The primary intent of Madison’s writing throughout Federalist “Number 51” is to articulate a view of republican governance that protects individual and minority interests through the workings of human nature. Madison’s thought repeatedly emphasises the importance of checks on governmental power, a factor that he views as crucial for the “preservation of liberty”.
Madison’s view of government can best be surmised in the quote: “If men were angels, no government would be necessary”. Inherent in such a statement is the value that Madison places on human freedom of action that is not contingent on government for it’s existence. Viewed from such a perspective government action and power can only ever conflict with, not supplement, liberty. To protect liberty from abuse of power, it is therefore necessary for as much autonomy between government departments as possible, and for political power to be divided up so as to avoid concentrating power too much in one local.
This is what Madison means when he talks of security from concentration of power lying in “giving to those who administer each department, the necessary constitutional means, and personal motives, to resist encroachments of the others”. “Personal motives” being the key words that explain Madison’s philosophical linkage between human nature and the nature of governance. Far from arguing – as some of a socialistic persuasion may have been persuaded to – that government should seek to amend human avarice, and that governmental agencies can exist fuelled only by morality and good will, Madison was espousing the essentially conservative argument that government (is) “itself but the greatest of all reflections on human nature”. It follows therefore that the ability to “oblige it to control itself” rests on recognition of human self-interest and fallibility.
When Madison refers to “external nor internal controls on government” being necessary should angels be rulers, it is not merely analogical – insofar as government exists in a Madisonian system, it exists in a limited, fractured form. Not only that way is the “private interest of every individual…centinel over the public rights” but also it reflects the experience “that has taught mankind the necessity of auxiliary precautions”. No doubt the “experience “ that Madison refers to being that of the colonists subjugation to monarchical rule, and the “auxiliary precautions” being based on the need for divided authority to guard against such individualistic abuses of power. Madison’s suspicion of unitary power does not end with his antipathy towards monarchy; within the context of an American republican system he notes the desirability of legislative authority over the presidency, noting that any increase in executive power to offset legislative superiority had the potential to be “perfidiously abused”.
For government to “control itself” is just as essential to the preservation of liberty as is it’s authority over the populace. To facilitate trust in the government Madison regarded it as essential that there be a “necessary partition of power” among governmental departments and that each agency be as free from outside interference in making appointments as possible. The theme is one of checks and balances, with each governmental department acting as a mediator against excessive power by any one agency.
It is notable that where Madison does make an exception to his rule of maximum practical and theoretical autonomy for branches of government in selecting personnel and pursuing their own will, it is in the judiciary – where he notes that the primary methods of selection should be based upon selection of “that mode of choice”, that best picks those “peculiar qualifications” needed for judicial work – irrespective of the ideal of autonomous governmental institutions – and secondly because the “permanent tenure by which the appointments are held in that department, must soon destroy all sense of dependence on the authority conferring them”. This is to say that judges’ permanent tenure rendered them figures influential across the entire governmental spectrum by definition. All of these are integral to Madison’s ideal of checks and balances that require equilibrium and dependence between rival governmental bureaucracies to ensure the health of the nations political system.
The intricacies of the central governmental system desired by Madison manifests itself further in the wish for a strong federal system, founded on two spheres of government, state and federal, acting as a “double security…to the rights of the people. The different governments will control each other; at the same time that each will be controlled by itself”. Paradoxically – given his view of governance as a “necessary evil” – Madison’s position was that to guard against abuses of power and to protect liberty, extra layers of administration were needed at state level.
But oppression by rulers is one thing, just as important to Madison was the potential for oppression by one segment of society against another. Madison viewed the only solution to this problem compatible with republican ideals was to: “render an unjust combination of a majority of the whole very improbable, if not impracticable”. This meant a pluralist society of diverse interests and classes, as well as meaningful civil rights. As Madison puts it: “In a free government, the security for civil rights must be the same as that for religious rights”. Sociological federalism was the goal; with the principle of plurality applied not just to the structure of US government, but also to the composition of interests that government would represent.
This confederation of interests within society was not just a function of the US as it was comprised in 1788, Madison describes the need for such a system to be recommended to “all sincere friends of republican government” should the nation expand. The reason being that as the territory of the union increased, so the federal structure of US government would guard against “oppressive combinations of a majority”. Madison regarded the expansion of the United States federally as a means of furthering his aim of a pluralist society of differing sects and interests that combined facilitated minority rights, in his words: “In the extended republic of the United States, and among the great variety of interests, parties and sects which it embraces, a coalition of a majority of the whole of society could seldom take place upon any other principles than those of justice and the general good”.
The combination of safeguards on government and concern for the rights of minorities was deductive of one paramount principle; that “justice is the end of government. It is the end of civil society”. Such linguistics once again demonstrates Madison’s conception of the relationship between government and theoretical principles of governance; that government exists not for the nourishment of material needs – or positive freedoms – but as a neutral arbitrator of a “just” society.
How Madison defines justice demonstrates his pessimism with regards to humanity – this evident in his evocation of “anarchy” and the “state of nature” argument when discussing the perils of untrammelled majority rule, as well as his insistence on rigorous checks on governmental power. Madison’s thought, though inspired by liberal republicanism, is ultimately of a profoundly realist persuasion, in part Hobbesian as well as Lockean, and a commentary less on the perfectibility of man, than his timeless fallibility.
Friday, 1 February 2008
Defend, reject, or modify the following statement: “The ideology of the American Revolution was not radical but conservative”
The American Revolution marks an epoch in the elevation of enlightenment thinking and rationality to the mainstream of world political affairs. To this end it presents an obvious break with tradition and conservative values. But the question is in part paradoxical: how can any revolution be conservative? Is it possible to reconcile the dawn of Liberal political theory with any type of conservative philosophy? The answer, in this essayist’s opinion, is a resounding yes. The drama of the revolutionary war belied its evolutionary nature, disguising the fundamental truth that American society was heavily influenced not just by the concept of ancient English liberties – “the rights of Englishmen” (Foner 2005: 37-38) – but by classical republican thought, the principles of which it had in large part fused with monarchism under the English system. The new generation of American leaders cultivated their republic from the seeds of parliamentarian democracy that had evolved in England since the Glorious Revolution of 1688, demonstrating an institutional inheritance that would have been anathema to a generation of French revolutionaries, or 20th century Russian and Chinese radicals, all of whom wanted to tear down all structures of society and start afresh.
A truth of the revolution was that any sense of unity the new states had came in large part from their shared British identity. Without this common bond, any sense of nationhood would surely have disappeared. Any look at the friction between French and British colonies in North America during this period will reflect this, a cultural friction that exists – albeit reduced – in Canada to this day. This shared culture formed the basis of the united nation; “manners, morals and amusements of America in the mid 18th century were in a humbler degree…much the same…as in the mother country” (Wood 1993: 12). The question is simplistic but instructive: what inspired the colonies to fight together? To which the answer must surely be a sense of shared British identity and values that defined the new American nation in part by inheritance.
