would comprise seven members: two would be designated by the king,
one should be a prelate, two would come from the nobility and two would
represent the Third Estate. Thus, a doubly asymmetric tribunal, from both a
Rex-Regnum and an inter-Estate perspective.
This proposal was voted in the plenary sessions of each of the Three
Estates between 14 and 16 November 1701. The Military and the Third
Estates, which often acted in harmony during the 1701–1702 Corts ses-
sions, approved it, and the Ecclesiastic Estate overwhelmingly rejected it.
This is not surprising, given the double asymmetry mentioned above. To
demonstrate their outright opposition, the clergy proposed that the jurisdic-
tion to prosecute contrafaccions remain in the hands of the Reial Audiència
of Catalonia, as before, but admitted to setting up deadlines and measures
of tacit consent, should the judges not pass sentence within certain pre-
established periods, to prevent cases from becoming protracted or being left
unresolved.11
The commission of combinadors—literally combiners of constitucions,
that is, amendment negotiators—attempted to reconcile the a priori irrecon-
cilable positions of the Three Estates, but it failed.12
Immediately afterwards, on 19 November, the Ecclesiastic Estate, pres-
sured by the envoys of the Military and Third Estates—the latter touting
“the great and useful convenience for the public good that said constitu-
cions regarding observance be allowed to run their course”—13 made a con-
ciliatory proposal. According to this idea, the ecclesiastics would lend their
support to the creation of a Tribunal to try contrafaccions, on the condi-
tion that said Tribunal respected the balance between both the king and
the Estates and the Three Estates. It would thus have six judges: three on
behalf of the king, and one from each of the Three Estates: the Archbishop
of Tarragona or, in his absence, the Bishop of Barcelona, the chief of the
Assembly of the Military Estate and Barcelona’s first councillor, that is, the
mayor. It would be easy to demand such double parity, since centuries-old
precedents were available, such as the Corts’ mixed committees of habili-
tacions, that is, accreditations, or greuges, that is, grievances. To settle any
hung votes arising from this even number of judges, the clergy proposed—
with no attempt at justifying the proposal—that the Ecclesiastic judge cast
the deciding vote.14
This was a significant step forward. The Ecclesiastic Estate had joined the
demand for a Tribunal de Contrafaccions, but it was not enough. A discrep-
ancy persisted concerning the number of judges and the way of avoiding the
negative effects of parity between Rex and Regnum; these were matters that
the clergy attempted to present as secondary, literally “incidental.”15 On
20 November, the Military Estate decided to send a legation to the clergy,
asking it to reconsider its position and informing it of the reasons that, in
the Military Estate’s opinion, amply justified the asymmetric composition of
the Tribunal de Contrafaccions. Those reasons were not detailed in writing,
and we can only assume that they were explained verbally. As an additional
measure of pressure, the Military Estate threatened to launch a motion of
dissentiment general, that is, a motion of global dissent that would paralyse
the operation of the Corts.16
On 21 November, the Third Estate, emphasising the propriety and pru-
dence of the Military Estate’s deliberations on a matter of such importance—
“de la primera importància y de las conseqüèncias que aportan las sobreditas
constitucions de la Observança” (“of the utmost importance and the conse-
quences of the above-stated constitutions of Observança”)—lent the Mili-
tary Estate its absolute support “en tot y ab tot” (“in and for everything”).17
Understandably, however, the clergy did not give in and, on the same day,
decided to send the others a reply in which three main arguments were fore-
most: a) a request for both Rex-Regnum and inter-Estate parity; b) rejection
of the alleged superiority of the Military and Third Estates’ proposal, as
they did not exceed—or even approach—the zeal of the Ecclesiastic Estate
in the defence of Catalonia’s rights; and c) the superiority of the clergy’s
proposal, which would give the Estates an advantage if they accepted the
Archbishop of Tarragona or the Bishop of Barcelona casting the deciding
vote in cases of hung votes at the Tribunal.18
The Marquis of Anglesola and Count of Peralada, president of the Mili-
tary Estate, alerted the Corts to rumours that the king would soon be leaving
Barcelona and asked for a feasible compromise. At his bidding, the nobles
suggested that each Estate designate two or three people—the respective
promovedors (i.e. during Corts sessions, ordinary representative of an
Estate before the other Estates or the monarchy) and one or two ad hoc
representatives—to meet in order to agree on a Tribunal design that would
satisfy everyone, and that the Estates’ plenary sessions would have to ratify
thereafter.19 This idea earned the enthusiastic support of the Third Estate.20
On 22 November, the ad hoc committee was set up, with Miquel Joan Bosch,
member of the cathedral chapter of Vic, the noble Felicià de Cordelles, Joan
Josep Casanovas, from Lleida (the promovedors of the three Estates), and
six additional members: the Abbot of Camprodon, Genadi Colom, and the
canon of Barcelona, Dalmau de Copons, for the clergy; the Baron of Canyel-
las, Josep Terré i Marquet, and Joan Bonaventura de Gualbes for the nobil-
ity; and the syndics of Barcelona, Joan Llinàs, and Vic, Francesc Comalada
i Cànovas, for the Third Estate.21
On the morning of 23 November, this committee proposed a new model
for the Tribunal de Contrafaccions. It would comprise six judges. On behalf
of the king, the judges would be the chancellor, the regent of the Chancery
and the Batlle General of Catalonia. On behalf of the Estates, they would
be the Archbishop of Tarragona, the chief of the Assembly of the Military
Estate and the first councillor of Barcelona, each of whom had appointed
substitutes should they be unable to attend the deliberations. I would like
to remark on two things regarding the judges: firstly, the surprising idea of
appointing the Batlle General or supreme administrator of the royal revenue
in Catalonia to the Tribunal and, in his absence, his deputy or the deputy
of the Mestre Racional, who was in charge of the king’s accounts in Cata-
lonia; and, secondly, the hitherto unprecedented contingency that, should
the Archbishop of Tarragona or, subsidiarily, the Bishop of Barcelona, be
unavailable, the canon with the most seniority of all Catalan cathedrals
who happened to be in Barcelona would then take a seat in the Tribunal,
his seniority being computed on the basis of the date on which he became
canon. A complex but interesting mechanism was established to resolve
hung votes: the diputats and oïdors de comptes—that is, the six persons
ruling the Diputació—would draw by lot the names of nine people living in
Barcelona—three for each Estate—from the Diputació’s pool of candidates.
The judges of the Tribunal de Contrafaccions would then draw a name from
the nine to cast the deciding vote. This ensured parity between the Three
Estates.
On the afternoon of 23 November, the clergy—which introduced minor
amendments—and the Military Estate approved this new design.22 On
24 November, it was also approved by the Third Estate,23 and the decision
was sent to the committee of constitucioners for them to round out, together
with other law proposals.
On 27 November, the Three Estates separately voted for the new constitu-
cions on observança of Catalonia and decided that they should be officially
drawn up for their submission to the king.24 The version that would be
submitted for Philip V’s consideration, which in the end comprised three
interrelated regulations,25 was ambitious, but not extreme with regard to
the mechanism for hung votes, given that, since 1654 the monarchy had
assumed control over the pool of eligible candidates for the Diputació del
General. After the Catalan Revolt (Guerra dels Segadors) and the subjection
of Catalonia to Louis XIII and Louis XIV of France from 1640 to 1652,
Philip IV had tried to ensure that the Principality’s representative institu-
tions were not controlled by those who opposed his authority.26
Negotiation Between the Estates and the Monarchy

(December 1701 and January 1702)
It was difficult enough to arrive at a consensus of the Three Estates on the
Tribunal de Contrafaccions project, but the greatest difficulty was yet to
come: obtaining the necessary decretació, that is, royal assent, from Philip
V, who was grandson of Louis XIV of France and was thus a member of a
dynasty not prone to give away parcels of jurisdiction.
Various bills were submitted to the monarchy by the Catalan Estates on
30 November—others had already been submitted or would follow later.
On 1 December, the secretario de despacho universal, Antonio de Ubilla y
Medina, apparently without consulting the king (perhaps he was just testing
the water?), returned the texts to the Estates with decretacions that were,
for the most part, highly frustrating. The three interrelated bills on the Tri-
bunal de Contrafaccions were rejected outright, with the order that contra-
faccions continue to be tried by the Reial Audiència, which, thereafter, was
to pronounce sentence within two months; this was presented as a major
concession.27
The Estates’ vigorous protest was immediate. On 2 December, they attempted
to convince the king to substantially improve Ubilla’s initial decretacions.
Their request was convoluted in both form and content. This is not surpris-
ing, as what they were attempting to obtain from Philip V was no trivial
matter. It would be difficult to salvage both the wording and the spirit of
the regulations proposed for the Tribunal de Contrafaccions. At least six
powerful arguments were then brandished: a) efficiency: “la més breu, recta,
justa y fàcil declaració de las contrafaccions” (“the swiftest, most direct,
fairest and easiest trial of the contrafaccions”); b) historic necessity: “donant
nova providència al que en las Corts de mil sis-cents vint-y-sis ja se neces-
sitava” (“supplying a new solution to the problem, raised in the Corts held
in 1626”); c) many precedents of contrafaccions that were never tried due to
formalities: “moltas difficultats que se susitan en los ritos y formalitats pre-
paratòrias y preliminars” (“many difficulties arising from the preparatory
and preliminary rites and formalities”); d) the very small number of contra-
faccions that had been closed by a favourable ruling: “quinas hagen tingut
favorable declaració apenas fan número” (“[those] having had a positive
ruling hardly amount to any”); e) flagrant breaches of the 1481 constitució
Poc valria by the doctors of the Reial Audiència who often overinterpret the
text in extravagant ways: “no faltan interpretacions extraviadas del literal
sentir” (“some [of their] interpretations stray from the literal meaning”);
and, finally, f) ensuring the law was upheld would not be a limitation but a
great benefit to the monarchy: “[que se] observen las lleys municipals y que
vostra magestat quede servit ab la puntual observança de aquellas” (“[may]
Catalan municipal laws be observed and [may] your majesty benefit from
their strict observance”).28
In this way, the ball was back in the king’s court. On the evening of 3 Decem-
ber, Philip V convened the Estates’ representatives and informed them of the
revision of the decretacions to the bills that they had already submitted. Many
of them involved the outright rejection, denaturalisation or substantial amend-
ment of the legal projects proposed. Among the latter—the ones involving
substantial amendment—were the decretacions on the bills concerning the
Tribunal de Contrafaccions, submitted as numbers 37, 38 and 39. The king
accepted the establishment, until the following Corts session, of a new mixed
Tribunal, although he did not indicate which of his officials would serve on
it and kept the viceroy’s (or, in his absence, the chancellor’s) right to cast the
deciding vote in cases of deadlock.29
On 6 December, the clergy, owing either to docility or strategy, seemed to
settle for the royal decretació pronounced three days earlier. Or more pre-
cisely, it considered which of the two decretacions made to date—on 1 and
3 December—it preferred, ultimately leaning towards the former, which was
similar to its own proposal of 14 November. The ecclesiastics believed that,
in this way, a tribunal with supposed parity of representation that would de
facto always be dominated by the king would at least be avoided.30
The Military and Third Estates did not want to give in so easily and
convinced the clergy not to break the consensus. Thus, on 8 December at
8 p.m., the commissioners of the Three Estates appointed to meet with the
king’s negotiators visited Philip V, thanked him for his decretacions and
beseeched him to hear some of their objections.31 Regarding the three inter-
related bills concerning the Tribunal de Contrafaccions, the demands were
as follows: that neither the viceroy nor the chancellor be granted the decid-
ing vote, but rather that one of the six judges of the Tribunal, selected at ran-
dom, should vote a second time to settle a hung vote (this was to become the
cornerstone of the Tribunal) and that the monarchy clearly identify which of
its high officials in Catalonia, except prosecutors, would be appointed to sit
in the Tribunal. Both requests were accompanied by supporting arguments:
the first was that the judge who voted a second time would be perfectly up
to date on the case, which would make the outcome quicker; the second was
that there would be no doubts about—or associated delays concerning—
who would be in charge of processing and trying the contrafacció claims.32
On 10 December, the king informed the Three Estates’ commissioners
that he accepted one of the two changes they had requested: he accepted
that the regent of the Chancery and the two most senior doctors of the Reial
Audiència—that is, those who had been appointed the earliest—were to
be the royal officials to take a seat at the Tribunal de Contrafaccions, and
that this should be legally binding. However, he insisted that the deciding
vote in cases of deadlock should remain in the hands of the viceroy or the
chancellor.33
This information was not submitted to the Military Estate until the morn-
ing of 11 December. In the afternoon, the president of the Estate, the Mar-
quis of Anglesola and Count of Peralada, proposed gratefully accepting the
royal assent: “conformar-se en tot y per tot ab la voluntat del rey [. . .]
donant-li las gràcias per lo molt se és servit afavorir y honrar a estos sos
fidelíssims vassalls” (“agree in everything and in every way with the will of
the king [. . .] thanking him for how very greatly he has decided to ‘favour’
and ‘honour’ these his most loyal vassals”). Immediately afterwards, Pere
Torrellas Sentmenat submitted a motion of dissentiment general on all acts
of the Corts, as he considered that the king’s decretacions were an unsatis-
factory response to the bills that had been put forward. He protested that
they did not do justice to the merits of Catalonia, ordinarily represented
by the Diputació del General, whose revenue had mostly gone towards the
king’s service and other legitimate expenses. He justified his motion by argu-
ing that the aim of the Corts should be to update the legal framework in
order to meet the needs of vassals, as well as holding the king to the oath
that he had taken at the beginning of the meeting, “de mirar y atténdrer al
que sie de major utilitat y benefici de la Cort” (“to care about what is of
greatest utility and benefit to the Estates”). Nineteen other nobles seconded
him without hesitation: Francesc Despujol Moncorp, Pere Montoliu Ribes,
Anton de Peguera Aimeric, Joan Bonaventura de Gualbes and so on. The
disagreement regarding the Tribunal de Contrafaccions was not explicitly
mentioned, but it was clearly implicit in the motion of dissentiment.34
This motion was kept standing for a week, paralysing all deliberations.
It was not lifted until nightfall on 17 December, in a multitudinous ses-
sion of the Military Estate, “entrevenint un numerós concurs de individuos
del dit bras” (“with the participation a large number of representatives of
said Estate”).35 The withdrawal of the motion was ultimately justified by
the king’s commitment, as given to Pere Torrellas and Joan Bonaventura de
Gualbes, to accept another petition from the Estates regarding bills, “tant en
matèrias de gràcia com de justícia” (“in both matters of grace and justice”);
Philip V had accepted another round of negotiations.
On 20 December, the Estates agreed on the content of their last petition
to the young king for him to improve his decretacions; that is, for the latter
to follow more closely what was initially requested. One of the main aims
was for the king to give up his decisive vote in the Tribunal de Contrafac-
cions. The decretació concerning the bill then bearing the number 37 that
the Corts expected the king to pass, was worded as follows:
Plau a sa magestat lo concedir, per major consuelo del Principat, y fins

a la conclusió de las primeras Corts, que ab tres subjectes de ofici dels
que·s proposan, y ab altres tants ministres de sa magestat, que han de
ser lo regent de la Real Audiència y los dos ministres més antichs de ella,
que de present són y en avant seran, se vejan y determinen estas causas
de contrafaccions [ . . . ] y en cas de igualtat de vots se fasse extracció a
sort de un dels sis, lo qual torne a votar per llevar la paritat (It pleases
his majesty to grant, for the greater comfort of the Principality and until
the conclusion of the first Corts sessions, that, with three subjects ex
officio of the kind proposed, and another three ministers of his majesty,
who must be the Regent of the Reial Audiència and the two most senior
ministers in this institution, who are present now and will be in future,
these cases of contrafaccions be prosecuted and sentenced [. . .] and in
the event of equal votes, lots be drawn to select one of the six, who will
vote again to eliminate the parity).
As regards bills 38 and 39, they simply sought a “lo plau a sa magestat” (“it
pleases his majesty”), with no further additions.36
This persistence of the Corts can be associated with the negotiations car-
ried out by the aforementioned Pere Torrellas and Joan Bonaventura de
Gualbes and the Duke of Medina Sidonia, one of the king’s negotiators, in
order to obtain the “placets” (assents) of the constitucions. According to
what they told the Military Estate, they had found him highly predisposed
(“molt propício”) and he had implied that the king would approve much of
what they requested in a last round of negotiations, to the point that they
even went as far as drafting the specific clauses of the decretacions that
could be settled to the satisfaction of both parties.37
Due to the king’s illness over the Christmas period, the Corts sessions were
suspended for several days. Finally, on 11 January 1702, the protonotari
(i.e. chief notary) of the Crown of Aragon, José de Villanueva Fernández de
Híjar, submitted the constitució with Philip V’s definitive assents to the sec-
retaries of the Three Estates. When the notary Rafel Albià read them to the
plenary session of the clergy, they elicited great satisfaction from those pres-
ent: “Ohidas las quals decretacions foren aquellas approbadas y summament
aplaudidas per lo present estament” (“Said decretacions having been heard,
they were approved and greatly applauded by this estate”).38 Constitucions
36, 37 and 38 (this was the final numbering) had finally been passed into law
in a form that the vast majority approved, with the “plau a sa magestat” (“it
pleases his majesty”) de rigueur formula of approval.39 Any hung votes in the
new Tribunal de Contrafaccions would be settled by one of the six judges,
designated at random and no external individuals would have the power
to interfere in the deciding vote. A completely mixed and balanced tribunal
would thenceforth try the actions of royal or seigneurial ministers and offi-
cials that went against the constitucions and rights of Catalonia.
Eight months later, in September 1702, after quite a few tribulations,40
the initial six judges of the Tribunal de Contrafaccions were sworn in. The
first proceedings were instituted on 6 October of that same year and the first
sentence was pronounced on 19 June 1703.41
Notes
1. This chapter has been carried out within the framework of project DER2016–
75830-P, “De la Iurisdictio a la Soberanía: formas de organización política y
jurídica de las monarquías hispánicas (siglos XIII-XX),” directed by Tomàs de
Montagut, funded by the Spanish Ministry of Education and Competitiveness
and recognised by the Generalitat de Catalunya (Government of Catalonia); the
research group reference number is 2014 SGR 295.
2. At the 68th Congress of the ICHRPI, held in Palma de Mallorca in Septem-
ber 2016, I pointed out that greater attention should be paid to the judicial
or jurisdictional functions of the old regime’s representative institutions, in my
presentation “Representación en ámbitos judiciales, conexos al espacio político:
el caso de la Cataluña moderna.”
3. E. Serra, ed., Cort General de Barcelona (1705–1706). Procés familiar del braç
eclesiàstic (Barcelona: Generalitat and Parlament de Catalunya, 2014). Procés
familiar del braç militar is currently in press, early 2017. A future Procés famil-
iar del braç reial is planned, along with a volume with an index and complemen-
tary documents.
4. E. Serra, “El sistema constitucional català i el dret de les persones entre 1702 i
1706,” Butlletí de la Societat Catalana d’Estudis Històrics 26 (2015): 47–63.
5. Josep Capdeferro and Eva Serra, El Tribunal de Contrafaccions de Catalunya
i la seva activitat (1702–1713) (Barcelona: Parlament de Catalunya and Gen-
eralitat de Catalunya, 2015); same authors, Casos davant del Tribunal de Con-
trafaccions de Catalunya (1702–1713) (Barcelona: Parlament de Catalunya and
Generalitat de Catalunya, 2015).
6. E. Martí, El braç militar de Catalunya (1602–1714) (València: PUV, 2016).
7. See the summary and printed sentence of the case in Capdeferro and Serra,
Casos davant del Tribunal de Contrafaccions de Catalunya, 520–532.
8. The basic sources for my research are: a) authentic copy of the minutes of the
meetings of the Ecclesiastic Estate, at the Archives of the Crown of Aragon
(Arxiu de la Corona d’Aragó—ACA), Generalitat, N-1063 and 1064; b) origi-
nal minutes of the meetings of the Military Estate, at ACA, Generalitat, N-1065
and 1066; c) original minutes of the meetings of the Third Estate, at the Barce-
lona Municipal Historical Archives (Arxiu Històric de la Ciutat de Barcelona—
AHCB), Consell de Cent, XVI-87.
9. The Kingdom of Valencia’s Junta de Contrafurs, established in the 1645 Corts
sessions, could have served as neither model nor inspiration. See L. Guia, “La
junta de contrafurs: uns inicis conflictius,” Saitabi 42 (1992): 33–45.
10. Capdeferro and Serra, El Tribunal de Contrafaccions de Catalunya i la seva
activitat, 110–115.
11. ACA, Generalitat, N-1063, fol. 124v-125v (14.XI.1701). The proposed periods
for trying cases were one year for cases that were already in process, and three
months for those to be brought before the Tribunal after the end of the Corts
sessions.
12. AHCB, Consell de Cent, XVI-87, fol. 214v-215r (19.XI.1701).
13. Ibid.
14. ACA, Generalitat, N-1063, fol. 158.
15. AHCB, Consell de Cent, XVI-87, fol. 216v-217v—envoy of 20.XI.1701 from
the clergy to the Third Estate.
16. ACA, Generalitat, N-1065, fol. 261v-262r.
17. AHCB, Consell de Cent, XVI-87, fol. 222.
18. ACA, Generalitat, N-1063, fol. 167v-169r. See its reception by the Third Estate
on the afternoon of 22.XI.1701 in AHCB, Consell de Cent, XVI-87, fol. 229v
and following.
19. ACA, Generalitat, N-1065, fol. 273v-274r.
20. AHCB, Consell de Cent, XVI-87, fol. 228v-229r (22.XI.1701).
21. ACA, Generalitat, N-1063, fol. 174r-176r.
22. Ibid., fol. 181–182; N-1065, fol. 289v.
23. AHCB, Consell de Cent, XVI-87, fol. 243v-244r.
24. ACA, Generalitat, N-1063, fol. 200r; N-1065, fol. 320v; AHCB, Consell de
Cent, XVI-87, fol. 274r.
25. Ibid., fol. 253r-258r, list of 64 bills (30.XI.1701); folios 255v-256r contain the
three regulations that concerned the Tribunal de Contrafaccions. The serial
numbers of these regulations were 37–38–39 while they were being processed,
but would be numbered as 36–37–38 by the end of the Corts session. See also
ACA, Generalitat, N-1065, fol. 359v (30.XI.1701), which is less informative on
the content of each proposal.
26. Eva Serra, “Introducció: La insaculació i els llibres de l’ànima de la Generalitat,”
in Els llibres de l’ànima de la Diputació del General de Catalunya (1493–1714),
ed. Eva Serra (Barcelona: Institut d’Estudis Catalans, 2015), 43–48.
27. ACA, Generalitat, N-1063, fol. 268r; and N-1065, fol. 379.
28. Ibid., fol. 289v-290r; and N-1065, fol. 405v-406.
29. Ibid., fol. 300r; and N-1065, fol. 427r.
30. Ibid., fol. 322r.
31. Ibid., fol. 330r-338v.
32. Ibid., fol. 334v-335r; and N-1065, fol. 459r-460r; as well as AHCB, Consell de
Cent, XVI-87, fol. 405v-406r (6.XII.1701).
33. Ibid., fol. 349r.
34. ACA, Generalitat, N-1065, fol. 482r-483v; also, N-1063, fol. 353.
35. Ibid., fol. 484r-486r.
36. ACA, Generalitat, N-1063, fol. 372r; N-1066, fol. 498r.
37. ACA, Generalitat, N-1066, fol. 496v.
38. ACA, Generalitat, N-1064, fol. 482r.
39. ACA, Generalitat, N-1066, fol. 608v.
40. Some of these are explained in Capdeferro and Serra, El Tribunal, 91–95, and I
will explain others in a forthcoming article.
41. Ibid., 95–100.
Capdeferro, Josep, and Eva Serra. Casos davant del Tribunal de Contrafaccions de
Catalunya (1702–1713). Barcelona: Parlament de Catalunya and Generalitat de
Catalunya, 2015.
Capdeferro, Josep, and Eva Serra. El Tribunal de Contrafaccions de Catalunya i la
seva activitat (1702–1713). Barcelona: Parlament de Catalunya and Generalitat
de Catalunya, 2015.
Guia, Lluís. “La junta de contrafurs: uns inicis conflictius.” Saitabi 42 (1992): 33–45.
Martí, Eduard. El braç militar de Catalunya (1602–1714). València: PUV, 2016.
Serra, Eva, ed. Cort General de Barcelona (1705–1706). Procés familiar del braç ecle-
siàstic. Barcelona: Parlament de Catalunya and Generalitat de Catalunya, 2014.
Serra, Eva. “El sistema constitucional català i el dret de les persones entre 1702 i
1706.” Butlletí de la Societat Catalana d’Estudis Històrics 26 (2015): 47–63.
Serra, Eva. “Introducció: La insaculació i els llibres de l’ànima de la Generalitat.”
In Els llibres de l’ànima de la Diputació del General de Catalunya (1493–1714),
edited by Eva Serra, 7–55. Barcelona: Institut d’Estudis Catalans, 2015.
15 The Conferència dels Comuns
in Catalonia (1656–1714)
A New Form of Representation and
Political Participation1
Eduard Martí
In 1706, Francisco de Agulló, marquis of Gironella, one of the Catalan nobles

who was loyal to the Bourbon dynasty, disclosed to Philip V the opposition
of the Consell de Cent, the Assembly of the Military Estate and the Deputa-
tion of Catalonia (collectively known as the Three Commons) to complying
with the royal mandates, especially in connection with the modification of
the will of Charles II.2 After criticising the advisory boards of these institu-
tions, he particularly emphasised the role played by the Conferència of the
Three Commons, which was “an even more pernicious and malicious assem-
bly, with the name of a new institution [created] without the authorisation
of his majesty.” Its members “were plenipotentiaries of the three commons.”3
The words of Gironella may seem surprising, but they confirm a threat that
the duke of Villahermosa, viceroy of Catalonia between 1688 and 1690, had
already denounced 15 years earlier “the damage, caused by these conferences
to the peace and the public serenity of the province.” Villahermosa did not
hesitate to prophesy that “this way of bringing together these consistories
will invisibly cast roots so strong that your Majesty will see the formation
in Catalonia of a tribunal that does not recognise any superior.”4 Neither
of them was exaggerating. The influence of the Conference on the actions
of the commons had been so great that Philip V terminated them in Febru-
ary 1705, stressing “the serious inconveniences that would be caused if said
assemblies were allowed to continue in my royal service.”5 But this was soon
reversed. Ten months later, with the arrival of Archduke Charles III of Aus-
tria, the commons began to meet again.6 Only the Nueva Planta Decrees,
implemented in Catalonia from 1714 onwards, made it possible to avoid
new conferences of the commons being held.
What was it about these conferences that aroused so much fear in the royal
authorities? The assembly can be defined as follows: meetings that brought
together representatives of the Consell de Cent, the Assembly of the Military
Estate (“braç militar”) and the Deputation of the General, with the objective
of coordinating their actions on the serious and urgent matters that affected
the political, military and economic stability of Catalonia, especially regard-
ing the defence of the constitutions.7 Naturally, this definition requires further
explanation. Firstly, we should mention that the Conference represented the
will of the three most influential Catalan institutions. The Consell de Cent
246 Eduard Martí
was the municipal government of Barcelona and played an important leading
role at the head of the Catalan cities. Its power was so great that, in 1697, the
French general Vendôme did not hesitate to declare that he “never had seen
a city with so many privileges [ . . . ] with the capacity to mock the orders
[ . . . ] of the king of Spain.”8 The concept of the Generalitat or Diputació del
General (Deputation of the General) is much clearer. Its origins are linked
with the need to collect the taxes that had been approved by the Corts, dur-
ing the period in which they were not in session—something that happened
for the first time in 1359. Over time, the Generalitat became increasingly
more prestigious, and gained greater authority, especially in the defence of
the constitutions.9 The Assembly of the Military Estate, popularly called “the
Military Arm,” requires a slightly more detailed explanation. This arm was, in
fact, a guild of the nobility, which could meet without limitations and upon its
own initiative, even when the Corts were not assembled. In 1602, it issued
its own statutes, while claiming to represent the whole Estate of the Cata-
lan nobility. Its extra-parliamentary meetings were open and any honoured
citizen, gentleman or nobleman could take part in them, without limitations
of any kind. Although with some differences, equivalent assemblies could be
found elsewhere in Europe, for example the French Assemblées de la noblesse
of 1651 or the Dutch ridderschappen. The influence of the Military Arm on
Catalan politics started to grow from 1680 onwards, until it became a key
institution during the years of the War of the Succession.10 In view of this, we
realise that the anonymous memorialist did not exaggerate when, in 1706, he
considered the Conference to be an “oracle for the entire Catalan nation.”11
Another element that needs to be taken into consideration is the composi-
tion of the Conference. The conferences were usually gatherings of between
nine and 18 persons, and were comprised of three or six representatives
from each of the Consell de Cent, Arm and Diputació. The paritarian struc-
ture of the membership was important, since it guaranteed that none of the
institutions could control the Conference to their own benefit. Its members
were laymen (they did not need to be law experts), freely chosen by the
commons. The decisions were made through the direct vote of each member,
meaning that there was no vote per estate or per institution. In principle,
the function of this body was merely advisory, which is why the commons
could decide not to follow the counsel of the Conference in cases where they
did not consider it advisable. However, the influence of this body over the
Catalan institutions was enormous, as demonstrated by the fact that 94.5%
of the recommendations issued between 1697 and 1714 were acknowledged
by the commons without further question.
In a way, the Conference corresponds to what James Amelang called
“non-institutional institutions,”12 in the sense that, initially, it was a politi-
cal reality with no legal recognition. This sanction finally arrived, but late
and only partially in 1706.13 The Conference never belonged to the king-
dom’s hierarchical government apparatus, nor did it have a specific purpose,
as was the case for the French Estates General or the Castilian Cortes. Its
existence must be situated in the context of the minor Juntas (boards) and
The Conferència dels Comuns in Catalonia 247
working commissions of the institutions,14 but we must note the influence
exercised by the Conference over the commons; over time, the power of this
institution became much greater, to the point where it became a key element
of control over said commons.
In order to understand the relevance of the assembly, we need to look
at it from the perspective of two problematic issues that affected Europe
during the 16th and 17th centuries: the increasing strength of centralised
states that imperilled the survival of polycentric state structures and the
constitutional rule which these structures defended,15 and the ongoing social
change, whereby a fractured nobility, which was undergoing a crisis of iden-
tity was looking for new ways to perpetuate its influence.16
In recent years, researchers have sketched the history and development of
this complex institution which, with the exception of Núria Sales and Joa-
quim Albareda, have been neglected by historiography, mainly owing to the
lack of documentary sources.17 In this chapter, I will try to synthesise and
add to these contributions and discuss new data in order to demonstrate the
political and social relevance of the Conference.
The Growing Influence of the Conference of the Commons

It is difficult to summarise in a few lines the history of the “Conference of the
Commons,” so named because, depending on the circumstances, it could be
constituted by two or three commons. It developed in two clearly differenti-
ated phases: 1656–1696 and 1697–1714. The gentleman and contemporary
chronicler Francisco de Castellví stated in his Narraciones históricas (Histor-
ical Accounts) that the conferences “eran una práctica antiquísima aprobada
y consentida de los soberanos por atrasados siglos” (“were an ancient prac-
tice, approved and consented [to] by the sovereigns of bygone centuries”).18
We have been able to verify the existence of meetings of representatives of the
deputation and the Consell de Cent as far back as December 1621, when they
addressed the acceptance of Bishop Sentís as viceroy of Catalonia.19 During
the period 1620–1640 the conferences were very sporadic20 and only became
truly important when they were turned into conferences of consellers (coun-
cillors) and diputats (deputies).21 The end of the war and the new situation
of the Catalan institutions, which, from 1652 onwards, saw their privileges
severely restricted,22 was the context in which the meetings of the commons
took place and where they would coordinate their actions in response to
different problems. Between 1656 and 1697, these conferences took place
chiefly involving the deputation and the Consell de Cent, and only from
1685 onwards can we find evidence of some meetings involving the arm and
the city as well. In total, 98 meetings were called, in which 28 recommenda-
tions were issued and 12 documents drafted. Among them, we may highlight
the instructions given to the count of Plasencia, ambassador of the commons
in Madrid (1678); the reports on the military situation at the border, where
a French attack was feared (1678, 1690); and recommendations concerning
the raising of troops for the tercios (militias) (1656).23
248 Eduard Martí
A major change occurred as a result of the siege of Barcelona by French
troops in 1697, when an assembly of the three commons was convened for
the first time. In this juncture, the Conference became the hub from which
all Catalan institutions could be controlled and which could coordinate their
action.24 Between 23 May and 9 August, they met on 44 occasions, issued
40 recommendations and drafted 56 documents. Especially important among
these were the representations to Charles II (requesting military aid), the rais-
ing of squadrons in the defence of the walls and the guidelines to be followed
by the representatives of the commons before the viceroy of Catalonia (Fran-
cisco Fernández de Velasco). A later memorandum reminds us of the assem-
bly’s leading role in the defence of Barcelona: “La Ciudad y el Brazo, en sus
conferencias, fueron tomando las medidas y disposiciones que podían quitar
las esperanzas a los enemigos” (“The City and the Arm, in their meetings, took
all necessary measures and dispositions to make the enemy lose all hope”).25
From that moment onwards, the development of the institution and the
power it acquired were spectacular. Figure 15.1 illustrates the activity of
the Conference concerning meetings held, issues debated, recommendations
issued and documents published; the two periods under consideration are
presented separately.
Between 1697 and 1714, the Three Commons met on at least 590 occasions,
addressing 101 different matters, on which they issued more than 278 coun-
sels and 254 documents, numbers that were significantly higher than in the
700
600
500
400
1656–1696
300 1697–1714
200
100
0
Meetings Issues Advices Documents
Figure 15.1 The activity of the Conference of the Three Commons of Catalonia
(1656–1714).
Source: Own work, based on Dietaris de la Generalitat de Catalunya (DGC), Dietari Antic del
Consell Barceloní (DACB), Llibre de deliberacions del Braç Militar (LLDBM) and Llibre de
deliberacions del Consell de Cent (LLDCC).
previous period—demonstrating the change that we highlighted. In order to
gain a better understanding of the nature of this intense activity, it is useful
to study in more detail the matters that were entrusted to the Conference.
Table 15.1 presents a selection of 36 of the 123 matters addressed by the
commons between 1656 and 1714.
Table 15.1 Selection of the matters addressed by the Conference of the Three Commons
of Catalonia (1656–1714)
Year Matter
1656 Raising of militias

1660 The king’s pragmatic sanction on the currency
1668 Freedom of the prisoners
1678 The renewal of viceroy Monterrey
1678 Military situation of the principality
1688 The locust plague
1690 The military situation of Catalonia
1697 Siege of Barcelona
1700 Application of the viceregia (viceregal rule)26
1701 Acceptance of Viceroy Palma
1702 Nueva Planta of the Catalan government
1702 Expulsion of the honoured citizen Arnald Jäger
1703 Violation of the private correspondence of members of the Military Arm
1703 Financial fraud of the ecclesiastical deputy
1703 Modification of the will of king Charles II
1704 Siege of Barcelona
1704 Unjustified imprisonments by Viceroy Velasco
1705 Taking of the oath of Charles of Austria (Charles III)
1705 Financial loan to Charles of Austria and raising of militias
1706 Creation of a United Army of the Crown of Aragon
1706 Creation of a free port in Barcelona
1707 Collection of split reales de a ocho (pieces of eight) to remint and
increase their value
1707 Abuses committed by the government of Charles of Austria
1711 Publication of the Epitome
1712 Drafting of the instructions to the ambassador of the commons, the
marquis of Montnegre
1712 Withdrawal of the British troops, and abuses perpetrated on the civilian
population
1713 Sending of ambassadors for the peace treaties of Utrecht
1713 Possible armistice
1713 Summoning of the General Assembly of the Arms
1713 Definition of the jurisdiction of the civil courts
1713 Ways of obtaining more financial support
1713 Formation of government of Catalonia and Barcelona
1714 Food supply
1714 Organisation of attacks on the enemy and prevention of public disturbance
1714 Rejection of the proposal of surrendering to the British
1714 Acceptation of the resignation of General Antoni Villarroel
Consell Barceloní (DACB), Llibre de deliberacions del Braç Militar (LLDBM) and Llibre de
deliberacions del Consell de Cent (LLDCC).
250 Eduard Martí
We can note that the assembly discussed a wide range of matters. Among the
military issues, besides the defence of the city during all the sieges suffered
by Barcelona between 1690 and 1714, we should note the efforts made in
order to raise militias and the continuous protests against the abuses com-
mitted by royal and foreign troops billeted with the civilian population. The
assembly’s leadership in these matters was clear, as recalled by the honoured
citizen Emmanuel Mas during the Austrian siege of Barcelona in 1704: the
commons were “sempre units y guiats per la Conferència” (“always united
and guided by the Conference”).27 On the other hand, the Conference inter-
fered in key economic matters, such as the collection of split pieces of eight
(in order to remint them and increase their value), or the concession of
financial loans to the Crown. But the matter to which it dedicated the most
effort was the defence of the constitutional setting and individual rights.
The list of issues is extensive: the protests for the liberation of those who
had been unfairly imprisoned or exiled (1668, 1702, 1704); the refusal in
1703 to obey Philip V when he requested the will of Charles II be modified
to prioritise the duke of Orleans over Charles III, the archduke of Austria, in
the line of succession; or the dispatch of ambassadors to Vienna, The Hague
and London to intervene in the peace negotiations of 1713. The Conference
also defined the stand of the Catalan institutions with regard to the new
forms of government Philip V wanted to impose. In 1701, for instance, after
extensive complaints, Viceroy Palma was accepted “per consell de la Con-
ferència” (“upon the advice of the Conference”),28 which demonstrates just
how influential the assembly was. The same occurred in 1702, 1705, 1706
and 1711. In 1713, to give another example, the General Assembly of the
Arms was held “inseguint lo parer y consell de la excel·lentíssima Conferèn-
cia” (“following the opinion and advice of the honourable Conference”),29
and the leadership of the latter over the Catalan institutions during the siege
of Barcelona in 1713–1714 is well known.30
As stated earlier, despite the advisory character of the Conference, around
94.5% of the recommendations and documents issued between 1697 and
1714 were followed by the commons without further question. Only 1.5%
were completely rejected, and in around 4% of the cases, the content was
partially modified.31 As recalled by the deputies in December 1713, the rec-
ommendations of the Conference had to be “abraçats dels tres comuns a
ciegas” (“embraced blindly by the three commons”).32 These figures dem-
onstrate how the “real” influence of the Conference went well beyond its
legal attributions. From this perspective, we realise that, when the Corts of
1705–1706 recognised the right of the commons to gather for “la conserva-
ció de llurs prerrogativas, Generals Constitucions, Capítols y Actes de Cort”
(“the defence of their privileges, General Constitutions, Chapters and Acts of
Courts”),33 they were only legally acknowledging what was already a fact,
reaffirmed through the Conference’s daily actions during the preceding years.
The determination shown by the Conference in the defence of the Catalan
constitutional framework against the attacks of the king between 1697 and
1714 clearly demonstrates that, in Catalonia, as pointed out by Joaquim
Albareda, there was a “broad consensus on the defence of the constitutions,
a common objective of all the estates, even if it was the result of particu-
lar, and sometimes conflicting, interests.”34 This process was linked with
dynamics which could also be found in other European cities (Milan, Brus-
sels or Naples), as indicated by Manuel Herrero.35 Importantly, this was tak-
ing place at a time when, in many parts of Europe, the power and authority
of territorial states was increasing. In Castile, despite the undeniable role
played by the “Commission of Millones” in slowing down the rise of abso-
lutism,36 the Cortes were progressively losing political power, as pointed out
by Thompson.37 In France, as David Parker reminds us, the 17th century
also witnessed an obvious strengthening of centralising forces, as clearly
shown by the progressive disappearance of the assemblies, Estates Provin-
cial and the Estates General (no longer summoned from 1614 onwards).38
One Very Independent Common

It is difficult to find parallels to the Conference in the European context.
One of them could be the Assemblées de pays in the Dauphiné, analysed
by René Favier. These assemblies gained in importance after the elimina-
tion of the Estates Provincial in 1628. Numerically, they were similar (they
both had 25 members) and, at first sight, their social composition was not
very different (the Three Estates were represented). The most remarkable
aspect is that, just like the Conference, the power of the Assemblées de pays
continued growing to the point where, as pointed out by Favier, “si elles
n’avaient plus véritablement des pouvoirs de décision ou de gestion, elles
étaient appelées à titre consultatif, à s’exprimer sur nombreux problèmes”
(“even if they no longer had any real decision power or control, they were
called upon in an advisory capacity to pronounce themselves on numerous
issues”).39 This allowed them to intervene in legal matters, and give their
consent to military mobilisation, to impose taxation and so on. The history
of these assemblies is very similar to that of the Conference, especially with
regard to the assembly’s increase in jurisdiction and influence, despite being,
on paper, nothing but an advisory organism. Louis XIV was aware of the
power of the Assemblées of the Dauphiné and, from 1661 onward, he tried
to curtail it, using three methods: summoning them less frequently, fixing a
very limited duration for their meetings and not allowing them to debate
matters of importance40 Despite these similarities, the Conference was ulti-
mately different from these institutional structures, owing to its freedom to
summon its own meetings and to fix their content.
The Assemblées were summoned upon the initiative of the king, which
was not the case for the Conferència, whose duration and order of the day
were subject exclusively to the will of the three institutions. This right was of
such importance that, when the meetings were declared legal in 1706, it was
explicitly stated that: “pugan tenirlas liberament sempre que los aparexerá”
252 Eduard Martí
(“they can be held freely and whenever they see fit”) in order to “discórrer
y aconsellar lo que dits Comuns y quiscun per son interés podría fer y obrar
segons los casos” (“debate and advise what said Commons decide, in their
interest, and depending on the case”).41 As previously noted, this right gave
the Conference considerable autonomy: its composition, duration and the
matters to be debated depended exclusively on the will of the participating
institutions. Therefore, some sessions of the Conferència went on for ten
months, such as that which opposed the eviction of the honoured citizen of
Dutch origin Arnald Jäger, between December 1702 and July 1703, during
the War of the Succession. Others were much shorter, such as that which
addressed the purchase from the king of the rights of the Bailía General
(Bailiff General), the institution responsible for the administration of the
royal revenues in the Principality of Catalonia, which lasted only three days
in September 1711.42
This autonomy from royal authority becomes even more relevant when
we consider that the members of the Conference were appointed without
taking into account whether or not they were “insaculados” (“balloted”),
meaning included in the ball-draw by which appointments were made. In
Catalonia, the election of officials was completed through a draw. Once
every year, a series of little balls bearing the name of the candidates were
placed in a number of bags (meaning they were “bagged” or “insaculados”),
after which an innocent hand extracted blindly the names of the persons
who would occupy the respective political position or office. This model,
which was also used in the Crown of Aragon and, with minor differences, in
some Italian and Castilian cities,43 granted the institutions a high degree of
autonomy from royal power, because it allowed anyone to participate in the
political life of the kingdom through the Consell de Cent or the deputation,
and the king had no power to prevent this. One of the consequences of the
Catalan defeat of 1652 was that the Crown took control of the ballot pro-
cess, and to decide whose name would go in the bags. In this way, the king
could make sure that the persons in charge of the Catalan institutions were
favourably disposed towards the Crown’s interests.44
As noted, these measures did not affect the Conference, firstly because the
election of members was done freely, and did not rely on a balloting process.
One fact: 37% of the representatives of the Deputation in the meetings of
the Conferència held between 1697 and 1714 participated without, at some
point, having being balloted into this institution. Moreover, the presence of
the Military Arm jeopardised any chances of royal control over the Con-
ference, since the Arm, unlike the city and the Deputation, did not rely on
balloting and membership was based on personal rights. As such, the Con-
ference clearly opened ways to political participation which were outside
the power of the king to interfere. Philip V discovered this too late when, in
February 1705, he un-balloted the members of the Conference. Among these
were the citizen and son of merchants Joan Llinàs and the gentleman Josep
Bru. On 3 May of that year, the advisory board of the Military Arm was
renewed and, not by coincidence, Joan Llinàs and Josep Bru were among its
members. Both continued to play a role in political life in Catalonia, despite
the royal control over the balloting process.45
The Social Composition of the Conferència

We have already mentioned the importance of the fact that the monarch took
control of the ballot in 1652. As recently pointed out by Eduard Puig, this
measure “limitava enormement l’autonomia de les institucions catalanes”
(“restricted enormously the autonomy of the Catalan institutions”),46 since
it prevented the possibility of political participation. This problem was par-
tially solved in the Corts of 1701 and 1705, when the number of representa-
tives of cities increased, at the expense of those representing the nobility and
the clergy, as highlighted by Josep Maria Bringué.47 On the other hand, we
should also mention the role played by the minor assemblies of the deputa-
tion, also known as “novenas,” as they allowed for the increase in the num-
ber of persons who participated in the decision-making processes, along
with the deputies.48 From this perspective, the creation and development of
the Conference reinforced the widening of the decision-making sphere. Let
us consider this in more detail.
The first element to consider is the number of representatives each com-
mon sent to the Conference. At first, a model was implemented by which
the deputation sent nine members, and the city six. In return, in the meet-
ings held between the Consell de Cent and the Military Arm, both institu-
tions were represented by the same number of deputies. With the creation
of the Conferences of the three commons, from 1697 onwards, extensive
discussions took place to fix the number of members each common could
have. Without any doubt, this was a relevant issue. The matter of political
representativeness, that would determine whether a common would be able
to control the Conference in its own interest, was at stake. Finally, the Corts
of 1705–1706 decided that the meetings needed to be “ab igual número de
personas per cada un de aquells” (“with equal number of persons for each
of them”);49 following this, each common appointed three or six members,
depending on the importance of the matter to be debated.50 This desire for
equality for all members also meant that one specific group or Estate would
not be able to control the institution; there are few parallels for this in other
European institutions. Firstly, in the Castilian Cortes neither the nobility nor
the clergy51 had been summoned since 1539, and, in the provincial assem-
blies of Guipúzcoa, these two Estates had never had their own representa-
tion.52 On the other hand, in the Kingdom of Aragon the Military Arm was
represented by two bodies, the arm of “Ricos Hombres” (Grandees) and
the arm of the “infanzones” (Hidalgos).53 In the pays d’estat of Languedoc,
for example, the clergy and the nobility had 22 representatives each, while
the cities had 44. In the Assemblées de Pays of the Dauphiné, the clergy had
three members, and the cities and nobility had 11 representatives each.54 In
254 Eduard Martí
the Estates General of the United Provinces, for their part, each province
had one vote, regardless of its population, but, in the State Council, Holland,
Zeeland, Guelders and Frisia had more seats than the rest, in addition to the
fact that no member of the Ecclesiastical Estate was represented, and only
in some provinces did the nobility have its own (limited) representation.55
In general terms, we can say that, with the exception of the clergy, the
privileged Estates in Catalonia during this period can be divided into three
main social categories: honoured citizens, gentlemen and noblemen. The
honoured citizens were the urban aristocracy, a type easily found in many
European cities. The members of this group were mostly of mercantile ori-
gin or were linked to the legal world (lawyers, notaries, scribes). The king,
as well as the Consell de Cent, had the authority to appoint honoured citi-
zens. The gentlemen represented the lowest estate within the nobility, and
their equivalent would be the Castilian hidalgos, the Aragonese infanzones
or the English knights or baronets. The vast majority of them were not
vassalic lords and came from lower Estates. Finally, there were the nobles,
which had a lower rank than elsewhere, as well as being few in number
(in the 17th century, there were only 23 of them, some of whom lived out-
side Catalonia). In some ways, they could be compared with the French
gentilhommes.56
Participation in the Conferència was limited to honoured citizens and
people of higher status. In absolute terms, between 1656 and 1696, 79 differ-
ent individuals participated in the meetings of the commons, while between
1697 and 1714 the number increased to 115. This means that, from 1697
onwards, there was an increase in the number of people who took active
part in the assemblies (more meetings were held, with more participants
as well). Table 15.2 presents some data that will be useful for our analysis.
It is clear that no social group had the power to monopolise the Confer-
ence. Until 1696, citizens and gentlemen represented 48.2% of the mem-
bersship, a number that later dropped to 40%. At first glance, it would seem
as though the institution was undergoing a certain elitisation, but a more
detailed analysis demonstrates quite the opposite. Therefore, we need to
clarify what we mean by noble. In principle, people in this table have been
Table 15.2 Social composition of the Conference of the Three Commons of Catalonia
Members Honoured Gentlemen Nobles Clergymen Change Lawyers Mercantile

citizens of estate Law links
doctors
1656–1696 24 14 23 14 15 15 15
% 30.5% 17.7% 29.1% 17.7% 19% 19% 19%
1697–1714 31 15 42 27 52 30 43
% 27% 13% 36.5% 23.5% 45.2% 26.1% 37.4%
Consell Barceloní (DACB), Llibre de deliberacions del Braç Militar (LLDBM).
assigned a category based on their status at the time of their appointment,
but we need to take into account that, in many places in Europe, a noble-
man was only considered as such if the title had been held by his family for
at least three generations.57 In this way, the most relevant aspect to note in
this context, in our opinion, is the increase in the number of persons who
changed Estate. A change of Estate took can be considered to take place
when either the person concerned or his father changed Estate. A wide-
spread process of gentrification pervaded Europe throughout the 17th cen-
tury. This is a well-known phenomenon,58 to which we must add the power
of cities to appoint honoured citizens. The fact that the number of members
of the Conference who changed Estate increases over time and reaches 45%
during the assembly’s most active period (1697–1714) is indicative of the
remarkable social mobility that existed within Catalan society. Without any
doubt, this new institution had become an effective instrument for making
the voices of new emerging groups heard.
It is obvious that, for this period, the Conference was a peculiar institu-
tion in the European context. In Castile, for instance, Jesús Cruz has pointed
out that, despite controlling the cities, the social mobility of the middle
classes was very limited and based mainly on patronage networks.59 On the
other hand, as Manuel Herrero recently reminded us, social mobility was
generally also losing ground in the republican and “democratic” systems of
northern Italy and the rest of Europe so that, contradictorily enough, it was
easier to move up the social ladder “in the dynastic systems, where the grace
of the prince was a permanent source of advancement.”60 The Conference
partly fed off this process. John Elliott has pointed out that the Catalan rul-
ing class, “somehow constituted a closed caste.”61
If we focus now on the period 1697–1714 and on those members who
had not changed Estate in the previous two generations, we find a group
composed by 24 noblemen, representing 21% of the total. Moreover, we
need to add that 60% of the gentlemen had changed Estate, as well as 54%
of the citizens. The data, therefore, indicates that 79% of the members of the
Conference came from families of recently promoted gentlemen, citizens,
merchants or lawyers (62%) or were clergymen (17%). This means that the
ruling elite came from the well-off middle class. In this sense, it is significant
to point out that, from 1697 onwards, we find hardly any titled aristocrats.
Of the 115 persons that took part in the sessions of the Conference between
1697 and 1714, only 11 held a title and none of them possessed it before
1702, which further supports the idea that we are dealing with a nobility of
a relatively low rank. Also, during those years, no bishop participated in the
Conference, and the majority of clergymen present were mere canons, with
the exception of three archdeacons and three abbots.
The table also illustrates other realities: for instance, the increase in the
number of lawyers and persons with mercantile connections, which rep-
resent 26% and 37% respectively. We know the important role that law
doctors played in Catalan politics, as demonstrated by James Amelang and,
256 Eduard Martí
more recently, Josep Capdeferro.62 We can also see that their influence in
the Conference gave them privileged access to other areas of power. In this
context, it is also interesting to note that the meetings were attended by the
sons of some prominent jurists of the time, such as Anton València (son of
Luis de València, lawyer of the Military Arm) and Ramon Vilana Perlas
(future secretary of the universal office of Charles III, the archduke). On
the other hand, there is the matter of the mercantile connection. Following
a criterion we have already used on previous occasions, we consider that a
person has mercantile connections if he fulfils one of the following criteria:
he belongs to a family of merchants on his father’s, mother’s or sibling’s side
(even if he has not been commercially active himself); part of his fortune
is linked to commercial activities (partaker in mercantile companies, army
supplies or meat trade with the city); or he is linked by marriage to merchant
families.63 The presence in the Conference of members of some of the most
prominent mercantile families, such as Pau Ignasi Dalmasses, Félix Teixidor,
Joan Llinàs or Josep Duran, is noteworthy. Some privileged members also
took part in commercial activities, as was the case for a large portion of the
nobility in Castile, Naples and other places, who played a prominent role
in illicit mercantile deals.64 In 1703, for instance, contraband goods were
found in the house of the ecclesiastic deputy, in a confrontation in which
the Conference played an important role. We should not forget that, dur-
ing the second half of the 17th century, the deputation of the Military Arm
issued constant complaints concerning frauds that were committed under
the shade of noblemen’s carriages.65 The growing presence of individuals
with mercantile connections once more shows that the Conferència was
the vehicle for the participation of a wide section of Catalan society in the
political life of the community.
Finally, we investigated the family ties between Conference members.
Although it may seem surprising, the truth is that there were hardly any. The
115 persons who participated in the conferences held between 1697 and
1714 belonged to 104 different families, and only 23 persons were related
through a father-son or sibling connection, which means 11 families (or
10.5%).66 Among these were several families of former merchants (Bastero,
Dalmasses), honoured citizens (Amigant, Bòria) and lower nobility (Car-
tellà, Pinós, Terré, Ferran). We have not found a single moment when a
closed family group monopolised the institution, which demonstrates that
the situation cannot be compared with that in many of the Italian repub-
lics of that time (which, in the words of Adams, could often be defined as
“familial state[s]”).67
All of these facts demonstrate that the Conference allowed new social
groups to participate in the institutional life of the country and increased
political representativeness. In Albareda’s words, the Conference “expanded
the basis of the system, allowing the incorporation of new social groups,
coming from the world of commerce and the bourgeoisie.”68 This is even
more surprising when we consider that in Europe, between the 16th and
18th centuries, completely opposing dynamics were in process. James Ame-
lang has already emphasised this element, comparing it with the Venetian
serrate and the Genovese model.69 For Castile, José Manuel Bernardo Ares
has reminded us of the progressive coming of cities under aristocratic con-
trol.70 During the 17th and 18th centuries, very few people with commer-
cial connections could be found in the Council of Castile, but it is also
true that membership of this council was often rewarded with nobiliary
titles,71 making the situation very different from that in Catalonia. Even
in cities in which the government was completely under the control of the
guilds, as was the case of Memmingen, we can observe processes of progres-
sive oligarchisation.72 Something similar occurred in the communautés de
villages, analysed by Follain, which “étaient souvent gouvernées par une
à deux dizaines de chefs de famille” (“were often ruled by ten to twenty
heads of household”).73 Also, in the French Estates Provincial during the
17th century the Third Estate lost influence in favour of the nobility and the
clergy, so that, in the words of Legay, the Estates Provincial became “plus
nettement favorables aux intérêts seigneuriaux et nobiliaires” (“more prone
to pursue the interests of the aristocracy”).74 The Conference was an instru-
ment for increasingly diverse social groups (lower nobility, citizens, former
merchants) to sit around the same table on equal terms in order to debate
and decide together on issues of general interest, and it was not affected by
this trend.
Some Final Notes