The degree to which, for example, American colonists were unique in revelling in the concept of individual liberty has been something distorted by the passage of time and America’s subsequent resistance to collectivist political ideals as promulgated by continental European polities in the 19th and 20th centuries. It is instead instructive to point to the degree that all 18th century Englishmen, be they in the home country or the colonies, valued their worldwide reputation for freedom (ibid: 16-17). Post-revolution ideas of ‘American exceptionalism’ and ‘the city on a hill’ have promoted the myth that America was the sole ideological repository of true liberty, a liberty freed from the shackles of monarchical rule, and fundamentally at odds with the hierarchical nature of European societies. The reality is somewhat different – the freedoms that Americans fought for in 1776 were as much a re-assertion of old values based on Anglo-Saxon individualism as they were about modernity and republicanism. Thus was John Adams able to describe the English constitution as late as the 1760s as: “the most perfect combination of human powers in society which finite wisdom has yet contrived and reduced to practice for the preservation of liberty and the production of happiness” (Bailyn 1992: 67).
For sure, Americans viewed the establishment of a republic as not just desirable, but an intrinsic part of the United States project. Their could be no room for monarchy and inherited privilege, but taken on its own this assertion risks associating the ideals of American liberty purely with a republican break from royalty. Wood makes this mistake in part by his assertion that republicanism “was as radical for the 18th century as Marxism was for the 19th century” (Wood 1993: 96). Without doubt, it was a new way of ordering society, but perhaps a better way of describing the relationship between monarchism, republicanism, and liberty is extolled by David Hume, who described British-style monarchy as owing “all its perfections” to republicanism (ibid: 97). Far from thinking republicanism to be a break from systems of old in the way Marxism was a signifier of a supposed historic break from capitalism, Hume viewed large parts of republicanism compatible with limited monarchism – the later institution obviously weakened as in England post-1688.
Montesquieu’s ‘The Spirit of the Laws’ (1748) provides further theoretical justification for this viewpoint. This study weighed the pros and cons of monarchy vie a vie republicanism and arrived at the conclusion that most modern governments were mixtures of both to one degree or another (ibid). For Hume, Montesquieu and countless others, monarchies in the modified British sense and republics shared certain ontological assumptions, and reflected much smaller differences than would exist a century later between the revolutionary philosophy of Karl Marx and the pluralist democracy of late 19th century societies.
In order for the American Revolution to have been truly radical, greater differences would have to have existed between the new republic and the system of old – as in the French Revolution. The American revolt was conservative in comparison, since the Glorious Revolution “most political leaders (on both sides of the Atlantic) were held to ancient republican standards” (Wood: 103), republican values having in part been institutionalised – the very epitome of political conservatism.
Wood reflects this view point in part by his declaration that “Americans did not have to invent republicanism in 1776; they only had to bring it to the surface”, and that transition was “as much ease as would have attended their throwing off an old and putting on a new suit of clothes” (ibid: 109) – seemingly contradicting his earlier remarks that republicanism was as radical for its time as Marxism was in the 19th century. Implicit in such a statement is that republicanism was not a radical institutional and theoretical break form the past, but more evolutionary – in stark contrast to the bloody institutional and intellectual uplifts predicated on the French, Russian, and Chinese revolutions (see Skocpal:).
In much of the writing on the American Revolution there are consistent references to “classical republican values” (see: Wood, and Bailyn) as espoused by the declared radicals of 1776. The likes of Jefferson, Hamilton, Madison et al’s reverences for classical republicanism is in no doubt – reflected as it is in the architecture of Monticello and Washington DC, as well as the thought and proclamations of these men. Bailyn notes the usage of a “large portion of the inheritance of Western culture, from Aristotle to Moliere…Vergil, Shakespeare, Ramus, Pufendorf, Swift and Rousseau” (Bailyn: 23), “the heritage of classical antiquity” was accordingly most conspicuous in the writings of the revolutionary period (ibid). Colonists – it is noted – “evoked classical scholars of Rome who harked back to better times before corruption had beset the Republic – and drew parallels with their provincial values, rustic and old-fashioned (emphasis mine) challenged by the corruption of a centralised monarch (ibid: 25-26).
This emphasis on the classical history has a variety of implications in assessing the ideology of the revolution. Firstly, it demonstrated no incompatibility between “old-fashioned” “rustic” colonial values, and the dreams of American “radical” republicans; on the contrary, the antiquity and virtue of republicanism fitted perfectly with their contemporary colonial values. The corruption of the British monarchy provided a modern parallel with the decay of the Roman republic, republican values were to be defended not because they represented a radical break with the ideals of old, but because they could represent the very timeless Anglo-Saxon liberty that the revolutionaries believed had been corrupted in Britain by modernity. In that sense Bailyn accurately describes the revolutionaries as inspired by “enlightened conservatism” (Bailyn: 25-26).
Secondly, it denotes the importance of historical truths to the leaders of 1776. Classical Marxism believed in a narrative – revolution was an inevitable consequence of human development though historical stages; its narrative was deterministic, rejecting eternal truths and the idea that man could interpret or alter the inevitability of history for his own ends (Doyle: 1997). The American revolutionaries were avid scholars of history, but in contrast to Marxists of a century later they remained convinced of its modern utility, and rejected ideas of historical inevitability and the need to do disregard such variables as human nature, something reflected not just in their theoretical ideals, but their proposals for the structure of the United States government.
The fear of standing armies demonstrates this historical awareness perfectly – colonists able to account the tyrannical power of French, Turkish, Polish, Spanish and Russian aristocracies to their coercion of large standing armies (Bailyn: 61-63). The writing of James Madison in Federalist Papers 10 and 51 is littered with references to the “state of nature”, talk of government as “the ultimate reflection of human nature”, “the nature of man”, as well as his propensity to fall into “mutual animosities” and the subsequent steps that government should take – via checks and balances on power – to ensure minimal abuse of power (Hollinger 2001: 156-163).
Such writing is thoroughly Hobbesian, indicative of a conservative-realist mindset, prepared to expect the worst of man rather than plan for utopia, and learn from the path of history rather than discard it, as a generation of French revolutionaries did in 1789. It was after all, the patron saint of modern conservatism, Edmund Burke, who first noted in 1771: "history is a preceptor of prudence, not of principles" (blupete.com). If ever there was an example of men learning the prudent – conservative – lessons of history, it was the leaders of 1776.