In order to adequately assess the importance of the opportunities for political
representation afforded by the Conference, we need to take into account the
identity crisis suffered by the nobility during the modern age, as a result of the
growing strength of the royal institution. A significant portion of the nobility
reacted to the growing power of the Crown by seeking shelter under inter-
mediate political institutions, such as the provincial assemblies or the urban
governments. It was in these “instances du pouvoir intermédiaire, dotées
d’attributions plus ou moins étendues, [ . . . ] dans lesquels l’idéal nobiliaire du
service a trouvé un regain d’efflourescence” (“bodies of intermediate power,
endowed with more or less extended jurisdictions [ . . . ], where the nobili-
ary ideal of service blossomed anew”).75 As such, the oligarchisation process
undergone by the cities was a consequence not only of the desire of the local
elites to avoid being forced to share their influence with other groups but also
of the arrival of this old nobility, looking to recover their lost power. In this
sense, these groups (former merchants, urban aristocracy, gentlemen, lower
nobility and ecclesiastics) preserved, and even increased, their levels of politi-
cal influence and representation through the Conference.76
In addition, this approach was beneficial for the transformation of the
lower nobility which, little by little, turned the Catalan constitutional frame-
work into one of the features of its new identity. Elliott, without questioning
258 Eduard Martí
the estamental character of some of the requests of the Catalan lower nobil-
ity to the king during the 1630s, pointed out that the interests of this nobility
were also “intimately linked with the preservation of Catalonia’s histori-
cal constitutional nature.”77 In a similar way, the French Assemblées de la
noblesse that gathered during the conflict of the Fronde in 1651, were justi-
fied, in the words of the duke of Fiesques, by the fact that it was the place
where they could “songer á l’intérêt général devant que de songer au sien
particulier” (“think of the general interest before thinking of their own”)
and it was necessary to proclaim “la passion qu’elle a pour le bien public”
(“the passion [the nobility] has for the public good”).78 In the case of Cata-
lonia, the royal authorities clearly knew in 1704 that, within the Confer-
ence, “el mismo Brazo [Militar] era la parte más poderosa” (“the [Military]
Arm was the most powerful body”).79 Another indication of this is the fact
that 61% of the matters addressed by the Military Arm of Catalonia between
1700 and 1714 made reference to constitutional issues.80 As such, as con-
cluded by Jouanna, “les revendications ‘constitutionnels’ restèrent plus présen-
tes dans la moyenne et petite gentilhommerie, qui les exprima chaque fois
qu’elles se réunit en assemblées” (“the ‘constitutional’ claims were especially
important for the medium and lower gentry, who expressed these claims
each time they gathered in assembly”).81
The Conferència facilitated this process of change. As established by the
constitution XVIII of the Corts of 1706, the delegates to its sessions met
for “la conservació de llurs prerrogativas, Generals Constitucions, Capítols,
Actes de Cort, usos y costums del present Principat” (“the conservation of
their privileges, General Constitutions, Chapters, Actes de Corts, and the
habits and customs of this Principality”).82 The diary kept by the citizen
Emmanuel Mas documents this reality in an entry dated 1705.83 We should
also note that 48% of the matters addressed by the Conference between
1697 and 1714 made reference to issues of a constitutional nature, and
37% to military issues related to the defence of the country, including the
denunciation of abuses perpetrated by the troops on the civilian popula-
tion, independently of the category of their Estate. In this way, the Confer-
ence became a space which transcended on more than a few occasions the
restricted interests of certain classes or institutions.
Quite often, the forms of government in place in the Crown of Aragon
and Catalonia have been associated with republican ideals.84 The royal
authorities used this benchmark to criticise the dissident spirit of the Cata-
lans and the privileges obtained during the failed Corts of 1626, as well
as the ones of 1701 and 1705.85 Beyond the many possible definitions of
the concept of republic, Xavier Gil has pointed out that, in addition to the
public interest, the republic was linked to the idea of a government where
decisions are taken by consensus populi, and, as recalled the lawyer Bosch
in the early 17th century, “totes les repúbliques de dret, és lo govern lo poble
[ . . . ], que és lo govern de molts” (“in all the republics of law, the government
are the people [ . . . ], which is the government of many”).86 In light of these
reflections, and in view of the way the Conference operated, we can note that
its methods seemed very republican insofar as the institution extended the
representative base (it was a “govern de molts”) while searching for wide
consensus in the defence of the general interest. As already stated by the
Military Arm in 1707, they appealed to the Conference in order to obtain
“la bona unió y conformitat entre los comuns per lo que en ella tant inter-
essa lo benefici públic” (“the good union and consent between the commons
since it goes hand in hand with the public benefit”).87
The data we have collected demonstrate that the Conference became an
effective institution in the defence of the constitutional framework, precisely
because of the high degree of freedom from which it benefited (allowing it
to avoid falling under the control of the monarchy)—effective because its
republican dynamics made it increase the social base that took part in politi-
cal decisions as well as widen the consensus between the different groups
of interest. Finally, the Conference represented the “common man” in the
way it has been formulated by Peter Blickle.88 Years ago, James Amelang
did not hesitate to claim that, in the 17th century, “El régimen barcelonés
[del Consell de Cent] es ejemplo de una forma alternativa de forjar la esta-
bilidad política y social” (“The Barcelona regime [of the Consell de Cent]
is an example of an alternative way to forge political and social stability”)
because it allowed “la plena integración de los nobles antiguos y nuevos,
la apertura de cauces institucionales para la absorción regular del estado
llano en la elite y la representación política continuada” (“the full integra-
tion of the old and new noblemen, the opening of institutional channels for
the regular absorption of common people within its elite and the continued
political representation”).89 His words may be applied to the Conference
without hesitation.
Notes
1. This work is part of the Grup d’estudi de les institucions i de les cultures polí-
tiques (segles XVI–XX) (2014 SGR 1369) and of the research group La política
exterior de Felipe V y su repercusión en España (1713–1740) (HAR 2014–
52645-P). I would like to thank Professor Joaquim Albareda for his comments,
which helped to improve the final version of this text.
2. The proposed changes gave priority to the duke of Orleans above Charles III,
the archduke, in the line of succession in the event of Philip V’s death. Cfr. Fran-
cesc de Castellví, Narraciones Históricas, ed. Josep M. Mundet, 4 vols. (Madrid:
Fundación Francisco Elías de Tejada, 1997), vol. 1, 417.
3. Bibliothèque Nationale, Espagnol, 53, French suppl., n. 2214, fol. 15.
4. The memorial of Villahermosa can be found in Jaume Dantí, Aixecaments popu-
lars als Països Catalans 1687–1693 (Barcelona: Curial, 1993), 206–223.
5. Dietari Antic del Consell Barceloní, 29 vols. (Barcelona: Ayuntamiento de Bar-
celona, 1982–1975), vol. 25, 8. Henceforth: DACB.
6. Cfr. Eduard Martí, “Les institucions Catalanes davant l’arribada de l’arxiduc
Carles III. Octubre-desembre de 1705,” in Antoni Saumell i Soler. Miscel·lània in
memoriam, ed. Josep M. Delgado, et al. (Barcelona: Universitat Pompeu Fabra,
2007).
260 Eduard Martí
7. For a more detailed, although partial, study of the Conference of the Three
Commons, vid. Eduard Martí, La Conferencia de los Tres Comunes (1697–
1714). Una institución decisiva en la política catalana (Lleida: Milenio, 2008).
8. Joaquim Albareda, “La revolució catalana de 1640: la continuïtat de la revolta,”
in La revolució catalana de 1640, ed. Eva Serra (Barcelona: Crítica, 1991), 310.
Among the numerous privileges of the city, we highlight: the ability to send
ambassadors to the court, defend its walls with its own militias, fiscal exemp-
tions and the right of coverage. On the Consell de Cent, cfr. Núria Florensa, El
Consell de Cent, Barcelona a la Guerra dels Segadors (Barcelona: Universitat
Rovira i Virgili, 1996).
9. For a recent approach to the deputation, see M. Teresa Ferrer i Mallol, ed.,
Història de la Generalitat de Catalunya. Dels orígens medievals a l’actualitat,
650 anys (Barcelona: Institut d’Estudis Catalans, 2011).
10. On the Military Arm, cfr. Eduard Martí, El Braç Militar de Catalunya (1602–
1714) (Valencia: Universitat de València, 2016).
11. Magda Fernández, “Espionatge borbònic a la Barcelona austriacista. Un informe
de l’any 1706,” in Actes del I Congrés d’Història Moderna de Catalunya (Barce-
lona: Diputació de Barcelona, 1984), 245.
12. James Amelang, “Institucions no institucionals? Els fonaments de la identitat
social a la Barcelona moderna,” Pedralbes 13 (1993).
13. The Conference was approved in Constitution XVIII of the courts of Charles III,
the archduke, in 1705–1706.
14. On the role of the minor assemblies of the institutions, cfr. Betlem Castellà,
coord., Poders a l’ombra (Barcelona: Parlament de Catalunya, 2014) and the
monographic issue of the magazine RiMe 13/2 (2014).
15. Within the existing bibliography, we can highlight Fanny Cosandey and Rob-
ert Descimon, L’absolutisme en France, Histoire e Historiographie (Paris: Seuil,
2002); Joël Cornette, L’affirmation de l’État absolu 1492–1652 (Paris: Hachette,
2009). With regard to the decentralised models, vid. Pedro Cardim, et al., ed.,
Policentric monarchies (Eastbourne: Sussex Academic Press, 2012).
16. On this matter, we can highlight the works of Marie Laure Legay and Roger
Baury, eds., L’invention de la décentralisation (Villeneuve d’Aqsc: Septentrion
presses universitaires, 2009); Hamish Scott, The European Nobilities in the Sev-
enteenth and Eighteenth Century (London: Longman, 1995) and the book of
Lawrence Stone, The Crisis of the Aristocracy (1558–1640) (Oxford: Oxford
17. Núria Sales, “Diputació, síndics i diputats. Alguns errors evitables,” Pedralbes
15 (1995): 96; Joaquim Albareda, Els catalans i Felip V, de la conspiració a la
revolta, 1700–1705 (Barcelona: Vicens Vives, 1993).
18. Castellví, Narraciones, vol. 1, 419.
19. Dietaris de la Generalitat de Catalunya, ed. Generalitat de Catalunya, 10 vols.
(Barcelona: Generalitat de Catalunya, 1994–2008), vol. 4, 465. Henceforth:
DGC.
20. Among others, we have found conferences of representatives in 1626 (DGC,
5:167) and 1638 (DACB, 12: 270).
21. These conferences played a key role in the coordination of the defence of the
country and in transferring the country’s allegiance to Louis XIII of France.
Between December 1640 and January 1643, they assembled on at least 96 occa-
sions. Cfr. DGC, 5: 1130–1242 and DACB, 12: 587 and ff.
22. On this matter, vid. Fernando Sánchez Marcos, Cataluña y el Gobierno central
tras la guerra de los segadores (1652–1679) (Barcelona: Publicacions de la Uni-
versitat de Barcelona, 1983); Eva Serra, “Catalunya després de 1652: recom-
penses, censura i repressió,” Pedralbes 17 (1997).
23. On the conferences between 1656–1696, cfr. Eduard Martí, “Los orígenes de la
Conferencia de los tres Comunes en la segunda mitad del siglo XVII,” in El com-
promiso de Caspe (1412), cambios dinásticos y constitucionalismo en la Corona
de Aragón, coord. Isabel Falcón (Zaragoza: Obra Social de Ibercaja, 2013).
24. Eduard Martí, “Quan la unió fa la força. El Braç Militar, el Consell de Cent i
la defensa de Barcelona, 1684–1714,” in paper presented at the “XIVè congrès
d’Història de Barcelona. Ciutat monarquia i formacions estatals, 1249–1812,”
Barcelona, 25–27 November 2015.
25. Biblioteca de Catalunya, Fullet Bonsoms, 209, Escudo de Verdad, 28.
26. The viceregia was the period that elapsed between the death of the king and the
taking of the oath of the Catalan constitutions by the new monarch. During this
time, the Catalan legislation stipulated that ultimate responsibility fell on the
Portantveus (spokesmen) of the General. Nevertheless, the monarchs pressed
for the viceroys to keep fulfilling this function. Cfr. Víctor Ferro, El Dret Públic
Català (Vic: Eumo, 1994), 101–106.
27. Library of the Seminario Conciliar de Barcelona, Emmanuel Mas, Diari des del
novembre de l’any 1700 fins a l’octubre del any 1705, document 419, fol. 397.
Henceforth: Mas, Diari.
28. Biblioteca de Catalunya, Anals Consulars, Manuscript 173, vol. 3: 34.
29. Arxiu Històric de la Ciutat de Barcelona, Llibre de deliberacions del Consell de
Cent, 1B, II, 222, fol. 163v. Henceforth: LLDCC.
30. Eduard Martí, “L’organització política de la resistència de Barcelona,” in Actes
del Congrés Internacional Els Tractats d’Utrecht. Clarors i foscors de la pau, ed.
Conxita Mullfulleda i Núria Sallés. (Barcelona: Museu d’Història de Catalunya,
2015).
31. For the counsels and documents that were modified or rejected, cfr. Martí, La
Conferencia, 337 and ff.
32. LLDCC, 1B, II, 223, fol. 31/B.
33. Constitucions, capítols i actes de Cort 1701–1702, 1705–1706 (Barcelona: Gen-
eralitat de Catalunya, 2006), 18.
34. Joaquim Albareda, La Guerra de Sucesión en España (1700–1714) (Barcelona:
Crítica, 2010), 174.
35. Manuel Herrero, “Paz, razón de estado y diplomacia en la Europa de Westfalia.
Los límites del triunfo del sistema de soberanía plena y la persistencia de los
modelos policéntricos (1648–1713),” Estudis 41 (2015): 46.
36. On this issue, vid. José Ignacio Fortea, Las Cortes de Castilla y León bajo los
Asturias: una interpretación (Valladolid: Junta de Castilla y León, 2008), 385;
Beatriz Cárceles de Gea, Fraude y administración fiscal en Castilla. La Comisión
de Millones (1632–1658) (Madrid: Banco de España, 1994).
37. This author did not hesitate to state that “si buscamos la fuerza de las Cortes del
siglo XVII en términos de poder político, no encontraremos nada de tal cosa”
(“if we are looking for the strength of the Courts of the 17th century in terms
of political power, we will realise that there was none to be found”). Cfr. Irving
A. A. Thompson, “La Corona y las Cortes en Castilla,” Revista de las Cortes
Generales 8–42 (1986): 41; Cfr. also, Pablo Fernández Albaladejo, Fragmentos
de monarquía. Trabajos de historia política (Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 1992).
38. David Parker, Class and State Order in Ancien Régime in France (New York:
Routledge, 1996), 88–89, 159–160.
39. René Favier, “Le conflit des ordres et la représentation provinciale en Dau-
phiné au XVII siècle,” in Les assemblées d’États dans la France méridionale
à l’époque moderne, ed. Anne Blanchard, et al. (Montpellier: Université Paul
Valery, 1995), 78.
40. Favier, “Le conflict . . .,” 85.
262 Eduard Martí
41. Constitucions, 18.
42. Cfr. Martí, La Conferència, 229–234.
43. About the balloting, vid. Eva Serra, coord., Els llibres de l’ànima de la Diputació
del General, 2 vols. (Barcelona: Institut d’Estudis Catalans, 2015), vol. 1, 10–15.
44. On the control of the ballot, [see] Eduard Puig, Intervenció reial i resistència
institucional: el control polític de la Diputació del general de Catalunya i del
Consell de Cent de Barcelona (1654–1705) (PhD, Universitat Pompeu Fabra,
2012).
45. Cfr. Archive of the Crown of Aragon, Llibre de deliberacions del Braç Militar,
G-69, vol.7: 300v. Henceforth: LLDBM.
46. Eduard Puig, “El control polític de les institucions catalanes durant la segona
meitat del segle XVII,” Butlletí de l’IUHJVV 12 (2012): 10.
47. Josep M. Bringué, et al., “Els comuns a les Corts del segle XVIII,” in Actes del
congrés internacional l’aposta catalana a la Guerra de Successió (1705–1707),
coord. Mercé Morales, et al. (Barcelona: Museu d’Història de Catalunya, 2007).
48. Eduard Martí, “La composición de las novenas de la Diputació y las conferen-
cias con el Consell de Cent en la segunda mitad del siglo XVII,” RiMe 13, no. 2
(2014).
49. Constitucions, 18.
50. On the history of this long-lasting conflict between the commons: Martí, La
Conferencia, 290–301.
51. José Ignacio Fortea, “Monarquía, Cortes y ciudades en la Corona de Castilla
durante la edad moderna,” in Actes del 53è Congrés de la Comissió Interna-
cional per a l’Estudi de la Història de les Insitucions representatives i Parla-
mentàries, ed. Jaume Sobrequés, 2 vols. (Barcelona: Parlament de Catalunya,
2005), vol. 1, 308.
52. Susana Truchuelo, Gipuzkoa y el poder real en la Alta Edad Moderna (San
Sebastián: Diputación Foral de Gipuzkoa, 2008), 500.
53. Gregorio Colás, La Corona de Aragón en la Edad Moderna (Madrid: Arco,
1998).
54. Robert Mousnier, Les institucions de la France sous la monarchie absolute, 2
vols. (Paris: PUF, 1974), vol. 2, 477; Favier, “Le conflict,” 77.
55. Marteen Prack, The Dutch Republic in the Seventeenth Century (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2005), 174 and ff.
56. A first approach to Catalan nobility: cfr. Antonio Morales Roca, Próceres
habilitados en las Cortes del Principado de Catalunya, siglo XVII (1599–1713)
(Madrid: Hidalguía, 1983), 20–32. Regarding the high nobility, Pere Molas,
L’alta noblesa catalana a l’Edat Moderna (Vic: Eumo, 2003).
57. Meaning that “le père, l’aïeul et le bisaïeul étaient gentilshommes” (“the father,
grandfather and great-grandfather were gentlemen”). Cfr. Mousnier, Les insti-
tucions, vol. 2, 103. The same criterion was followed to be considered patri-
cian, for example in the Franche Comté and in the Duchy of Milan. Cfr. José
María Carretero, “Los Estados Generales del Franco Condado en el siglo XVI:
mecanismos institucionales y estructura representativa,” Cuadernos de Historia
Moderna 18 (1997): 16; Antonio Álvarez-Ossorio, La república de las parente-
las: la Corte de Madrid y el gobierno de Milán durante el reinado de Carlos II
(Madrid: Universidad Autónoma de Madrid, 1993).
58. Lawrence Stone points out that, between 1611 and 1649, 417 baronet titles
were granted in England (Lawrence Stone, La crisis de la aristocracia, 1558–
1640 (Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 1985), 100); in France, in 1704 alone, 200
letters of hereditary chivalry were drafted (Marie Laure Legay, Les États
provinciaux dans la construction de l’Etat Moderne (Genève: Librairie Droz,
2001), 84).
59. Jesús Cruz, “¿Hidalgos aburguesados o burgueses aristocratizados? Una revisión
del papel de la burguesía española en la crisis del Antiguo Régimen,” in La bur-
guesía española en la Edad Moderna, coord. Luis Miguel Enciso, 2 vols. (Val-
ladolid: Universidad de Valladolid, 1996), vol. 1, 454–478.
60. Manuel Herrero, “Republican Monarchies, Patrimonial Republics: The Catho-
lic Monarchy and the Mercantile Republics of Genoa and the United Prov-
inces,” in Polycentric Monarchies: How Did Early Modern Spain and Portugal
Achieve and Maintain a Global Hegemony?, ed. Pedro Cardim, Tamar Herzog,
José Ibáñez, and Gaetano Sabatini (Brighton: Sussex Academic Press, 2002),
189.
61. John H. Elliott, España y su mundo (Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 1990), 105.
62. James Amelang, “Barristers and Judges in Early Modern Barcelona: The Rise of
a Legal Elite,” American Historical Review 89 (1984); Josep Capdeferro, “Els
assessors ordinaris de la Diputació del General de Catalunya als anys previs a la
Revolució de 1640” (unpublished PhD diss., Universitat Pompeu Fabra, 1997).
63. Cfr. Eduard Martí, La classe dirigent catalana (Barcelona: Fundació Noguera,
2009), 115.
64. Herrero, “Republican Monarchies,” 186.
65. We found cases in the years 1683, 1689, 1691 and 1692 (Cfr. LLDBM, vol. 4,
fols. 58 and ff, 564v.; 855r., and 892r.).
66. In most cases (ten), we find two members for each family and only one family
with three members (father and two sons): the Amigant.
67. Julia Adams, The Familial State: Ruling Families and Merchants Capitalism in
Early Modern Europe (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2005).
68. Albareda, La Guerra de Sucesión, 128.
69. James Amelang, “L’oligarquia ciutadana a la Barcelona moderna: una aproxi-
mació comparativa,” Recerques 13 (1983).
70. José Manuel Bernardo Ares, “Cortes o cabildos: la representación política del
reino en la Corona de Castilla (1665–1700),” in Actes del 53è Congrés, ed.
Jaume Sobrequés (Barcelona: Parlament de Catalunya, 2005), vol. 1, 397.
71. Janine Fayard, Los miembros del Consejo de Castilla (1621–1746) (Madrid:
Siglo XXI, 1982).
72. Cfr. Peter Blickle, From the Communal Reformations to the Revolutions of the
Common Man (Leiden: Brill, 1998), 34–35.
73. Antoine Follain, “L’administratión des villages par les paysans au XVIIe siècle,”
Revue XVIIe siecle 234 (2007): 150.
74. Legay, Les états provinciaux, 519.
75. L’invention, ed. Legay and Baury, 21, 381.
76. Albareda, “Els fonaments,” 130. This reality, seen in a wider context, has been
pointed out by Albert García Espuche as well: Un siglo decisivo. Barcelona y
Cataluña 1550–1640 (Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 1998), 300.
77. Elliott, España, 114.
78. Journal de l’assemblé de la noblesse tenuë à París en l’anne mils six cens
cinquante-un (Paris, 1651), 73.
79. Archivo Histórico Nacional, Estado, leg. 272, exp. 46. 11 October 1704.
80. Eduard Martí, “El Brazo Militar de Cataluña durante el primer gobierno de
Felipe V (1700–1705),” Cuadernos dieciochistas 15 (2014): 97.
81. Arlette Jouanna, Le dévoir de revolte. La noblesse française et la gestation de
l’état moderne (Paris: Fayard, 1979), 396.
82. Constitucions y Actes de Cort, 18.
83. Mas, Diari, 518.
84. Cfr. Joaquim Albareda, “Introducció,” in Escrits polítics del segle XVIII. Tom V.
Escrits del moment republicà, ed. Joaquim Albareda (Vic: Eumo, 2011); Ángela
264 Eduard Martí
de Benedictis, “Guerra, tirannide e resistenza negli scriti politici catalani,” in Actes
del Congrés Internacional L’aposta catalana a la Guerra de Successió (1705–
1707): 3–5 novembre 2005, ed. Mercè Morales, Mercè Renom and Mamés Cis-
neros (Barcelona: Generalitat de Catalunya, 2007), 65–72.
85. In 1626, Olivares stated that the government of Catalonia “dista tan poco de
república que no sé si dista” (“differs so little from a republic that I do not know
whether it differs at all”). Cfr. Helmut G. Koenigsberger, “Republicanism, Mon-
archism and Liberty,” in Royal and Republican Sovereignty in Early Modern
Europe: Essays in Memory of Ranghild Hatton, ed. Robert Oresko, et al.
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997). On the other hand, in 1711
Philip V witnessed how the legislation of the courts of 1701 and 1705 “deja-
ron a los catalanes más repúblicos que el parlamento abusivo a ingleses” (“left
the Catalans with more republics than the abusive parliament of the English”)
(Albareda, Constitucions, XLIV).
86. Xavier Gil, “Concepto y práctica de república en la España moderna. Las tradi-
ciones castellana y catalano-aragonesa,” Estudis 34 (2008): 131, 136.
87. LLDBM, vol. 8, fol. 184r.
88. Peter Blickle, “Representing the Common Man in Old European Parliaments,”
in Actes del 53è congrés, ed. Jaume Sobrequés, et al. (Barcelona: Parlament de
Catalunya, 2005), vol. 1.
89. James Amelang, La formación de una clase dirigente. Barcelona, 1490–1714
(Barcelona: Ariel, 1986), 206–207.
Albareda, Joaquim. “Els fonaments de l’austriacisme en els territoris de la Corona
d’Aragó.” In Actes del Congrés Internacional L’aposta catalana a la Guerra de
Successió (1705–1707), edited by Mercè Morales, 125–136. Barcelona: Museu
d’Història de Catalunya, 2007.
Albareda, Joaquim. La Guerra de Sucesión en España (1700–1714). Barcelona:
Crítica, 2010.
Amelang, James. “L’oligarquia ciutadana a la Barcelona moderna: una aproximació
comparativa.” Recerques 13 (1983): 7–25.
Amelang, James. La formación de una clase dirigente. Barcelona, 1490–1714. Bar-
celona: Ariel, 1986.
Bernardo Ares, José Manuel. “Cortes o cabildos: la representación política del reino
en la Corona de Castilla (1665–1700).” In Actes del 53è Congrés de la Comissió
Internacional per a l’Estudi de la Història de les Insitucions representatives i Par-
lamentàries, edited by Jaume Sobrequés, Vol. 1, 393–410. Barcelona: Parlament
de Catalunya, 2005.
Blickle, Peter. “Representing the Common Man in Old European Parliaments.” In
Actes del 53è Congrés de la Comissió Internacional per a l’Estudi de la Història
de les Insitucions representatives i Parlamentàries, edited by Jaume Sobrequés, Vol.
1, 117–132. Barcelona: Parlament de Catalunya, 2005.
Capdeferro, Josep. Els assessors ordinaris de la Diputació del General de Catalunya
als anys previs a la Revolució de 1640. PhD diss., Universitat Pompeu Fabra, 1997.
Cardim, Pedro, Tamar Herzog, José Javier Ruiz Ibáñez, and Gaetano Sabatini, eds.
Polycentric Monarchies. Eastbourne: Sussex Academic Press, 2012.
García Espuche, Albert. Barcelona entre dues guerres. Economia i vida quotidiana
(1652–1714). Vic: Eumo Editorial, 2005.
Gil, Xavier. “Concepto y práctica de república en la España moderna. Las tradicio-
nes castellana y catalano-aragonesa.” Estudis 34 (2008): 111–148.
Legay, Marie Laure, and Robert Baury, eds. L’invention de la décentralisation. Vil-
leneuve d’Aqsc: Septentrion Presses Universitaires, 2009.
Martí, Eduard. La Conferencia de los Tres Comunes (1697–1714). Una institución
decisiva en la política catalana. Lleida: Editorial Milenio, 2008.
Martí, Eduard. La classe dirigent catalana. Barcelona: Fundació Noguera, 2009.
Martí, Eduard. “L’organització política de la resistència de Barcelona.” In Actes del
Congrés Internacional Els Tractats d’Utrecht. Clarors i foscors de la pau, edited
by Joaquim Albareda, Agustí Alcoberro, Núria Sallés and Conxita Mullfulleda,
327–340. Barcelona: Museu d’Història de Catalunya, 2015.
Martí, Eduard. El Braç Militar de Catalunya (1602–1714). Valencia: Universitat de
València, 2016.
Puig, Eduard. Intervenció reial i resistència institucional: el control polític de la
Diputació del general de Catalunya i del Consell de Cent de Barcelona (1654–1705).
PhD diss., Universitat Pompeu Fabra, 2012.
Castille and the Basque
Territories
16 The Multiple Faces of
Representation
Kingdom, Cortes and Estates in
the Crown of Castile Under the
Habsburgs1
José Ignacio Fortea Pérez
I
Some time ago, Georges de Lagarde pointed out the benefits of study-
ing doctrines, regardless of whether they were theological, legal or philo-
sophical, especially in relation to the comprehension of positive realities.
“Theories”—he added—“are often more revealing of the deep meaning of
political life than the specific and colourful accounts of chroniclers.”2 This
suggestion, however, is not easily applicable to specific situations, such as
those which are dealt with in this chapter. Sebastián de Covarrubias, for
example, when trying to define in his Tesoro de la Lengua Castellana (1612)
the meaning of terms such as “represent” or “representation,” was very care-
ful to highlight that “this is a very subtle and delicate matter when brought
up in the vicinity of legal advisers.”3 Of course, the debate has a long history.
The idea of representation as an image of someone or something had already
been discussed in classical antiquity. In the field of public law, however, the
concept only started to adopt a precise political and legal meaning from
the late Middle Ages onwards, as the complementary notion of community
started to take shape. In this context, as Lagarde indicates, representation,
regardless of the way in which it was implemented from an institutional
perspective, had to be interpreted as a specific form of expression of com-
munity. The Church was a pioneer in this regard from the very moment in
which the general Council started to be conceived as a representation of the
universal Church. In the secular world, a similar evolution took place, albeit
somewhat later, at the time of the appearance of the assemblies of Estates,
whose duty it was to represent the kingdoms.
Secular and religious communities, therefore, shared a tendency to
express themselves institutionally through organisms of a similar nature,
even though they were not ascribed an identical meaning. The unity that
was attributed to the mystical body of the Church, understood as a commu-
nity of believers, differed from the internal diversity reported in the politi-
cal entities that made up the kingdoms. These latter organisms were rather
conceived as a universitas, that is, as a heterogeneous aggregate of Estates
and corporations that cooperated in different ways in order to fulfil the
270 José Ignacio Fortea Pérez
purposes for which they had been created. This meant to contribute, to
the best of their abilities and under the superior authority of the monarch,
to the common good of the entire group. For this reason, each was granted
specific privileges and some degree of iurisdictio to fulfil the objectives they
had been assigned in order to reach a common goal within their respective
purviews. Jurists attributed a legal entity to this political community, which
was different to that of its members, by considering it a moral person—
persona representata—who could act either through its representatives in
response to the demands of the sovereign or on its own initiative.
The image that best reproduced this conception of a political community
was, undoubtedly, that of the body, and, as such, according to the political
ideology of the time this community was interpreted as an entity with a
head (the king) and members (the Estates and corporations), which were
organised according to the principles of unity and diversity, of hierarchy and
autonomy,4 for the common good. However, insomuch as in the medieval
conception of the body, its parts would only have full meaning when they
were part of the whole, and, as the whole was reflected in its parts, it was
also recognised that one of the parts—and not just any part, but specifically
the sanior or valentior pars—could assume the representation of the whole,
not because it replaced or supplanted the others but because it was consid-
ered to be the whole in itself. This assimilation5 could be articulated pre-
cisely because there was a relationship of identity among the parts and the
whole within the political community. Valentior pars totam universitatem
representat, said Marsilius of Padua, and by this he meant the general Coun-
cil with regard to the universitas fidelium, which made up the Church. The
same could be applied to the Cortes, parliaments and Estates General which
constituted the universitas civium, the political community of the kingdom.
However, as we will have the opportunity to appreciate later on, even more
restrictive attributions could be made.
In the internal structure of the kingdom, therefore, both an element of
diversity and an element of unity could be identified. Representing meant
embodying the collective personality of the kingdom before the king through
delegates or deputies invested with the necessary powers to do so.6 This way,
the communitas regni became one before the sovereign through the Cor-
tes, parliaments and Estates General, while maintaining the multiplicity of
Estates and corporations of which it was made up. The interpretation of this
reality, however, was subject to different readings. Indeed, if diversity was
given precedence as the most distinctive feature of the political community,
this could promote the development of a participatory interpretation of the
Cortes, which would in turn focus on local particularities, guarantee the
participation of its members in the exercise of power and turn its deputies,
who had been invested with imperative mandates, into mere ambassadors or
couriers of the communities which sent them. If, on the contrary, the focus
was placed on unity, this would promote a more integrated and hierarchi-
cal concept of the kingdom, which might be thus interpreted as a superior
The Multiple Faces of Representation 271
entity different from the sum of its parts. From this perspective, the Cortes
could become the real organism for the representation of the kingdom, and
it could control the decision-making process in the debates initiated at the
king’s request or at their own initiative. The deputies to the Cortes would
then act as true representatives of the communities that had elected them.
The history of the Cortes of Castile is dominated by the constant tension
between these two interpretations. Cities tended to identify with the partici-
patory thesis, which they sought to apply in the procedures that regulated
how the Cortes were summoned. In spite of the fact that the Crown had
managed, apparently since 1500, to invest its deputies with full powers—plena
potestas—the cities tried to limit them by imposing instructions, pledges
and oaths of loyalty upon their own representatives that were lifted only
after painfully slow negotiations with royal officials. The very distinction
between decisive votes, which were reserved for the cities themselves, and
consultative votes, which were reserved for their deputies, guaranteed that
cities would have the last word in any negotiation put before the Cortes. No
agreement that had received a consultative approval by the Cortes could
be executed without the decisive vote of at least a majority of cities. The
Crown and the Cortes themselves, however, moved in the opposite direc-
tion. It might even be said that, since the middle of the 16th century, the
representative notion tended to gain ground over the participatory one, and
it would become the predominant concept during the first third of the fol-
lowing century. The conditions in which the subsidy known as millones was
granted from 1590 onwards seemed to place the Cortes above the cities in
everything to do with its administration. Castile was not the only territory
in which this evolution took place. Something similar was also happening at
that time in the neighbouring kingdom of Portugal.7
Nevertheless, after the death of Philip IV in 1665, the Cortes were no lon-
ger convened. From that point onwards, the Crown opted to negotiate the
renewal of the subsidy individually with the cities through the Diputación
del Reino—an institution, created in 1525, that represented the kingdom
during the periods between sessions. This measure did not represent a major
innovation. Negotiating with the cities, without the intervention of the Cor-
tes, to obtain contributions and donations was a practice often adopted in
the past by the Crown. Philip II—and also Philip IV, for example—did it,
and the cities involved were able to obtain many privileges in exchange for
their cooperation.8 There were even cities which, at some point, expressed
their preference for establishing bilateral negotiations with the Crown. They
did so in order to avoid being forced to accept agreements which had been
approved by the Cortes through a decisive vote of a majority of cities with
whom they disagreed.9 Be that as it may, the participatory thesis seemed
to be establishing itself over representative ideas in the second half of the
17th century. The behaviour of the Crown at that time could be branded
erratic or contradictory. However, when contemplated in the light of a cor-
porative conception of the political community, such as that described at
the beginning of this chapter, its attitude is much more coherent than what
might be expected. It also reveals the remarkable flexibility which the king,
the cities and the Cortes themselves exhibited in trying to coordinate the
political representation of the kingdom, and to execute the principle of con-
sent to the subsidy to which it had always been indissolubly linked.
II
The Cortes of Toledo held in 1538–1539 played a very important role in
this story. When they were over, Charles V decided to no longer summon the
nobility or the clergy to their meetings, due to the refusal of the former to
pay the general excise—sisa general—the emperor wished to impose. From
then on, the representation of the kingdom was limited to the 18 cities—
later expanded to 21—allowed to vote in the assembly. We might then think
that the representation of the kingdom had been severely restricted in the
interests of the sovereign. The decision adopted by Charles V in Toledo was
interpreted in these terms by his contemporaries and, later, by historians.
For the latter, the exclusion from the Cortes of the privileged Estates was
a sign of the encroaching of absolutism in Castile. It also prevented the
Cortes from acting as an inter-Estate assembly capable of drawing up laws
more global in scope, together with the king. While this circumstance did
not eliminate the possibility of participating in the law-making process of
the kingdom through the indirect route of submitting petitions before the
Cortes (which the king could freely accept or refuse), the truth is that the
Cortes of Castile essentially saw their powers restricted to the negotiation
of taxes and contributions and to the discussion of general topics related to
the well-being of the kingdom. However, the political consequences of that
decision have been overstated. In fact, Charles V did nothing new or illegal.
It was nothing new because the decision as to how, with whom and for
what purpose the Cortes should be summoned had always been a royal pre-
rogative. The Crown had summoned the kingdom to the Cortes in the past
according to its own interests, normally—although not always—related to
fiscal issues. Furthermore, on those occasions only the deputies of the cities
were summoned. Charles V convened the Cortes ten times during the first
20 years of his reign, but this only involved summoning all Three Estates on
two occasions. The first time he did so was in the Cortes held in Valladolid
in 1518, when he was sworn sovereign of Castile. The second time was also
in Valladolid, in 1527, when, it is worth mentioning, he suffered the rejec-
tion of a proposal very similar to another one he would make in Toledo in
1538.10
What Charles V did was not a novelty because his decision was not con-
trary to law. In fact, there were not many laws pertaining to the Cortes in
Castile. A law from 1367 merely stated that “no taxes or levies may be
imposed in the kingdom without summoning the Cortes and being con-
sented to by the deputies from all the cities and villages of our kingdoms;
and may they be consented to by those deputies who attend the Cortes.”
Another law, from 1419, added that, for decisions concerning “important
and difficult matters, the Cortes have to be summoned and a council must
be held by the three estates of our kingdom, just as previous monarchs have
done before us.”11 Therefore, it seems clear that the consent of the cities was
enough to approve new taxes, whereas consultation of the Three Estates of
the kingdom was necessary whenever decisions had to be made regarding
“important and difficult” matters. The law did not specify, however, what
this actually meant. In this context, if Charles V did not do anything new
or illegal, his decision could hardly be interpreted as an assertion of royal
absolutism. Furthermore, if we take into account the attitude adopted by
the aristocracy of Castile during the sessions of the Cortes of Toledo in
1538–1539, the emperor’s decision did not prove the strength of his position
but rather his failure to subdue an internally divided nobility, which was
incapable of unified action and politically unpredictable. Nevertheless, the
fact remains that, from then on, the nobility and the clergy were no longer
summoned to the Cortes. Does this mean that both Estates were denied any
kind of representation and, consequently, any ability to negotiate with the
Crown?
This was certainly not the case. While the Habsburgs would never again
negotiate in the Cortes with the nobility as an Estate, nothing prevented
them from doing so with the nobles on an individual basis. Charles V him-
self, even after the Cortes of Toledo, would not hesitate to ask them for
loans or donations if he deemed it necessary. The pressure on the nobles
would later be ramped up when they were asked to pay general levies which
they could not avoid by enforcing their privileges as an Estate. This was the
case with the millones, the donations (donativos), the medias annatas12 and
the royal taxes on salt, tobacco and stamped paper—papel sellado. Also,
this was in addition to the contributions specific to nobles, such as the taxes
levied to pay for military support, called lanzas. In the context of Castile’s
political culture, it would perhaps be an exaggeration to state that the king’s
decision to impose those contributions was arbitrary or openly against the
law, even though many of them posed a fierce opposition. In some instances,
as in the case of the millones, these were subsidies imposed with the consent
of the Cortes, on the condition that all the Estates would be charged. Other
taxes were considered universal contributions that the king could arguably
impose with his sole authority, without having to ask for consent from the
kingdom, because they were royal rights, as in the case of the medias anna-
tas and papel sellado.13 Some were a financial update of old feudal duties
that had fallen into disuse, as in the case of the lanzas. The donations, finally,
were justified as gracious contributions from the subjects to their sovereign;
they were inspired by the logic of the antidora,14 and therefore free from
any exemption based on privileges of Estate, province or corporation, and
were not subject to parliamentary approval. In all other respects, when it
came to consent to taxes, Agustín Álvarez de Toledo, a deputy for Madrid
and a “confidant” of the Crown, had argued in 1594—rather meaningfully,
if somewhat forcibly, with regard to the literal sense of the law—that “con-
sent from the two estates is replaced in difficult negotiations by that of the
counsellors of state,”15 who were recruited from the nobility.
Contributions from the clergy, however, posed a different set of prob-
lems. Ecclesiastics were exempt from paying any contribution according to
both civil and canon law. However, there were several council canons and
pontifical decrees that did allow for a flexible interpretation of the rule that
delimited those cases in which it was possible to impose contributions on
ecclesiastics. Thus, in case of a justified need, canon law might consider their
contribution to be acceptable, under the following conditions: the contribu-
tion should be made only after verifying that the secular Estates were unable
to defray by themselves the unforeseen expenses; after making sure that the
ecclesiastic contribution was made after that of the laymen and that the task
of collecting whatever payment was necessary and of punishing any fraud
which might take place would be left to ecclesiastical officials; after it was
explicitly declared that the payment of those taxes was not an obligation
but a spontaneous grace which the clergy bestowed upon laymen to suc-
cour them in their need; and—last but not least—that these payments could
only be made with their express consent.16 The requirement called upon to
request this grace was usually the defence of the Church or the faith against
the threat of the Moors, first, and, later, the Turks and Protestants. This is
how the Castilian monarchs had justified in medieval times the receipt of
two-ninths of the tithes due to the Church (the tercias reales). The same
would apply in the 16th century with the three graces, that is, the cruzada,
the subsidio and the excusado. In all cases, these contributions were pontifi-
cal favours; that is, contributions the pope granted directly to the monarch
and which were taken from the ecclesiastical income in Castile over a set
period of time. While some of them would go on to become perpetual, they
continued to be based on a pontifical licence.
Leaving aside the tensions which the renewal of the three graces could
create between the clergy and the monarchs or between the monarchs and
the popes,17 there was no reason for the Ecclesiastical Estate to feel upset at
being excluded from the Cortes in 1539, but only insofar as any decisions
made by the assembly regarding taxes did not affect them. In fact, ecclesias-
tics only started to reclaim their right to sit in the Cortes when the assembly
began to approve subsidies the clergy was forced to pay without having con-
sented to it, because they were not present in the session where those taxes
were voted on. They also lost control of the collection of those taxes and
of the punishment of fraud, when that task was granted to royal officials.
In their opinion, therefore, not only were their tax exemptions and jurisdic-
tional privileges violated, but they were also deprived of the opportunity
granted to all subjects to be rewarded by their king for services rendered.
Thus, they protested against the medio de la harina, a universal contribution
on milling grain that was debated in the Cortes of 1580, 1594 and in the
following years, but was never actually applied. The same thing happened
with the millones, a subsidy first granted by the Cortes in 1590, along with
the royal salt tax, which was proposed in 1631.
The problem was serious. The Castilian clergy did not hesitate to defend
themselves using the powerful spiritual weapons provided by canon law.
Municipal councilmen (regidores), chief magistrates (corregidores) and royal
officers were blasted with condemnations and interdicta whenever they
forced ecclesiastics to contribute without a pontifical licence. How to obtain
their consent became, therefore, a crucial issue. The clergy tried to justify their
position through a forced interpretation of the law that required summoning
all Three Estates to the Cortes on decisions concerning “important and dif-
ficult matters.” However, they also resorted to more sophisticated strategies,
as in the case of the royal tax on salt. Philip IV had established it in 1631 as
an alternative to the millones. Since the new imposition subrogated one that
had already been voted in the Cortes, the monarch did not consider that he
was obliged to ask the kingdom or the ecclesiastics for consent. However, in
order to collect the same amount the Royal Treasury had previously been
receiving from the millones, the price of salt had to be increased. The clergy
reacted at once, claiming that this decision was an arbitrary increase of the
fair price of salt. This increase, therefore, had to be considered a contribution
and a tax. Consequently, the clergy were either exempted from paying it, due
to their privileges, or they had to be consulted in order to approve it. Since
this matter, in their opinion, was “important and difficult,” the ecclesiastics
demanded that the kingdom be summoned to Cortes according to the old
customs, that is, with the attendance of the Three Estates.18
The Crown, however, never agreed to consider the negotiation of fiscal
issues an “important and difficult” matter, although many Castilian jurists
had no objections to doing so.19 There were also many who thought that
the consent of the kingdom in this area was not demanded by natural law
or ius gentium. They saw it rather as a norm of positive law solely based on
the “benevolence” of the king, who was therefore able to establish just taxes
on his own accord, although by no means was he allowed to do so in an
arbitrary manner. However, there was also a widespread opinion that con-
sulting the kingdom should be done out of political convenience. This view,
for example, had been put forward by Gaspar de Pons in a question submit-
ted to the Council in 1599.20 Ultimately, the laws of the realm and long-held
customs made it necessary to seek consent from the kingdom. Nevertheless,
in the royal ministers’ view it was unheard of for the Three Estates to be
summoned to Cortes only for the approval of taxes, whereas there had been
many instances when such matters had been dealt with by the deputies of
the cities alone. On the other hand, the strong opposition against the royal
tax on salt led to its abolition within a short period of time. Philip IV had
to go back to the millones that had been voted in the Cortes, and thus the
clergy was again forced to contribute taxes approved by an assembly of lay-
men in which they had not been represented.
The kingdom, aware of this issue, had made the contribution from the
clergy in the first millones conditional on the previous granting of the corre-
sponding licence by the pope. The licence, however, would often arrive late,
when the taxes had already begun to be collected, forcing the ecclesiastics
to pay them without permission in the meantime. On other occasions, the
conditions established in the pontifical decrees or the extension of time for
which the licence was granted did not exactly match those established in the
deed (escritura) detailing the contributions. The needs of the Royal Treasury,
however, required prompt fulfilment. The Crown therefore decided it would
no longer postpone the ecclesiastical contribution until the pontifical placet
had been obtained. This new approach began to be implemented in 1632.
In order to justify it, the royal ministers emphasised the condition of the
clergy as vassals of his majesty, and therefore they tried to underline with
this argument the obligation ecclesiastics had to contribute to the needs of
the community in case of need, just like any other vassal, and perhaps even
more so, taking into consideration the Crown’s commitment to the defence
of the Church and the Catholic faith. According to royalist theologians and
jurists, the king asked for the licence only out of respect for the pope and
the Church, under the assumption that the mere act of asking for it was
enough.21 Regardless of whether the licence was finally granted or not, the
clergy would be forced to contribute, and, of course, this is what finally
happened. It led, as one might expect, to new conflicts, which required the
negotiation of several concords between the secular and the ecclesiastical
authorities, offering only temporary solutions to the problem. It goes with-
out saying that the nuncios discredited such doctrines as being “abomina-
ble” and the work of “theologians for hire.”22
The solution given to the problem of ecclesiastical consent clearly did
not prevent either power from entering into further conflict. This was due
both to the pontiffs’ resistance to grant the requested licences and to the
ecclesiastics’ constant desire to be allowed to negotiate the conditions of
their tax contributions, as was the case in other kingdoms.23 Be that as it
may, what is worth noting here is that the pope had succeeded in claiming
for himself the consent of the clergy, and he did so because he considered
that, as the head of the Church, he represented it. The doctrinal or legal
basis for this representation varied with different authors. It could be based
on the tradition of “pontifical absolutism” which identified the pope with
the Church—Papa, qui potest dici Ecclesia, according to Giles of Rome—or,
as Juan de Torquemada proposed against the conciliarism predominant in
the 15th century, on the notion that the power of councils and of any other
authority of the Church was contained in the figure of the pope. Nicholas of
Cusa believed that the pontiff, as a complicatio of the Church, was able to
represent it, and the Council could also do it, as an explicatio of that same
Church. Others again, such as Pierre Flandrin and Vincent Ferrer, claimed
that the act of representation and the powers that came with it fell on the
pope and the College of Cardinals, whom Boniface VIII had already named
membra capitis nostri. The debate, in any case, emphasised the primacy of
the pope, following the efforts made at Trent and of treatise writers such as
Suárez and Bellarmine.24
III
The controversy could also be set out in similar terms in the communitas
regni. In fact, if the political community of the kingdom was a body with
an organisation and a hierarchy constituted by a head and a set of mem-
bers which bore the same relationship of identity between its parts and the
whole as the one said to exist in the ecclesiastical community, then it may
be concluded that the kingdom was represented by the political body of the
king.25 Pedro Núñez de Avendaño claimed as much in 1543, when he said
that the king was the head of the res publica, and, therefore, wherever the
king was, the entire government of the state was represented.26 Garci Pérez
de Araciel, the right hand of Olivares, developed this idea in his “Discurso
en que se trata si los Reyes de Castilla pueden imponer nuevos tributos sin
consentimiento de las ciudades que tienen voto en Cortes,”27 a treatise on
whether the monarchs of Castile could impose new subsidies without the
consent of the cities represented in the Cortes, probably written in 1624.
This text presumably reproduced his particular vote in the consulta submit-
ted to the king that year after the cities refused with their decisive votes to
approve a subsidy of 72 million ducats consultatively granted by the Cortes.
The king, argued the text, as the head of the kingdom and the person in
charge of its custody, could, with the help of his Council, make decisions on
his own without the consent of the kingdom. Years later, the Count-Duke of
Olivares would claim as much, according to the papal nuncio Monti, when
he highlighted that “il Re con il Consiglio Reale giunto non ha bisogno
d’altro in Castiglia.”28 This underlined the already widespread idea at that
time that the king, as the head of the communitas regni, was its valentior
pars, and the members of the Council were the interpreters of this opinion,
even though they had not received an express mandate to be so.29
It was nevertheless not easy to impose that interpretation, particularly
concerning fiscal issues, which were generally governed by the principle of
negotiation with the kingdom.30 However, in the absence of the nobility and
the clergy, who was the real incarnation of the kingdom in Castile? The cit-
ies that constituted it or the Cortes that represented it? The answer to this
question might rest on the same principles mentioned above. If part of the
city, its urban council or regimiento, ultimately came to represent it in its
entirety, then an assembly (Cortes) to which only the cities were summoned
could play the same role vis-à-vis the kingdom as a whole. In Portugal, the
sanior pars doctrine had made it possible for Lisbon, the capital and main
city of the kingdom, to represent it through a process comparable to the in
operation in Castile, where 18 cities had attained that same role.31 How-
ever, the assimilation between cities and Cortes was difficult. The cities were
hardly willing to yield to an institution that claimed to be above them. The
complex procedural norms governing the concession of powers to the depu-
ties of the cities and the above-mentioned distinction between the cities’
decisive votes and the Cortes’ consultative ones, which remained in force
until 1632, showed precisely how deeply local characteristics were rooted
in the politics of Castile, and the willingness of the cities to underscore their
supremacy over the Cortes.
The debate around these issues, therefore, had a deep political content.
The debate reflected the inner structure of the kingdom and stressed its key
strengths: its flexibility in the interpretation of the political representation of
the communities that constituted it, and its ability to adapt depending on how
this representation was interpreted in different scenarios. Thus, the king negoti-
ated with the nobles, but not with the nobility; with the pope, but not with
the clergy; with the Cortes that assumed the representation of the kingdom;
and also with the regimientos that represented the cities that were part of it.
However, the controversy also revealed the system’s weaknesses, which were
its lack of internal cohesion and the slow pace and high cost of the proce-
dures that had to be implemented whenever the king found himself in need of
assistance. With regard to the former point, it was normal for royal ministers
to complain—as they did, for example, in 1598—of the “endless postpone-
ments” involved in negotiations “on behalf of the kingdom.”32 With regard
to the latter, the high cost of summoning the Cortes was also frequently criti-
cised, not only because of the long duration of the sessions, but also because
the pressure on deputies and mayors meant that the Crown had to lavish upon
them favours, payments, privileges, commissions, fees and so on in order to
ensure both the consultative and the decisive votes. This called into doubt the
very credibility of the Cortes. In fact, the cities always demonstrated an open
distrust towards their own deputies, who were often accused of corruption.
The only option, then, was to try to expedite the system. Giving prece-
dence to the kingdom convened in Cortes over the cities was a first option
that began to be tested at the end of the reign of Philip II. Around 1580,
theologians such as Fray Gabriel Pinelo, who was in the monarch’s service,
started to consider the deputies in the Cortes as ministers of the kingdom
rather than agents—mandatarios—of their cities. Therefore, if a discrepancy
arose between the latter and the Cortes, they were forced to vote “according
to the universal good, where they have a decisive vote, rather than according
to the will of the cities.”33 During the reign of his successor, other writers of
treatises, such as Fray Juan Márquez, tried to reduce both parties’ room for
manoeuvring, albeit without altering the basics of the system, by develop-
ing the doctrine of just taxation. It stated that the mayors of the cities and
the deputies to the Cortes were in fact judges who had to assess the fairness
of the royal demands. If this fairness was properly proven, they were in all
conscience forced to accept them.34
Father Márquez gave his opinion at a time when the subsidy of the
millones was starting to outline a more structured interaction among the
communities of the kingdom on the basis of a hierarchical distribution of
administrative and jurisdictional powers, which had the last word on the
matter for the kingdom summoned in the Cortes. For the periods between
sessions, a Committee of Millones—Comisión de Millones—was created for
this purpose. Until 1639, the members of this committee were exclusively
drawn from among the deputies to the Cortes. After that year, the Commit-
tee was awarded the title of “council and high court,” and the number of
royal ministers equalled that of proctors from the kingdom. The Commit-
tee thus became a high court with exclusive jurisdiction over the matter of
the millones; this could be interpreted as the birth of a new Council.35 It
seemed, therefore, that the Cortes had finally gained precedence over the
cities. However, new jurisdictional conflicts soon emerged between the two
parties. The Crown, for its part, added to the tension when royal officials,
who depended on the Consejo de Hacienda (the Council of Finance), inter-
vened in the collection of taxes. The pretext for doing this was the clear
inability of the Cortes and the cities to efficiently fight rampant fraud in all
the Estates, and especially in the ecclesiastical one. On the other hand, the
current procedural laws and the characteristic division between consultative
and decisive votes led to an unacceptably drawn-out decision-making pro-
cess. For this reason, after Olivares’ failure in 1624, specific measures were
adopted to solve this problem.
Consequently, leaning on a consultation of the Council of Castile, which
stated that the difference between consultative and decisive votes was based
on tradition rather than on the law, the monarch ordered in 1632 that depu-
ties be granted decisive votes, which rendered unnecessary any subsequent
consultation of the cities in order to ratify or repeal what had been agreed
upon in the Cortes. In that same year, the Crown also decreed that the depu-
ties’ votes were not in solidum, as was claimed by the cities in defence of
their corporate interests. There could be no doubt, the king stated, that it
is “the majority of personal votes that constitutes the kingdom.”36 Shortly
thereafter, in 1639, the Committee of Millones became part of the institu-
tional structure of the monarchy, first by introducing royal officials in it
and then by integrating it in 1658, after an unsuccessful attempt in 1646,
into the Consejo de Hacienda as one of its departments.
Although Olivares had failed in his frontal attack on the Cortes some
years before, he and his successors had managed to improve the position
of the Crown in its relationship with the kingdom. They had finally suc-
ceeded in separating the Cortes from the cities and had established control
mechanisms for the institutions of the kingdom. However, one could hardly
conclude that those accomplishments had achieved the expected results. The
Crown was not always conclusive in the application of its own reforms. The
cities still managed to obstruct the granting of decisive powers requested
by Philip IV. This could cause great delays in the opening of the Cortes, as
was the case with the sessions held in 1646, 1648, 1655 and 1660. It soon
became apparent that it was more useful to turn directly to the cities to get
the approval of specific subsidies, as happened in 1643 and 1644, than to
negotiate them in the Cortes. In all other respects, the demographic and
economic crisis affecting the kingdom made it increasingly unfeasible to
establish a fiscal system based on contributions obtained from taxes levied
on essential items. The subsequent exhaustion of the Castilian Monarchy’s
fiscal system finally led to the exhaustion of the representational structures
to which it had so far been indissolubly linked.37 Very few subsidies were
granted in the Cortes after 1635, and none between 1642 and 1655. The
Cortes convened in that last year approved two new taxes, but by 1667 all
of the contributions collected by the Royal Treasury put together did not
match what just one of them, that for 24 millones, had raised in 1637.38
The events at the end of the reign of Philip IV were a harbinger of what
would happen during the reign of his successor. The monarchy’s weakness
after the death of the sovereign in 1665, whereby the heir was still a minor,
put the Crown in an extremely difficult international context, and this led
the regency to postpone the summons to the Cortes that the monarch had
scheduled shortly before his death. They were finally cancelled two years
later. Castile’s representative system faced a new and deeper crisis. However,
we must be cautious in interpreting the events, especially if we take into
account the cities’ passive attitude—it was in no way critical of the decisions
taken by the regency—in this regard. To begin with, this measure did not
contravene the law. The prerogative to summon the Cortes still belonged
exclusively to the king. Therefore, technically speaking, as long as he did not
do so, the kingdom was in a hueco de Cortes—that is, in a period between
sessions, during which the representation of the kingdom belonged to its
Diputación and at a secondary level to the Comisión de Millones. This is
how things had always been done. The Crown, for its part, in accordance
with the decision it had taken, gave up trying to solve its fiscal problems by
asking the Cortes for new subsidies or contributions, for which a new sum-
mons of the assembly was required. The Crown merely asked the cities to
renew existing taxes in the years to come, and rounded out its income with
royal taxes, diverse other sources of revenue and donations which did not
require the consent of the kingdom.39
The cities thus became direct interlocutors of the Crown. This did not
eliminate the representation of the kingdom; it merely changed the scenario
in which it manifested itself. In the past it had done so in the Cortes, but
now it was the cities themselves that acted through their own representa-
tional institutions, the regimientos. The different parties ultimately assumed
the representation of the whole, in a new interpretation of that relationship
of identity that was inherent to the form in which representation was con-
ceived in the kingdom of Castile. Clearly, the very idea of representation lost
part of its political strength. On the one hand, the evolution of the Cortes
seemed to demonstrate the triumph of particular options over comprehen-
sive alternatives;40 on the other hand, this placed the representation of the
kingdom in second-tier institutions, the Diputación and the Comisión de
Millones, which were much smaller, with only three members in the for-
mer and four in the latter (joined in this last case by four royal officials).
This circumstance, together with the outdated way in which the members
of both institutions were elected, made it increasingly impractical for them
to represent the kingdom in the long run.41 This is why in 1694 there was
an abolition and reform of the Council, a cryptic way of referring to its re-
founding as a new organism; the name was the same, but the members and
the way they were elected were not. The new Cortes of the Bourbons would
be built on these foundations, with the addition of representatives from the
cities of the Crown of Aragon that had been granted the privilege to vote in
the Cortes after the War of the Spanish Succession. This gave way to a new
chapter in the history of political representation in the kingdoms of Spain.
Notes
1. This work was carried out within the framework of the project Hacienda,
deuda pública y economía política en la Monarquía Hispánica, siglos XVI-XVII
(HAR2015–68672-P).
2. George de Lagarde, “L’idée de représentation dans les oeuvres de Guillaume
d’Ockham,” Bulletin of the International Committee of Historical Sciences 9,
Part IV, no. 37 (December 1937): 425–451.
3. Sebastián de Covarrubias, Tesoro de la Lengua castellana o española, ed. Felipe
C. R. Maldonado (Madrid: Turner, 1995), 860.
4. Emile Lousse, La société d’Ancien Régime: organisation et représentation cor-
poratives (Louvain: Universitas, 1952), 131–132 ; Pietro Costa, Civitas. Storia
della cittadinanza in Europa. I Dalla civiltà comunale al Settecento (Roma & Bari:
Laterza, 1999), 3–50; Hanna F. Pitkin, The Concept of Representation (Berkeley &
Los Angeles: The University of California Press, 1967), 241 onwards; Stefano
Tabacchi, Il Buon Governo. Le finanze locali nello Stato della Chiesa (secoli
XVI-XVIII) (Roma: Viella 2007), 28–32.
5. Hasso Hoffman, Rappresentanza, rappresentazione. Parola e concetto dall’Antichitá
all’Ottocento (Milan: Giuffré, 2003), 248–254; Jeannine Quillet, “Community,
Counsel and Representation,” in The Cambridge History of Medieval Political
Thought, c. 350-c.1450, ed. James H. Burns (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 2010), 561.
6. The implementation of the representation of the universitas regni could be artic-
ulated differently from one territory to another. See Michel Hébert, Parlementer.
Assemblées représentatives et échange politique en Europe occidentale à la fin
du Moyen Age (Paris: Éditions de Boccard, 2014), 253–274.
7. Antonio Manuel Hespanha, “As Cortes e o reino. Da União à Restaurãçao,”
Cuadernos de Historia de Moderna 11 (1991): 29 onwards.
8. The city of Seville played a leading role in many of these negotiations. Cfr. José
Ignacio Martínez Ruíz, Finanzas municipales y crédito público en la España
Moderna. La hacienda de la ciudad de Sevilla (1528–1768) (Seville: Ayunta-
miento de Sevilla, 1992), 154–171. Cordoba also signed agreements with the
Crown during the time of Philip IV.
9. Cuenca, for example, remained firm in this attitude for months when the tax of
millones was being negotiated in 1589. Cfr. José Ignacio Fortea Pérez, Monar-
quía y Cortes en la Corona de Castilla. Las ciudades ante la política fiscal de
Felipe II (Salamanca: Junta de Castilla y León, 1990), 386–393.
10. The particulars, told by the Count of Coruña, can be found in Cortes de los
Antiguos reinos de León y Castilla / publicadas por la Real Academia de la His-
toria (Madrid: Sucesores de M. Ribadeneyra, 1905), vol. 5, 46–95; Juan Sánchez
Montes, 1539. Agobios carolinos y ciudades castellanas (Granada: Universidad
de Granada, 1974); José Ignacio Fortea Pérez, “Toledo, 1538. ¿Unas Cortes de
las ciudades?,” in Las Cortes de Castilla y León bajo los Austrias. Una interpre-
tación (Valladolid: Junta de Castilla y León, 2008), 85–121.
11. L. I and II. Tit. VII, Lib. VI. Recopilación de las leyes destos Reynos hecha por
mandato de la magestad católica del rey Don Felipe Segundo (Valladolid: Lex
Nova, D.L., 1982), vol. 2, 124v; Facsimile edition of the Madrid ed., 1640.
12. Medias annatas was a levy imposed on the first year’s income of all offices,
juros, etc. It was established in 1631.
13. The tax called “papel sellado” was proposed in 1632, inspired by a similar one
being charged in the United Provinces at the time. Although the idea of imposing
it arose in the Council, the Cortes offered it to the king as a means of paying the
contribution of nine millones they were negotiating. Philip IV appreciated the
offer, but refused to accept it. Such a decision “was his prerogative, for which
there was no need of their consent, since it was one of the privileges of the
king to do so.” Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana (BAV), Barberini Lat, 3560, fols.
26–49.
14. Bartolomé Clavero, Antidora. Antropología católica de la economía moderna
(Milan: Giuffré, 1991), 87–105; Antonio Manuel Hespanha, “La economía de
la gracia,” in La gracia del derecho. Economia de la cultura en la Edad Moderna
(Madrid: Centro de Estudios Constitucionales, 1993), 151–176; José Ignacio
Fortea Pérez, “Los donativos en la política fiscal de los Austrias: ¿servicio o
beneficio?,” in Pensamiento y política económica en la Época Moderna, ed. Luis
Ribot García and Luigi de Rosa (Madrid: Actas, 2000), 31–76.
15. Archivo General de Simancas, Patronato Real (from now on AGS, PR.), leg. 72,
fol. 59.
16. See canons Non Minus (1139). D. vol. 3, tit. XLIX, chap. IV. Adversus de
immunitate ecc. (1216). D. vol. 3, Tit. 49. Chap. VII. Clericis laicos (1296).
Sexti Decretal, vol. 3, Tit. XXIII. Cfr. Corpus Iuris Canonici. Editio Lipsiensis
Secunda post Aemilii Ludouici Richteri curas adlibrorum manu scriptorum et
editionis romanae fidem recognouit et adnotatione critica. Instruxit Aemilius
Freidberg (Union, NJ: The Lawbook Exchange, 2000). On the Bull In Coena
Domini see Juan Luís Lopez, Historia legal de la bula llamada In Coena Domine
dividida en tres partes en que se refieren su origen, su aumento, y su estado (. . . .)
(Madrid: En la imprenta de don Gabriel Ramírez, 1768), 48–49, no. 18.
17. Laura Carpintero, La Congregación del Clero de Castilla en el siglo XVII
(Madrid: Universidad Autónoma de Madrid, 1995); Sean T. Perrone, Charles
V and the Castilian Assembly of the Clergy: Negotiations for the Ecclesiastical
Subsidy (Leiden: J. E. Brill, 2008).
18. AGS. PR, file 72, fol. 61 (1594). Juan Eloy Gelabert, Castilla convulsa (1631–
1652) (Madrid: Marcial Pons, 2001), 17–66; José Ignacio Fortea Pérez, “La
gracia y la fuerza: el clero, las ciudades y el fisco en la Monarquía Católica,
(1590–1665),” in Ciudades en Conflicto (siglos XVI-XVIII), ed. Fortea Pérez,
José Ignacio, Gelabert González and Juan Eloy (Valladolid: Junta de Castilla-
León-Marcial Pons, 2008), 137–161.
19. Salustiano de Dios, “Las Cortes de Castilla a la luz de los juristas (1480–1665),”
Ius Fugit 10–11 (2001–2003): 163 onwards. On the tax doctrines of that time,
see the pioneering study by Juan Luís Sureda Carrion, La hacienda castellana
y los economistas del siglo XVII (Madrid: Instituto de Economía Sancho de
Moncada, 1949). A recent comprehensive study was published by Charles Jago,
“Taxation in Political Culture in Castile, 1590–1640,” in Spain, Europe and
the Atlantic World: Essays in Honour of John Elliott, ed. Richard Kagan and
Geoffrey Parker (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 48–73; José
Ignacio Fortea Pérez, “Doctrinas y prácticas fiscales,” in Balance de la historio-
grafía modernista, ed. Roberto J. López and Domingo González Lopo (Santiago
de Compostela: Xunta de Galicia, 2003), 489–451. For a more general view see
Renzo Pomini, La “causa impositionis” nello svolgimento storico della dottrina
financiaria (Milan: Giuffré, 1972), 25–43; Eberhard Isenmann, “Medieval and
Renaissance Theories of State Finance,” in Economic Systems and State Finance,
ed. Richard Bonney (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995), 32 onwards.
Biblioteca Nacional de España (from now on BNE), Madrid. Ms. 2346, fols.
63r-159r.
20. BNE Madrid. Ms. 2346, fols. 63r-159r.
21. Andrés de Riaño, Memorial al Rey Nuestro Señor sobre la contribución del
estado Eclesiástico . . . ASV Segre Stato Spagna, 113, fol. 244. Cf. also Con-
sideraciones legales sobre el derecho del rey a imponer sobre ciertos bienes del
clero. BAV, Barberini Lat. 3608, fols. 121–140.
22. Archivio Segreto Vaticano (from now on ASV), Segre Stato Spagna, 72, fol
.120v, 26 July, 1631.
23. For the case of France, see Pierre Blet, Le clergé de France et la monarchie. Etude
sur les Assemblées du Clergé de 1615 à 1661, 2 vols. (Rome: Librairie Editrice
de l’Université Gregorienne, 1959). For a comparison between the French and
the Spanish case, see José Ignacio Fortea Pérez, “¿Pagar y obedecer? La Iglesia
y el fisco regio en Francia y España en tiempos de guerra (1635–1659),” in Fis-
calità e religione nell’Europa Cattolica. Idee, Linguaggi e pratiche (secoli XIV-
XIX), ed. Massimo C. Giannini (Roma: Viella, 2015), 111–166.
24. In this regard, see James H. Burns, Lordship, Kingship and Empire: The Idea of
Monarchy (1400–1525) (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992), 123; Anthony Black,
Political Thought in Europe (1250–1450) (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1992), 165; Cary J. Nederman, Lineages of European Political Thought:
Explorations along the Medieval/Modern Divide from John of Salisbury to
Hegel (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2009); Brian
Gogan, The Common Corps of Christendom: Ecclesiological Themes in the
Writings of Sir Thomas More (Leyden: E. J. Brill, 1982), 42; Klaus Schatz, Papal
Primacy: From Its Origins to the Present (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press,
1996), 92; Hoffmann, Representanza, representazione, 379–383.
25. Black, Political Thought, 165.
26. Pedro Núñez de Avendaño, De Exequendis mandatis Regum Hispaniae quae
rectoribus civitatum dantur (Salmanticae: Ioannem de Canova, 1567), Pars
Prima fol. 2, no. 6. First edition in 1543. de Dios, “Las Cortes de Castilla a la
luz,” 96.
27. See BNE Madrid, Ms.18731.8.
28. BAV Barberini Lat, 8368, fol. 10, Madrid, August 1st, 1633.
29. On the role of councils, see Quillet, “Community, Counsel and Representa-
tion,” 553.
30. The attempts of Olivares to do without the Cortes in fiscal matters did not bear
fruit. An unusual meeting of the Council of State and the Council of Castile,
held in 1624 in the presence of the king himself, ultimately decreed, according
to what the nuncio told the pope, that “il Re non possa sforzare, ma significando
il suo bisogno alle Corti e ai suoi vassalli, procurarne quei sussidii che siano più
opportuni,” ASV Segre. Stato Spagna, 64, fol. 441. Madrid, July 7th, 1624.
31. Antonio Manuel Hespanha, “As Cortes,” art. cit., 30.
32. Biblioteca del Palacio Real. Madrid, Ms. II/2227, fols. 64, n.d. (1598–1599).
33. AGS, PR, file 78, fols. 30–32.
34. Fray Juan Márquez, El Gobernador Cristiano deducido de las vidas de Moysén
y Josué, príncipes del pueblo de Dios (Salamanca: por Francisco de Cea Tesa,
1612). See his views in AGS, PR, file 90, fol. 485 (1619).
35. Archivo del Congreso de los Diputados (ACD), Libros de Acuerdos, file 96,
n.d. Pablo Fernández Albaladejo, “Monarquía, Cortes y cuestión constitucional
en Castilla durante la Edad Moderna,” in Fragmentos de Monarquía (Madrid:
Alianza Editorial, 1992), 296.
36. Actas de las Cortes de Castilla publicadas por acuerdo del Congreso de los
Diputados a propuesta de su comisión de gobierno interior (ACC) (Madrid:
Imprenta de la viuda e hijos de J. A. García, 1931), vol. 50, Cortes of Madrid of
1632, 632–635.
37. José Ignacio Fortea Pérez, “Las Cortes de Castilla y su Diputación en el reinado
de Carlos II. Historia de un largo sueño,” in Las Cortes de Castilla y León bajo
los Austrias, Una interpretación (Valladolid: Junta de Castilla-León-Marcial
Pons, 2008), 331.
38. ACD, Libros de Acuerdos, fol. 96.
39. Irving A. A.Thompson, Crown and Cortes in Castile: Government, Institutions
and Representation in Early Modern Castile (Aldershot, Hampshire: Variorum,
1993), vol. 7, 125–133.
40. On the vicissitudes of the Council after 1665 and the lack of internal cohesion
in the kingdom, see Felipe Lorenzana de la Puente, La representación política en
el Antiguo Régimen, Las Cortes de Castilla, 1655–1834 (Madrid: Congreso de
los Diputados, 2013), 423 onwards.
41. Deputies were elected from among the deputies of cities responsible for the col-
lection of alcabalas. However, by the middle of the 17th century, only five out
of 21 cities met this requirement. On the regulations in force at that time, see
the Instructions on the election of deputies of 1658. ACD leg. 155. On these
problems, see Fortea Pérez, “Las Cortes de Castilla y su Diputación,” 347–353.
Lorenzana de la Fuente, La representación política, 399 onwards.
Black, Anthony. Political Thought in Europe (1250–1450). Cambridge: Cambridge
Burns, James H. Lordship, Kingship and Empire: The Idea of Monarchy (1400–
1525). Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992.
Costa, Pietro. Civitas. Storia della cittadinanza in Europa. I. Dalla civiltà comunale
al Settecento. Roma & Bari: Laterza, 1999.
Fernández Albaladejo, Pablo. Fragmentos de Monarquía. Madrid: Alianza Editorial,
1992.
Fortea Pérez, José Ignacio. Monarquía y Cortes en la Corona de Castilla. Las ciu-
dades ante la política fiscal de Felipe II. Salamanca: Junta de Castilla y León, 1990.
Fortea Pérez, José Ignacio. Las Cortes de Castilla y León bajo los Austrias: una inter-
pretación. Valladolid: Junta de Castilla y León, 2008.
Giannini, Massimo Carlo (A cura di). Fiscalità e religione nell’Europa Cattolica.
Idee, Linguaggi e pratiche (secoli XIV-XIX). Rome: Viella, 2015.
Hébert, Michel. Parlementer. Assemblées représentatives et échange politique en
Europe occidentale à la fin du Moyen Age. Paris: Éditions de Boccard, 2014.
Hoffman, Hasso. Rappresentanza, rappresentazione. Parola e concetto dall’Antichitá
all’Ottocento. Milan: Giuffré, 2003.
Lorenzana de la Puente, Felipe. La representación política en el Antiguo Régimen,
Las Cortes de Castilla, 1655–1834. Madrid: Congreso de los Diputados, 2013.
Lousse, Emile. La société d’Ancien Régime: organisation et représentation corpora-
tives. Louvain: Universitas, 1952.
Nederman, Cary J. Lineages of European Political Thought: Explorations along the
Medieval/Modern Divide from John of Salisbury to Hegel. Washington, DC: The
Catholic University of America Press, 2009.
Perrone, Sean T. Charles V and the Castilian Assembly of the Clergy: Negotiations
for the Ecclesiastical Subsidy. Leiden: J. E. Brill, 2008.
Pitkin, Hanna F. The Concept of Representation. Berkeley & Los Angeles: The Uni-
versity of California Press, 1967.
Tabacchi, Stefano. Il Buon Governo. Le finanza locali nello Stato della Chiesa (secoli
XVI-XVIII). Roma: Viella, 2007.
Thompson, Irving A. A. Crown and Cortes in Castile: Government, Institutions and
Representation in Early Modern Castile. Aldershot, Hampshire: Variorum, 1993.
17 Municipal Representation in
the Crown of Castile in the
Early Modern Age
José Manuel de Bernardo Ares
Structure and Dynamics of the Kingdom’s Territorial Institutions