It was in the spirit of “enlightened conservatism” that the Founding Fathers could express the desire for a “classical republic of elitist virtue” (Wood: 369). They may have had a “passionate antagonism” to the prevalence of patronage and family influence in the ancien regime (ibid: 180), but this proletarian impulse was strongly tempered by their elitist principles – if men had talent and the potential to acquire liberal republican attributes then they would do so by attending such learned institutions as Harvard and Princeton, in the same way that there English elite contemporaries would have attended Oxford or Cambridge. This in turn would have honored them for service on the bench – where English common law was the lingua franca of the revolutionaries – or the army, navy, or learned professions. The ideal was a “natural aristocracy” (ibid), or the inherited structure of old world elite society minus inherited privilege. Elitism and the idea of a republican ruling caste, superior to the masses of uneducated commoners was essential to guaranteeing the order and structure of the new system – in this sense the America of the post-revolutionary period reflected the necessity of hierarchy and order that no amount of radical liberty rhetoric could disguise.
This inherent – conservative – fear of the masses is evident in the constitutionally allotted structure and style of US governmental institutions that exist unmodified to this day. What is the presidential Electoral College, other than an elitist, undemocratic, anti-populist institution the raison d’etre of which is to frustrate mass majority will? What of the structure of Congress, with a deliberate attempt to dilute power between Senate and House of Representatives and thus stifle the potential for populist wills excesses in either body? (Foner: 148-149). Or indeed, the powers of the Federal Supreme Court – a body of unelected learned scholars with the power to over-rule any other governmental body in the land via its sacrosanct role as protector of the Constitution?
It is self-evident that such institutional arrangements play a vital role in safeguarding “negative freedoms” – the freedom from rather than freedom to. But they also demonstrate a desire on the part of revolutionaries to impose a republic first, democracy second, the structure and solidity of governmental bodies taking precedence over untrammeled popular rule and the threat that the people may seek to fundamentally alter the constitutional structure of US government. Tension is clearly evident in part between form and liberty, or republic and democracy, in the same way that 19th century liberals such as John Stuart Mill experienced inconsistencies between their professed utilitarianism and their belief in Liberal governance. In the case of the Founding Fathers, government was to be as unresponsive to popular pressures as possible – a more Tory proposition hard to find.
It is within this context of true democracy versus order that further evidence of the decidedly un-radical nature of the revolutionary leaders can be deduced – in the shape of their decided electoral franchise and the position of blacks within society. This electorate consisted entirely of white males, and slavery was far from being an issue won for abolitionists – on the contrary, it took nearly a whole century and a bloody civil war for it to be finally annexed from American society. This again reinforces the idea that American society as designed by the revolutionaries was inherently conservative, with the federal system and diluted nature of power making radical change hard to achieve, in stark contrast to Great Britain, where unitary parliamentary authority made the abolition of slavery achievable as early as 1807.
It is however, unwise to see the issue of slavery to the revolutionaries in such (pun not intended) black and white terms. Though Jefferson was an owner – and impregnator – of slaves, he viewed it more as a necessary evil; something to be tolerated due to the negro’s inherent inferiority – but something that would die out with the passage of time, and the negro’s subsequent betterment via liberal republican institutions and practices (Hollinger & Capper: 185-189). Such an attitude is not that of a die-hard 18th century conservative, but nor is it the one of a radical, suggestive instead of a Whig evolutionary attitude. Wood makes this argument for that of Whiggish revolutionaries via his insinuation that the continuation of slavery – particularly in the south, it having all but died out in the north – was “doomed” by the radicalism of the revolution, and its incongruity with republican forces of equality and liberty that had hitherto been smothered by monarchist Toryism (Wood: 186-187). The problem with this argument is twofold: it not only ignores the superior record of the hierarchical, monarch-bound British in abolishing slavery with much less bloodshed and disorder than their American cousins some 60-odd years later, but disregards Americans, northern and southern, who – like Jefferson – sincerely regarded slavery as reflective of African-American inferiority, thus justifying its continuation – albeit temporarily (Hollinger & Capper: 189).
Though such arguments rely on the passage of history post-1776 for verification, they nonetheless shine an illuminating light on the ideology of the revolution. Far from seeing the revolution as the antithesis of radical 18th century ideals of equality, liberty and fraternity, it is more instructive in this essays view to see it more as an evolution of ideals – ideals in part incubated by the increased republicanisation of the British constitutional system, and the mismatch between fractured colonial governance and rapidly expanding colonies (Wood: 128-145). All these factors lend weight to the idea of an “enlightened conservative” revolution – in contrast to the dominant thesis of American exceptionalism and radicalism.
Bibliography
Bernard Bailyn; ‘The ideological origins of the American Revolution’, Harvard University Press, 1992
Michael Doyle; ‘Ways of War and Peace”, 1st edition, W.W. Norton & Company, 1997
Eric Foner; ‘Give Me Liberty’, W.W. Norton & Company, 2005
David A. Hollinger & Charles Capper; ‘The American Intellectual Tradition’, Oxford University Press, 2001
Gordon S. Wood; ‘The Radicalism of the American Revolution’, Vintage Books, 1993
A truth of the revolution was that any sense of unity the new states had came in large part from their shared British identity. Without this common bond, any sense of nationhood would surely have disappeared. Any look at the friction between French and British colonies in North America during this period will reflect this, a cultural friction that exists – albeit reduced – in Canada to this day. This shared culture formed the basis of the united nation; “manners, morals and amusements of America in the mid 18th century were in a humbler degree…much the same…as in the mother country” (Wood 1993: 12). The question is simplistic but instructive: what inspired the colonies to fight together? To which the answer must surely be a sense of shared British identity and values that defined the new American nation in part by inheritance.
The degree to which, for example, American colonists were unique in revelling in the concept of individual liberty has been something distorted by the passage of time and America’s subsequent resistance to collectivist political ideals as promulgated by continental European polities in the 19th and 20th centuries. It is instead instructive to point to the degree that all 18th century Englishmen, be they in the home country or the colonies, valued their worldwide reputation for freedom (ibid: 16-17). Post-revolution ideas of ‘American exceptionalism’ and ‘the city on a hill’ have promoted the myth that America was the sole ideological repository of true liberty, a liberty freed from the shackles of monarchical rule, and fundamentally at odds with the hierarchical nature of European societies. The reality is somewhat different – the freedoms that Americans fought for in 1776 were as much a re-assertion of old values based on Anglo-Saxon individualism as they were about modernity and republicanism. Thus was John Adams able to describe the English constitution as late as the 1760s as: “the most perfect combination of human powers in society which finite wisdom has yet contrived and reduced to practice for the preservation of liberty and the production of happiness” (Bailyn 1992: 67).