If the “king” (and by this, we mean the royal councils and secretariats) held
the central power of the monarchy, the “kingdom,” which met either in the
Cortes or in the individual councils of the cities, held territorial power.1 The
Cortes and the city councils were the assemblies that represented Castilian
cities during the Modern Age. In this chapter, we focus primarily on Cór-
doba, which was one of the principal cities with a vote in the Cortes of Cas-
tile, as its institutional structure and political dynamics can be considered
indicative of all Castilian cities.
The Council of Castile of 27 June 1667 agreed not to summon the Cortes
and to resolve all the issues directly with the cities which had a vote. This
modified the mode, but not the substance, of the negotiations between the
kingdom and the king. Thus, from that date onwards, the representation of
the “kingdom” was from then on divided into city councils, whereas previ-
ously it had been united in one parliament.2 Even before 1667, the votes of
the representatives of the cities in the Cortes were still considered “consulta-
tive,” with the cities always retaining the “executive or decisive” votes.3
According to Pérez de Mesa, “a city is the principal and noblest of all cor-
porations that man has instituted to adequately satisfy the needs of human
life.”4 Also, Manuel de Bofarull determined that
the Council, backbone of the city and principal of its representatives,

was the bulwark of its liberties and the lifeblood of representation.
(. . .) And that power was none other than the Council, a true republic
endowed with a self-government, which no other people possess today.5
Hence, “[T]he cities,” according to Felipe Lorenzana, “monopolised the pres-

ence of the kingdom in the Cortes, starting from the definitive exclusion of
the régime’s privileged estates in 1538.” This same author adds: “In Castile,
the only more or less organised power beyond the central administration
was that of the Councils, which monopolised the power of the Kingdom and
its representation.”6 In this local context, “both the mayor and the aldermen
Representation in the Crown of Castile 287
held and defended ‘representation’ in the city councils, vertical representa-
tion of sovereign power on the part of the former, and horizontal represen-
tation of the nobility and of their economic-social power by the latter.”7
In this same local circle of the Council, the social differences between the
aldermen (regidores) or Veinticuatro knights and jurados were also notable
as regards representation.8 Although both represented the “community,” the
former acted in the name of the minority social elite, whereas the latter,
at least theoretically, acted in the name of the common or general estate.9
However, as Miguel Ángel Ladero pointed out, if the Veinticuatro knights
did not represent the interests of the common estate, “neither did the jura-
dos who were elected by the circumscriptions or parishes with the aim of
notifying—not defending or representing—in the city council the offences
suffered by the people.”10 Thus, with this in mind, I wondered some years
ago: “[D]id the jurados watch over the resolution of the needs of the com-
mon good, or, by ignoring them, did they neglect their primary public func-
tion and become puppets of the Veinticuatro knights?”11
Sociology of Local Elites

According to Molina Puche, both the aldermen and the jurados belonged
to the “local elite,” although the former were all nobles and the latter were
commoners, from the wealthiest stratum of society. Domínguez Ortiz did
not hesitate to call them the “mighty” among their peers.12 And Joaquín
Centeno clinched it when he wrote that “we can also verify their social
extraction, since they arise from a financially strong oligarchy, they are not
nobles but are evolving towards ennoblement.”13
The social differences between aldermen and jurados had a reflection in
terms of representation. The former represented the nobility and the latter
represented the common people only in the following issues: a) the organ-
isation of military defence, b) the allocation and levy of revenue and c) the
drawing up of the electoral and tax registers of the citizens. Thus, “the jurados
were,” according to Joaquín Centeno, “the defenders of the public causes,
especially those of their peers.”14 Antonio Sacristán stated previously that
as a characteristic attribution of their office, it corresponded to the jura-

dos to defend the causes of the citizens within the municipal corpora-
tions (. . . .), and to control the strict observation of the Foral Law (. . .);
but their participation in debates was only consultative and they lacked
any deliberative vote in decisions on public affairs.15
In a subsequent publication, Joaquín Centeno has studied not only the polit-
ical significance of the jurados but also their decisive influence on urban
administration over a long period of time. The section on their “powers”
summarises perfectly the decisive role played by the jurados in the organisa-
tion of local affairs, which they knew well.16
288 José Manuel de Bernardo Ares
Rafael Ramírez de Arellano, for his part, wrote an assertive monograph
on one of the most important jurados of the 16th century, Juan Rufo (1547–
1620). He describes not only Rufo’s noteworthy biography but also the
functions related to the offices of jurado and mayordomo of the granary,
and his inestimable poetic works, particularly Austriada and the Apoteg-
mas. However, the most important aspects of Arellano’s study are its treat-
ment of the local and international context and its inclusion of complete
transcriptions of the 253 documents on which it is based.17
The Political Representation of the jurados
The Jurados
The jurados were the representatives of the local community in the urban
council. We know that the jurados emerged after 1241, as there is no refer-
ence to them in the 1241 charter granted to Córdoba after the Christian
conquest by Fernando III in 1236. However, a decree from Fernando IV
dated 5 September 1297 explicitly mentions both the institutional figure
and its powers. We believe that it was created between 1241 and 1297, as
this document dated to 1297 makes the following mention:
I sent you an order in my letter that in each of your places . . . you

should delegate two men as jurados, who would give you an account of
and collect all the evil deeds done in the municipality of Córdoba . . . so
that my service is kept and all the bad deeds will be known.18
Requirements or Conditions of the Jurados

Jurados needed to possess certain personal and social virtues. As regards
the former, they had to be, as with all public offices, men of “ability, suffi-
ciency, utility, good disposition and economic means” as well as not having
any notable physical defect. In the 16th century, these social virtues con-
sisted of being old Christians and not practicing any mechanical art; and, in
the 17th century, when the fixation on “blood cleanliness” was somewhat
toned down, virtues were often related to living an honourable life, having
good customs, not having any dealings or commerce in public sales, not
possessing any shops, and not serving in menial offices. The jurados were
rigorous in maintaining these virtues; in the 16th century, the council of
jurados requested that the Crown, before endorsing candidates, should ask
for previous information from the mayor and two jurados to prevent the
intrusion of undesirable elements. In this sense, and in accordance with the
financial situation of the city, and especially of the monarchy, the restric-
tions on commerce and the ownership of shops were eased, so that Felipe IV,
in 1647, granted the privilege that traders on a medium to large scale could
be appointed as jurados. This fostered urban economic development, and,
with the development of commerce, state taxes increased, notably augment-
ing the resources at the disposal of the Royal Treasury.19
According to Centeno, four stages can be distinguished in the social com-
position of the jurados. 1) From 1240 to 1470, which is denominated as
the “local community” stage, members of the financially most powerful cir-
cumscriptions were elected, and the objective of candidates was to ascend
socially and enhance their honour and reputation in exchange for defending
the common people. 2) From 1470 to 1550, an “ennoblement” of the office
occurred, and posts were occupied by members of the same families that
also controlled the veinticuatro. During this stage the institution was at its
height, although these nobles can be regarded as second-order aristocrats,
collateral branches of the great lineages, with the veinticuatro posts being
reserved for the high nobility. “Purity of blood” was very much taken into
account as, during the 15th century, access was given to converts in the
juradurías. 3) In the mid-16th century, a change came about in the sociology
of the jurado due to the sale of public offices; thus, the jurado fell into the
hands of hidalgos, affluent gentlemen, prestigious merchants and members
of important liberal professions. In the 17th century, the jurado posts were
filled by merchants who did not run any active shops or hold any unsa-
voury offices. It was the golden age of the institution. 4) In the stage from
1650 to 1834, with the consolidation of the middle classes, the office was
further devaluated and, at the end of the 18th century, most of the jurados
lived in the two circumscriptions in which craft and mercantile activities
predominated.20
Representativeness
The jurados were the advocates of the interests of the households in their
respective districts. They committed themselves to this task through the oath,
sworn when they took office. They promised to pursue “the common good
of this republic, especially its households and those of their circumscrip-
tion.”21 However, this representativeness was not pure, since, as we shall see
when we deal with electoral systems, the election of each jurado was differ-
ent. Nonetheless, they regarded themselves as champions of the households
in their district, the sole intermediaries between rulers and subjects in their
respective parishes.22
Bernardo de Acevedo compares them to the tribunes of Rome
because they were invented and disposed to defend the Plebe, so that
the aldermen and nobles did not encumber the plebeians and for each
jurado in his parish to take care of the plebeians so that no wrong is
done to them.23
They had three fundamental obligations with regards to the people: 1)

To acquaint themselves with the offences perpetrated against the people,
denounce them before the urban council and inform the king of them with
a prior testimony; 2) To inform the corregidor (the highest royal authority
at the local level) and the mayors about the thieves, delinquents and persons
living in public sin in their districts; and 3) To appoint the jurados of the
municipality, whose mission was to give information on what was being
done in their villages or cities against the monarch, and on the damage done
to the city or its land. They were, therefore, very different from the jurados
of the Crown of Aragon, as there they played a leading role in the admin-
istration local of local affairs and had control over the municipal finances,
among other important functions.24
Appointment
Initially the jurados were elected directly by the households, with no royal
intervention, although this gradually changed. The jurados meeting in the
city council with their mayor and the corregidor of the city as a president,
received the households which had a right to vote, had lived in the circum-
scription for at least six months, and appeared in the local register created
for that purpose. After counting the votes, the jurado was appointed by
majority. At first sight, this could appear to be a pure, pristine exercise of
democracy. However, records exist of bribes, coercion and election manipu-
lation on behalf of a certain social group, which was exerting influence to
prevent the election of anyone who did not belong to the group. It should
be remembered that the jurados had to draw up the electoral registers of the
taxpayers and play an active role in the allocation of levies and services and
the collection of taxes, temporary council levies and extraordinary services.
This indicates the importance, especially for the most powerful households,
of having jurados in the family. In the first half of the 16th century, a change
occurred in the electoral process. In the new system, the municipal council
designated a certain number of “good men” from each circumscription, who
were entrusted with the appointment of the new jurados. Thus, the house-
holds were not directly represented any longer. Furthermore, the rest of the
jurados were also present and voted in the elections.25
Another way to access the office of jurado, especially in the 16th century,
was by appointment of the previous jurado. This system predated the sale/
purchase of offices. Tomás y Valiente argued that renunciation of office was
a subterfuge to cover up the transference of said offices, which were unregu-
lated in Castile.26 In 1542, these renunciations were allowed only between
persons with very direct family ties, that is, fathers to sons or to sons-in-
law and vice versa, but they became possible regardless of kinship connec-
tions soon afterwards. Another form of entering office was by inheritance,
whereby it was bequeathed in perpetuity by will before a notary, which
essentially meant turning a public office into private property. The final
means of entering office was through alienation. The proliferation of offices
(“aggrandisement”) in general, and of juradurías in particular, originated in
the Middle Ages. Enrique IV, in 1462, ordered that the jurados be deprived
of their aggrandised offices because they were totally in opposition to the
system of election by household and circumscription. In 1543, the aggran-
disement of three juradurías was authorised, but only to replace those per-
taining to three dead judges. In 1587, Felipe II arranged, with the council of
jurados, the creation of ten more juradurías in exchange for important privi-
leges such as releasing them from some of the social obligations attached to
the rank. The jurados were officially giving up their role as representatives
of the households in return for benefits and personal interests.27
It can thus be said that the election system was being transformed into
an inheritance-based system. This inheritance of the juradurías gave rise to
a council of jurados controlled by a limited number of families, as was also
the case with the offices of regidor, which in many cases were occupied by
the same people.28 Hence, Domínguez Ortiz does not hesitate to point out
that the City Council of Córdoba was one of “the most exclusively aristo-
cratic” in the Crown of Castile.29
What benefits did the people who entered the juradurías obtain, as there
was no financial compensation? In fact, the sale prices were very low in rela-
tion to those of other offices. They undoubtedly sought power, status and
social prestige, as well as other privileges such as equality with gentlemen
and their corresponding prebends, the immunity that came with the office
and exemption from certain taxes (including pechos), from going to war and
from having troops billeted in their houses.30
The Impact of Venality

Initially, there were 31 jurados in the city of Córdoba. We must remember
that there were two per circumscription—plus four in that of Santa María
(the cathedral)—and two officials with police powers, which were attached
to the juradurías; these were the alguacil mayor de entregas (the chief bai-
liff for tax collection) of Córdoba and its municipality, and the depositary
general of Córdoba. In the 18th century, the number of jurados reached 58,
although it is true that sometimes only between 16 and 20 took office and
attended the city council meetings. The 58 jurados were distributed in the
following way: 31 were the original ones, appointed by circumscription, 25
were aggrandised ones and two had police powers and were annexed to the
jurados. However, the aggrandised ones did not represent their households;
rather, once they had been appointed, they generally failed to fulfil their
obligations, especially the most important merchants. This led to constant
complaints by the aldermen in the municipal council, as, in many areas of
public interest, the participation of the jurados was important, especially in
the council committees, as we shall see later.31
Obviously, aggrandisement totally undermined the sense of representa-
tiveness of the jurados and their very essence, as early as the 18th century,
and turned them into ambiguous and ambivalent figures. On the one hand,
they wished to join the ranks of the nobility and adopt aristocratic habits,
but on the other, they had to fight against those same habits in order to
keep a balance with the households in their circumscription for the sake of
equality.32
Council of Jurados
The jurados had their own well-organised council. It was not a governing
body but was a force to be reckoned with in the municipal council, which
claimed to act “in defence of the common good.” The council met every Satur-
day and a quorum of at least seven jurados, together with the mayor or presi-
dent, was considered necessary. Generally, the poorest jurados were the most
assiduous at the council sessions, while the wealthier ones did not even bother
to take office.33 In the council, they debated their problems and planned con-
trol measures over the municipal government, as we shall see later. They all
had a voice and a vote and played a very active role in the municipal council.
If their petitions or claims were not answered, they presented reports to the
Chancellery of Granada and to the king through the Council of Castile. They
had their own administration, and we should note especially the election of
annual offices, the most important of which was the presidency; the president
could be replaced by the most veteran jurado when the president could not
attend a meeting due to illness.34 There was a council clerk, who could be any
jurado, as long as he was endorsed by the council and the corregidor and
was in possession of a licence from the Crown.35 The majordomo was in
charge of the council bookkeeping; he was also entrusted with the physical
custody of the council’s money, which he managed under the mayor’s super-
vision.36 In the council, the so-called “representatives of the week” were
chosen by lot. The council also elected two jurados to attend the municipal
council meetings each week in order to supervise their deliberations, since, as
we shall see, they did not have a vote in the municipal council.37
The council of jurados received an annual economic allowance, which
was charged to the city’s treasury via royal enforcement. It would appear
that, in the first half of the 16th century, or at least in its final years, this
allowance was 20.000 maravedís (mrs), paid annually at the festivity of St
John, and sometimes triennially. From 1567 onwards, the amount doubled,
reaching 40.000 mrs per year. Accounts for this money had to be rendered to
the representatives of the municipal council. The records attest to the coun-
cil’s chronic deficit, aggravated by the jurados’ expenses. Clothing (particu-
larly for mourning), travel allowances and, especially, lawsuits, accounted
for most of the expenses. This led to constant direct appeals to the Court
to increase their allowance. These petitions were made through the corregi-
dor, leaving the rest of the capitulars out, much to the discomfiture of the
aldermen. In 1576, they requested an increase of 65%, which the aldermen
opposed as it had to come from their own treasury. The jurados, acting in
unison, pleaded for this increase with the same argument as always: “to
follow the lawsuits being tried in the Royal Council and in Granada for
the good of the republic,” and those lawsuits which affected “the interest
and common utility of this city and its municipality.”38 In their sessions,
they prepared the issues that they would bring before the municipal coun-
cil, dealing with all the topics concerning the city, always in defence of the
“common good”. In addition, they were the custodians of the petitions of
the households in their collation (in their area), especially regarding police
and urbanism issues.39
Participation in the Municipal Council

The council [Concejo] was a body in which central power was represented
by the corregidor and local power was represented by the aldermen (regi-
dores) or veinticuatro knights (nobility) and the jurados (the commoners).
In this body, all issues affecting the city (supplies, the treasury, lawsuits,
neighbours’ petitions, etc.) were dealt with horizontally, and all proposals
from diverse institutions of the monarchy were presented vertically.40 Meet-
ings were held on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays in the council halls,
with a minimum of seven aldermen and the compulsory presence of the
corregidor or the mayor. The attendance of the jurados was not indispens-
able, but in the 16th century they were granted a series of royal provisions
which mandated the presence of at least two jurados in order to enable the
meetings to be held. The agreements were reached by majority and, in the
case of a draw, the corregidor casted the decisive vote. The votes were cast,
and the permission to speak was granted, in order of seniority. The council
was advised by two lawyers, especially if the corregidor was of the “cloak
and sword” variety (a nobleman better acquainted with military service).
During the 17th century decisions that were to be discussed in Cortes were
submitted to the municipal councils.41
The jurados who attended the city council had a voice but not a vote, and
they were not allowed to interrupt the veinticuatro while they were speak-
ing.42 The political strength of the council was represented by the aldermen
and the corregidor, and the jurados usually attended to prevent agreements
being reached without their supervision, but they had no substantive power
to affect the decisions, as noted earlier, although they did participate very
actively.43 In the second half of the 16th century they were very dynamic, pre-
senting amendments, propositions and disagreements in countless requests.
Institutionally, they were part of the different committees which met to
discuss specific issues: four aldermen and two jurados or two aldermen and
one jurado, depending on the seriousness of the issues to be dealt with. The
committees were the executors of the council agreements and the jurados
participated in the most significant ones. They audited the performance of
other officials and their observance of the rights and privileges of the city.
In addition, they oversaw the actions of other officials concerning revenue
and expenditure.
Next, we provide some examples of their performance in the municipal
council, as an example of their activity at the height of the institution, espe-
cially during the second half of the 16th century. They took their role very
seriously, both concerning who was admitted in office and the payment of
official salaries and rewards. Given the critical situation of the council’s
treasury, the city council considered whether or not to send a member of the
council to deal with municipal matters where there was already an official
appointed and paid by the city, in particular in the Court and the Chancel-
lery of Granada. The problem was that wages were being paid twice and,
furthermore, the city’s problems were not being resolved. A very long debate
on this affair divided the council. Finally, against the opinion of most of
the aldermen, the corregidor sided with the proposal of the council of jura-
dos that no other gentleman should be sent and, if one was, he should not
receive any remuneration from the city.44
The trials concerning the audits made to the performance of outgoing
corregidores during the same period deserve attention; often, the jurados
denounced that, in their opinion, outgoing corregidores had not fulfilled
their obligations correctly. For example, the jurados supported the alder-
men when these claimed that the corregidor don Juan Gaitán de Ayala,
who left his post in 1588, had mismanaged his office, and took the initia-
tive against the corregidor don Pedro Zapata de Cárdenas in 1596.45 They
were particularly belligerent concerning the usurpation of free properties,
and this led them to an ongoing denunciation of the excesses commit-
ted in this regard, and the non-intervention of the municipal government
in defence of the municipalities. As expressed by the jurado Antonio de
Córdoba: “[I]t is of great detriment to this city and to its lands, the dis-
order created in the taking of free lands, and not being able to stop it by
the laws, premises and ordinances of this city.” Their action did not stop
at a simple denunciation; it is important to emphasise that they always
put forward solutions which demanded that the municipal government
comply with standing laws and provisions. In a case that involved usur-
pation of landed property, the council pointed out the obligation of the
corregidor to visit the municipalities, with which he did not comply. In
addition, the aldermen themselves encroached upon communal land and
when, in the municipal council these facts were denounced, they pleaded
ignorance about the limits of their own land. To prevent these excuses of
the veinticuatro knights, the council proposed that, as well as the pertinent
visits to the municipality by the corregidor, the book written by the juez
de términos (municipality boundary judge) Sánchez de Montiel, in which
the limits of the communal lands were recorded, was to be made public.46
As can be noted, their complaints, made in defence of the municipal regu-
lations and general laws, and therefore the households, affected both the
corregidor and the aldermen.
On many occasions, the jurados hindered and even prevented the wine
tax from being used for some purpose other than that for which it had been
established. However, at times, while seeming to defend the common inter-
est, they were in fact defending their own. This was the case when it was
proposed to levy new duties on commercial transactions in 1588. As they
had substantial mercantile interests, the jurados would have been harmed
if these duties had been approved, and, as well as opposing them in the
municipal council, they lodged legal actions which, naturally, did not dis-
close the real reasons for their opposition, but appeared to defend the com-
mon good.47
They also acted as notaries in the election of non-capitulary jurisdictional
offices: of ordinary mayors, of mayors and clerks of the brotherhoods,
and of inspectors and mayordomos for San Juan. Eventually, as previously
noted, apart from participating in the committees and ordinary and extraor-
dinary councils, they began assuming other roles in the municipality, such as
inspectors, election officials, audit deputies, jurados in the villages of juris-
diction and guards of the city boundaries.48
For all of the above, it can be certified that, although the institution was
later to adopt a less active role, its presence in the city council was crucial
for preventing, or at least reducing, the excesses which the veinticuatro, and
even the corregidor, committed against the households they represented.
Between Habsburgs and Bourbons: Institutional Transformations

According to Manuel de Bofarull,
in the hands of the first Bourbon, the local freedoms, the Foral regime,
the Municipality and the guilds died, and the estates saw their political
influence disappear, especially the ecclesiastical estate, because of the
abuse against the Church's immunities and privileges by the rising hate-
ful regalismo.49
And this occurred, as pointed out by Antonio Sacristán, because the
French influence dominated Spanish politics with no effort whatsoever.