For sure, Americans viewed the establishment of a republic as not just desirable, but an intrinsic part of the United States project. Their could be no room for monarchy and inherited privilege, but taken on its own this assertion risks associating the ideals of American liberty purely with a republican break from royalty. Wood makes this mistake in part by his assertion that republicanism “was as radical for the 18th century as Marxism was for the 19th century” (Wood 1993: 96). Without doubt, it was a new way of ordering society, but perhaps a better way of describing the relationship between monarchism, republicanism, and liberty is extolled by David Hume, who described British-style monarchy as owing “all its perfections” to republicanism (ibid: 97). Far from thinking republicanism to be a break from systems of old in the way Marxism was a signifier of a supposed historic break from capitalism, Hume viewed large parts of republicanism compatible with limited monarchism – the later institution obviously weakened as in England post-1688.
Montesquieu’s ‘The Spirit of the Laws’ (1748) provides further theoretical justification for this viewpoint. This study weighed the pros and cons of monarchy vie a vie republicanism and arrived at the conclusion that most modern governments were mixtures of both to one degree or another (ibid). For Hume, Montesquieu and countless others, monarchies in the modified British sense and republics shared certain ontological assumptions, and reflected much smaller differences than would exist a century later between the revolutionary philosophy of Karl Marx and the pluralist democracy of late 19th century societies.
In order for the American Revolution to have been truly radical, greater differences would have to have existed between the new republic and the system of old – as in the French Revolution. The American revolt was conservative in comparison, since the Glorious Revolution “most political leaders (on both sides of the Atlantic) were held to ancient republican standards” (Wood: 103), republican values having in part been institutionalised – the very epitome of political conservatism.
Wood reflects this view point in part by his declaration that “Americans did not have to invent republicanism in 1776; they only had to bring it to the surface”, and that transition was “as much ease as would have attended their throwing off an old and putting on a new suit of clothes” (ibid: 109) – seemingly contradicting his earlier remarks that republicanism was as radical for its time as Marxism was in the 19th century. Implicit in such a statement is that republicanism was not a radical institutional and theoretical break form the past, but more evolutionary – in stark contrast to the bloody institutional and intellectual uplifts predicated on the French, Russian, and Chinese revolutions (see Skocpal:).
In much of the writing on the American Revolution there are consistent references to “classical republican values” (see: Wood, and Bailyn) as espoused by the declared radicals of 1776. The likes of Jefferson, Hamilton, Madison et al’s reverences for classical republicanism is in no doubt – reflected as it is in the architecture of Monticello and Washington DC, as well as the thought and proclamations of these men. Bailyn notes the usage of a “large portion of the inheritance of Western culture, from Aristotle to Moliere…Vergil, Shakespeare, Ramus, Pufendorf, Swift and Rousseau” (Bailyn: 23), “the heritage of classical antiquity” was accordingly most conspicuous in the writings of the revolutionary period (ibid). Colonists – it is noted – “evoked classical scholars of Rome who harked back to better times before corruption had beset the Republic – and drew parallels with their provincial values, rustic and old-fashioned (emphasis mine) challenged by the corruption of a centralised monarch (ibid: 25-26).
This emphasis on the classical history has a variety of implications in assessing the ideology of the revolution. Firstly, it demonstrated no incompatibility between “old-fashioned” “rustic” colonial values, and the dreams of American “radical” republicans; on the contrary, the antiquity and virtue of republicanism fitted perfectly with their contemporary colonial values. The corruption of the British monarchy provided a modern parallel with the decay of the Roman republic, republican values were to be defended not because they represented a radical break with the ideals of old, but because they could represent the very timeless Anglo-Saxon liberty that the revolutionaries believed had been corrupted in Britain by modernity. In that sense Bailyn accurately describes the revolutionaries as inspired by “enlightened conservatism” (Bailyn: 25-26).
Secondly, it denotes the importance of historical truths to the leaders of 1776. Classical Marxism believed in a narrative – revolution was an inevitable consequence of human development though historical stages; its narrative was deterministic, rejecting eternal truths and the idea that man could interpret or alter the inevitability of history for his own ends (Doyle: 1997). The American revolutionaries were avid scholars of history, but in contrast to Marxists of a century later they remained convinced of its modern utility, and rejected ideas of historical inevitability and the need to do disregard such variables as human nature, something reflected not just in their theoretical ideals, but their proposals for the structure of the United States government.
The fear of standing armies demonstrates this historical awareness perfectly – colonists able to account the tyrannical power of French, Turkish, Polish, Spanish and Russian aristocracies to their coercion of large standing armies (Bailyn: 61-63). The writing of James Madison in Federalist Papers 10 and 51 is littered with references to the “state of nature”, talk of government as “the ultimate reflection of human nature”, “the nature of man”, as well as his propensity to fall into “mutual animosities” and the subsequent steps that government should take – via checks and balances on power – to ensure minimal abuse of power (Hollinger 2001: 156-163).
Such writing is thoroughly Hobbesian, indicative of a conservative-realist mindset, prepared to expect the worst of man rather than plan for utopia, and learn from the path of history rather than discard it, as a generation of French revolutionaries did in 1789. It was after all, the patron saint of modern conservatism, Edmund Burke, who first noted in 1771: "history is a preceptor of prudence, not of principles" (blupete.com). If ever there was an example of men learning the prudent – conservative – lessons of history, it was the leaders of 1776.
It was in the spirit of “enlightened conservatism” that the Founding Fathers could express the desire for a “classical republic of elitist virtue” (Wood: 369). They may have had a “passionate antagonism” to the prevalence of patronage and family influence in the ancien regime (ibid: 180), but this proletarian impulse was strongly tempered by their elitist principles – if men had talent and the potential to acquire liberal republican attributes then they would do so by attending such learned institutions as Harvard and Princeton, in the same way that there English elite contemporaries would have attended Oxford or Cambridge. This in turn would have honored them for service on the bench – where English common law was the lingua franca of the revolutionaries – or the army, navy, or learned professions. The ideal was a “natural aristocracy” (ibid), or the inherited structure of old world elite society minus inherited privilege. Elitism and the idea of a republican ruling caste, superior to the masses of uneducated commoners was essential to guaranteeing the order and structure of the new system – in this sense the America of the post-revolutionary period reflected the necessity of hierarchy and order that no amount of radical liberty rhetoric could disguise.
This inherent – conservative – fear of the masses is evident in the constitutionally allotted structure and style of US governmental institutions that exist unmodified to this day. What is the presidential Electoral College, other than an elitist, undemocratic, anti-populist institution the raison d’etre of which is to frustrate mass majority will? What of the structure of Congress, with a deliberate attempt to dilute power between Senate and House of Representatives and thus stifle the potential for populist wills excesses in either body? (Foner: 148-149). Or indeed, the powers of the Federal Supreme Court – a body of unelected learned scholars with the power to over-rule any other governmental body in the land via its sacrosanct role as protector of the Constitution?
It is self-evident that such institutional arrangements play a vital role in safeguarding “negative freedoms” – the freedom from rather than freedom to. But they also demonstrate a desire on the part of revolutionaries to impose a republic first, democracy second, the structure and solidity of governmental bodies taking precedence over untrammeled popular rule and the threat that the people may seek to fundamentally alter the constitutional structure of US government. Tension is clearly evident in part between form and liberty, or republic and democracy, in the same way that 19th century liberals such as John Stuart Mill experienced inconsistencies between their professed utilitarianism and their belief in Liberal governance. In the case of the Founding Fathers, government was to be as unresponsive to popular pressures as possible – a more Tory proposition hard to find.
It is within this context of true democracy versus order that further evidence of the decidedly un-radical nature of the revolutionary leaders can be deduced – in the shape of their decided electoral franchise and the position of blacks within society. This electorate consisted entirely of white males, and slavery was far from being an issue won for abolitionists – on the contrary, it took nearly a whole century and a bloody civil war for it to be finally annexed from American society. This again reinforces the idea that American society as designed by the revolutionaries was inherently conservative, with the federal system and diluted nature of power making radical change hard to achieve, in stark contrast to Great Britain, where unitary parliamentary authority made the abolition of slavery achievable as early as 1807.
It is however, unwise to see the issue of slavery to the revolutionaries in such (pun not intended) black and white terms. Though Jefferson was an owner – and impregnator – of slaves, he viewed it more as a necessary evil; something to be tolerated due to the negro’s inherent inferiority – but something that would die out with the passage of time, and the negro’s subsequent betterment via liberal republican institutions and practices (Hollinger & Capper: 185-189). Such an attitude is not that of a die-hard 18th century conservative, but nor is it the one of a radical, suggestive instead of a Whig evolutionary attitude. Wood makes this argument for that of Whiggish revolutionaries via his insinuation that the continuation of slavery – particularly in the south, it having all but died out in the north – was “doomed” by the radicalism of the revolution, and its incongruity with republican forces of equality and liberty that had hitherto been smothered by monarchist Toryism (Wood: 186-187). The problem with this argument is twofold: it not only ignores the superior record of the hierarchical, monarch-bound British in abolishing slavery with much less bloodshed and disorder than their American cousins some 60-odd years later, but disregards Americans, northern and southern, who – like Jefferson – sincerely regarded slavery as reflective of African-American inferiority, thus justifying its continuation – albeit temporarily (Hollinger & Capper: 189).
Though such arguments rely on the passage of history post-1776 for verification, they nonetheless shine an illuminating light on the ideology of the revolution. Far from seeing the revolution as the antithesis of radical 18th century ideals of equality, liberty and fraternity, it is more instructive in this essays view to see it more as an evolution of ideals – ideals in part incubated by the increased republicanisation of the British constitutional system, and the mismatch between fractured colonial governance and rapidly expanding colonies (Wood: 128-145). All these factors lend weight to the idea of an “enlightened conservative” revolution – in contrast to the dominant thesis of American exceptionalism and radicalism.
Bibliography
Bernard Bailyn; ‘The ideological origins of the American Revolution’, Harvard University Press, 1992
Michael Doyle; ‘Ways of War and Peace”, 1st edition, W.W. Norton & Company, 1997
Eric Foner; ‘Give Me Liberty’, W.W. Norton & Company, 2005
David A. Hollinger & Charles Capper; ‘The American Intellectual Tradition’, Oxford University Press, 2001
Gordon S. Wood; ‘The Radicalism of the American Revolution’, Vintage Books, 1993
Randolph Bourne's "Transnational America"
Randolph Bourne’s writing is inspired by a desire for a cosmopolitan America he feels would be different in spirit and temperament to the countries of ‘old’ Europe; twinned with this being his desire for an “American” identity that is not implicitly Anglo-Saxon. As such this is what inspires him in his call for a “pragmatic”, “realistic” nation, a “trans-national” one. Bourne’s idea of a “pragmatic” America would be a multicultural America; and although it is possible to question this link, it is undoubtedly a link that provides sustenance and motivation to Bourne’s writing.
This questioning of the nature of “American” national identity is evident from the very start of the piece. He describes publicists “stunned” at the “vigorous nationalistic and cultural movements in this country among Germans, Scandinavians, Bohemians, and Poles, While in the same breath they insist that the alien shall be forcibly assimilated to that Anglo-Saxon tradition which they unquestioningly label “American”. It is the questioning of this “unquestionable” aspect of American identity that Bourne proposes, in highlighting what to him is blindingly obvious: that in a nation of immigrants there will always be variety and diversity; and that talk of one homogenous, conformist variable is not in keeping with the realities of the American nation.
The paradox of “assimilation” is also touched upon early on by Bourne, that immigrant groups concentrate amongst their own, as do they “cultivate more and more assiduously the literatures and cultural traditions of their homelands” as they prosper and settle. Immigrants sort refuge amongst their kin – be it Germans in the Midwest; Poles in Chicago; or Italians in New York – in an alien land governed by an Anglo-Saxon consensus. As Bourne saw it the two factors were mutually reinforcing: the more the cultural and elite consensus was explicitly or implicitly Anglo-Saxon, the more new groups would – through a desire for the familiar – tend towards their fellow countrymen, thus perpetuating an unassimilated, patchwork nation.
This is not to mean – as Bourne makes clear – that there has been a failure of Americanisation. For him, it is instead a call to question, or redefine, exactly what “Americanism may rightly mean”. He points out that the earliest colonists did not come over to assimilate, or to “adopt the culture of the American Indian”. They were instead “conservative beyond belief”, and “like every colonial people, slavishly imitative of the mother country. So that, in spite of the “Revolution”, our whole legal and political system remained more English than the English, petrified and unchanging, while in England law developed to meet the needs of changing times”. The idea of “the melting pot” is thus hypocrisy: based on the privilege of English colonial settlers to dictate to subsequent arrivals the character of the nation; and their Anglo descendents subsequent condemnation of the same practices of cultural preservation by other ethnic groups as a refusal to assimilate or worse “un-American”.
The problem as far as Bourne is concerned for those advocates of a distinctly Anglo-Saxon American identity is the empirical evidence of this American identity and its very evident flaws in the shape of the South. He describes the South as an “English colony”, “culturally sterile”, and missing out due to the absence of “cross-fertilisation” that exists in northern states. As far as Bourne is concerned, the South represents a twentieth century version of colonial New England: a land of intense conservatism and cultural homogeneity; his motivation in highlighting the South as an example of backwardness stems from his desire for a “trans-national”, twentieth century, American identity. The South – with its antebellum, aristocratic legacy, married to its Anglo centric elite – is perhaps the antithesis of all that Bourne is railing against.