Luis XIV (. . .) added new titles (. . .) in order to constantly intervene
in the acts of the Spanish court, by means of advisory measures that
were equivalent in many cases to executive orders; the French ambas-
sador was the indispensable minister in all deliberations and agree-
ments, not only concerning foreign affairs, but in the domestic sphere
as well; no important decision was dictated by the cabinet of Madrid
without it having first been discussed and approved in Versailles, where
the supreme direction of the affairs of the two nations really and truly
resided.50
“However,” Antonio Sacristán continues, “the cause of popular freedom

did not obtain any advantage from the change in dynasty.” And, he adds,
“[T]he municipal franchises, which formed the true basis of political freedom,
could not fail to suffer the consequences of this system of government.”51
Indeed, what took place at the beginning of the 18th century was not
only a mere change of dynasty but a “revolutionary” political transforma-
tion. The era of the Habsburgs in the Crown of Castile had witnessed an
unparalleled system of co-sovereignty with the participation of both the
royal councils and the cities, which either met jointly in the Cortes or sepa-
rately in their city councils; a plural legal structure inherited from the late
Middle Ages, including general and local regulations;52 and a decentralised
administrative apparatus which granted each Castilian city great political
autonomy. All this was progressively modified with the arrival of the Bour-
bons. Co-sovereignty was replaced by the unique, unitary and centralistic
sovereignty of the king. Uniform laws were gradually imposed. All the legal
differences were eliminated, and administrative centralisation began dis-
lodging the peculiarities of each local council, as they all had to submit to
the exclusive dictates of the royal representative, the corregidor.53
Notes
1. Francesco di Donato superbly explains this interrelation between “king” and
“kingdom” in “La mediazione patriarcale nella monarchia assoluta. Mutazioni
del sapere giuridico nella costruzione dello Stato moderno,” in Culture parla-
mentari a confronto. Modelli della rappresentanza politica e identità nacional,
ed. Andrea Romano (Bologna: Clueb Casa editrice, 2016), 83–98.
2. José M. de Bernardo, El poder municipal y la organización política de la socie-
dad. Algunas lecciones del pasado (Córdoba: Universidad de Córdoba, 1998),
82.
3. Ibid., 518. José Ignacio Fortea, “Las ciudades, las Cortes y el problema de la
representación política en la Castilla moderna,” in Imágenes de la diversidad: el
mundo urbano en la Corona de Castilla (s. XVI-XVIII), ed. José Ignacio Fortea
(Santander: Universidad de Cantabria, 1997), 436.
4. Diego Pérez, Política o Razón de Estado. Convivencia y educación democrática
(Madrid: CSIC, 1980); quoted by Bernardo, El poder municipal y la orga-
nización política de la sociedad . . ., 517, note 22.
5. Manuel de Bofarull, Las antiguas cortes. El moderno parlamento. El régimen
representativo orgánico: Contribución a un estudio crítico acerca de la repre-
sentación política en España (Barcelona: Tipografía de la Revista de Archivos,
Bibliotecas y Museos, 1912), 82–83.
6. Felipe Lorenzana, La representación política en el Antiguo Régimen. Las Cortes
de Castilla, 1655–1834 (Madrid: Congreso de los Diputados, 2013), 121, 128;
José M. de Bernardo, “Poder local y Estado absoluto. La importancia política de
la Administración municipal de la Corona de Castilla en la segunda mitad del
siglo XVII,” in El municipio en la España moderna, ed. José M. de Bernardo and
Enrique Martínez (Córdoba: Universidad de Córdoba, 1996), vol. 1, 111–155.
7. Antoni Passola, La historiografía sobre el municipio en la España Moderna
(Lleida: Universitat de Lleida, 1997); José M. de Bernardo, Corrupción política
y centralización administrativa. La hacienda de propios en la Córdoba de Carlos
II (Córdoba: Universidad de Córdoba, 1993), 279.
8. Carmen M. Cremades, Economía y hacienda local del concejo de Murcia en el
siglo XVIII (1701–1759) (Murcia: Academia Alfonso X el Sabio y Ayuntamiento,
1986), 213; F. Javier Guillamón and J. Javier Ruiz, “Guía de regidores y jurados
de Murcia,” in Sapere aude. El “Atrévete a pensar” en el Siglo de las Luces, ed.
F. Javier Guillamón and J. Javier Ruiz (Murcia: Universidad de Murcia, 1996),
73–116.
9. Sebastián Molina, Poder y familia: Las elites locales del corregimiento de
Chinchilla-Villena en el siglo del Barroco (Murcia & Cuenca: Universidades de
Murcia y Castilla La Mancha, 2007), 57–81.
10. Miguel Ángel Ladero, “Los efectos del mal gobierno en la Andalucía de Juan II
según la novela moral de Gracián,” Boletín de la Real Academia de la Historia
213, no. 1 (2016): 137–138. de Bernardo, Corrupción política y centralización
administrativa . . ., 279.
11. de Bernardo, El poder municipal y la organización política de la sociedad . . .,
363.
12. Sebastián Molina Puche, Como hombres poderosos. Las oligarquías locales del
corregimiento de Chinchilla en el siglo XVII (Albacete: Instituto de Estudios
Albacetenses, 2007); Antonio Domínguez, La sociedad española en el siglo
XVII. I: El estamento nobiliario (Granada: Universidad de Granada, 1992),
vol. 1.
13. Esther Cruces, “Ensayo sobre la oligarquía malagueña: regidores, jurados y
clanes urbanos (1489–1516),” in Estudios sobre Málaga y el reino de Granada en
el V centenario de la conquista, ed. José E. López de Coca (Málaga: Diputación
Provincial, 1987), 199–213; Joaquín Centeno, Los jurados de Córdoba, 1454–
1579. Estudio jurídico-institucional (Córdoba: Publicaciones de la Universidad,
2000), 76.
14. Ibid., f. 75.
15. Antonio Sacristán, Municipalidades de Castilla y León. Estudio histórico-crítico
(Madrid: Instituto de Estudios de Administración Local, 1981), 289, 291.
16. Centeno, El control de la administración urbana . . ., 135–144.
17. Rafael Ramírez, Juan Rufo, jurado de Córdoba. Estudio biográfico y crítico
(Madrid: Hijos de Reus Editores, 1912; later re-edition: Valladolid: Editorial
Maxtor, 2002).
18. Archivo Municipal de Córdoba (AMCO), Fondos de Jurados, J-41, 9v.-10r.
Centeno, El control de la Administración Urbana . . ., 97–98.
19. Centeno, El control de la Administración Urbana . . ., 45.
20. Ibid., 59–89.
21. Manuel Cuesta, Oficios públicos y Sociedad. Administración urbana y relacio-
nes de poder en la Córdoba de finales del Antiguo Régimen (Córdoba: Univer-
sidad de Córdoba, 1997), 283.
22. José A. Gallego, “Soria, 1766: el problema de la representatividad y de la par-
ticipación en la vida pública,” Investigaciones históricas 8 (1998): 109–120.
23. Juan B. de Acevedo, El Thesoro de Regidores, donde sumariamente se trata de
la autoridad, calidades y obligaciones del oficio de regidor de estos Reinos de la
Corona de Castilla (Biblioteca Nacional de España, Ms. 269), 53 v.
24. María I. García, La Córdoba de Felipe II. Gestión financiera de un patrimonio
municipal e intervención política de una monarquía supranacional (Córdoba:
Universidad de Córdoba-CajaSur, 2003), vol. 1, 450.
25. Centeno, El control de la Administración Urbana . . ., 31–33.
26. Francisco Tomás y Valiente, “Ventas de oficios públicos en Castilla durante los
siglos XVII y XVIII,” in Gobierno e instituciones en la España del Antiguo Régi-
men (Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 1982), 151–177.
27. Cuesta, Oficios públicos y Sociedad . . ., 10–11.
28. José M. de Bernardo, “El régimen municipal en la Corona de Castilla,” in Studia
Histórica. Historia Moderna (Salamanca: Ediciones Universidad, 1996), vol. 15,
38–39.
29. Antonio Domínguez, “La comisión de D. Luis Gudiel para la venta de baldíos
de Andalucía,” in Congreso de Historia Rural siglos XV al XIX. Actas del Colo-
quio celebrado en Madrid, Segovia y Toledo del 13 al 16 de octubre de 1981
(Madrid: Casa de Velázquez y Universidad Complutense, 1984), 518.
30. Francisco Tomás y Valiente, “Las ventas de oficios de regidores y la formación
de las oligarquías urbanas en Castilla,” in Actas de las I Jornadas de metodología
aplicada de las ciencias históricas (Santiago de Compostela: Universidad de San-
tiago de Compostela, 1976), vol. 2, 551–568; Cuesta, Oficios públicos y Socie-
dad . . ., 300–301.
31. Ibid., 284, 307.
32. María A. Calvo, “Dos ejemplos de representación del estamento nobiliario en
la literatura del Siglo de Oro,” in Historia Moderna: Tendencias y proyecciones,
ed. María Luz González Mezquita (Mar del Plata: Universidad Nacional, 2013),
261–265.
33. Francisco J. Aranda, “Bases económicas y composición de la riqueza de una
oligarquía urbana castellana en la Edad Moderna: patrimonio y rentas de los
regidores y jurados de Toledo en el siglo XVII,” Hispania. Revista española de
Historia 52/3, no. 182 (1992): 863–914.
34. AMCO, Fondo de Jurados. Libro de Provisiones, J-41, 17.
35. Ibid., J-41, 228.
36. Ibid., J-33, 63.
37. Francisco J. Aranda, Poder municipal y cabildo de jurados en Toledo en la Edad
Moderna (Siglos XV-XVIII) (Toledo: Ayuntamiento de Toledo, 1992).
38. María I. García, La Córdoba de Felipe II . . ., vol. 1, 451–457. Fernando J.
Campese, La representación del Común en el Ayuntamiento de Sevilla (1766–
1808) (Seville: Universidades de Sevilla y Córdoba, 2005).
39. They thus succeeded in getting the city to appoint a watchman for the Arroyo
de San Lorenzo, a claim from the households of that collación (district) AMCO
Actas capitulares 23–8–1574.
40. José M. de Bernardo, El poder municipal y la organización política de la socie-
dad . . ., 19–20.
41. Ibid., 372–374.
42. García, La Córdoba de Felipe II . . ., vol. 1, 449–474.
43. José M. de Bernardo, “Las comisiones de los cabildos castellanos y las cuestio-
nes recurrentes de la toma de decisiones, de la representación y de la legitimi-
dad políticas en la Época Moderna,” in Jornades sobre les comissions de treball
de les institucions parlamentàries i representatives (segles XV-XX), ed. Maria
Betlem Castellá i Pujols (Barcelona: Universitat Pompeu Fabra, 15 and 16 Feb-
ruary 2013).
44. AMCO, Actas Capitulares, 13–1–1576 and 16–1–1576.
45. María I. García, La Córdoba de Felipe II . . ., vol. 2, 994–1003.
46. AMCO, Actas Capitulares, 19–3–1556 and 4–5–1556.
47. Ibid., 19 and 22–2–1588.
48. Cuesta, Oficios públicos y Sociedad. . . ., 321–326.
49. de Bofarull, Las antiguas cortes. El moderno parlamento, 77. José M. de Ber-
nardo, “Felipe V: la transformación de un sistema de gobierno,” in Felipe V y
su tiempo, ed. Eliseo Serrano (Zaragoza: Congreso Internacional, Institución
Fernando el Católico, 2004), vol. 1, 967–990.
50. Sacristán, Municipalidades de Castilla y León . . ., 441–442.
51. Ibid., 442, 443.
52. Antonio Castellano Gutiérrez, “Aportaciones al estudio de los jurados del con-
cejo de Jaén en la Baja Edad Media,” in La ciudad hispánica durante los siglos
XIII al XVI (Madrid: Universidad Complutense de Madrid, 1987), vol. 2,
149–163; José M. de Bernardo, “Las ordenanzas municipales y la formación
del Estado Moderno,” in La ciudad hispánica durante los siglos XIII al XVI.
Actas del coloquio celebrado en La Rábida y Sevilla del 14 al 19 de septiembre
de 1981 (Madrid: Universidad Complutense, 1987), vol. 3, 15–38.
53. AA.VV, El pactismo en la Historia de España. Simposio celebrado los días 24–26
de abril de 1978 en el Instituto de España (Madrid: Gráficas Soler, 1980); José
M. de Bernardo, Entre Carlos II de Austria y Felipe V de Borbón. Significación
de los cambios en la organización política de las sociedades (Córdoba: Publica-
ciones UCO & CajaSur, 2006).
Aranda, Francisco J. Poder municipal y cabildo de jurados en Toledo en la Edad
Moderna (Siglos XV-XVIII). Toledo: Ayuntamiento de Toledo, 1992.
Bernardo, José M. de. Entre Carlos II de Austria y Felipe V de Borbón. Significación
de los cambios en la organización política de las sociedades. Córdoba: Publicacio-
nes UCO y CajaSur, 2006.
Bofarull, Manuel de. Las antiguas cortes. El moderno parlamento. El régimen repre-
sentativo orgánico: Contribución a un estudio crítico acerca de la representación
política en España. Barcelona: Tipografía de la Revista de Archivos, Bibliotecas y
Museos, 1912.
Centeno, Joaquín. El control de la administración urbana. Evolución de los jurados
de Córdoba (1297–1834). Córdoba: Publicaciones UCO, Ayuntamiento y Caja-
Sur, 2006.
Donato, Francesco di. “La mediazione patriarcale nella monarchia assoluta. Muta-
zioni del sapere giuridico nella costruzione dello Stato moderno.” In Culture par-
lamentari a confronto. Modelli della rappresentanza politica e identità nacional,
edited by Andrea Romano, 83–98. Bologna: Clueb Casa editrice, 2016.
Fernández Albaladejo, Pablo. “La representación política en el Antiguo Régimen.” In
El Senado en la Historia, edited by Manuel Pérez Ledesma. Madrid: Servicio de
Publicaciones del Senado,1966.
García, María I. La Córdoba de Felipe II. Gestión financiera de un patrimonio
municipal e intervención política de una monarquía supranacional. Córdoba: Uni-
versidad de Córdoba-CajaSur, 2003.
Guillamón, F. Javier, and J. Javier Ruiz. “Guía de regidores y jurados de Murcia.”
In Sapere aude. El “Atrévete a pensar” en el Siglo de las Luces, edited by F. Javier
Guillamón and J. Javier Ruiz, 73–116. Murcia: Universidad de Murcia, 1996.
Lorenzana, Felipe. La representación política en el Antiguo Régimen. Las Cortes de
Castilla, 1655–1834. Madrid: Congreso de los Diputados, 2013.
Molina, Sebastián. Como hombres poderosos. Las oligarquías locales del corregimiento
de Chinchilla en el siglo XVII. Albacete: Instituto de Estudios Albacetenses, 2007.
Ramírez, Rafael. Juan Rufo, jurado de Córdoba. Estudio biográfico y crítico. Madrid:
Hijos de Reus Editores, 1912; later re-edition: Valladolid: Editorial Maxtor, 2002.
Sacristán, Antonio. Municipalidades de Castilla y León. Estudio histórico-crítico.
Madrid: Instituto de Estudios de Administración Local, 1981.
18 Political Participation and
Representation in the Basque
Country1
Susana Truchuelo
In recent times, analyses of political representation in traditional societies

have transcended the previous focus on representative institutions such as
parliaments, juntas (assemblies) and diets; thus, the limits of the very con-
cept of political representation have expanded notably. At the same time,
new historical perspectives are leaving behind the paradigm of the modern
state2 by embracing the constitutional pillars of the Ancien Régime, which
are necessarily based on the coexistence of unequal powers3 and on the
multifaceted nature of monarchy.4 This has led to the refinement of Koe-
nigsberger and Elliott’s idea of composite monarchy and Russell’s notion
of multiple kingdoms.5 The stress is thus on the plurality of powers and
the distribution of authority among multiple, individual or collective, socio-
political actors with different political roles under the sovereign power of
the king. Therefore, the concept of representation has increased to accept
this multiplicity and to adapt to the different channels of political interac-
tion that allowed these bodies to act in the name of others6 and to partici-
pate in decision-making processes.
Based on this twofold notion of the Ancien Régime, my analysis of politi-
cal representation in the Basque territories focuses on two different levels:
the local scale (councils and their representative institutions) and the territo-
rial scale (Juntas Generales [General Assembly] and, at a later date, Diputa-
ciones [representative permanent assembly]). The latter eventually evolved
into the formation of the Señorío of Biscay (Señorío de Vizcaya) first, and at
a later date and in that order, of the provinces of Guipúzcoa and Álava. My
research focuses on the coastal province of Guipúzcoa, in the Northeastern
Atlantic corner of the Crown of Castile, on the border with France. How-
ever, in order to gain a good understanding of the evolution of local coun-
cils and, more particularly, of territorial assemblies, other territories will
also have to be considered, especially Vizcaya but also, to a lesser extent,
Álava and other areas in Northern Atlantic Spain.7 All these regions were
governed at the local level and represented before the king by representative
assemblies. Regional representative assemblies slowly developed and were
consolidated in this region during the early modern age, but they were not
fully formed until the 18th century. These bodies were the Junta del Reino
Basque Participation and Representation 301
de Galicia, the Junta General del Principado de Asturias, the Junta General
del Señorío de Vizcaya, the Junta General de la Provincia de Guipúzcoa and
the Junta General de la provincia de Álava. Each of these bodies had their
own characteristics and ways of interacting with the local assemblies in their
territories and the Crown, but they also had common features which allow a
general characterisation of political representation in Northern Spain.
In all cases—except in modern Cantabria8—representation had an articu-
lated territorial basis and was organised around rural units or, more often,
villages that submitted the surrounding countryside to the control of the
urban council, which became the representative body for the whole area.9
In this regard, these corporations were no different to the Castilian Cortes,
which were organised around 18 cities in the 16th century (21 in the 17th
century) and which, in 1538, abandoned the three-estate model after the
nobility’s and the clergy’s desertion.10 Specifically, the Juntas of the King-
dom of Galicia were formed by seven provincial capitals (Santiago, Betan-
zos, Lugo, Mondoñedo, Orense, A Coruña and Tuy);11 the Junta General
del Principado of Asturias was formed by 58 councils;12 the Señorío de
Vizcaya was a little more complex, for it was formed by several territorial
blocks which included villages, a city and the countryside (Tierra Llana, lit-
erally “flatlands”); the Juntas Generales of the Province of Guipúzcoa were
formed, until the early 17th century, by 25 villages, three alcaldías mayores
and two valles reales;13 finally, the Juntas Generales of Álava were formed
by brotherhoods which included villages and esparsas, areas where mano-
rial power was still strong.14 In addition to the territory-based representa-
tive model, another common feature was the large number of petty nobility
or hidalgos. Although the only Basque areas which had a large number of
hidalgos, during the 16th and 17th centuries, were Vizcaya and Guipúzcoa,
this system was also extended to the whole territory and society of North-
eastern Atlantic Spain. The research presented in this chapter focuses on the
specific development and peculiarities shared by the status of the inhabit-
ants and their specific forms of representation in the Señorío de Vizcaya and
the Provincia de Guipúzcoa.15
The study of Juntas and councils is, therefore, a magnificent exercise
which can be undertaken to understand how power was organised in the
16th and 17th centuries. At the same time, this chapter also provides valu-
able insight into the strategies used by the king and the communities, the
ruler and the ruled, for dealing with sensitive auxilium et consilium issues:
for example, those concerned with fiscal and defence matters. Juntas and
councils in Northern Atlantic Spain are well known from an institutional
point of view: the origins, composition and operation of assemblies, insti-
tutional stability and change, and the power of local and territorial repre-
sentative assemblies. To be sure, these analyses have often been inspired by
a finalist spirit which has little to do with the political culture of the period.
Current research questions are more in tune with the political and institu-
tional premises of the Ancien Régime, and keep political praxis within the
302 Susana Truchuelo
framework of the polyhedric intellectual and political doctrines that charac-
terised the early modern age. Using this approach, our local and territorial
institutions, which are understood as spaces for dialogue, negotiation and
exchange,16 present a more diverse perspective on the history of political
representation in Europe, while also linking the governance of the Spanish
monarchy in general and that of those frontier and coastal territories.
The new historiographical trend aims to understand representative insti-
tutions of the Ancien Régime as fora in which the community is represented
and constantly being redefined. For this reason, when dealing with the Jun-
tas in Northern Atlantic Spain, which were territorial and not estate-based
(unlike those in the neighbouring Kingdom of Navarre),17 it is essential to
evaluate the strategies used to integrate and exclude individuals and local
corporations. It is also crucial to refine the chronology of the process that
led to the progressive definition of the unitary corporate nature of these
assemblies as well as the centrifugal effect of local families and bodies. This
is the framework of the tensions, triggered by the so-called Parientes Mayo-
res and head families (both tensions or banderías between prominent fami-
lies and between nobles and urban oligarchies) that dominated the Tierra
Llana and the elizates of Vizcaya as well as many villages and hamlets in
Guipúzcoa and their progressive disappearance.18 In Guipúzcoa, the high
aristocrats were ousted from their positions of privilege in the villages and
their Brotherhood, while they were also incorporated as equals into the
urban structures; in Vizcaya, on the other hand, they dissolved when the
status of hidalguía was extended to all Vizcaya-born persons in 1526. Par-
tisan strife—oñacinos vs. gamboínos—was deactivated in 1549, when the
practice of rotating the Señorío was institutionalised.19
Both territories underwent a slow process of territorial integration that
did not come to an end until the 1630s, with the institutional unification of
Vizcaya as the so-called Señorío de Vizcaya and the incorporation of 30 new
hamlets into the Juntas de Guipúzcoa. In Vizcaya, institutions were linked
to territorial blocks with 20 commercial villages (including Bilbao and
Durango, with their own Juntas) and a city (Orduña) at the head, and the
Tierra Llana, with its rural elizates and councils of the territory of Encarta-
ciones. In practice, the 72 representatives of the Tierra Llana gave this area
control of the Señorío, the Juntas Generales and the official positions. The
hidalgos from the vast territories that formed the Tierra Llana also pro-
moted the inclusion of their prerogatives in the so-called Fuero Viejo in
1452. This legal compilation, which was rewritten in 1526 (Fuero Nuevo),
was also applied in the cities and, therefore, was applicable to all inhabit-
ants of Vizcaya.20 Over time, this complex and imperfectly defined insti-
tutional structure came to be dominated by the delegated institutions that
depended on the Juntas de Vizcaya: the Regimiento General—or Gobierno
Universal del Señorío—was created in 1500. This formed the basis of the
Regimiento Particular (1570), which came to be known as Diputación Gene-
ral from 1645 onward,21 whose powers progressively increased, especially in
the 18th century. A similar process of power concentration can be attested
around the same period in the Diputación of Guipúzcoa.22
In Guipúzcoa, the shaping of a provincial body began in the late 15th cen-
tury; it was based on the old town Brotherhood and was made responsible
for the governance of sensitive frontier territory. This process was charac-
terised by the resistance of towns and their districts and hamlets, which
opposed the unitary representative model because of the unequal distribution
of power within the assembly. Analysing this conflict reveals the identity of
political actors, both individuals and collectives, as well as their mechanisms
of political negotiation.23 The late medieval conflict over the unitary repre-
sentative model in force in Guipúzcoa was crystallised in the rivalry between
heads of district and that between these districts and the hamlets under their
jurisdiction. This conflict was not confined to the local institutions, but also
spilled into the Juntas, the judicial court of the chancellery of Valladolid and
the Castile Council. The arguments presented told of constant excesses and
misgovernment, and were full of fiscal, economic, legal and military griev-
ances, as well as the political complaints about the lack of representatives
from the towns (villas) in the Juntas Generales and, in general, the little
weight carried by towns in decision-making processes. This underrepresen-
tation of the villas was caused by the proportional voting system, used in the
Juntas since the Middle Ages. This system gave the political upper hand to
the main towns (villas mayores) which had more votes, both for themselves
and for the villages and hamlets under their jurisdiction. These tensions,
which were still unresolved in the 16th century, underlined the contradic-
tion between the territory of Guipúzcoa, which was multi-corporative, and
the unitary nature of a provincial body that could be controlled by the main
towns—namely Tolosa, Segura, Villafranca, Fuenterrabía and, to a lesser
extent, San Sebastián.24
Both in Guipúzcoa and Vizcaya, these tensions were resolved in the 17th
century, with the mediation of the Crown through his representative, the
corregidor; corregidores fostered new covenants between local corpora-
tions.25 In Guipúzcoa, the exemption of hamlets in 1603, 1615 and 1629,
with the subsequent acquisition of village privileges and the incorporation
of 30 new villas into the Juntas, fundamentally modified the internal com-
position of the assembly: the increase in the number of delegates made for
a more complex, balanced and representative assembly, while also boosting
the political weight of San Sebastián. In Vizcaya, government organs, the
powers of the Señorío and the mechanisms to appoint officials remained
blurry until 1630. That year, the Tierra Llana and the villages signed a Con-
cordia which promoted territorial integration and brought about the end of
the previous imbalance by increasing the participation of the towns (villas)
in the Juntas Generales and also their incorporation into the Regimiento or
Gobierno Universal del Señorío; in fact, the territorial cohesion thus pro-
posed worked in favour of the position of Bilbao and the commercial inter-
ests favoured by the government of Vizcaya.
These dynamics confirmed the unitary nature of both assemblies, which
assumed the representation of the province as a whole, regardless of their
internal structure. At any rate, the process was slow in both territories,
and their polycentric nature was the dominating factor until well into the
17th century. This multifaceted character was reflected, for example, in the
rotation of the venue where the Juntas Generales de Guipúzcoa met, or in
the alternation of the seat of the Diputación and the corregidores between
several towns. As a consequence, during the 16th and 17th centuries, both
regions were marked by a polycentric political arrangement—based in cities
in Guipúzcoa and in the countryside in the Señorío—that coexisted with a
progressive bias towards the institution of a unitary political body. This bias
was clearest in Vizcaya where, in the 17th century, the universal status of
hidalguía became an overarching mark of identity that was legally protected
through the privileges granted by Charles V.26 In other Northern regions,
polycentrism was more diffuse and, although capital cities soon emerged
(La Coruña and Oviedo), other cities continued to play a role as interlocu-
tors with the Crown, which prevented the emergence of unitary bodies with
the political clout to assume a role as territorial representatives.
The dominant role played by local entities, which confronts us with a pre-
contemporary notion of representation, is also reflected in the powers of the
Junta delegates, which ultimately indicated whom they truly represented.
For instance, at the meeting of the Cortes in 1632, Philip IV demanded the
votes of the delegates be binding,27 an issue that was also at the centre of
some debates in Asturias; in 1594, it was established that delegates were
only representatives of the cities, and their vote was to be regarded as con-
sultative, but in 1696, they were identified as free delegates whose votes
were binding, which freed the Juntas from the control of the councils,28 in
line with the Crown’s wishes.29 Although we know for a fact that, in 16th-
century Guipúzcoa, Junta delegates represented urban universitas, it is still
uncertain whether the increase in royal authoritarianism in the 17th century
changed this political practice.
Each of the provincial entities in Northern Atlantic Spain was represented
before the king in its own way. Galicia and Asturias were represented by
the delegates for other cities—Zamora represented Galicia and Burgos rep-
resented Asturias—and tried constantly to have their own delegates and
votes. Only Galicia achieved this goal in 1617, after several unsuccessful
attempts.30 In contrast, the Basque provinces consolidated their particular
communication channels with the Crown; they were intentionally absent
from the Cortes of Castile, which allowed them to establish their own nego-
tiation frameworks, independently from any concession made by the Cortes.
Álava, from its side, objected to the province and the city of Vitoria being
represented by Burgos.31 This absence from the Cortes was used by Guipúz-
coa and its representatives at the court to declare itself exempt from the
millones tax in 1591.32 Likewise, in 1602, Álava stressed its exemption from
the millones voted by the Cortes “because [Álava] is its own province, like
Vizcaya and Guipúzcoa, and is not subject to the kingdom’s agreements”;33
a similar argument was put forward by Vizcaya to be declared free from
the anclaje tax in 1626.34 This direct link with the Crown also made for a
closer relationship with the king, who rewarded the loyalty of the territories
by defending them while protecting their commercial, military and, espe-
cially, fiscal privileges—derived from the universal status of hidalguía—in
the Crown of Castile. These privileges involved tax exemptions—associated
to aristocratic status—the limitation of military obligations to the defence of
the territory, and a diffuse set of commercial rights—essentially, exemption
from custom duties, which was justified by the barrenness of the land. These
privileges, which also determined the operation of the provincial representa-
tive assembly, were legally confirmed in Vizcaya at an early date, with the
1452 and 1526 fueros; in Guipúzcoa, this confirmation did not arrive until
much later, with the enactment of a foral code in 1696.
To what degree did the tendency to unitary representation lead, as it had
in other political arenas, to the territorialisation of government action in
these Juntas?35 In Guipúzcoa, the provincial assembly only assumed the
powers of the villages very slowly, and the process was not problem-free,
not in the least because territorial assembly acquiring these powers did not
mean that the villages and local corporations lost them. The analysis of
specific issues, such as military drafts, commercial and anti-smuggling poli-
cies, tax collection and the administration of justice at the local level reveals
that different attributions were assimilated at different paces; in reality, this
process was nothing but the emergence of an assembly of assemblies, aimed
at the common interest rather than individual local interest, which still car-
ried much weight in the 16th and 17th centuries. In this sense, the Basque
territories followed the same evolutionary path traversed by the Crown of
Castile which was, at a time, known as “territory without Cortes.”36
Directly in relation to political representation at the provincial level were
the local, urban-based, forms of representation. Local representative bod-
ies in the Basque Country have been paid much attention in recent years.37
These works have stressed the late emergence of the council institution of
the Regimiento, which was a limited government organ, and its coexistence
with open assemblies which, although to some extent under the control
of local oligarchies, had a wide representative base and preserved during
all periods under consideration their character as a representative body
and maximum urban government institution. The annual renewal of urban
officials (alcaldes, regidores, jurados, síndicos, escribanos, bolseros, etc.)
by sortition and lot before the general council, the prevention of venality
and the lack of corruption in local appointments meant that participation
was relatively open in local Basque corporations. These practices separated
the Basque councils from the Castilian corporations, which were progres-
sively falling under the control of local oligarchies and whose positions were
increasingly being hoarded by these same oligarchs. However, in the Basque
regions, participation was limited by restrictive eligibility criteria. Genre,
legal status, place of residence, ownership of real estate, literacy in Span-
ish and, especially, proof of hidalguía and cleanliness of blood, which had
to be demonstrated to a tribunal before assuming a position, were some of
the restrictions that limited participation in the political community, thus
promoting the consolidation of an oligarchic regime in the Basque towns.38
At any rate, the government of the local and provincial communitates, in a
region of generalised hidalguía, protected also by the foral law, were rela-
tively free from the rigid estate-based inequality of previous periods.
The analysis of the mechanisms in place to designate Junta delegates
has revealed that these positions were given, in fact, to members of urban
or rural oligarchies. These were people at the head of prominent families
who met the economic, statutory, residential, religious and cultural criteria
required for participation in the local and provincial governments and who
could, therefore, represent the community before other institutions. Further-
more, election systems were ambiguous and changeable, and were not put
in writing until quite late. In Vizcaya, elizate representatives were chosen by
sortition; these representatives were, in turn, associated with a party, which
was decided by the corporation. In Guipúzcoa, the election system used to
appoint the representative of each town in the Juntas meant that provincial
and urban oligarchies were identical: the delegate was chosen among the
members of the council Regimiento, while the Junta appointed the diputado
(representative of the province during the period between Juntas) among
the village delegates in turn; there was, consequently, no room for the cor-
regidor to intervene in the appointment of delegates or diputados, as hap-
pened in Vizcaya. For this reason, the studies which connect, in Guipúzcoa,
household, family, communities, towns, Juntas and Diputaciones by analys-
ing the appointment mechanism used to choose representatives for each of
these corporate spaces, identify, at a stroke, the local oligarchs who effec-
tively monopolised the local and provincial government institutions and
who directed political communication with the Crown. In a similar way,
town, elizate and council local elites in Vizcaya participated in the territorial
assemblies, which were consolidated from 1630 onwards. These oligarchies,
which had a wider base in the rural areas, acted as lobbies and assumed the
representation of the community in higher political institutions. This does
not mean that they always strove to obtain benefits for the community—
be it the town or the province—since they often acted in defence of their
private interests and those of their families.39 In any case, it is clear that
any analysis of political representation must always take the two scales,
local and provincial, into consideration, because both were marked by self-
reproducing oligarchic tendencies.
These oligarch-dominated local and territorial representative assemblies
were also juridical spaces in which different legal domains coexisted; these
were often complementary, but sometimes they were contradictory and even
exclusive. Following, albeit rather late, the example set by great Castilian
towns in the late Middle Ages, local and provincial regulations began to
be set down in writing. These codes regulated different aspects of commu-
nity life, especially in relation to government duties and the representation
of the political community. The transcription of these regulations involved
the normalisation and fixation of multiple consuetudinary rules,40 although
the dissemination and effectiveness of these instruments in government was
uneven.41 The express goal of these local regulations was to consolidate a
specific legal personality, oriented towards the common good,42 which was
understood in terms of utilitas, of the urban community and the universitas;
that is, the town was placed above individuals, even if they were consub-
stantial with the community.
A similar process of writing down and systematising fragmented regu-
lations occurred at the provincial level, and in this case, the process her-
alded the success and consolidation of the identity of a territorial state in
Vizcaya and Guipúzcoa. This identity reflected a provincial communitas,
with an autonomous legal and juridical status that went beyond anything
that had been achieved in Castile with the Cortes.43 The compilation of
rules took place in Vizcaya at a very early date, with the Fuero Viejo in
1452. The Fuero was consuetudinary in nature and closely linked with the
status of hidalguía, which lent legal strength to its norms—freedoms and
customs—especially after the printing of the Fuero Nuevo in 1528; the new
compilation had been prepared in 1525 and was endorsed by Charles V.
The compilation, royal endorsement and printing of the code exalted the
provincial norms of Vizcaya (it also codified the relationship between
the Crown and the province),44 giving the provincial bodies more clout
in their transactions with the Habsburgs. The rules from Guipúzcoa were
not endorsed by the Crown until Aramburu’s compilation in 1696, thus
confirming the consensual relationship between the Crown and the local
powers.
The definition of the juridical status of Vizcaya and Guipúzcoa, and of
their relationship with the Crown, occurred at a different pace; the process
took place earlier in Vizcaya than in Guipúzcoa, where increasing legal defi-
nition was a result of the resolution of the jurisdictional conflicts between
different actors (members of urban and provincial oligarchies), rivalries that
came to a head in the provincial and local assemblies. Juntas, Diputaciones,
Regimientos and open councils became arenas for discussing the royal ser-
vice, as well as local and provincial governmental matters. This government
was understood, both in discourse and in practice, as an oeconomica in
which the king played the mediating role of the pater familias. Within the
province, the Regimientos played a similar paternal (maternal in Guipúz-
coa) role. Representative assemblies were one of the channels of political
communication and were involved in conflict and resistance to royal power,
but they also acted as arenas for negotiation and consensus towards the
common good of the republic (the town, the province, the kingdom) which
was, in any case, ambiguous and poorly defined. This consensus, which was
often hard to attain, was achieved by implementing different strategies that
activated underlying personal and patronage relationships, especially in
moments of tension, caused by external fiscal and military impositions.45
Discourses, justifying the representative nature and the rule of the Juntas
Generales in both territories, their rhythms and contents, became progres-
sively more radical, and more stress was put on the contractual and recipro-
cal nature of political relationships—that is, on voluntary political bonds,
based on a covenant between the king and the community—always on the
premise that the rights of the Juntas were natural and existed before the con-
tract. These arguments are fully in character with modern political culture
and confirmed self-government institutions, the ample freedoms enjoyed by
the inhabitants of these territories and the marked contractual character of
the mutual bonds of loyalty, beginning with the royal confirmation of the
Fueros. The development of a Fueros theory began as early as the late 16th
century, but the principle of the king’s personal subjection to the pact was
not employed fully until 1631, when Mateo de Echávarri used it during the
salt tax revolt;46 in the case of Guipúzcoa, this argument was not put for-
ward until the tensions with the valido count-duke of Olivares reached their
peak after the taking of Fuenterrabía and, more radically still, in the 18th
century, after the concept was written into the prologue of the compilation
of the Fuero. The arguments are found in a memorandum, addressed by the
Province to the new King Philip V to argue against the creation of harbour
customs, which contravened the liberties and exemptions expressed in the
pact:
Because we did not enter the Crown of Castile by blood, conquest or