Diversity is key. Bourne regarded the South as “sterile” not because it was Anglo-Saxon, but rather because it was so chauvinistically Anglo-Saxon as to exclude other cultures to the detriment of southern society as a whole. This is what he means by talking of other cultures remaining “distinct”, yet cooperating within the American nation “to the greater glory and benefit” – it also being telling that he speaks passionately of “emphatically” not wanting the “colourless fluid of uniformity”, yet another appeal to the virtues of multiculturalism, or “trans-nationalism”.
Bourne also highlights a curious paradox in the American national attitude towards immigrants: that of accepting the immigrant who may be escaping persecution, yet insisting on just as narrow a nationalistic tradition in the from of “Americanisation” as he or she may have been seeking to escape from. Moreover, it is not tradition that even provides all immigrants with the comfort of familiarity – only those who originate in the British Isles.
But it is not just the American nation as a whole that Bourne thinks benefit from trans-nationalism. He regards it as more than that; a benefit and form of social welfare to immigrants who would other wise be part of the “flotsam jetsam of American life”, unconnected in anything meaningful sense from a cultural and spiritual core that they can identify with, and thus vulnerable to the “standards of the mob”. Insofar as trans-nationalism is a conservative doctrine it is in this respect. Bourne is compelled to make this argument because he correctly identifies the doctrines of the melting pot as being based upon a heavily Anglo-Saxon conception of society, morality, and values. Just as it was the luxury of the first colonists off the Mayflower to dictate to future pioneers material ways of “American” life, so it was also their luxury to set their metaphysical and spiritual doctrines as the benchmark of American values. “Those who come to find liberty achieve only licence” – Bourne’s most telling phrase with regards to this societal dysfunction masked by the façade of the melting pot, echoing the words of Voltaire, who declared in similar fashion liberty to be “the luxury of self-discipline”.
Bourne is issuing a call for a “federated ideal” of cultures within the US. In the same way that James Madison issued a clarion proclamation of federalist governmental mechanics in Federalist papers 10 and 51, so Bourne is extending the principle sociologically; his argument once more becoming radical – about differentiating America from the “weary old nationalism” of Europe, and becoming a trend setter and “leader” amongst the brotherhood of nations. This federated principle may stem from conservative, Burkean principles of responsibility, stability, and cultural heritage; yet paradoxically they are the handmaiden of a modern, liberal conception of society that seeks as much differentiation from the uniformity of old European societies as possible.
It is the idea of a “federation of cultures” that Bourne uses as an ideal to chip away at the idea of their being an indigenous “American” identity that is non native-American. But it goes further than this. For Bourne the reality is that a pragmatic American must avoid the “scarcely veiled belligerency” of old fashioned European nationalism as an essential part of his citizenship of a “federated ideal”. As he terms it: “medieval codes” are to be avoided at all costs as they lie contrary to the spirit of modernity and the American enterprise; the catalyst for this ideal of Bourne’s being in-part a relativist attitude towards cultures and values. It is not for a modern “pragmatic American” to resort to the violence of old European nationalism in defending the false ideal of a homogenous American culture.
Closely tied to the idea of a federated structure of cultures is Bourne’s reverence for creativity in the social sphere. It is as he asks: “how are you likely to get a more creative America?” As might be expected, one key motivator for this national conception is the need for distinction from Europe – a recurring theme in American literature. Thus Bourne is to plead for America to work out “some position of her own, some life of being in, yet not quite of, this seething and embroiled European world?” This last comment being heavily influenced by the First World War, and the evident folly of such strident nationalism as witnessed in August 1914.
It is in asserting difference from Europe – and in particular, Great Britain – that Bourne can be said to find his raison d’etre; the need for an “assertion” on the part of America that they are truly independent of Britain, politically and culturally. The difference lies, above all else, in the ideals of trans-nationalism and ethnic variety.
This questioning of the nature of “American” national identity is evident from the very start of the piece. He describes publicists “stunned” at the “vigorous nationalistic and cultural movements in this country among Germans, Scandinavians, Bohemians, and Poles, While in the same breath they insist that the alien shall be forcibly assimilated to that Anglo-Saxon tradition which they unquestioningly label “American”. It is the questioning of this “unquestionable” aspect of American identity that Bourne proposes, in highlighting what to him is blindingly obvious: that in a nation of immigrants there will always be variety and diversity; and that talk of one homogenous, conformist variable is not in keeping with the realities of the American nation.
The paradox of “assimilation” is also touched upon early on by Bourne, that immigrant groups concentrate amongst their own, as do they “cultivate more and more assiduously the literatures and cultural traditions of their homelands” as they prosper and settle. Immigrants sort refuge amongst their kin – be it Germans in the Midwest; Poles in Chicago; or Italians in New York – in an alien land governed by an Anglo-Saxon consensus. As Bourne saw it the two factors were mutually reinforcing: the more the cultural and elite consensus was explicitly or implicitly Anglo-Saxon, the more new groups would – through a desire for the familiar – tend towards their fellow countrymen, thus perpetuating an unassimilated, patchwork nation.
This is not to mean – as Bourne makes clear – that there has been a failure of Americanisation. For him, it is instead a call to question, or redefine, exactly what “Americanism may rightly mean”. He points out that the earliest colonists did not come over to assimilate, or to “adopt the culture of the American Indian”. They were instead “conservative beyond belief”, and “like every colonial people, slavishly imitative of the mother country. So that, in spite of the “Revolution”, our whole legal and political system remained more English than the English, petrified and unchanging, while in England law developed to meet the needs of changing times”. The idea of “the melting pot” is thus hypocrisy: based on the privilege of English colonial settlers to dictate to subsequent arrivals the character of the nation; and their Anglo descendents subsequent condemnation of the same practices of cultural preservation by other ethnic groups as a refusal to assimilate or worse “un-American”.
The problem as far as Bourne is concerned for those advocates of a distinctly Anglo-Saxon American identity is the empirical evidence of this American identity and its very evident flaws in the shape of the South. He describes the South as an “English colony”, “culturally sterile”, and missing out due to the absence of “cross-fertilisation” that exists in northern states. As far as Bourne is concerned, the South represents a twentieth century version of colonial New England: a land of intense conservatism and cultural homogeneity; his motivation in highlighting the South as an example of backwardness stems from his desire for a “trans-national”, twentieth century, American identity. The South – with its antebellum, aristocratic legacy, married to its Anglo centric elite – is perhaps the antithesis of all that Bourne is railing against.
Diversity is key. Bourne regarded the South as “sterile” not because it was Anglo-Saxon, but rather because it was so chauvinistically Anglo-Saxon as to exclude other cultures to the detriment of southern society as a whole. This is what he means by talking of other cultures remaining “distinct”, yet cooperating within the American nation “to the greater glory and benefit” – it also being telling that he speaks passionately of “emphatically” not wanting the “colourless fluid of uniformity”, yet another appeal to the virtues of multiculturalism, or “trans-nationalism”.
Bourne also highlights a curious paradox in the American national attitude towards immigrants: that of accepting the immigrant who may be escaping persecution, yet insisting on just as narrow a nationalistic tradition in the from of “Americanisation” as he or she may have been seeking to escape from. Moreover, it is not tradition that even provides all immigrants with the comfort of familiarity – only those who originate in the British Isles.
But it is not just the American nation as a whole that Bourne thinks benefit from trans-nationalism. He regards it as more than that; a benefit and form of social welfare to immigrants who would other wise be part of the “flotsam jetsam of American life”, unconnected in anything meaningful sense from a cultural and spiritual core that they can identify with, and thus vulnerable to the “standards of the mob”. Insofar as trans-nationalism is a conservative doctrine it is in this respect. Bourne is compelled to make this argument because he correctly identifies the doctrines of the melting pot as being based upon a heavily Anglo-Saxon conception of society, morality, and values. Just as it was the luxury of the first colonists off the Mayflower to dictate to future pioneers material ways of “American” life, so it was also their luxury to set their metaphysical and spiritual doctrines as the benchmark of American values. “Those who come to find liberty achieve only licence” – Bourne’s most telling phrase with regards to this societal dysfunction masked by the façade of the melting pot, echoing the words of Voltaire, who declared in similar fashion liberty to be “the luxury of self-discipline”.
Bourne is issuing a call for a “federated ideal” of cultures within the US. In the same way that James Madison issued a clarion proclamation of federalist governmental mechanics in Federalist papers 10 and 51, so Bourne is extending the principle sociologically; his argument once more becoming radical – about differentiating America from the “weary old nationalism” of Europe, and becoming a trend setter and “leader” amongst the brotherhood of nations. This federated principle may stem from conservative, Burkean principles of responsibility, stability, and cultural heritage; yet paradoxically they are the handmaiden of a modern, liberal conception of society that seeks as much differentiation from the uniformity of old European societies as possible.
It is the idea of a “federation of cultures” that Bourne uses as an ideal to chip away at the idea of their being an indigenous “American” identity that is non native-American. But it goes further than this. For Bourne the reality is that a pragmatic American must avoid the “scarcely veiled belligerency” of old fashioned European nationalism as an essential part of his citizenship of a “federated ideal”. As he terms it: “medieval codes” are to be avoided at all costs as they lie contrary to the spirit of modernity and the American enterprise; the catalyst for this ideal of Bourne’s being in-part a relativist attitude towards cultures and values. It is not for a modern “pragmatic American” to resort to the violence of old European nationalism in defending the false ideal of a homogenous American culture.
Closely tied to the idea of a federated structure of cultures is Bourne’s reverence for creativity in the social sphere. It is as he asks: “how are you likely to get a more creative America?” As might be expected, one key motivator for this national conception is the need for distinction from Europe – a recurring theme in American literature. Thus Bourne is to plead for America to work out “some position of her own, some life of being in, yet not quite of, this seething and embroiled European world?” This last comment being heavily influenced by the First World War, and the evident folly of such strident nationalism as witnessed in August 1914.
It is in asserting difference from Europe – and in particular, Great Britain – that Bourne can be said to find his raison d’etre; the need for an “assertion” on the part of America that they are truly independent of Britain, politically and culturally. The difference lies, above all else, in the ideals of trans-nationalism and ethnic variety.
How did colonial expansion find its logic within the nation-states of the 19th century? Demonstrate that while relying on at least one example of a n
The 19th century was a time of fevered colonial expansion. Whether it was the British consolidating their rule in India, Australia and Canada, or the French in Indochina any look at global politics in this era will be forced to acknowledge the pre-eminence of European powers. This reached its undoubted zenith from 1880 onwards – with what became known as ‘the scramble for Africa’ involving the old colonial powers of Britain, France and Portugal, and the new European nations of Germany and Italy. Colonialism found its logic within these nation-states via three factors: Structural reasons that combine institutional, geographical and financial pressures, political reasons, to do with the influences of political ideologies, and finally the role of religion and other societal pressures. This essay will examine these three reasons, focusing on examples from all substantial colonial powers of the age but using Great Britain as the main example from which the logic of 19th century colonialism can be explained.
Structural reasons are some of the most pertinent to the question of how colonialism was granted consensual legitimacy by nation states. They are particularly important in that to a certain extent they bypass party political pressures and are – in the case of geographical and British maritime primacy – crucial for explaining why empires took the form they did. One such structural motivator of colonialism was closely linked to one of the defining social upheavals of the 19th century: The industrial revolution. Industrialisation greatly enhanced the productivity of European manufacturing outlets, but particularly Britain; widely considered to be at the forefront of this technological revolution. Industrialisation did however raise questions about over-production, namely; what was to be done with this huge surplus of goods produced? The home market was insufficiently wealthy to accommodate the usage of goods – the rise of a wealthy bourgeoisies middle class not yet a factor (Marx & Engels 1998; 3-4). Overseas colonies did, however, provide a perfect outlet for this overproduction and offset the cost of defending and maintaining them – something Disraeli described as a “millstone around the neck of British tax payers”(Kennedy 1976; 153).
Companies such as Societe de Credit Foncier et de Banque (Banking and Land Credit Society) and the Compagnie des Minerais de fer de Motka (Motka Iron Ore Company) were created in the late 19th century for the purpose of aiding a monopoly for French capital in Algeria (Sartre 1964; 32-33). This was one way in which production could be maximised without any need for goods dumping. In turn colonialists would be expected to buy home products – in the case of Algeria – French agricultural tools and seed, or, as in British India – wool would be shipped from India to mills in Lancashire where it would be spun into cotton products and exported (Ferguson 2003; 16-17). This cyclical business operation funded itself, generating substantial revenues for companies and governments alike and crucially making colonialism a profitable – and therefore logical business.