donation, but by the voluntary union of our towns and their covenant
with our master the king [. . .] the clauses of the union determined that
the fueros, privileges, liberties and freedoms were to be observed, and
were so signed, established and sworn, and from that time until now
have been preserved without breach or detriment of any sort.47
These discourses, which were also part of the government practice,48 made
loyalty relationships, the practice of auxilium et consilium and the effec-
tiveness of reciprocity mechanisms between non-equals compatible with the
exercise of extraordinary royal potestas in the context of war and financial
needs, which in turn determined the scale of the necessitas. These discourses
emerge time and time again during negotiations concerning tax levies or
military drafts; these services are always deemed voluntary, as well as
extraordinary and temporary. They must be approved by a superior (the
Juntas) under the principles of proportionality (capabilities) and just cause
(necessity, public utility). These arguments were identical to those used to
justify the extraordinary power of the king to, for example, impose taxes or
recruit troops. Another example of this contractual approach was the local
control of tax revenue, which was afterwards conceded by the assemblies as
a service to the king, so that the taxes would be invested in the defence of
the territory; a similar system was applied in the 18th century with the tax
levies authorised by the French provinces.49 In fact, in the Basque territories,
towns and, increasingly often, Juntas, became the arenas in which the do ut
des transactions took place, acting as stages for the exchange of services;
sometimes, the royal services were considered cases of royal grace and, at
other times, they were considered the expression of the natural law of these
communities.50
This form of political interaction was made possible through the opera-
tion of different formal spaces and instruments that facilitated the multilay-
ered communication of the various institutions and actors, including royal
agents and local authorities. However, this communication also required the
operation of informal mechanisms such as patronage networks, which were
seamlessly inserted in the institutions, including the provincial and local
councils, the communities and the families.51 Clients and patrons on the
one hand, and royal agents and territorial officials on the other, were gears
in a complex political game of representation that was fully active at the
heart of the Habsburg government; both the envoys of the Juntas Generales
(diputados, comisionados, nuncios or agents), who represented the inter-
est of the elite or of the province as a whole, and those of the king (jueces
delegados, corregidores, comisionados extraordinarios, soldiers and aristo-
crats) used formal and informal tools, either to protect provincial freedoms
or to impose obedience and ensure that the appropriate loyalty relationships
were respected.52 The strength of these networks was a determining fac-
tor in activating the hierarchical loyalty relationships and reciprocal duties
between non-equals.53
The consolidation of unitary political bodies during the 15th century led
to the emergence of agents whose function was to represent these assemblies
abroad;54 the position of these agents in courts and chancelleries was pro-
gressively consolidated throughout the 16th century.55 The first occasional
delegates to be sent to negotiate important issues for the province—called
emisarios or diputados—were followed by permanent envoys—nuncios—
from the three Basque provinces; often naturals from the provinces, who
were resident at court and were well versed in courtesan uses and pitfalls,
were chosen. However, these provincial representatives, who were present
not only at the court, but in other territories as well, did not fully supersede
the sending of representatives for each territorial block (Tierra Llana) or
town for the negotiation of specific aspects in the 17th century, which con-
firms the survival of local components. These representatives were chosen
from influential families, with influence both locally and at the court.
The representatives of the provinces at the court were at the centre of
this complex structure. These were people born in, or whose families were
natives of, the represented territories; they held important positions in the
political machinery of the court (as councillors, secretaries or pursers) and
were at the centre of the court’s patronage system. The Idiáquez, Echávarri,
Ibarra or Isasi were prestigious families from Vizcaya and Guipúzcoa, which
were permanently in contact with the king and held his trust. They advised
the king in his government duties, which put them in a position to request
favours, positions or political services, which were crystallised in the pres-
ervation of loyalty relationships in their respective territories; in turn, the
good offices of these agents increased their prestige even further, both at the
court and in their territories,. They acted as middlemen between the territo-
rial bodies and the royal power, sometimes defending the position of the
representative bodies before the king and other times making sure that these
bodies complied with the king’s wishes.
The combined actions, either formal or informal, of this wide array of
actors, worked in favour of the government of these frontier territories, and
allowed for negotiation and consensus to be achieved in critical periods
when tensions (internal or external to Juntas, Regimientos and open coun-
cils) were rife. Ultimately, the loyalty of these frontier territories made it
possible to consolidate all the socio-political units that formed this com-
plex structure; sometimes, these units were in open competition with one
another. The process that led to the consolidation of unitary bodies which
represented whole provinces, was, however, a one-way street, because it
played into the hands of the king and those oligarchs who controlled the
means for political communication.
In conclusion, the Basque territories are a particularly interesting frame-
work for the analysis of the plurality of forms of political representation and
channels of political communication in the Spanish monarchy; this plurality
coexisted with an array of subtle forces that tended towards unity, which we
have noted as operating at the provincial level. The interaction of centrifugal
and centripetal forces resulted in a complex mosaic of powers and jurisdic-
tions, which is very far away from the unified and consolidated representa-
tive institutions, glued together by a well-defined immemorial constitutional
nature, the ideology and practice of which was, in fact, a product of the
modern age.
Notes
1. This research has been sponsored by the Spanish National Research Program as
part of the Project, De la lucha de bandos a la hidalguía universal: transforma-
ciones sociales, políticas e ideológicas en el País Vasco (siglos XIV–XVI) (MEC
HAR2013–44093-P) directed by J. R. Díaz de Durana and the Basque Govern-
ment, Sociedad, poder y cultura (siglos XIV a XVIII), (IT896–16).
2. Wim Blockmans, “Les origines des États modernes en Europe, XIII–XVIIIe siè-
cles: état de la question et perspectives,” in Visions sur le développement des
États européens. Théories et historiographies de l’État Moderne, ed. Wim Block-
mans and Jean-Paul Genet (Roma: École Française de Rome, 1993), 1–14.
3. See the studies on political representation, compiled in Laura Casella, ed.,
Rappresentanze e territorio. Parlamento friulano e istituzioni rappresentative
territorial nell’Europa moderna (Udine: Forum, 2003), and especially the
work by Pedro Cardim, “Forme di rappresentanza nel sistema político del Por-
togallo dell’Antico Regime (secoli XVI–XVII),” in Rappresentanze e territory:
Parlamento friulano e istituzioni rappresentative territoriali nell'Europa moderna,
ed. Laura Casella (Udine: Forum, 2003), 187–214.
4. Pablo Fernández Albaladejo, La crisis de la Monarquía (Madrid: Marcial Pons,
Crítica, 2009); Xavier Gil Pujol, “Visión europea de la Monarquía española
como Monarquía compuesta, siglos XVI y XVII,” in Las monarquías del Anti-
guo Régimen, ¿monarquías compuestas?, ed. Conrad Russell (Madrid: Univer-
sidad Complutense, 1996), 65–95; Jon Arrieta, “Entre monarquía compuesta y
estado de las autonomías. Rasgos básicos de la experiencia histórica española
en la formación de una estructura política plural,” Ius Fugit: Revista interdisci-
plinar de estudios histórico-jurídicos 16 (2009–2010): 9–72.
5. “Composite state” in Helmut G. Koenigsberger, “Monarchies and Parliaments
in Early Modern Europe: Dominium Regale or Dominium Politicum et Regale,”
Theory and Society 5, no. 2 (mar. 1978): 191–217; “multiple kingdoms” in Con-
rad Russell, The Causes of the English Civil War (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1990); “composite monarchies” in John H. Elliott, “A Europe of Compos-
ite Monarchies,” Past and Present 137 (1992): 48–71.
6. Hanna Fenichel Pitkin, The Concept of Representation (Berkeley: University of
California Press, 1967).
7. Gregorio Monreal, Las instituciones públicas del Señorío de Vizcaya (hasta el
siglo XVIII) (Bilbao: Diputación de Vizcaya, 1974); José María Portillo, Monar-
quía y gobierno provincial. Poder y constitución en las Provincias Vascas (1760–
1808) (Madrid: Centro de Estudios Constitucionales, 1991); Susana Truchuelo,
Gipuzkoa y el poder real en la Alta Edad Moderna (Donostia-San Sebastián:
Diputación Foral de Gipuzkoa, 2004); for a general appraisal, see Gregorio
Monreal, “Las Cortes de Navarra y las Juntas Generales de Álava, Guipúzcoa y
Vizcaya,” in Contributions to European Parliamentary History, ed. Joseba Agi-
rreazkuenaga and Mikel Urquijo (Bilbao: Juntas Generales de Bizkaia, 1999),
25–59.
8. Juan Baró, “La relación monarquía reinos: la administración del territorio en
la Cantabria de la época moderna,” in Teoría y práctica de gobierno en el Anti-
guo Régimen, ed. Regina María Pérez Marcos (Madrid: Marcial Pons, 2001),
175–194.
9. Wim Blockmans, “A Tipology of Representative Institutions in Late Medieval
Europe,” Journal of Medieval History 4 (1978): 189–215.
10. José Ignacio Fortea, Monarquía y Cortes en la Corona de Castilla: las ciudades
ante la política fiscal de Felipe II (Valladolid: Cortes de Castilla y León, 1990);
Las Cortes de Castilla y León bajo los Austrias. Una interpretación (Valladolid:
Junta de Castilla y León, 2008).
11. Antonio Eiras Roel, ed., Actas de las Juntas del Reino de Galicia (Santiago de
Compostela: Xunta de Galicia, 1995); Manuel María de Artaza, Rey, reino y
representación: la Junta General del Reino de Galicia (1599–1834) (Madrid:
CSIC, 1998).
12. Carmen Muñoz de Bustillo, “Asturias, cuerpo de provincia,” Anuario de Histo-
ria del Derecho Español 62 (1992): 355–476; Alfonso Menéndez, Elite y poder:
la Junta General del Principado de Asturias (1594–1808) (Oviedo: Instituto de
Estudios Asturianos, 1992); Marta Friera Alvarez, “La Junta general del Prin-
cipado de Asturias a fines del antiguo régimen,” Boletín del Real Instituto de
Estudios Asturianos 155 (2000): 45–78.
13. Susana Truchuelo, La representación de las corporaciones locales guipuzcoanas
en el entramado político provincial (siglos XVI–XVII) (Donostia-San Sebastián:
Diputación Foral de Gipuzkoa, 1997).
14. Antonio Bombín, “Las Juntas Generales de Álava en la Edad Moderna,” in Jun-
tas Generales de Álava. Pasado y presente, ed. César González Mínguez (Vitoria-
Gasteiz: Juntas Generales de Álava, 1995), 49–67.
15. José Ramón Díaz de Durana, Anonymous Noblemen: The Generalization of
Hidalgo Status in the Basque Country (1250–1525) (Turnhout: Brepols, 2011);
José Ramón Díaz de Durana and Alfonso Otazu, “L’hidalguía universelle au
Pays Basque à la fin du Moyen Âge,” Histoire @ Sociétés rurales 35 (2011):
59–77; Jon Arrieta, “Nobles, libres e iguales, pero mercaderes, ferrones . . . y
frailes. En torno a la historiografía sobre la hidalguía universal,” Anuario de
Historia del Derecho Español 84 (2014): 799–842.
16. Michel Hébert, Parlementer. Assemblées représentatives et échange politique en
Europe occidentale à la fin du Moyen Âge (Paris: Éditions de Boccard, 2014).
17. Alfredo Floristán, “Adaptaciones divergentes: Las Cortes de Navarra y los ‘États
de Navarre’ (siglos XV–XVIII),” Anuario de Historia del Derecho Español 77
(2007): 177–253.
18. José Ramón Díaz de Durana, “Luchas sociales y luchas de bandos en el País
Vasco durante la Baja Edad Media,” Historiar 3 (1999): 154–171; La lucha
de bandos en el País Vasco: de los Parientes Mayores a la Hidalguía Universal
(Bilbao: UPV-EHU, 1998).
19. Juan José Laborda, El Señorío de Vizcaya (Madrid: Marcial Pons, 2012),
170–171.
20. Gregorio Monreal, William A. Douglass and Linda White, The Old Law of
Bizkaia (1452): Introductory Study and Critical Edition (Reno: University of
Nevada, 2005); Arsenio Dacosta and José Ramón Díaz de Durana, “Political
Identities in Conflict: The Lordship of Vizcaya in the Fourteenth and Fifteenth
Centuries,” Journal of Medieval Iberian Studies 7, no. 1 (2015): 112–134.
21. Mikel Zabala, “Los orígenes de la Diputación de Bizkaia: de los diputados gene-
rales a la Diputación General,” in Historia de la Diputación Foral de Bizkaia,
ed. Joseba Agirreazkuenaga and Eduardo Alonso (Bilbao: Diputación Foral de
Bizkaia, 2014), 71–108.
22. Truchuelo, Gipuzkoa, 548–555; Portillo, Monarquía. Another example may be
found in the Cortes of Castile, José Ignacio Fortea, “An Unbalanced Representa-
tion: The Nature and Functions of the Cortes of Castile in the Habsburg Period
(1538–1698),” in Realities of Representation: State Building in Early Modern
Europe and European America, ed. Maija Jansson (New York: Palgrave Mac-
Millan, 2007), 155–156.
23. Susana Truchuelo, “Villas y aldeas en el Antiguo Régimen: conflicto y consenso
en el marco local castellano,” Mundo Agrario 14, no. 27 (dic. 2013): 1–39.
24. Truchuelo, Representación.
25. Helen Nader, Liberty in Absolutist Spain: The Habsburg Sale of Towns, 1516–
1700 (Baltimore & London: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1990); Juan
E. Gelabert, “Cities, Towns and Small Towns in Castile, 1500–1800,” in Small
Towns in Early Modern Europe, ed. Peter Clark (Cambridge: Cambridge Uni-
26. Laborda, Señorío de Vizcaya, 230.
27. José Ignacio Fortea, “Las ciudades, las Cortes y el problema de la representación
política en la Castilla moderna,” in Imágenes de la diversidad: el mundo urbano
en la Corona de Castilla (s. XVI–XVIII), ed. José Ignacio Fortea (Santander:
Universidad de Cantabria, 1997), 435–441.
28. Juan Baró, “La relación Rey-Reino: los medios de control de las Juntas de la
Cantabria histórica y del Principado de Austrias frente al poder regio en los
siglos modernos,” Historia Iuris 1 (2014): 463.
29. Pablo Fernández Albaladejo, “La representación política en el Antiguo Régimen,”
in El Senado en la Historia (Madrid: Secretaría General del Senado, 1998), 105.
30. Ofelia Rey Castelao, “La articulación territorial peninsular: un estado de la
cuestión,” in Actas de la XI Reunión de la Fundación Española de Historia
Moderna (Granada: FEHM, 2012), 66–96.
31. Archivo del Territorio Histórico de Alava (ATHA), DH 257–39.
32. Truchuelo, Gipuzkoa.
33. Archivo Histórico Nacional de Madrid, Consejos Suprimidos, leg. 43412,
exp. s/n.
34. Francisco Elías de Tejada and Gabriela Percopo, La Provincia de Guipúzcoa
(Madrid: Minotauro, 1965), 124–125.
35. Stéphane Durand, “La territorialisation de l’action des états de Languedoc
(XVII-XVIIIe siècles),” Siècles 30 (2009): 31–45.
36. Pablo Fernández Albaladejo and Julio A. Pardos, “Castilla territorio sin Cortes,
s. XV-XVII,” Revista de las Cortes generales 15 (1988): 113–210.
37. For a general appraisal, see Rosario Porres, “Elites sociales y poder local en el
País Vasco durante el Antiguo Régimen: estado de la cuestión y perspectivas,” in
Elites, poder y red social: las élites del País Vasco y Navarra en la Edad Moderna,
ed. José María Imízcoz (Bilbao: UPV-EHU, 1996), 101–118.
38. Rosario Porres, “Oligarquías y poder municipal en las villas vascas en tiempos
de los Austrias,” Revista de Historia Moderna 10 (2001): 313–354.
39. Francesco Benigno, “Persistere, resistere: Parlamenti italiani e Monarchia degli
Asburgo,” in Favoriti e ribelli. Stili della politica barocca (Roma: Bulzoni,
2011), 153.
40. Antonio M. Hespanha, “Sabios y rústicos. La dulce violencia de la razón
jurídica,” in La gracia del derecho. Economía de la cultura en la Edad Moderna
(Madrid: Centro de Estudios Constitucionales, 1993), 29.
41. Susana Truchuelo, “Prolifération documentaire et efficacité administrative à
Guipúzcoa aux XVe-XVIIe siècle),” in Écritures grises. Les instruments de travail
administratif en Europe méridionale (XIIe-XVIIe siècle), ed. Arnaud Fossier,
Johann Petitjean and Clémence Revest (Roma: Collection de l’Ecole française
de Rome and et Ecole nationale des Chartes, forthcoming).
42. Élodie Lecuppre-Desjardin and Anne-Laure Van Bruaene, eds., De bono communi:
The Discourse and Practice of the Common Good in the European City (13th–
16th c.) (Turnhout: Brepols, 2010).
43. Albaladejo, “La representación política,” 100.
44. As in the kingdom of Aragon, Hebert, Parlementer, 508–509.
45. A practical case in Susana Truchuelo, “Gobernar territorios en tiempo de guerra:
la mediación de las oligarquías en la Monarquía de los Habsburgo,” Revista
Escuela de Historia 12 (2013): 1–20.
46. Laborda, Señorío de Vizcaya, 235–236.
47. Biblioteca de la Real Academia de la Historia, Colección Salazar y Castro
M-102, fol. 8.
48. Julian Swann, Provincial Power and Absolute Monarchy: The Estates General of
Burgundy, 1661–1790 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003).
49. Marie Laure Legay, Les États provinciaux dans la construction de l’Etat Moderne
(Genève: Librairie Droz, 2001).
50. Susana Truchuelo, “La norma, la práctica y los actores políticos: el gobierno
de los territorios desde la historia del poder,” in Los vestidos de Clío. Métodos
y tendencias recientes de la historiografía modernista española (1973–2013),
éd. Ofelia Rey and Fernando Suárez (Santiago de Compostela: Universidad de
Santiago de Compostela, 2015), 1199–1214.
51. José María Imízcoz, dir., Elites, poder y red social. Las elites del País Vasco y
Navarra en la Edad Moderna (estado de la cuestión y perspectivas) (Bilbao:
UPV-EHU, 1996); Redes familiares y patronazgo. Aproximación al entramado
social del País Vasco y Navarra en el Antiguo Régimen (siglos XV–XIX) (Bilbao:
UPV-EHU, 2001).
52. Xavier Gil, “The Good Law of a Vassal: Fidelity, Obedience and Obligation in
Habsburg Spain,” in Forms of Union: The British and Spanish Monarchies in
the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries, ed. Jon Arrieta and John H. Elliott
(Donostia-San Sebastián: Eusko Ikaskuntza, 2009), 83–106.
53. Hespanha, “La economía de la gracia,” 159–163; Bartolomé Clavero, Antidora.
Antropología católica de la economía moderna (Milan: Giuffrè, 1991).
54. Alberto Angulo, “Embajadas, agentes, congregaciones y conferencias: la proyec-
ción exterior de las provincias vascas (siglos XV-XIX),” in Delegaciones de Eus-
kadi (1936–1975). Antecedentes históricos de los siglos XVI al XIX, origen y
desarrollo (Vitoria-Gasteiz: Gobierno Vasco, 2010), 24–58.
55. Alberto Angulo and Imanol Merino, “La gestión del Señorío de Vizcaya en el
Imperio (1590–1640). La proyección política de su representación y defensa,”
in Campo y campesinos en la España Moderna. Culturas políticas en el mundo
hispano, ed. María José Pérez Álvarez and Laureano M. Rubio (León: FEHM,
2012), vol. 2, 1781–1791.
Angulo, Alberto. “Embajadas, agentes, congregaciones y conferencias: la proyección
exterior de las provincias vascas (siglos XV-XIX).” In Delegaciones de Euskadi
(1936–1975). Antecedentes históricos de los siglos XVI al XIX, origen y desa-
rrollo, 24–58. Vitoria-Gasteiz: Gobierno Vasco, 2010.
Arrieta, Jon. “Entre monarquía compuesta y estado de las autonomías. Rasgos
básicos de la experiencia histórica española en la formación de una estructura
política plural.” Ius Fugit: Revista interdisciplinar de estudios histórico-jurídicos
16 (2009–2010): 9–72.
Benigno, Francesco. “Persistere, resistere: Parlamenti italiani e Monarchia degli
Asburgo.” In Favoriti e ribelli. Stili della politica barocca, 147–163. Roma: Bul-
zoni, 2011.
Blockmans, Wim. “A Tipology of Representative Institutions in Late Medieval
Europe.” Journal of Medieval History 4 (1978): 189–215.
Casella, Laura, ed. Rappresentanze e territorio. Parlamento friulano e istituzioni rap-
presentative territorial nell’Europa moderna. Udine: Forum, 2003.
Dacosta, Arsenio, Díaz de Durana, and José Ramón. “Political Identities in Conflict:
The Lordship of Vizcaya in the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries.” Journal of
Medieval Iberian Studies 7, no. 1 (2015): 112–134.
Díaz de Durana, José Ramón. Anonymous Noblemen: The Generalization of Hidalgo
Status in the Basque Country (1250–1525). Turnhout: Brepols, 2011.
Durand, Stéphane. “La territorialisation de l’action des états de Languedoc (XVII-
XVIIIe siècles).” Siècles 30 (2009): 31–45.
Elliott, John H. “A Europe of Composite Monarchies.” Past and Present 137 (1992):
48–71.
Fernández Albaladejo, Pablo. “La representación política en el Antiguo Régimen.” In
El Senado en la Historia. Madrid: Secretaría General del Senado, 1998.
Fernández Albaladejo, Pablo. La crisis de la Monarquía. Madrid: Marcial Pons,
Crítica, 2009.
Floristán, Alfredo. “Adaptaciones divergentes: Las Cortes de Navarra y los ‘États de
Navarre’ (siglos XV-XVIII).” Anuario de Historia del Derecho Español 77 (2007):
177–253.
Fortea, José Ignacio. “An Unbalanced Representation: The Nature and Functions
of the Cortes of Castile in the Habsburg Period (1538–1698).” In Realities of
Representation: State Building in Early Modern Europe and European America,
edited by Maija Jansson, 149–169. New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2007.
Gil, Xavier. “The Good Law of a Vassal: Fidelity, Obedience and Obligation in
Habsburg Spain.” In Forms of Union: The British and Spanish Monarchies in the
Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries, edited by Jon Arrieta and John H. Elliott,
83–106. Donostia-San Sebastián: Eusko Ikaskuntza, 2009.
Hébert, Michel. Parlementer. Assemblées représentatives et échange politique en
Europe occidentale à la fin du Moyen Âge. Paris: Éditions de Boccard, 2014.
Hespanha, Antonio M. “Sabios y rústicos. La dulce violencia de la razón jurídica.”
In La gracia del derecho. Economía de la cultura en la Edad Moderna, 17–60.
Madrid: Centro de Estudios Constitucionales, 1993.
Imízcoz, José María, dir. Redes familiares y patronazgo. Aproximación al entramado
social del País Vasco y Navarra en el Antiguo Régimen (siglos XV–XIX). Bilbao:
UPV-EHU, 2001.
Laborda, Juan José. El Señorío de Vizcaya. Madrid: Marcial Pons, Crítica, 2012.
Legay, Marie Laure. Les États provinciaux dans la construction de l’Etat Moderne.
Genève: Librairie Droz, 2001.
Monreal, Gregorio. Las instituciones públicas del Señorío de Vizcaya (hasta el siglo
XVIII). Bilbao: Diputación de Vizcaya, 1974.
Nader, Helen. Liberty in Absolutist Spain: The Habsburg Sale of Towns, 1516–1700.
Baltimore & London: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1990.
Pitkin, Hanna Fenichel. The Concept of Representation. Berkeley: University of
California Press, 1967.
Porres, Rosario. “Oligarquías y poder municipal en las villas vascas en tiempos de
los Austrias.” Revista de Historia Moderna 10 (2001): 313–354.
Portillo, José María. Monarquía y gobierno provincial. Poder y constitución en las
Provincias Vascas (1760–1808). Madrid: Centro de Estudios Constitucionales,
1991.
Rey Castelao, Ofelia. “La articulación territorial peninsular: un estado de la
cuestión.” In Actas de la XI Reunión de la Fundación Española de Historia Mod-
erna, 66–96. Granada: FEHM, 2012.
Swann, Julian. Provincial Power and Absolute Monarchy: The Estates General of
Burgundy, 1661–1790. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003.
Truchuelo, Susana. La representación de las corporaciones locales guipuzcoanas
en el entramado político provincial (siglos XVI–XVII). Donostia-San Sebastián:
Diputación Foral de Gipuzkoa, 1997.
Truchuelo, Susana. Gipuzkoa y el poder real en la Alta Edad Moderna. Donostia-
San Sebastián: Diputación Foral de Gipuzkoa, 2004.
Truchuelo, Susana. “Gobernar territorios en tiempo de guerra: la mediación de las
oligarquías en la Monarquía de los Habsburgo.” Revista Escuela de Historia 12
(2013): 1–20.
Representation in a Polycentric
Monarchy of Urban Republics
19 Urban Republicanism and
Political Representation in the
Spanish Monarchy*
Manuel Herrero Sánchez
Republicanism in modern Europe has received considerable attention in

recent years. Perspectives on republicanism oscillate between what we could
define as the Anglo-Saxon, Machiavellian-based approach1 and a more prag-
matic and less theoretical model characterised by what Mary Lindemann
has recently defined as “merchants republics,” the most obvious example of
which are the United Provinces.2 Both perspectives are grounded in a rigid
binary conceptualisation of the matter. According to this perspective, the
few republican systems stood as a bulwark of resistance against the modern
state’s absolutist tendencies.
The virtuous citizen described by Pocock defended the common good by
creating channels for political participation (vivere civile) capable of safe-
guarding the republic from the arbitrary domination mechanisms that char-
acterised monarchies (vivere libero). In André Holenstein, Thomas Maissen
and Maarten Prak’s comparison of the United Provinces and the Helvetic
Confederation, both federations are presented as a modernising alternative
to dynastic systems. Wim Blockmans and Jean-Claude Genet’s The Origins
of the Modern State in Europe (1996) includes a contribution by Ann Kath-
erine Isaacs and Maarten Prak, in which a general explicative framework
for this issue is presented;3 despite being long and over-simplistic, it should
be reproduced in full, for it remains the dominant model:
“Broadly speaking, dynastic states tended to have economies dominated

by agriculture, the elites were rural (nobility) rather than urban (bour-
geoisie) and they were better at waging war than doing business—an
activity that they associated with social declassification. The list also
suggests that dynastic states did their business via regulation rather than
competition, that they were more at home in their territories than in
networks, hence in a continuous rather than fragmented geographical
situation. That was one reason for religious unity, while federation of
relatively small autonomous territories and urban centres of comparable
size favoured religious variety and more generally political fragmenta-
tion and competition. Or, to look at it from the republican perspective,
republics—especially if they were federate—were forced to find shared
solutions for structural and political problems and were thus compelled
320 Manuel Herrero Sánchez
to collaborate, whereas dynastic (and Absolutist) states could dominate.
The republics used local and regional authorities as the foundation for
their government, while dynastic states were much more centralised.”4
Republican systems are thus pitched against the unitary, centralising model
represented by—the classic and stereotypical view of—French absolutism.
This, according to James Collins, explains the total absence of French politi-
cal thought in the Cambridge School’s account of republicanism, despite the
persistence of a strongly republican language in French cities even during
the reign of Louis XIV.5
More surprising still is the close identification between the French dynastic
model and the Spanish monarchy, which is presented as another antago-
nist of the ideal of self-government represented by republican models.
Although this complex territorial conglomerate under the authority of
Catholic monarchs shared many of the characteristics included in Isaacs
and Prak’s explicative framework (high levels of urbanisation; marked ter-
ritorial fragmentation; considerable degree of local autonomy; competition
between different territories; difficulty in imposing internal protectionist
barriers; and the articulating role played by wide and largely urban-based
transnational networks formed by merchants, bureaucrats, courtesans and
soldiers), emphasis is often laid on the incompatibility between the defence
of urban liberties and the imperial conglomerate of the Habsburgs.
This imperial structure, then, is generally described as one of the most
eloquent examples of a bureaucratic, coercive apparatus, dominated by a
steadfast spirit of religious intolerance. In this view, the Spanish Catholic
monarchy matched the model drafted by Charles Tilly and Wim Blockmans,
according to which the modern state rested on the concentration of power
in the hands of the sovereign, at the expense of local authorities, the nobil-
ity and municipal autonomy and liberties. The revolt of the Low Countries
against Phillip II’s policies in turn led to the creation of the United Provinces,
which demonstrates the role of the city as the last centre of resistance in the
face of the growing power of monarchs and, especially, the incompatibility
between dynastic structures and republican models.6
Recently, we have challenged this unilineal and teleological narrative.
Based on the analysis of multiple actors—many of which have been margin-
alised in previous studies on republicanism—we emphasise the polysemous
nature of the concept, and the close bonds of dependence and cooperation
that existed between dynastic and republican systems, which are expression
of the extraordinary degree of fragmentation and complexity of the state of
the Ancien Régime.7
1. The Spanish Monarchy: A Polycentric Monarchy of Urban

Republics
Based on these premises, the purpose of this chapter is to challenge the
classic axiom that claims that increasingly strong royal power and the
Urban Republicanism 321
development of urban autonomy are essentially incompatible. Without this
challenge, the variety of forms of political representation in the Spanish
monarchy can hardly be explained. Following Helen Nader’s incisive argu-
ments about the Kingdom of Castile, arguments that can be extrapolated
to the rest of territories under the jurisdiction of the Catholic monarchs, I
argue that the proliferation of strong urban centres contributed to consoli-
dation of the authority of the sovereign, “because town liberty and royal
absolute power were necessary for each other.”8 In fact, the foundation of
cities, which were understood as the most adequate way of safeguarding the
common good and organising the new communities that joined the impe-
rial structure, was the mechanism chosen to legitimise the conquest of new
territories in America and the incorporation of Indian peoples through the
creation of a broad typology of “republics of Indians.” As Ana Díaz Serrano
has rightly pointed out, a single jurisdictional and institutional figure, that
of the cabildo and the “republic of Indians,” embraced a large variety of
local forms of organisation, the shape of which was heavily determined by
local pre-Spanish traditions and the work of the religious orders in charge
of evangelisation.9
This, therefore, is a veritable monarchy of urban republics, a structure in
which cities are the key forum for the negotiation and renovation of politi-
cal consensus with the king. The Spanish monarchy included some of the
most intensely urbanised regions in the continent (the Low Countries, the
Duchy of Milan and the Kingdom of Castile, where the proportion of urban
population—people living in cities with a population of 5,000 or more—
was in excess of 12%), and some of the most dynamic cities of the age, such
as Naples, Seville, Antwerp, Mexico, Barcelona, Lima, Messina and Brus-
sels. These urban centres were in a permanent state of renewal and mutual
competition, and their vitality was not curtailed by the creation of the royal
court in Madrid in 1561, and the construction of the polysynodial insti-
tutional apparatus of the monarchy. As pointed out by Irving Thompson,
the Spanish monarchy was not a homogenous community of citizens but a
progressive aggregation of cities whose inhabitants, despite being vassals of
the same king, identified first and foremost with their respective cities and
spaces of political representation.10
The Spanish monarchy was the result of a long and complex process of
aggregation and conquest which resulted in the incorporation of myriad
territories, each with its own laws, privileges, freedoms, currencies and
political institutions.11 To a large extent, one of the things that made the
system attractive was the Habsburgs’ tolerant attitude towards the identity
of the territories under their sovereignty; the slightest deviation from this
policy was the cause of political contention. As demonstrated by the Comu-
nidades of Castile in the 1520s, the Dutch revolt that raged between 1566
and the re-conquest of the southern provinces in the 1580s, and the Catalo-
nian, Neapolitan and Sicilian rebellions in the mid-17th century, order was
generally reinstated following a royal pardon and the renewalof political
consensus.12 The king never aspired to enjoy full sovereignty, as defined
in the project launched by Jean Bodin in France in the mid-16th century,
but had to act as the supreme judicial authority, whose main responsibil-
ity was to guarantee equity within each of the bodies that made up the
republic and to re-establish order through the exercise of royal grace. The
king was, therefore, the head of a plural and polycentric political structure
characterised by the dispersion of administrative and judicial functions; all
the elements that made up the whole took active part in the government
of the state, each within their own exclusive area of jurisdiction.13 For this
fragmented sovereignty to be viable, the highest political institutions must
recognise the existence of these exclusive areas of jurisdiction and of the
subjects and corporations that exercised them, the belonging of each of
these bodies to the whole being possible only because each of them stood
by themselves as a societas civilis cum imperio.14 As pointed out in the early
17th century by Agustín de Rojas Villandrando, the stability of the political
body depended on the king’s ability as a conductor, bringing harmony to
the different components:
A republic is a just government made up of many elements that can

be compared to musical instruments; all parts must be harmoniously
combined in a sweet music, and all dissonance avoided. If such a thing
is achieved, republics will be unassailable, but if discordance emerges
between the king and his subjects, the harmonious concert which gov-
ernment should resemble becomes impossible.15
2. Corporate Society and Political Representation

The monarchy was thus configured as a corporate and markedly hierarchi-
cal aggregate, at the head of which stood the king, the ultimate depositary
of sovereignty. This resulted in a mixed and balanced form of government,
as clearly expressed by Neo-Scholastic political doctrines that postulated the
cession of sovereignty from God to the king through the people. According
to these theories, the body of the republic was an aggregate of multiple parts,
and each of these had not only the authority but also the duty to contribute
to the common good.16 Following the political conflicts that flared in Cas-
tile during the minority of Charles II, the supporters of Juan José of Austria
circulated a pamphlet in which these principles were eloquently expressed:
“We are all part of this political body, and is a natural tendency of each
part to contribute to the health of the whole, even at its own private
cost [. . .] It is only natural that the private convenience be subordinated
to the common good [. . .] each body must risk private ruin in order to
ensure the good health of the whole [. . .] and the head must be cured
(within the limits set by loyalty) inasmuch as the head is the source of
distillations that have a pernicious effect on the rest of the body [. . .] so
the people’s voice is God’s voice.”17
The stability of the whole, therefore, did not rely on a dangerous concen-
tration of power on the head. The freedom of action of the sovereign was
restricted by a wide variety of moral and jurisdictional limitations. Should
these limits be violated, the deposition of the monarch, and even tyranni-
cide, were considered legitimate courses of action.18 As rightly pointed out
by Victor Egío in his study of Fernando Vázquez de Menchaca, this form
of republicanism was not only based on the ideology of virtue, but on a
solid jurisdictional doctrine that made no compromise in the defence of
legal guarantees and the equilibrium of the different social bodies.19 The
ideas of Vázquez de Menchaca and those of Francisco de Vitoria about the
ius communicationis provided the foundation for the doctrines put forward
by the Calvinist theologian Johannes Althusius. These ideological overlaps
reveal the strong links between two cultural spaces that are often described
as antagonistic. The concept of symbiotic consociation proposed by Althu-
sius made no distinction between monarchies and republics, and explicitly
related the harmonious operation of legitimate states to the active partici-
pation of all the bodies that made up the community and shared the sover-
eignty. The full autonomy of the parts (corporations, cities or provinces) and
a scrupulous respect towards their respective spaces of representation were
the pillars that ensured the communication between the parts as well as the
principles of unity and diversity.20
It is also true that Althusius’s belief in the supremacy of the ius divinum
and the Old Testament instilled his political thought with a confessional
element that was at odds with the pre-eminence of ius naturale advocated
by the School of Salamanca and Neo-Scholasticism, the sources of prevalent
doctrine in the Catholic world.21 Within the Catholic monarchy, religious
homogeneity was considered a critical prerequisite of internal stability. As
such, Catholicism was a key element for the cohesion of the dispersed ter-
ritories that made up the empire, and one of the main justifications for the
Crown’s aggressive foreign policy. This notwithstanding, as pointed out by
Giovanni Levi, Catholic political doctrine defended the free will of local
political communities, which was a crucial factor in stimulating their incor-
poration into such a vast imperial structure composed of multiple politi-
cal systems with widely diverse forms of representation. The sovereign was
forced to respect the governmental models adopted by each of the domin-
ions under his jurisdiction, and could only aspire to change them with the
subjects’ consent expressed through different organs of representation at
local level: “[T]he blood that ran through the empire’s veins was communal,
and in this sense, republican.”22
The political participation of the different corporations that made up this
complex political structure crystallised in a bewildering variety of assem-
blies, communities, brotherhoods, confraternities, universities and guilds, all
of which were governed by their own rules. One of the main aspirations of
these associations was to defend their exclusive privileges and, as empha-
sised by Olivier Christin in his analysis of the French case, voting systems
were a standard procedure.23 This vivere civile, as Irving Thompson has
rightly pointed out, was also manifest in the fact that the representatives of
municipal and rural councils, as well as the officials working for the royal
councils and the deputies sitting in territorial parliaments, were well versed
in the theological doctrines that lay at the foundations of the political prin-
ciples, the ius commune and the history and legal framework of their respec-
tive institutions.24 There is little doubt that fiscal policiy was one of the most
frequently debated topics; in fact, tax policies ended up becoming the main
issue for representative assemblies. The Crown’s growing military commit-
ments and the related increase in fiscal demands triggered an acute contro-
versy between those who believed that the citizens’ consent was essential in
this matter and those who considered that it was only conditional, and that
the final word corresponded to the king alone. As rightly stressed by Charles
Jago, referring to the example of Castile, the republican and constitutional-
ist stance was preferred in virtually all of the Catholic king’s dominions. As
explicitly pointed out by Juan de Mariana:
the king must never believe that he owns the republic or his vassals [. . .]
he must, indeed, believe that he is the head of the state, and as such he
will be given a pension in the terms decided by the citizens, and must on
no account dare to increase it without the people’s consent.25
3. A Motley Aggregation of Spaces of Representation

To date, there is no comparative analysis of the different models of repre-
sentation that operated within the Spanish monarchy. Needless to say, the
large variety of forms of representation reproduced similarly heterogenous
social structures and local approaches to the consensus between the mon-
arch and the kingdom. This variety has been illustrated in this volume with
several examples extracted from the Kingdom of Castile and the Crown
of Aragón (kingdoms of Valencia, Aragon and Sardinia and Principality of
Catalonia), and can also be found in the Crown’s Italian dominions. Accord-
ing to Aurelio Musi, “Spanish Italy was a laboratory of different paths to
the modern state.”26 The powerful cities of the Duchy of Milan were heirs
of the medieval commune tradition, a fully autonomous and hierarchised
urban model which was always wary of shared representative institutions.27
The Milanese model stood in sharp contrast with the classic parliamentary
model adopted by the southern Italian kingdoms under the jurisdiction of
the Catholic monarch. Naples was characterised by the lack of representa-
tion among rural communities, the economic pre-eminence of feudal baroni
(consolidated throughout the 16th and 17th centuries) and the resilience of
privileged estates in the city of Naples, one of the largest urban centres in
Europe. In the event, the Crown yielded to the city of Naples’ pretensions
to act in representation of the whole kingdom, owing to its demographic,
economic and administrative importance. As a result, the parliament, which
held its last session in 1642, became little more than a channel for the cor-
porate complaints of feudal barons.28 The kingdom of Sicily, for its part,
was characterised by a polycentric urban structure and the confrontation
between Palermo and Messina. As pointed out by Helmut Koenigsberger,
the vitality of the Sicilian parliament rested on the privileges granted in
1282, when, following the principle of consensus populi, the parliament
submitted voluntarily to the new Aragonese dynasty, which committed to
defend the island’s privileges and liberties.29
A similar example may be found in the city of Cambrai, which in 1595
broke with its traditional lord, the city’s archbishop, submitting instead to
the authority of Phillip II. The latter, on this occasion, had no qualms about
recognising the people’s legitimacy to decide matters pertaining to their own
sovereignty.30 To a large extent, the Low Countries were a scale model of
the rest of the monarchy. They were part of the Crown’s Burgundian legacy,
and included a varied array of territories incorporated into the monarchy
by consensus (like Cambrai), inheritance or military conquest, resulting in
a broad range of privileges and forms of representation. The combination
of such variables as the territorial prerogatives, the degree of urbanisation
and the relative importance of the local nobility in each area resulted in a
bewildering variety of provincial assemblies. As such, while the classic three-
estate model (nobles, prelates and cities) operated in the Duchy of Brabant
and the County of Hainaut, in the Provincial Estates of the County of Hol-
land, the maximum authority was exercised by the deputies of the 18 cities,
the nobility having but a single representative. In the County of Flanders, for
its part, the nobility and the clergy were not represented, and the assembly
only consisted of the deputies of the cities of Ghent, Bruges and Ypres, along
with a delegate of the Franc of Bruges, who acted as a representative of
the small cities and the petty nobility from the agricultural district situated
between Bruges and the sea. This motley political structure crystallised in a
common institution, the Estates General, created in 1464 on the initiative of
the Duke of Burgundy. This assembly was to play a leading role in the revo-
lutionary events of 1477, when the Estates wrestled the Grand Privilège,
which guaranteed the full autonomy of cities and provinces, from Mary, the
heir of Charles the Bold. The Estates General also played a central part in
the process that lead to the independence of the United Provinces after the
1566 rebellion.31
In any case, despite the vitality of some assemblies and the enormous
variety of representative institutions that existed within the Spanish mon-
archy, Xavier Gil Pujol rightly warns against the classical whig approach
according to which parliaments are the exclusive and only guarantors of the
liberties, privileges and rights of the population.32 As previously noted, no
parliament that could be compared to others that existed elsewhere in the
king’s dominions existed in the Duchy of Milan, but it is hard to question
the efficacy of the representative and judicial institutions of the cities of the
duchy in defending its local guarantees and privileges. Similarly, communal
and individual liberties in Castile were defended more effectively by the
courts and the Council of Castile than by parliamentarian mechanisms.33 As
a result, over time, the assembly was left no clear role other than modulat-
ing the king’s fiscal demands, a role which the Cortes carried out very suc-
cessfully. Like in some of the provincial assemblies in the Low Countries,
the absence of the privileged estates from the Cortes from 1538 onwards
severely undermined the representativeness of the assembly, and the nego-
tiations between the Crown and the privileged estates (clergy and nobility)
were thereafter to take place through informal channels. The Cortes could
not claim to represent the common people either, as a consequence of the
increasing process of oligarchisation that affected Castilian cities and the
growing presence of aristocrats in the local councils and among the deputies
to the Cortes. Despite the Crown’s pressure, cities were always reluctant to
give these deputies the power to cast decisive votes, as they distrusted any
institution that could potentially jeopardise their full autonomy. In these
circumstances, the Crown refrained from summoning the Cortes from 1665
onwards and began negotiating the renewal of taxes directly with each of
the cities.
To an extent, a similar process had taken place in the overseas dominions.
Since the American colonies had joined the Spanish empire by conquest, the
newly acquired territories were put under the authority of the Castilian laws
and institutions. Instead of forming local parliaments, American cities were
granted the right to be represented in the Cortes of Castile. This, however,
would have resulted in an increased fiscal pressure, something that was not
in the interest of the local elites, chiefly interested in consolidating their
local power and trading public offices through venal practices. In America,
the absence of seigniorial jurisdictions and the vast geographical distances
weakened the Crown’s hand and contributed to strengthening the power of
cities, which thus acquired a substantial degree of autonomy and became
the main space of representation.34
4. Challenges to the Principle of dominium politicum

et regale and Persistence of the Spanish Monarchy’s
Polycentric Model
The king’s growing military needs and the subsequent attempts to impose
higher taxes had to contend with the zeal with which representative institu-
tions resisted any increase in fiscal pressure. In this context, the consolidation
of a powerful body of royal officials was to lead to a more administratively
driven monarchy that posed fewer limitations to the exercise of full sov-
ereignty by the royal institution. While Europe was being devastated by
severe religious confrontations and the social fabric was being ripped apart
by bloody civil conflicts, political language underwent a deep transforma-
tion that ultimately led to the erosion of previous ideas of political legit-
imacy and their replacement by principles that prioritised efficiency and
the maintenance of internal order. The common good and respect for the
privileges and rights pertaining to each of the corporations that made up
the social body gave way to the defence of the interests of state, regardless
of any moral and legal boundaries. Jean Bodin’s arguments concerning the
indivisibility of sovereignty and the development of the theories of the rai-
son d’etat converged in a twofold phenomenon characterised by the increas-
ing professionalisation of politics, which was left in the hands of a gradually
more and more restricted sector of the population, and the waning role of
political participation.35
These changes posed a serious challenge to the ideal of mixed government
implicit in the principle of dominium politicum et regale, which was not
only at the very foundations of the motley imperial structure that was the
Spanish monarchy but to a great extent also one of the reasons behind its
hegemonic position. The challenge posed by new political forms crystallised
in the implementation of measures that increased the power of the king and
thus tried to homogenise the dominions under his authority. Policies such as
those adopted by the Count-Duke of Olivares threatened the very polycen-
tric nature of the monarchy and aimed to undermine the authority of local
powers. The earliest manifestations of this process go back to the late 16th
century, with the progressive venalisation of public office and local magis-
tracies. Although initially this mechanism facilitated the social promotion
of new social groups, in most of the Catholic king’s dominions, and espe-
cially in Castile, the process soon resulted in the oligarchisation and patri-
monialisation of public positions, increasingly taken over by members of the
nobility.36 In the local context, as pointed out by François-Xavier Guerra
for the American colonies, venality steered municipal governments away
from the ideal of representative government; privileges, and the contractual
relationship that they entailed, were to be negotiated with the Crown on an
individual, rather than a communal, basis.37 In the cultural sphere, a paral-
lel process was taking place, with the homogenising effect of the precepts
dictated by the Council of Trent which, as demonstrated by Maureen Flynn,
eroded local devotional practices and public festivities.38 In Castile, these
phenomena were exacerbated by the increasing attraction of Madrid, the
capital of the empire and a factory of social promotion; while provincial
elites gravitated towards the capital, the value of municipal offices dropped
and the hitherto numerous local histories and chorographies, works designed
to exalt and give ideal accounts of the local past, virtually disappeared.39
The military defeat of Spain, sanctioned by the treaties of Westphalia
(1648) and the Pyrenees (1659), emphasised the difficulties faced by poly-
centric political models. The viability of the system depended on the resil-
ience of a varied range of urban republics before the challenge posed by the
new forms of full sovereignty successfully tried in France and England.40 The
fragmentation of the Spanish monarchy after the Spanish War of the Suc-
cession, with the loss of the Italian and Flemish dominions, and the arrival
of a French dynasty seemed to open the way to a new model of government
in which authority would be centralised in Madrid, while the autonomy of
local powers was severely curtailed and the number of subjects with impe-
rium drastically reduced. The suppression of liberties, parliaments, institu-
tions and privileges in the Crown of Aragon, ostensibly a response to the
Aragonese backing the Habsburgs, and launching active reformist policies
was an auspicious beginning for these new policies.
In the event, these auspicious beginnings were to end in disappointment.
The Basque and Navarre territories preserved their semi-autonomous struc-
ture, while in Castile much of the power still resided in the local sphere. As
acutely pointed out by Regina Grafe, the fiscal system, far from resembling
that of territorial states such as France and England, was still based on taxes
on trade and consumption, and was thus much closer to the system in oper-
ation in the conglomerate of city states that constituted the United Prov-
inces.41 Until the 19th century, the only constitutional law in application in
Spain was municipal law, as confirmed in 1716, when it was declared that
citizens of local communities (vecinos) would be automatically regarded as
naturalised, because the kingdom was much more than a mere aggregation
of vassals at the king’s disposal.42 In the American territories, where the
concept of “Spanish naturals” was coined, a plural and pactist model based
on the autonomy of local powers persisted, despite the Crown’s attempts to
impose the royal jurisdiction. Both in Spain and in its overseas territories,
representation was still firmly rooted, as shown in 1808, when the respon-
sibility of resisting Napoleon’s occupation fell to the cities and the local
juntas (local assemblies), which thus emerged as the ultimate depositaries of
sovereignty and the first space of representation.
Notes
* This research was carried out within the framework of the project “The Poly-
centric Model of Shared Sovereignty (Sixteenth-Eighteenth Centuries): An Alter-
native Path for The Construction of the Modern State” (HAR2013–45357-P),
based on Universidad Pablo de Olavide, ES-41013, Seville, Spain, under my
direction. The Project is funded by the Spanish Ministry of Science and Innova-
tion MINECO, with FEDER funds provided by the EU. I am grateful to David
Govantes-Edwards for the English translation of the text.
1. John G. A. Pocock, The Machiavellian Moment: Florentine Political Thought and
the Atlantic Republican Tradition (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1975).
The postulates of the School of Cambridge are condensed in the work edited by
Quentin Skinner and Martin Van Gelderen, eds., Republicanism: A Shared Euro-
pean Heritage, 2 vols. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002).
2. Mary Lindemann, The Merchant Republics: Amsterdam, Antwerp and Ham-
burg, 1648–1790 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015). For the dif-
ferences between both models see John G. A. Pocock, “The Atlantic Republican
Tradition: The Republic of the Seven Provinces,” Republics of Letters: A Journal
for the Study of Knowledge, Politics and the Arts 2, no. 1 (2010).
3. Ann Katherine Isaacs and Maarten Prak, “Cities, Bourgeoisies and States,” in
Power Elites and State Building, ed. Wolfgang Reinhard (Oxford: Oxford Uni-
4. André Holenstein, Thomas Maissen and Maarten Prak, The Republican Alter-
native: The Netherlands and Switzerland Compared (Amsterdam: Amsterdam
University Press, 2008), 12–13.
5. James B. Collins, La monarchie républicaine. État et société dans la France mod-
erne (Paris: Odile Jacob, 2016), 18–20.
6. Charles Tilly and Wim P. Blockmans, eds., Cities and the Rise of States in
Europe, A.D. 1000 to 1800 (Boulder, San Francisco & Oxford: Westview Press,
1994). The antagonism between the Modern State and urban liberties has been
questioned by Giorgio Chittolini in his contribution to this volume. Chittolini
emphasises that the urban model of northern Italy did not lose any of its vigour
after joining the orbit of the dynastic structure of the Habsburgs.
7. Manuel Herrero Sánchez, ed., Repúblicas y republicanismo en la Europa mod-
erna (siglos XVI-XVIII) (Madrid: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 2017).
8. Helen Nader, Liberty in Absolutist Spain: The Habsburg Sale of Twons, 1516–
1700 (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1993), 207.
9. Ana Díaz Serrano, “‘La doble orilla.’ El modelo político de la monarquía his-
pánica desde una perspectiva comparada. Los cabildos de Murcia y Tlaxcala
durante el siglo XVI,” in Las monarquías española y francesa (siglos XVI-
XVIII): ¿dos modelos políticos?, ed. Anne Dubet and José Javier Ruiz Ibáñez
(Madrid: Casa de Velázquez, 2010), 145–158.
10. Irving A. A. Thompson, “Castilla, España y la Monarquía: la comunidad política
de la patria natural a la patria nacional,” in España, Europa y el mundo atlán-
tico: homenaje a John H. Elliott, ed. Richard Kagan and Geoffrey Parker (Mar-
cial Pons & Junta de Castilla y León: Madrid, 2001), 180.
11. Óscar Mazin and José Javier Ruiz Ibáñez, eds., Las Indias occidentales. Pro-
cesos de incorporación territorial a las Monarquías Ibéricas (siglos XVI al
XVIII) (México: Colegio de México, 2012); Xavier Gil Pujol, “Visión europea
de la Monarquía española como Monarquía compuesta, siglos XVI y XVII,” in
Las monarquías del Antiguo Régimen, ¿monarquías compuestas?, ed. Conrad
Russell and Andrés Gallego (Madrid: Editorial Complutense, 1996), 65–95.
12. Aurelio Espinosa, The Empire of the Cities: Emperor Charles V, the Comu-
nero Revolt and the Transformation of Spanish System (Leiden: Brill Aca-
demic Pub, 2009); Luis Ribot, “Ira regis o clementia. El caso de Mesina y la
respuesta a la rebelión en la Monarquía de España,” in Vísperas de sucesión.
Europa y la Monarquía de Carlos II, ed. Bernardo García and Antonio Álvarez-
Ossorio (Madrid: Fundación Carlos de Amberes & Edición Doce Calles, 2015),
129–157.
13. Pedro Cardim, Tamar Herzog, José Javier Ruiz Ibáñez and Gaetano Sabatini,
eds., Polycentric Monarchies: How Did Early Modern Spain and Portugal
Achieve and Maintain a Global Hegemony? (Eastbourne: Sussex Academic
Press, 2012); Pedro Cardim, “La jurisdicción real y su afirmación en la Corona
portuguesa y sus territorios ultramarinos (siglos XVI-XVIII). Reflexiones sobre
la historiografía,” in De Re Publica Hispaniae. Una vindicación de la cultura
política en los reinos ibéricos en la primera modernidad, eds. Francisco José
Aranda Pérez and José Damiào Rodrigues (Madrid: Silex, 2008), 349–388.
14. Wim Blockmanns, André Holenstein and Jon Mathieu, eds., Empowering Inter-
actions: Political Cultures and the Emergence of the State in Europe, 1300–1900
(Farnham: Ashgate, 2009), 5.
15. “República es un justo gobierno de muchas familias de lo común a ellas con
suprema autoridad, la cual en su gobierno es comparada al instrumento músico,
donde se requiere proporción en todas partes para la armoniosa dulzura de la
música, estando acordes los que la causan de manera que no se siga disonancia.
Lo cual si así se hiciese, las repúblicas serían inmutables y firmes pero si dis-
cordaran Rey y reino y los vasallos entre sí, no se podría tener seguridad en el
armonioso concierto, que el gobierno de los estados pide.” Agustín de Rojas Vil-
landrando, El buen repúblico (Salamanca: Empresa de Antonia Ramírez, 1611),
293–294.
16. Pietro Costa, Civitas. Storia della cittadinaza in Europa. 1. Dalla civiltá comu-
nale al Settecento (Rome & Bari: Laterza, 1999); José Ignacio Fortea Pérez,
“Representación y representados en la España del Antiguo Régimen,” in La rep-
resentación popular: historia y problemática actual, ed. Felipe Lorenzana de la
Puente, Félix Iñesta Mena and Francisco J. Mateos Ascacíbar (Llerena: Sociedad
extremeña de Historia, 2013), 13–14.
17. “Somos todos parte de este político cuerpo y es natural propensión de las partes
ocurrir a la común salud de todo el cuerpo aunque hubiese de costarle dispen-
dio propio [. . .] De que nace ser debido connatural posponer las particulares
conveniencias al bien común [. . .] debe cualquier miembro exponerse a ruina
para asegurar la salud del todo [. . .] y aunque la cabeza sea cabeza, es menester
curarla (entiéndase dentro de los límites de la fidelidad) si de ella descienden
destilaciones que descomponen y ofenden a todo el cuerpo [. . .] así que la voz
del pueblo es la de Dios.” Quoted by Heloïse Hermant, Guerre de plumes. Pub-
licité et cultures politiques dans l’Espagne du XVIIe siècle (Madrid: Casa de
Velázquez, 2012), 404–405.
18. Manuel Herrero Sánchez, “El padre Mariana y el tiranicidio,” Torre de los
Lujanes 65 (2009): 105–123.
19. Víctor Manuel Egío García, El pensamiento republicano de Fernando Vázquez
de Menchaca (Murcia: Unpublished doctoral thesis, Universidad de Murcia,
2014), 247–248.
20. Gaëlle Demelemestre, Les deux souverainetés et leur destin. Le tournant Bodin-
Althusius (Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 2011).
21. See Primitivo Mariño’s arguments in his introduction to Johannes Althusius’s,
La política: metódicamente concebida e ilustrada con ejemplos sagrados y pro-
fanos, trans. and ed. Primitivo Mariño (Madrid: Centro de Estudios Constitu-
cionales, 1990), XII. Ius naturale and ius gentium were, however, key for the
development of the political thought of Hugo Grotius, which were particularly
popular in the regents’ party, and as such advocated for some form of under-
standing between the Dutch and the Spanish Monarchy. See Martin Van Gel-
deren, “The Challenge of Colonialism: Grotius and Vitoria on Natural Law and
International Relations,” Grotiana, New Series 14/15 (1993/1994): 3–37.
22. “En las venas del Imperio circulaba sangre comunitaria y, al menos, en este sen-
tido, republicana,” in Giovanni Levi ‘Prólogo’ in Herrero, Repúblicas, 13–14.
(Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 2014).
24. Irving A. A. Thompson, “Castile,” in Absolutism in Seventeenth Century Europe,
ed. John Miller (London: Macmillan, 1990), 74–75 [69–98]. One of the clear-
est expressions of the advanced degree of political participation achieved by
peripheral communities (with regard to political decision-making centres), may
be found in Irving A. A. Thompson, “El concejo abierto de Alfaro en 1602.
La lucha por la democracia municipal en la Castilla seicienstista,” Berceo 100
(1981): 307–331.
25. “El rey no ha de creerse nunca el dueño de la república ni de sus vasallos . . .;
ha de creer sí, que es el jefe del estado mediante cierta pensión señalada por
los mismos ciudadanos, pensión que no se atreverá jamás a aumentar sin que
haya sido resuelto por los mismos pueblos.” Juan de Mariana, “Del Rey y de la
Institución Real,” Obras del Padre Juan de Mariana, t. II, vol. 31 of Biblioteca
de Autores Españoles (Madrid, Atlas, 1950), 478–487, quoted in Charles C.
Jago, “Tributos y cultura política en Castilla,” in España, Europa y el mundo
atlántico: homenaje a John H. Elliott, ed. Richard Kagan and Geoffrey Parker
(Madrid: Marcial Pons, Junta de Castilla & León, 2001), 96. For this issue,
see Juan Luis Castellanos, Las cortes de Castilla y su diputación (1621–1789).
Entre Pactismo y Absolutismo (Madrid: Centro de Estudios Constitucionales,
1990).
26. Aurelio Musi, “Integration and Resistance in Spanish Italy, 1500–1800,” in
Resistance, Representation and Community, ed. Peter Blickle (Oxford: Claren-
don Press, 1997), 305.
27. See Wim Blockman’s contribution to this volume, in which he focuses on north
and central Italy from the 12th and 13th centuries onwards.
28. Aurelio Musi, “Integration,” 309–311.
29. Helmut G. Koenigsberger, “The Parliament of Sicily and the Spanish Empire,” in
Estates and Revolutions: Essays in Early Modern European History, ed. Helmut
G. Koenigsbergerg (Ithaca & London: Cornell University Press, 1971), 80–93;
Helmut G. Koenigsberger, “The Italian Parliaments from Their Origins to the
End of the 18th Century,” in Politicians and Virtuosi: Essays in Early Modern
History, ed. Helmut G. Koenigsberger (London & Ronceverte: The Hambledon
Press, 1986), 27–63.
30. José Javier Ruiz Ibáñez, Felipe II y Cambrai, el consenso del pueblo. La sober-
anía entre la práctica y la teoría política: Cambrai, 1595–1677 (Rosario: Prohis-
toria ediciones, 2003).
31. Helmut G. Koenigsberger, Monarchies, States Generals and Parliaments: The
Netherlands in the Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries (Cambridge: Cambridge
32. Xavier Gil Pujol, “Constitucionalismo aragonés y gobierno Habsburgo: los
cambiantes significados de libertad,” in España, Europa y el mundo atlántico:
homenaje a John H. Elliott, ed. Richard Kagan and Geoffrey Parker (Madrid:
Marcial Pons, Junta de Castilla & León, 2001), 236.
33. Ruth McKay, The Limits of Royal Authority: Resistance and Obedience in
Seventeenth-Century Castile (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999).
34. François-Xavier Guerra, “L’etat et les communautés: comment inventer un
empire?,” in Le Nouveau Monde. Mondes Nouveaux. L’expérience américaine,
ed. Serge Gruzinski and Nathan Wachtel (Paris: ERC & Ed. EHESS, 1996),
351–364.
35. Botero’s theories and the ideas of tacitist thinkers, which were to have so much
influence in the Spanish monarchy, have been interpreted as drifting away from
the principles of civil republicanism in favour of a state-based system embodied
by the prince, the only purpose of which is guaranteeing its own survival. See
Xavier Gil Pujol, “La razón de estado en la España de la Contrarreforma: usos y
razones de la política,” in La razón de Estado en la España moderna, ed. S. Rus,
et al. (Valencia: Sociedad Económica de Amigos del País, 2000), 37–58. See also
Michel Foucault’s arguments when he pointed out: “L’État était défini par les
théoriciens de la raison d’Ètat comme étant toujours en lui-même sa propre fin,”
in Michel Foucault, Société, territoire, population. Cours au Collège de France,
1977–1978 (Paris: Gallimard & Seuil, 2004), 264.
36. Domingo Centenero, De repúblicas urbanas a ciudades nobles. Un análisis de
la evolución y desarrollo del republicanismo castellano (1550–1621) (Madrid:
Biblioteca Nueva, 2012). The phenomenon is not limited to Castile; even in the
Crown of Aragón, where the presence of the nobility in municipal magistra-
cies was previously forbidden, the entrance of nobles in municipal governments
was finally allowed in Barcelona (1621), Valencia (1652) and Alicante (1655),
among other cities. In the Kingdom of Aragón, this did not occur until the reign
of Philip V. See José Ignacio Fortea Pérez, “Las ciudades, sus oligarquías y el
gobierno del reino,” in España en tiempos del Quijote, ed. Antonio Feros and
Juan Gelabert (Madrid: Taurus, 2004), 258–260.
37. Guerra, “L’etat et les communautés . . .”; Pilar Ponce Leiva and Francisco Andú-
jar Castillo, eds., Mérito, venalidad y corrupción en España y América: siglos
XVII y XVIII (Madrid: Albatros Ediciones, 2016).
38. Maureen Flynn, Sacred Charity: Confraternities and Social Welfare in Spain
1400–1700 (New York: Palgrave Mcmillan,1989).
39. Thompson, “Castilla, España y la Monarquía . . .,” 212–214.
40. Manuel Herrero Sánchez, “Paz, razón de estado y diplomacia en la Europa de
Westfalia. Los límites del triunfo del sistema de soberanía plena y la persistencia
de los modelos policéntricos (1648–1713),” Estudis. Revista de Historia Mod-
erna 41 (2015): 43–65.
41. Regina Grafe, Distant Tyranny: Markets, Power and Backwardness in Spain,
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Contributors
Joaquim Albareda is Full Professor of Early Modern History at Universitat

Pompeu Fabra, Barcelona, where he was the director of the Institut Uni-
versitari d’Història Jaume Vicens Vives (2007–2013). He has focused his
research on the study of the War of the Spanish Succession, especially
on the dynastic claims of Philip V of Bourbon and Archduke Charles
of Austria, respectively, and, more recently, on the treaties of Utrecht,
Rastatt and Baden. Other topics of study have been Catalan constitution-
alism and the development of absolutism in Spain. He is the author of
Felipe V y el triunfo del absolutismo. Cataluña en un conflicto europeo
(1700–1714) (2002) and La guerra de Sucesión de España (1700–1714)
(2010). He has coordinated the edited volumes El nacimiento y la con-
strucción del Estado moderno. Homenaje a Jaume Vicens Vives (with M.
Janué, 2011), and El declive de la monarquía y del imperio español. Los
tratados de Utrecht (2015).
Carlo Bitossi is Professor of Early Modern History at the University of Ferr-
ara. He has studied Genoese political and diplomatic history in the 16th–
18th centuries, especially the relations of the republic of Genoa with
Habsburg Spain and France; he has edited Genoese early modern politi-
cal writings and is editing (in collaboration) the letters of the Corsican
18th-century leader Pasquale Paoli.
Wim Blockmans is Emeritus Professor of Medieval History at Leiden Uni-

versity and has served as rector of the Netherlands Institute for Advanced
Study (2002–2010). His research focuses on the 12th to 16th century
Low Countries, with a special interest in comparative approaches. Popu-
lar representation and political systems have been his main focus, includ-
ing studies on state formation as well as on power structures created by
commercial elites. He is particularly interested in the relations between
politics, economic systems and cultural expressions. He is a member of
four academies, including the Academia Europaea and the British Acad-
emy. His main publications in English include A History of Power in
Europe. Peoples, Markets, States, Antwerp 1997, 1998 (also in French,
Contributors 335
German, Italian, Spanish and Dutch); Emperor Charles V 1500–1558,
London 2001 (four editions in Dutch, 2000–2012, Spanish 2000, 2015);
The Burgundian Netherlands (in coll. with W. Prevenier), Cambridge
1986 (orig. Dutch and French, 1983, German 1987); The Promised
Lands. The Low Countries under Burgundian Rule, 1369–1530 (in coll.
with W. Prevenier), Philadelphia 1999; Introduction to Medieval Europe,
300–1500, London, 2nd ed. 2014, 3rd ed. in preparation (in coll. with
P. Hoppenbrouwers). Originally in Dutch, Amsterdam 2002, 7 editions,
revised ed. 2016; translations: Chinese, Portuguese. He is the editor of
several collective volumes, including Maritime Trade Around Europe
1300–1600. Commercial Networks and Urban Autonomy (ed. with M.
Krom and J. Wubs-Mrozevicz), London, 2017; Origins of the Modern
State in Europe, 13th to 18th Century, 7 vols. (general ed. with J.-Ph.
Genet), Oxford 1995–99; in French: Paris 1996–99; and Showing Status.
Representation of Social Positions in the Late Medieval Low Countries
(ed. with A. Janse), Turnhout 1999.
Josep Capdeferro is Assistant Professor of Legal History at Pompeu Fabra
University. His research mainly focuses on lawyers and legal culture in
early modern Catalonia, political institutions (especially representative
ones like Corts, municipalities or Diputació del General), administration of
justice, rights and guarantees in a preliberal context, guilds, discrimination,
repression of adultery and so on. He is the author of Ciència i experiència.
El jurista Fontanella (1575–1649) i les seves cartes (2012); (with Jaume
Ribalta) Banyuts catalans: l’adulteri i la Casa de les Egipcíaques a la Bar-
celona moderna (2014); (with Eva Serra) El Tribunal de Contrafaccions de
Catalunya i la seva activitat (1702–1713) and Casos davant del Tribunal
de Contrafaccions de Catalunya (1702–1713) (both published in 2015).
Gregorio Colás Latorre is Emeritus Professor of Modern History at the Uni-
versity of Zaragoza. He is specialised in Aragonese history during the reign
of the Habsburg dynasty and has focused his work on Fueros, Señoríos
and Moriscos. He has published La Bailía de Caspe (1979), and the criti-
cal edition of Bartolomé Leonardo de Argensola’s manuscript Las alter-
aciones populares de Zaragoza. Año 1591 (1996). He is the co-author of
Aragón Bajo los Austrias (1979) and Aragón en el siglo XVI. Alteraciones
sociales y conflictos políticos (1982). Other publications include El Señorío
en el Tardofeudalismo and Felipe II y los reinos hispánicos and, on Ara-
gonese constitutionalism, El pactismo en Aragón, propuestas para un estu-
dio (1997), Los Fueros de Aragón y su dimensión social (2013), Jerónimo
Blancas y los Fueros del Sobrarbe (2013). On the moriscos: Treinta años
de historiografía morisca (2005), Los moriscos aragoneseses: una defin-
ición más allá de la política y de la religión (1996) and El bautismo de los
mudéjares aragoneses (2009). He has directed several research projects and
has been the main researcher of the consolidated research group Blancas,
financed by the DGA and the European Social Fund.
336 Contributors
José Manuel de Bernardo Ares is the Head Professor of the Chair of Mod-
ern History; Corresponding Academic of the Royal Academy of His-
tory (Madrid); Vice-President of the Ilustrious Andalusian Society of
Historical-Legal Studies; and Member of the Collegio dei Docenti del Dot-
torato (Università degli Studi di Messina). He has been Visiting Fellow
at East Anglia University (Norwich, United Kingdom); Visiting Scholar at
The John Carter Brown Library (Providence, Rhode Island); and Guest
Professor at the Ecole des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales, and at the
Sorbonne-Paris IV. He is the author, among others, of: Corrupción política y
centralización administrativa. La hacienda de propios en la Córdoba de
Carlos II (1993); Historiología, investigación y didáctica. Elaboración y
transmisión de los saberes históricos (San Francisco-London-Bethesda,
1996); Poder municipal y organización política de la sociedad. Algunas
lecciones del pasado (1997); Historia e informática. Metodología inter-
disciplinar de la investigación histórica (2005); Luis XIV rey de España.
De los Imperios plurinacionales a los Estados unitarios (1665–1714)
(2008); and Luis XIV y Europa (2015).
Tomàs de Montagut is Professor of Legal History at Pompeu Fabra Univer-
sity. His research focuses on the history of political and financial institu-
tions in Catalonia and the Crown of Aragon, the study of the reception
of ius commune in Catalonia and the history of Catalan lawyers and legal
doctrines. He is the author of several works, including El mestre racional
a la Corona d’Aragó (1283–1419) (Barcelona, 1987) and Les institucions
fiscalitzadores de la Generalitat de Catalunya fins al 1413 (Barcelona,
1996). He also published “‘Consilia’ de cuatro famosos juristas de Bar-
celona sobre derecho feudal catalán (1335),” Ius fugit: Revista interdis-
ciplinar de estudios histórico-jurídicos 17 (2011–2014): 127–132. He
edited Lluis de Peguera’s Práctica, forma, i estil, de celebrar corts generals
en Catalunya i materias incidents en aquellas (first printed in 1701) with
an introductory essay (Madrid, 1998).
Antoine Follain is Professor of Universities and Director of the Institute of
Modern History at the University of Strasbourg. He is a specialist in rural
history and judicial history. His most recent books are Sorcellerie savante
et mentalités populaires (Presses universitaires de Strasbourg, 2013),
Blaison Barisel, le pire officier du duc de Lorraine (Paris: L’Harmattan,
2014), Brutes ou braves gens ? La violence et sa mesure (XVIe–XVIIIe
siècle) (Presses universitaires de Strasbourg, 2015), Contrôler et punir
les agents du pouvoir (Dijon: EUD, 2015) and La sorcellerie et la ville/
Witchcraft and the City (published in two languages by the Presses uni-
versitaires de Strasbourg, 2017).
Jose Ignacio Fortea Pérez is currently Professor of Modern History at the
University of Cantabria. His research has focused on the field of urban his-
tory, taxation and representative assemblies in the context of the Crown
of Castile in the 16th and 17th centuries. He is the author of Córdoba
Contributors 337
en el siglo XVI: las bases demográficas y económicas de una expansión
urbana (1981); Fisco, economía y sociedad. Alcabalas y encabezamientos
en tierras de Córdoba (1513–1619) (1986); Monarquía y Cortes en la
Corona de Castilla: Las ciudades ante la política fiscal de Felipe II and Las
Cortes de Castilla y León bajo los Austrias: una interpretación (2008). He
has participated in international research groups about urban governance
in the modern era, about the history of parliamentarism in the West, and
about finances and taxation in Spain and Catholic Europe. He is also a
member of the Arca Comunis network, integrated by a number of Span-
ish, Italian and French research groups for the study of the late medieval
and early modern European state tax systems. He has been vice presi-
dent of the Spanish Association of Modern History (1993–1995), Visiting
Fellow at the Department of History of The Johns Hopkins University
(Baltimore, Maryland) in 1992–1993, Directeur d’Études Associé of the
EHESS in Paris in 1998, Researcher at the Spanish School of History and
Archaeology of Rome in 2005 and in the Università degli Studi “Federico II”
of Naples in 2009, 2010 and 2011.
Lluis J. Guía Marín is Professor of Modern History at the University of
Valencia and Associate Researcher at the Istituto di Storia dell’Europa
Mediterranea (ISEM-CNR) in Cagliari, Italy. His main research lines
have focused on Valencian Parliamentarian History (XVI–XVII cen-
tury), banditism among the higher social classes and Sardinian political-
institutional history (XVII–XVIII century). He is the author of Corts i
Parlaments de la Corona d’Aragó. Unes institucions emblemàtiques en
una monarquia composta, edited with R. Ferrero Micó (2008); Sardenya.
Una Història Pròxima. El regne sard a l’època moderna (2012); and Iden-
tità e frontiere. Politica, economia e società nel Mediterraneo (secc.XIV–
XVIII), ed. with Mª G. Mele and G. Tore (2015). He has also recently
published “The ‘Braç Reial’ or Royal Division of Valencia and Sardinia
at the time of Felipe IV,” in Parliaments, Estates and Representations, 27
(2007), 159–173; and “Navegando hacia Italia. El reino de Cerdeña en
el escenario político resultante de los tratados de Utrecht—Rastatt,” in
Cuadernos de Historia Moderna XII (2013): 189–210.
Manuel Herrero Sánchez is Associate Professor of Early Modern History at

the Universidad Pablo de Olavide in Seville. He received his PhD from the
European University Institute in Florence in 1998 and taught as a research
fellow at the École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales (Paris), the Isti-
tuto Benedetto Croce of Naples, the Centre for the History of European
Expansion (IGEER) in Leiden University, Vrije Universiteit of Amster-
dam, Liège University and at the Institute of History (CSIC) in Madrid.
In 2015 he was a Visiting Scholar in the Department of History at Har-
vard University and Senior Research Fellow at the Leibniz-Institut für
Europäische Geschichte (IEG) in Mainz, Germany. He is author, among
others, of: El acercamiento hispano-neerlandés (1648–1678) (Madrid:
338 Contributors
Editorial CSIC, 2000); Génova y la Monarquía Hispánica (1528–1713),
coedited with Rocío Ben Yessef, Carlo Bitossi and Dino Puncuh (Genoa:
Atti de la Società Ligure di Storia Patria, 2011), 2 Vols.; La España de los
Austrias. La actividad política, with A. Alvar Ezquerra, Fabien Montcher
and María Ángeles Pérez Samper (Madrid: Akal, 2011); and Mer-
chants and trade networks between the Atlantic and the Mediterranean
(1600–1800). Connectors of commercial maritime systems, coedited
with Klemens Kaps (London/New York: Routledge, 2017). His research
focuses on the comparative approach to the history of the mercantile
republics of the Netherlands and Genoa, and on the complex constitution
of the Hispanic monarchy, Europe’s first transnational, polycentric and
global empire. He is currently the principal investigator of the research
project The polycentric model of shared sovereignty (XVI-XVIII centu-
ries). An alternative route in constructing the modern state.
Gilbert Larguier is Emeritus Professor of Modern History at Perpignan
UPVD University. His research has focused on the study of the tax sys-
tems and finances of communities and states (13th to 18th centuries), the
study of powers and society in the early modern period, and the study
of productions and exchanges in the northwestern Mediterranean (15th
to 18th centuries). He is the author, among others, of the following arti-
cles: “Les Amirautés du Languedoc et du Roussillon,” Revue d’histoire
maritime 19 (2015): 201–221; “Exposition et vulnérabilité différenciées
des communautés locales face aux crises financières. L’exemple du Rous-
sillon et du Languedoc (Catalogne—France méridionale), XVIIe-XVIIIe
siècles,” in The Financial Crises. Their Management, Their Social Implica-
tions and Their Consequences in Pre-Industrial Times (Firenze University
Press, 2016), 133–151; and “Officiers délinquants aux marges du roy-
aume dans le diocèse civil d’Alet-Limoux en Languedoc (1639–1669),”
in Contrôler et punir les agents du pouvoir (XVe-XVIIIe siècle), edited
by Antoine Follain (Dijon: EUD, 2015), 201–229. He is the editor of
Questions de santé sur les bords de la Méditerranée. Malades, soignants,
hôpitaux, représentations, en Roussillon, Languedoc et Provence, XVIe–
XVIIIe siècle (Perpignan: PUP, 2015), and (with Geneviève Gavignaud-
Fontaine) Corps intermédiaires marchands et vignerons en Languedoc,
1704–1939 (Perpignan: PUP, 2016).
Marie-Laure Legay is Professor of Modern History at the University of Lille.
Her research focuses on political and financial history in the Europe of
the Enlightenment. She is the author, among others, of La banqueroute
de l’Etat royal: la gestion des finances publiques de Colbert à la Révo-
lution (EHESS, 2011); Dictionnaire historique de la comptabilité pub-
lique (1500–1850) (PUR, 2010); Histoire de l’argent à l’époque moderne
(Armand Colin, 2014); Les Loterie royales dans l’Europe des Lumières
(2014), and La Souveraineté monétaire dans les Pays-Bas méridionaux
XVI–XIXe siècle (Brepols, 2016).
Contributors 339
Eduard Martí has a PhD in History from the University Institute of History
Jaume Vicens Vives (2008). Since 2008, he has taught at the International
University of Catalonia. He is a member of the research groups “La
política exterior de Felipe V y su repercusión en España (1713–1740)”
(HAR 2014–52645-P) and “Grup d’Estudi de les Institucions i de les
Cultures Polítiques” (2014-SGR-1369). His research focuses on the study
of the Catalan institutions during the War of the Succession and its rul-
ing elites, especially the urban gentry and aristocracy. He is the author of
three books: La conferencia de los Tres Comunes (Ernest Lluch Founda-
tion 2008), La Classe Dirigent Catalana. Els membres de la Conferencia
dels Comuns i del Braç Militar (Foundation Noguera, 2009) and El Braç
Militar de Catalunya, 1602–1714 (Publicacions Universitat de València,
2016). He has also published several articles about other Catalan repre-
sentative institutions such as the novenes of the Diputació or the Consell
de Cent of Barcelona.
Carmen Pérez Aparicio is Emeritus Professor of Early Modern History at

the University of Valencia. Her research has focused on the War of the
Spanish Succession, with special emphasis on the economic, sociological
and political aspects, and on the consequences of the abolition of the
pactist system and the implementation of absolutism. She is the author of
a major monograph on the Valencian Kingdom, Canvi dinàstic i Guerra
de Successió. La fi del Regne de València.
Núria Sallés Vilaseca received her PhD in History from Universitat Pom-
peu Fabra in October 2016. Her research focuses on Spanish political
and diplomatic history in the 18th century, especially during the reign of
King Philip V of Spain. She is a member of the Institute of History Jaume
Vicens i Vives.
Susana Truchuelo is Associate Professor of Early Modern History at the
University of Cantabria (Spain). Her research focuses on the social
history of power in urban spaces. She has published three books in
Spanish on Political Representation of Local Communities within
Provincial Spaces of Gipuzkoa (1997), Gipuzkoa and Royal Power in
Early Modern Ages (2004) and Tolosa in Early Modern Times. Govern-
ment Affairs of a Basque Small Town (2006). She has also published in
French, Colombian, Argentinean and Spanish peer-reviewed journals
and has authored different chapters in books published, among oth-
ers, by Pickering & Chatto (2014) and Presses Universitaires de Rennes
(2015). She has presented at international conferences in Washington,
DC (2008), Paris and Messina (2011), Toronto and Prague (2012),
Roma and Catania (2013), Rome and Milan (2014), Besançon, Aix-en-
Provence (2015) and Leuven and Nantes (2016). Her current research
deals with political history and the history of the cities and the parlia-
ments in early modern Spain.
340 Contributors
Thomas Weller is a Senior Researcher at the Leibniz Institute of European
History in Mainz. His research focuses on symbolic communication and
ritual in the early modern period, urban history, cultural history of diplo-
macy and foreign relations, as well as Spanish history. Currently, he is
writing a monograph about the relationship between the Spanish monar-
chy and the Hanseatic League in the 16th and 17th centuries. Among his
recent publications are “Merchants and Courtiers. Hanseatic Representa-
tives at the Spanish Court in the Seventeenth Century,” in Ambasciatori
“minori” nella Spagna di età moderna. Uno sguardo europeo (Dimen-
sioni e problemi della ricerca storica 1/2014), ed. Paola Volpini (Rome:
Carocci, 2015), 73–98; “From The Baltic Sea to the Iberian Peninsula.
Danzig (Gdańsk), The Hanseatic League, and the Spanish Monarchy in
the Late Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries,” in From Ireland to Poland.
Northern Europe, Spain and the Early Modern World, ed. Enrique Gar-
cía Hernán and Ryszard Skowron (Valencia: Albatros, 2015), 155–170;
and “Las repúblicas europeas y la Paz de Westfalia. La representación
republicana en las negociaciones de Münster y Osnabrück,” in Repúbli-
cas y republicanismos en la Europa moderna (siglos XVI-XVIII), ed.
Manuel Herrero Sánchez (Madrid: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 2016),
329–347.
John R. Young is Senior Lecturer in History at the University of Strathclyde,
Glasgow. He has published widely on early modern Scottish history,
including the pre-1707 Scottish Parliament. He has a prominent role in
the International Commission for the History of Representative and Par-
liamentary Institutions (ICHRPI), and he is the editor of the Commis-
sion’s journal, Parliaments, Estates & Representation. He is the author
of The Scottish Parliament 1639–1661: A Political and Constitutional
Analysis (Edinburgh, 1996), and he has particular expertise in the study
of Scottish parliamentary committees.
Index
Aalen 5, 105 Anglesola, Marquis of 237

Aberdeen 126, 136 Aniane 39, 41–2
Aberdeenshire 124 Anjou 58, 77
absolutism 4, 8, 10, 155, 176, 188–9, Anne, Queen of England 131, 224–5
203, 205, 214, 272–3, 276, 320 Antwerp 29, 321
Acevedo, J. Bernardo de 289 Apennines 21, 98
Act of Union (1707) 6, 129–31 Aquitaine 55
Actes de Corts (Catalonia) 179, 258 Aragon 1, 6, 7, 8, 10, 145–6, 148–9,
Adams, Julia 256 151–2, 154–6, 161–3, 164–7, 171,
Adorno, Gabriele and Raffaele 92 178–80, 184, 193, 195, 198, 215,
Agulló, Francisco de, marquis of 225, 253, 324
Gironella 245 Aragon, Kingdom of 147, 171, 178, 253
Airdrie 135 Aramburu’s compilation 307
Aix, Archbishop of 68 Archduke Charles see also Charles III of
Alagó 196 Austria 181, 185, 188, 223, 232, 245
Álava 10, 300–1, 304 Argensola 166
Albareda, Joaquim 7, 11, 247, 251, 256 Argyll, marquis of 128
Alberghi 90–2, 96–7 Argyllshire (Argyll) 128–30
Albergo, system 91, 96 Arias de Balboa, Vicente 148–9
Albigeois 40, 56 Arras 65–6
Alcalá 171 Arrieta, Jon 156
Alcañiz 162 Artois 58, 61–2, 64–7
Alfonse the Benign 149 Assemblées de pays (of France) 251, 253
Alfonse the Chaste 145 Asturias 301, 304
Alfonse the Kind 150 Augsburg 5, 105, 111
Alfonse the Liberal 149–50 Auneau 66
Alguer 197 Australia 134
Alicante 114 Austrophile rebellion 188
Alignan-du-Vent 41 Authevernes (Eure) 79
Almansa 188 Autun, Bishop of 68
Alps 20, 106 Auvergne: 78–9; Lower Auvergne 58
Alsace, Lower 58 Auxerre 57
Althusius, Johannes 323 Auxonne 57
Álvarez de Toledo, Agustín 273 Aymerich, Joan 203
Amelang, James 217, 222, 246, 255, 259 Ayrshire (Ayr) 129–30, 136
America 183, 218, 321, 326 Azillanet 44
Amigant, Catalan family of honoured
citizens 256 Babeau, Albert 58, 72–5, 81
Amsterdam 29, 217 Bach, Johann Sebastian 110
Anderson of Dowhill, John 126 Balearic Islands 148
342 Index
Baltic 131 Bourg 66
Barbastro 169, 171 Bourgogne 74, 81
Barcelona 7, 145–7, 155, 216–19, 222–5, Brabant, Duchy of 25, 325
232–3, 236–7, 246, 248, 250, 259, 321 Bravo del Vado, Juan Bautista 185
Barcelona, Bishop of 236–7 Bremen 5, 105, 112–14
Bardi Company 24 Bresse 57–9, 62, 66, 68
Basque and Navarre territories 327 Brétigny, Treaty of 40
Basque: Country 305; provinces 10, 304, Briançon 63
309; territories 300, 309–10 Bringué, Josep Maria 253
Bastero, family of Catalan merchants 256 Britain 10, 128, 134
Bastia 66, 99, British Isles 135
Batlle General, of Catalonia 237 Brittany 55–6, 58, 61–2, 64–5, 67
Béarn 56–8, 61–3, 65, 68 Bru, Josep, Catalan gentleman 252–3
Bearnese 63 Bruges 325
Beik, William 3 Bruges, Franc of 325
Bellarmine, Roberto 277 Brunner, Otto 108
Berardo, Francesc, marquis of Montnegre Brussels 25, 251, 321
224–5 Buchau 5, 105
Berbegal 167 Bugey 57, 59
Bernabé, David 181 Burgos 304
Bernardo Ares, José Manuel 9, 257 Burgundy 55–7, 60–2, 64–5, 67–8, 325
Berry 59 Burgundy, Duke of 325
Berwick, General Duke of 188 Burgundy, Mary of 26
Besnier, Georges 78 Bute, shire of 135
Betanzos 301 Byzantine Empire 21
Béziers 38, 66
Bigorre 57, 63, 68 Cabildo 321
Bilbao 302–3 Cadiz 114, 188, 219
Biscay, Señorío of, see Vizcaya, Señorío de Cagliari 194, 196–7, 201–3, 205–6
Bitossi, Carlo 4 Cagliari, Archbishop of 201
Black Sea 90 Caithness, shire of 128, 135
Blancas, Jerónimo de 166 Calais 59
Blickle, Peter 213, 259 Calasso, Francesco 145
Bloch, Marc 74 Calatayud 167, 169
Blockmans, Wim 3, 214, 319–20 Caldwell, John 125
Bodin, Jean 322, 327 Calton Hill 134
Bofarull, Manuel de 286, 295 Calvados 77–8
Bologna 147, 171 Camacho de Carvajal, Bernabé 203
Bonaventura de Gualbes, Joan 237, 240–1 Cambiaso 98
Bonfadio, Jacopo 93 Cambrai 61, 66–7, 325
Boniface VIII 276 Cambrésis 58–9, 61–2, 65, 68
Bonnybridge, battle of 134 Cambridge School 320
Bordes, Maurice 57 Camembert (Orne) 79
Bòria, Catalan family of honoured Campbell of Mamore, John, second son
citizens 256 of Archibald Campbell, ninth earl of
Borja, Sardinian family 196 Argyll 129
Bosa 197 Campbell of Shawfield, Daniel 130
Bosch, Andreu 215, 217 Campbell, Archibald, earl of Islay 130
Bosporus 22 Campbell, John, second duke of Argyll
Botany Bay 134 130
Boucicault, Marshal 93 Campbells 128
Boulonnais 55, 59 Campbeltown 130
Bourbon Spain 194 Candia War 98
Bourbons 156, 185, 281 Canfranc 170
Index 343
Capdeferro, Josep 7, 219, 256 Chauvelin, Bernard, Intendant for Picardy
Carcassonne 39, 40 and Artois 66
Cardona, Duchy of 234 Chios 90, 94
Carròs, Sardinian family 196 Christin, Olivier 4, 41, 214, 323
Cartellà, Catalan family of lower nobility Christine of Brunswick, Elisabeth 224
256 Church of Sassari 196
Casale 97 Clackmannan, shire 135
Casanovas, Joan Josep 237 Clermont-Ferrand 75
Caspe 162 Clos, T., milliner of Barcelona 225
Castellví, Agustin de 202 Cochrane of Cowdoun, William 129
Castellví, Francisco de 247 Cochrane of Kilmaronock, William 129
Castelnau-de-Guers 43 Cockburn, Henry, Solicitor General 135
Castile 2, 3, 6, 8, 9, 10, 23, 28, 94, 151, Colás, Gregorio 8
154–6, 189, 251, 255–7, 271–4, 277–8, Colbert, Jean-Baptiste 58
280, 286, 290, 303–4, 307, 321, 324, Collegi (Senate and Chamber of
326–8 Genoa) 97
Castile, Kingdom of 155, 280, 321, 324 Collins, James 320
Castillo Aragonés (Castel Aragonese) 197 Cologne 5, 105, 109, 112
Castrais 56 Cologne, Prince-Elector of 112
Catalan Revolt, Guerra dels Segadors 6, Colom, Genadi, Abbot of Camprodon
222, 224, 238 237
Catalan-Aragonese monarchy 193; Comalada i Cànovas, Francesc 237
political model 8 Comisión de Millones (of Castile) 9,
Catalonia 6, 7, 24, 146, 148, 151–2, 251, 279–81
162–3, 178–80, 185, 188, 195, 197–9, Commines, Philippe de 92
214–15, 217, 219–22, 224–5, 231–5, Comminges 60, 63
236–40, 242, 245, 247–8, 251–4, Commune Ianuae 89
257–8, 324 Compromise of Casp 148, 181
Catholic King 5, 131, 324, 327 Comunidades of Castile in the 1520s
Catholic monarchy 323 321
Cattaneo family 91 Concejo 293
Caux 61 Conference of the Commons see
Centelles, Sardinian family 196 Conference of the Three Commons
Centeno, Joaquín 287, 289 of Catalonia
Centurione 91 Conference of the Three Commons of
Champagne 22, 81 Catalonia 7, 188, 221, 223–4, 245–8,
Chancery, the regent of the 237 250–3, 255–9
Charbonnier, Pierre 78 Consell de Cent, of Barcelona 7, 217,
Charlemagne 148 221–4, 245–7, 252–4, 259
Charles I of Scotland 123 Constantine, Emperor 148
Charles I of Spain 155–6 constitucionalism 7, 214–15, 217–18,
Charles II of Spain 182–4, 186–7, 194, 231, 337
204, 245, 248, 250, 322 constitucions, of Catalonia 7, 215–16,
Charles III of Austria 7, 185, 216, 218, 220–2, 225–6, 231–2, 234–6, 241–2,
224–5, 232, 245, 250, 256 245–6, 251, 258
Charles III, king see Charles III of Austria Contrafurs, of Valencia 178, 180, 183,
Charles of Austria see Charles III of 186–7, 189
Austria 203, 205 Convention of Royal Burghs 126
Charles of Habsburg 95 Copenhagen 114
Charles V, Emperor 96, 154, 203, 272–3, Copons, Dalmau de, canon of Barcelona
304, 307 237
Charles VI, Emperor 224 Cordelles, Felicià de 237
Charolais 57 Córdoba 288, 291, 294
Chartier, Roger 107 Córdoba, Antonio de, jurado 294
344 Index
corpus iuris civilis 147 Diarchie 89
Corregidor 6, 9, 275, 290, 292–6, 303–4, Díaz Serrano, Ana 321
306, 309 Díez, Pedro 169
Corsica 58, 66, 90, 93, 98–100 Dijon 64, 66
Cortes: of Aragon 6, 7, 8, 161–5, 166–9, Diputació del General (of Catalonia)
170–2; of Castile 8, 9, 10, 28, 177–8, 7, 214, 232–3, 235, 238, 240, 246;
215, 246, 251, 253, 270–2, 273–5, see also Generalitat of Catalonia
277–81, 286, 293, 296, 301, 304–5, Diputación (of Aragon) 162–5
307, 326 Diputación de las Alcabalas (of Castile) 9
Corts: Aragon 145–6, 150–3, 154–6, Diputación del Reino (of Castile) 271,
195; Catalonia 155, 195, 205, 214–15, 280
217–21, 225–6, 231–2, 234–7, Diputaciones (of Basque Provinces)
238–41, 246, 250, 253, 258; Valencia 302–4, 306–7
6, 8, 176–9, 180–4, 185–9, 195–6, Doge 89
198, 205 Domínguez Ortiz, Antonio 287, 291
Coruña, A 301, 304 Doria 89, 90
Corvo 90 Doria Invrea, Silvestro (Silvestro Invrea
Council of Aragon 155–6, 184–5, 193–4 would become Silvestro Doria) 96
Council of Castile 8, 257, 279, 286, 292, Doria, Andrea 95, 97
326 Doria, Ghibelline 89, 91
council of jurados 291–2 Doria, Gian Francesco 100
Council of State (of Castile) 185 Douai 64
Covarrubias, Sebastián de 269 Douglas of Cavers, Sir William 124
Cromarty, shire 135 Dumbarton 135
Crown of Aragon 1, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 145–9, Dumfries 135
150–3, 154–6, 176–7, 182–4, 188, Dunbartonshire 128–30
193–4, 197–9, 203, 205–6, 215, 222, Dundas, Henry, first viscount Melville
241, 252, 258, 290, 328 130
Crown of Castile 1, 8, 10, 151, 154, 177, Dundee 126, 135–6
215, 291, 296, 300, 305, 308 Duran, Josep 256
Cruz, Jesús 255 Durango 302
Cúller, marquess of 202 Dutch Republic 26, 29
Culross 129 Dutch Revolt 28, 321
Cunningham of Craigends, William 125 Dutch War, (1672–1678) 59
Cupar 135 Dysart 135
Cusa, Nicholas of 276
Echávarri, Mateo de 308–9
Dalmases, Pau Ignasi de, Catalan Edinburgh 126, 128, 134–6
ambassador 220, 224–5, 256 Edward I of England 24
Dalrymple of Hailes, Sir David 129 Edward III of England 24
Dalrymple of North Berwick, Sir Hew Egío, Victor 323
129 Ejea 162
Dalrymple of Stair, Sir John 129 Elbeuf, M. Charles d’, governor general
Dalrymple, James 129 of the province 66
Danzig 29 Elgin 135
Daroca 167, 169 Elias, Norbert 2, 21
Dauphiné 49, 55, 59, 62–5, 74, 251, 253 Elliott, John H. 255, 257, 300
De Fornari 91–2 Elphinstone of Logie, James 124
De Franchi 91, 95 Embrun 63
Deputation: of Aragon, see Diputación England 2, 3, 5, 21, 24–28, 123, 131,
8, 154; of Catalonia, see Diputació del 134–6, 215–16, 221, 224–5, 327–8
General 179, 199, 214–15, 218, 221, Enrique IV of Castile 291
245–6; of Valencia see 179–81, 188 Estates General 4, 37, 40, 44, 48–50,
Despujol Moncorp, Francesc 240 56–7, 64, 214, 246, 251, 270, 325
Index 345
États Généraux 27 Francis II, Emperor 25
Eugene of Savoy, Prince 225 Frankfurt 5, 105, 115
expérience deliberative 73 Frederic Barbarossa, Emperor 23
Frederick II, Emperor 20, 112
Fabrègues 45 Frederick III, Emperor 112
Falkirk 135 Fregoso (Campofregoso) 92–3
Favier, René 251 French Empire 100
Felipe II see Philip II of Spain 291 French Revolution 115, 134, 164
Felipe V see Philip V Frisia 254
Ferdinand I, King of Aragon 154 Fronde, conflicte of the 258
Ferdinand II, King of Castile and Aragon Fuenterrabía 303, 308
163 Fueros: in Aragon 161, 163, 166; in
Ferdinand the Catholic 154–5, 185, 193 Basque Country 305, 308
Fernández Albaladejo, Pablo 8 Furs (of Valencia) 7, 8, 176, 177–83,
Fernández de Velasco, Francisco, viceroy 181–2, 185–6, 188–9
of Catalonia, see Velasco, Francisco
de 215, 245, 247–8 Gaitán de Ayala, don Juan 294
Fernando III of Castile 288 Galicia, Kingdom of 301, 304
Fernando IV of Castile 288 Gandesa 152
Ferran de Sacirera, Felip 224–5, 256 García Martínez, Sebastián 180
Ferran, Felip see Ferran de Sacirera Garibetto law 97
Ferrer, Vincent 276 General Assembly of the Church of
Ferro, Víctor 155, 220 Scotland 124
Fieschi 90 General Council of Valencia 188, 269,
Fieschi family 90, 97 305
Fieschi, Guelph 89, 91 Generalitat of Catalonia 11, 179, 246
Fiesques, duke of 258 Generalitat Valenciana 179, 180, 181
Flanders 23, 27, 57–8, 62, 64, 325 Généralités 60
Flanders, County of 325 Genet, Jean-Claude 319
Flandrin, Pierre 276 Genoa: 4, 5, 89–92, 93–5, 97–100, 114;
Fletcher of Saltoun, Andrew 126 republic of 5, 89–92, 93–7, 99–101,
Flynn, Maureen 327 196
Foglietta, Oberto 97 Gentile 91
Foix 62, 66, 68 George, king 225
Follain, Antoine 4, 257 Germania Revolt of 181
foral, see also Furs and Fueros 186, 187, Germany 28, 105
287, 295, 305, 306 Gévaudan 39–40, 56, 61–2
Forbes of Craigievar, Sir John 124 Gex 57, 59
Forbes of Culloden, Duncan 128 Ghent 325
Forbes of Culloden, family 128 Gibraltar 22
Forbes of Culloden, John 128 Gierke, Otto von 106
Forbes of Foveran, Samuel 124 Gil Pujol, Xavier 6, 166, 258, 325
Forez 56, 64, 75, 78 Giménez Chornet, Vicente 180
Forfar 135 Gisors 61
Fortea, José Ignacio 8 Giustiniani 90–2, 95
Four Members of (the County of) Glasgow 126, 130, 135–6
Flanders 22 Glorious Revolution, see Revolution of
Fournier, Georges 47 1688
France 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 9, 21, 23–4, 26–8, Goubert, Pierre 164
37–8, 57–8, 73–6, 80–1, 92, 94, 96, Grafe, Regina 328
100–1, 188, 204, 219, 238, 251, 300, Granada 292–4
322, 327–8 Grand Privilège 325
Franche-Comté 58–9 Graves, Michael 2, 214
Francis I 95 Great Britain 6, 123, 131, 225
346 Index
Greenock 135–6 Huesca 149, 167–71
Grenoble, Bishop of 68 Huesca, Bishop of 149
grievances, see also petitions 8, 25, 172, Hundred Years’ War 56
181, 205, 236, 303 Hunt, Henry, Orator 134
Grimaldi 89–90
Guelders 254 Ibarra 309
Guenée, Bernard 21 Iberian kingdoms 199
Guerra, François-Xavier 327 Iberian Peninsula 9, 94, 193–4, 222
Guia, Lluís J. 8 Ibiza 150, 225
Guicciardini, Francesco 96 Idiáquez 309
Guipúzcoa 10, 253, 300–9 Iglesias 197
Guipúzcoa, Juntas de 302 Ile de France 74
Guipuzkoa see Guipúzcoa Imperial Diets 5, 113
Inglis, Robert 126
Habsburg Monarchy 6 Inverary 130
Habsburg Spain 95, 101 Inverness, shire 128, 135
Habsburgs 10, 20–2, 95–6, 155–6, 182, Ireland 128, 134
185–6, 273, 296, 307, 309, 320–1, 328 Isaacs, Ann Katherine 319–20
Haddington 129, 135 Isasi 309
Hague, the 224–5, 250 Italian kingdoms 194, 324
Hainaut, County of 325 Italian republics 10, 37, 94
Hamburg 5, 29, 105, 112–14 Italy: 1, 3, 10, 21, 23–5, 28, 94–5, 105,
Hamilton 135 217, 255, 324; Northern Italy 3,
Hamscher, Albert N. 3 217, 255; Northern and Central Italy
Hansa see Hanse 23–4, 28
Hanse 5, 22
Hanseatic cities 5, 113 Jaca 167–71
Hanseatic Diets 22 Jacobite 128
Harto, Diego de 169 Jacquart, Jean 74–5, 80
Hébert, Michel 3, 17, 29, 214 Jäger, Arnald 252
Helvetic Confederation 5, 319 Jago, Charles 324
Henry II 56 James I of Sicily 150
Hereu, Mateu, Catalan conseller 223 James I, the Conqueror 148, 150, 176–7
Herrero, Manuel 9, 11, 251, 255 James II, of Majorca 150, 177
Hickey, Daniel 55 James III of Majorca 151
hidalgos 9, 10, 254, 289, 301–2 James VI, King of Scotland 123
hidalguía 302, 304–7 James VII, King of Scotland 124, 131
Highlands 128, 136 Jarque, Encarna 167
Hintze, Otto 2 Jean Bodin Society for Comparative
Hispanic Monarchy 4, 5, 8, 10, 154, Institutional History 17
156, 187, 197, 206 Jeffrey, Lord Advocate Francis 135
Hoffman, Philip 2, 225 Joan Bosch, Miquel, of Vic 237
Hohenstaufen 21, 23 Joanna I, Queen of Castile and Aragon
Holenstein, André 319 154
Holland 24, 28–9, 254 John I, King of Aragon 154
Holstein, Duke of 112 John III of Brabant, Duke 25
Holy Roman Empire 1, 3, 4, 5, 105–6, John of Brabant, King 25
114–15 Johnston of Wariston, Sir Archibald
House of Austria 182, 216 (Wariston) 128–9
House of Commons 29, 129, 131, 225 Johnston, Patrick 126
House of Lords 123, 131 Jouanna, Arlette 258
House of Savoy 202, 204 Juan José, of Austria 184–5, 322
Houston, Sir Ludovick 128 Junta d’Electes (of Valencia) 180, 185–7,
Howard McIlwain, Charles 214 189
Index 347
Junta de Contrafurs (of Valencia) 186, Lleida 146, 237
189 Llinàs, Joan, Catalan merchant 237,
Junta de los Cuatro Brazos (of Aragon) 252–3, 256
162 Loarre 167
Juntas Generales (Basque territories) Lodève 39, 45
300–4, 308–9 London 24, 28–9, 114, 205, 224, 250
Juntes de Braços (of Catalonia) 177–81, López de Mendoza, Agustín, count of
183–4, 186–7, 199 Robres 215
Juntes de Servei (of Valencia) 187 Lorenzana, Felipe 286
Jurados, the 6, 9, 287–91, 292–95, 305 Lorite, Isabel 181
Justicia (of Aragon) 161, 163–4, 168 Lorraine 74
Louis XII 95
Kilmarnock 135 Louis XIII 59, 238
Kinross, shire 135 Louis XIV 44, 47, 59, 62, 238, 251, 320
Knipschild, Philip 108–9, 111 Louis XV 59, 60
Koenigsberger, Helmut 1, 10, 325 Low Countries 5, 22, 24, 320–1, 325–6
Lübeck 5, 105, 109–11, 112–14
La Spezia, Gulf of 90, 98 Lucca 5, 89–91, 94, 98
Labourd 57–8, 63 Lucq 61
Ladero, Miguel Ángel 287 Lugo 301
Lagarde, Georges de 269 Lyon 64, 68, 79
Lagrasse 39 Lyon, Bishop of 68
Landrecht 23
Languedoc: 3, 4, 37–40, 43–6, 47–50, Maça 196
55–8, 60–2, 64–8, 253; model 38–9, 46 Machiavelli, Nicolò 92–3, 105, 111
Largentière, baron of 61 Mâcon, Bishop of 68
Larguier, Gilbert 4 Mâconnais 57–8, 61–2, 68
Lasseube 61 Madrid 114, 247, 273, 295, 321, 327–8
Lauragais 39 Maine 58
Laverdy reform 46 Mainz 115
Laverdy, Minister 55 Maissen, Thomas 319
Le Cerf, René 73 Majorca see Mallorca
Le Roy Ladurie, Emmanuel 76 Malaga 114
Légay, Marie – Laure 3, 257 Mallorca 6, 150, 198, 225
Leges novae, or Casale Laws 89, 97 Mallorcas, Kingdom of the 151
Leipzig 110 Malta 61
Leith 135 Manchester 134
Leonardo de Argensola, Bartolomé 164 Mandas, Sardinian family 196
León-Castile 23 Marche, la 58
Lescar 61 Mariana, Juan de 8, 324
Lescar, Bishop of 68 Mariana, of Austria 187
Levant 21, 23 Marongiu, Antonio 213
Levi, Giovanni 323 Márquez, Fray Juan 278
Liber civilitatis 95–7 Marsan 57–8, 63
Liber nobilitatis 98–9 Marseille 114
Liçana 196 Martel, Jerónimo 163, 166
Liguria 5, 90, 98, 102, 104 Martí, Eduard 7, 222
Lille 64, 66 Martin I 154
Lima 321 Martin the Humane, King of Aragon 178
Limoux 49 Mas, Emmanuel, honoured citizen 250,
Lindemann, Mary 319 258
Lisbon 29, 114, 277 Mateu y Sanz, Lorenzo 177, 180, 184
Livorno 114 Mattone, Antonello 205
Lladró, Luis 187 Maximilian, Archduke 25
348 Index
Maxwell of Pollock, Sir John 125 nemine discrepante 184
Mecklenburg, dukes of 112–3 Neo-Scholasticism 323
Medina Sidonia, Duke of 241 New Galloway 129
Mediterranean 21, 23, 90, 94, 114 Nicolai, Friedrich 105
Melville, Andrew 123 Nijmegen, treaty of 64
Memmingen 257 Nîmes-Beaucaire 40
Mende 39 Nine Years’ War, with France (1689–
Menzies of Findon, Gilbert 126 1697) 219
Menzies of Pitfodels, Thomas 126 Nogent 59
Messina 321, 325 Norberg, Kathryn 2
Metropolitan of Tarragona 148 Normandy 56, 58–60, 63–5, 75, 77–8
Mexico 321 Novi, Paolo da 95
Milan 94, 251 Nueva Planta (Decrees) 205, 226, 245
Milan Duchy of 92, 321, 324–5 Núñez de Avendaño, Pedro 277
Milan, Visconti of 92 Nuremberg 5, 105
Minorca 150
Moir of Stoneywood, James 124 oath, royal 6, 43, 44, 46, 110–11, 149,
Moïse de Fontanieu, Gaspard 59 151, 176–7, 180–3, 195, 201, 214,
Molière 66 233, 240, 249, 261, 271, 289
Molina Puche, Sebastián 287 Oban 135–6
Monaco 90, 98 oligarchisation 1, 3, 5, 9, 27, 45, 214,
Mondoñedo 301 257, 326–7
Montagut, Tomàs de 6, 11 Oliva 196
Montbrison 66 Olivares, Count-Duke of 6, 184, 277,
Monti, nuncio 277 279, 308, 327
Montils-lès-Tours 59 Oloron 61
Montnegre 224–5 Oltralpe 94
Montoliu Ribes, Pere 240 Oltregiogo 90
Montpellier 45, 48, 66 Orchies 64
Montreuil 59 Orduña 302
Monvoisin 63 Orense 301
Monzón 145, 150–2, 155, 162, 169, 183 Oristano 197, 202
Mortari, Constantino 145 Oristano, Archbishop of 201–2
Mühlhausen 110 Orleans, Philippe, duke of 250
Muir of Huntershill, Thomas 134 Orne 77–9
Muñoz, Rosa 180 Orry, Jean, Controller-General 55
Murillo 166–7 Osnabrück, Peace Congress of 111
Museu d’Història de la Ciutat of Osnabrück, Treaty of 113
Barcelona 223 Oviedo 304
Musi, Aurelio 324
Musselburgh 135 Pactism: 7, 163, 166, 184–5, 234; pactist
model 328; pactist system 182, 188
Nader, Helen 321 Padua, Marsilius of 270
Nairn (shire) 128, 135 Paine, Thomas 134
Naples 24, 28, 251, 256, 321, 324 Paisley 135
Naples, Kingdom of 28 Palacios, Bonifacio 147
Napoleon 328 Palermo 325
Napoléon III 73 Palissot d’Incourt, Ambroise, first
Napoleonic Wars 115, 134 president of the Council of Artois 66
Narbonne 38–9, 43, 47, 67–8 Pallavicini 91
Narbonne, Archbishop of 47, 67 Palma, Viceroy 250
Navarre: 58, 170, 302, 328; Lower Pamiers 66
Navarre 57, 63; Kingdom of 302 Pamiers, Bishop of 68
Nébouzan 57, 63, 66 Panama 131
Index 349
Papon, Loys 66 Poc valria, constitució of (Catalonia)
Paris 3, 24, 48, 114 1481 232, 239
Parker, David 251 Pocock, John G.A. 319
Parliament of Paris 3, 48 Poitou 58
Parliament: English/British 6, 27, 128, Pons, Gaspar de 275
131, 214, 221, 225; Scottish 6, 27, Pope Innocence III 147–8
123–4, 126, 131; Sard 8, 194–5, 197, Port Glasgow 135
201–3, 205–6, 324 Portobello 135
Particular Council of Valencia 188 Portugal 24, 94, 271, 277
Pau 66 Powrie, Easter 126
Pays d’élections 59, 60 pragmatic sanction 8, 156, 186, 249
pays d’états 55, 57–8 Prak, Maarten 319–20
Peebles 135 Principality of Catalonia 152, 195, 241,
Peguera Aimeric, Antoni de 240 252, 258
Pélaquier, Élie 75 Principat of Catalonia see Principality
Peralada, Count of 237 of Catalonia
Perche 59 Pringle of Stichill, Robert 124
Pérez Aparicio, Carmen 8 Privilegio General (of Aragon) 161, 163
Pérez de Araciel, Garci 277 Provence 55, 61–2, 64–5, 68, 74
Pérez de Mesa, D. 286 Provincial Estates of the County of
Perth 135–6 Holland 325
Peter the Catholic 147–8 Prussia 24
Peter the Ceremonious 146, 150–2, Pujades, Jeroni 217
154, 179 Puy, Le (Le Velay) 39
Peter the Cruel of Castile 151 Pyrenées: 55; treaty of (1659) 327
Peter the Great of Aragon 147–50
Peterborough, Charles Mourdant count Quatre-Vallées 57, 63
of 225 Quirra 196
Peterhead 135
Peterloo massacre 134 Radical War 1820 134
petitions 26, 27, 215, 272, 292–3 Ramírez de Arellano, Rafael 288
Petit-Quevilly 80 Ramiro II 145
Petronila of Aragon 145–6 Ramon Berenguer IV, Count of
Pézenas 66 Barcelona 145
Philip II of Spain 97, 155–6, 162, 164, Rastatt, treaties of (1714) 225
183, 186, 271, 278 realengo cities and towns 177, 188,
Philip III of Spain 183 189
Philip IV for the Catalans, see Philip V Reform Act (1832), Scotland 6, 129–30,
Philip IV of France 24 135–6
Philip IV of Spain 145, 183–4, 186–7, regidor 9, 275, 287, 291, 305
203, 222, 232, 238, 271, 275, 279–80, regimientos 307, 310
304 regnum 8, 233, 235–6
Philip of Bourbon, see Philip V Regnum Sardinae 206
Philip the Fair 56 Reial Audiència (of Catalonia) 232–3,
Philip V, King, of Bourbon 6, 7, 156, 176, 235, 238–9, 241
182–3, 185, 187–8, 203, 205, 215–16, Reichshofrat, Aulic Council 106, 109
218, 224, 226, 232–3, 238–41, 245, Reichsmatrikel 105
250, 252, 308 Reichsstadt 105, 112, 114
Phocaea 90 Reichstag 113
Pignans 61 Renfrewshire (Renfrew) 124–5, 128–9,
Pinelo, Fray Gabriel 278 135
Pinós, Catalan family of lower nobility republicanism: 4, 7, 12–13, 105–6,
256 114–15, 119–20, 264, 319–21, 323,
Plasencia, count of 247 327; republican 2, 4, 7, 9, 73, 94, 106,
350 Index
111, 115, 216, 224, 232, 255, 258–9, Segovia, John of 107–8
324 Segur, marquis de 58
république villageoise 75 Segura 303
Revolution of 1688 129, 225 Selkirk 135
Rhine 28 Senate of Genoa 97–8
Rodolat, Ramon (of Barcelona) 225 Sentís, Bishop, viceroy of Catalonia 247
Rojas Villandrando, Agustín de 322 Serra, Eva 219, 231, 234
Roman Empire 21 Seven United Provinces 216
Rome 91, 150, 276, 289 Sévigné, marquis of 66
Rome, Giles of 276 Seville 29, 321
Ross 135 Sforza 92
Rothesay 135 Sicily 6, 150, 197, 325; Kingdom of 325
Rouergue 58 Solanes, Francisco 216
Roxburghshire 124 Sos 162
Rufo, Juan 288 Soulaire 77
Russell, Conrad 300 Soule 57, 63
Russia 26 Sound, the 22
Rutherglen 135 Spain: 1, 7, 9, 26, 58, 97, 99–100, 155–6,
182, 194, 215, 225, 246, 281, 300–2,
Sacristán, Antonio 287, 295 304, 327–8; empire of 131, 156, 326;
Sádaba 162 monarchy of 9, 310, 320–1, 324, 327
Saint Gaudens 66 Speyer 115
Saint-Bonnet in Auvergne 79 Spinola, Andrea 89–91
Saint-Géry 61 Spinoza, Baruch 8
Saint-Pons 43 St Andrews 135
Saint-Pré 73 St Petersburg 114
Saint-Victor-la-Coste 75 Stanhope, Diego 225
Salamanca 171, 323 States General of the United Provinces
Sales, Núria 247 254
San Giorgio, Banco di 93–6, 97, 99 Stirling 135
San Marino 89 Stranraer 129
San Sebastián 303 Suárez, Francisco 277
Sánchez de Montiel, juez de términos subsidies 7–9, 26, 40, 56, 59, 163, 178–9,
294 181–4, 187–202, 273–4, 277, 280
Sanremo 99 Sutherland, shire of 128
Santiago 301 Swabia 28
Sard (Sardinian) Kingdom 6, 8, 10, 90, Sweden 26
193–6, 197–200, 204–6, 324 Swiss Confederation 20
Sarda Rivoluzione 206
Sarret 45 Tamarite de Litera 167
Sassari 196–7 Tarazona 166
Sassoferrato, Bartolus of 108 Tarbes 66
Sauli 92 Tarbes, Bishop of 68
Sauvelade 61 Tarragona, Archbishop of 148, 233,
Savoy 193–4, 203 236–7
Savoy dynasty 8 Tauste 162
Savoy, Duke of 98 Teixidor, Félix 256
Schlögl, Rudolf 111 Templars 24
School of Salamanca 323 Terré i Marquet, Josep, Baron of
Schramm, Percy E. 146 Canyellas 237, 256
Schwyz 20 Teruel 167, 169
Scotland 1, 5, 6, 10, 123–4, 126, 128–31, Thompson, Irving 251, 321, 324
134–6 Tierra Llana 301–3, 309
Scotland, Church of 124 Tilly, Charles 26, 320
Second World War 17 Toledo 272–3
Index 351
Tolosa 303 Vienna 224–5, 250
Tomás y Valiente, Francisco 290 Vilana Perlas, Ramon de, secretary of
Torner, Josep, sixth conseller of state of Charles III 225, 256
Barcelona 223 Vilar, Pierre 215
Torquemada, Juan de 276 Villaclara, marquis of 203
Torrellas Sentmenat, Pere 240 Villafranca 303
Tortosa 151, 184 Villahermosa, duke of, viceroy of
Toulouse 39–40, 46, 48 Catalonia 245
Touraine 58 Villasor 196
Trent, Council of 327 Villeneuve-de-Marsan 66
Trexler, Richard 109 Vitoria 304
Tribunal de Contrafaccions (of Catalonia) Vitoria, Francisco de 323
7, 163, 205, 218–9, 231–5, 236–9, Vitré 66
240–2 Vittorio Amedeo of Savoy 204
Tribunal de Contrafurs (of Valencia) Vivarais 40, 56, 61–2
186 Vizcaya: 10, 300–3, 304–7, 309;
Truchuelo, Susana 10 Señorío de 300–2
Turenne, Viscounty of 57, 59, 61 Vizille 49
Turin 203, 205–6 VOC (Vereenigde Oostindische
Tuy 301 Compagnie) 29
vote 4, 9, 41–2, 48–49, 65, 73, 82, 97,
Ubilla y Medina, Antonio de, secretario 113, 124, 126, 135, 148, 163, 169,
de despacho universal 238 177, 178, 190, 226, 233–242, 246,
Ulm 106, 110, 115 254, 271–2, 274–5, 277–9, 281,
Uncastillo 162 286–7, 290, 292, 293, 303–4, 326
Union of Arms (of Spain) 6, 184–5 Voyer, René-Louis de, marquis of
Union of Utrecht 5 Argenson 60, 64
United Kingdom 146, 152–4
United Provinces 2, 216, 254, 319–20, Walloon Flanders 62, 64
325 War of Succession (Austrian)100
United States 37 War of the Spanish Succession 7, 100,
Unterwalden 20 182, 188, 193, 203, 214, 216, 218,
Upper Alsace 57 224, 226, 232–3, 246, 252, 281, 327
Uri 20 Wedderburn of Kingennie, Alexander
Utrecht, Treaties of 156, 224 126
Weiss, Jean-Jacques 73
Vacchero, Giulio Cesare 98 Weller, Thomas 3, 5
Valencia 6, 7, 8, 10, 151–2, 162, 176–7, Westphalia, Peace of 5, 113, 327
179–81, 183, 185, 188, 194–9, 202, WIC (West-Indische Compagnie) 29
222, 225, 324 Wicquefort, Abraham de 113
València, Anton, son of Luis de València, Wigtown 135
lawyer of the military arm 256 William II (King William of Orange) 124,
Valencia, Kingdom of 152, 176 128
Valladolid 171, 272, 303 Worms 115
Vázquez de Menchaca, Fernando 323
Veinticuatro (regidores, Castile) 287, Young, John 6
289, 293–5 Ypres 325
Velasco, Francisco de, viceroy of
Catalonia 219 Zamora 304
Velay, Le 39, 56 Zapata de Cárdenas, don Pedro,
Vendôme, French general 246 corregidor 294
Venice 5, 89–91, 92–4, 98, 100, 109, Zaragoza 147–50, 161, 163, 167, 169,
114, 217 171
Versailles 295 Zeeland 254
Vico, Francisco de 197 Zuera 170

Political Representation in The Ancien Régime

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Political Representation in

the Ancien Régime

What kind of political representation existed in the Ancien Régime? Which

Joaquim Albareda is Full Professor of Early Modern History at Universitat

Manuel Herrero Sánchez is Associate Professor of Early Modern History at

The Elizabethan Secretariat and the Signet Office

Machiavelli and Political Conspiracies

Political Representation in the Ancien Régime

Edited by Joaquim Albareda and

List of Figures viii

2 Enterprising Politics or Routine Dealings?: Political

3 Political Representation in Languedoc Under

4 Representation: Political Foundations of the French Province,

5 The Administration of French Villages by Their Inhabitants

6 Governing in a Republican State: A Case Study of Genoa

7 Political Representation and Symbolic Communication in

8 Representation in the Scottish Parliament to 1707 and

The Crown of Aragon: Aragon, Valencia and Sardinia 143

9 Constitution and Political Representation in the Crown of

10 Political Representation in the Kingdom of Aragon During

11 Political Representation in the Kingdom of Valencia During

12 Political Representation in the Kingdom of Sardinia in the

13 Political Participation in Catalonia: From Zenith

14 The Configuration of the Tribunal de Contrafaccions

15 The Conferència dels Comuns in Catalonia (1656–1714):

Castille and the Basque Territories 267

16 The Multiple Faces of Representation: Kingdom, Cortes

17 Municipal Representation in the Crown of Castile in

18 Political Participation and Representation in the

Representation in a Polycentric Monarchy

19 Urban Republicanism and Political Representation in

8.1 Scottish representation: Shires represented in the Scottish

13.1 Occupation of Barcelona’s consellers (1702–1713) 223

What type of political representation existed in European political institu-

The history of representative institutions is a venerable field, initially fos-

1. Setting the Scene

2. The Political Society

3. The Representative Agency

5. Oligarchisation and Institutional Inertia

6. Centre and Periphery

Some European Cases

Is it acceptable to speak of political representation in a kingdom where the

1. Medieval Origins of Political Representation

Consulates and Political Representation: The “Languedoc Model”

• Consulates are framed within communities with well-defined territorial

Being a consul means representing and embodying the community, as its

A Very Heterogeneous Languedoc

Political Representation Out of Necessity?

Political Representation Abused by Royal Power

3. The Issue of Political Representation in the 18th Century

A Crisis in Communal Representation?

The Offensive Against the Estates of Languedoc

1787–1789: A Fight for Representation

Today, historiography mainly highlights the fact that provincial estates,

1. Origin and Nature of the Assemblies

It would be hard to downgrade these three provinces to pays d’élections.

These examples demonstrate that the government, generally, took a prag-

2. Composition and Balance of Forces

This gradual legal closure of the nobility’s chambers guaranteed cohesion

3. The Heyday of Provinces

Our commissioners will be dressed in cloak and cravat at the opening

This contribution addresses political representation in the Ancien Régime at

French Historians and the “problème de la communauté rurale”