Once profitable and strategically useful, colonies perpetuated there own existence by the administration and military resources that found logic in their existence. One example of this would be the growth of European – particularly British – naval power to protect colonies (Kennedy 1976; 3). This growth in British naval power was to a large degree a function of Britain’s geographical position, sociological factors and ‘national characteristics’ as outlined in A. T. Mahan’s influential tome of the period: The Influence of Sea Power upon History 1660-1783. Once the British navy was pre-eminent amongst nations following the final defeat of Napoleon in 1815, and the subsequent period of Pax Britannica, then it’s formidable presence not only made far-flung colonies easier to defend, but also led to the creation of naval stations dotted around the globe: Singapore taken over in 1819, the Falkland Islands in 1833, Aden in 1839, Hong Kong in 1841, and Lagos, Fiji, Cyprus, Alexandria, Mombassa and Zanzibar all annexed later in the century (ibid. 1976; 152). This repeated process bolstered the ideal of colonialism, furthering British economic and military hegemony. It is crucial to note that the “millstone” that Disraeli talked of around the neck of British taxpayers was less of an issue when these bases provided such good economic and military returns (Williams 1972; 78).
The logic fuelling colonial expansion was thus realpolitik and economic self-interest. This age-old explanation for nation-states behaviour may forever seem incongruous and paradoxical in an age when a belief in human progressivism in the style of such liberal thinkers as Emmanuel Kant was in vogue. What is crucial to understanding how colonialism became a convincing and inescapable facet of the 19th century narrative is less individual nationalist and racial differences between colonisers and the colonised – though they were important and legitimised many rational for conquest as we shall examine later – but the colonisers function as agents of nation-states. An organised state in the post Westphalia European model acted to protect and project its own interests around the globe (Doyle 1997; 386) – and thus impose their image on un-chartered territory.
The best 19th century example of this feature of colonialism would be the scramble for Africa, where a whole continent of countries was created where previously there had existed individual tribes and tribal boundaries in a flux, and alien to the European concept of settled borders and nation-states. Although it leaps out of the confines of this essay the 20th century saw Anglo-French colonialism carve out a whole set of a new countries in the middle-east – the 1916 Sykes-Picot agreement (Lochery 2004; 18) – out of the ashes of the old Ottoman empire – and with mixed consequences for the world. What is inescapable is less a post-enlightenment faith in liberal progressivism and more a belief in what the Ancient Greek philosopher Thucydides deemed history to be; “constant” rather than progressive (Doyle 1997; 53). It was the concept of national interest – inextricable tied to the very concept of sovereign states that for better or worse helped spawn colonialism.
A notable example of where the concept of realpolitik rode rough shod over political morality is that of the British annexation of Egypt in 1882. Gladstone, the Liberal prime minister, was a progressive totally averse to the kind of cynical, pragmatic realism practiced by Tories such as Benjamin Disraeli and Lord Salisbury, yet he was forced into intervention in Egypt against all his liberal principles by the powerful combination of keeping the Suez Canal open to British shipping – and political pressure from the Whigs, Tories and radicals within his own party (Harrison 1995; 63-70). The bottom line in this situation – as in so many others – was that the logic of colonialism and national interest did not respect the vagaries of Gladstone’s individual morality, and found a clear majority of politicians as subordinate to its whims.
Similarly, reforms to the electoral franchise carried out in 19th century Britain had the unforeseen consequence of increasing popular pressure on politicians to preserve – and where possible extend – the glory of the empire. Technological advances, such as the laying of telegraph cables across the ocean floors connecting distant points of the empire, and the development of steam powered ships, served to solidify links between families based in colonies around the globe – and greatly increase mobility and communications that had hitherto been unreliable and slow. Empire – in a popularly coined phrase – became “flesh and blood” for the populace (ibid. 1995; 71). This popularity of empire – although a societal pressure for colonialism as an end in itself – was caused by the structural necessity of electoral reform – largely relevant to the 1867 Reform Act, which added an additional one and a half million voters onto the roles. It is therefore evidence of the way that even domestic constitutional issues could have a significant impact on colonial aspirations of 19th century Britain.
In the cases of the Habsburg Austro-Hungarian Empire, the Tsarist Russian entity and the Ottoman Turk Empire colonialism and imperialism were less strategies of further enrichment and more to do with the survival of the state in its present form. All of these empires ruled over a multitude of nations and ethnic groups. Once the logic of a large, powerful federation exercising benign yet omnipotent rule from the centre – be it Moscow, Vienna or Constantinople – dried up, then there was little to contain popular ethnic demands for independence. Colonialism was, for these empires, as much a survival mechanism to solidify fractured societies than any grand strategic plan.
Of the various political ideological and societal influences on colonialism the most influential – the ideas of ‘Liberal imperialism’ the ‘white mans burden’, the benefits of free trade and the missionary zeal prevalent in much of 19th century Europe, go a long way to explaining how colonialism found willing protagonists in all walks of society. They are crucial in recognising not only the logic of colonialism, but also the justifications for it.
The idea of ‘Liberal imperialism’ centred largely on the politics and individualism of William Gladstone. Gladstone – as already mentioned – was a deeply religious man of morality. This morality did not encompass the logic of Tory colonialism cum imperialism, though it was a morality that had – as demonstrated by the Egyptian affair – to bow to the demands of state realpolitik. Gladstone, like many liberals of his age managed to accommodate his fundamental enlightenment belief in human rights and self-determination under the guise of ‘Liberal imperialism’. This philosophy deemed colonialism to be desirable on the grounds of spreading knowledge (Harrison 1995; 3), and – unique to Britain – due to what Burke saw as her “pedigree of liberties” as embodied in the Magna Carta (Tamir 1993; 63). This was opposed to nations like Russia and Germany, where none of these liberal-civic preconditions existed – and where identification with the “spirit” of the nation would likely lead to autocracy (Hagel 1967; 218). John Stuart Mill even managed to justify the kind of imperialism as practiced by the Austro-Hungarian Empire in Eastern Europe by noting the “virtue of necessity” of certain nations reconciling themselves “to living together under equal rights and laws” (Tamir 1993; 140).
British colonialism was also seen as an instrument for spreading the benefits of free trade, another liberal ideal that can be regarded as an early form of globalisation – and an effective tool for sowing the seeds of interdependence between different colonies that may have otherwise been competitors under the old mercantile trading of old (Harrison 1995; 3). This new fashion for liberal economics helped cement economic interdependence between British colonies and thus furthered the logic of colonialism and empire.
However, the liberal economist Adam Smith – a famous critic of all forms of colonialism, regarding it as unprofitable and immoral – correctly pointed out the inherent contradictions in this ‘Liberal imperialism’, noting:
It fits perfectly with the sense of superiority inhering in ‘ethnocentric nationalism’ (however) imperialism is essentially a derogation, even a contradiction, of the main tenet of ‘polycentric nationalism’ – the right of each nation to realise itself in perfect autonomy, so as to be able to contribute to mankind (Smith 1983; 257).
As Smith points out not only was imperialism anathema to a liberal’s faith in rights of self-rule – what would be termed “self-determination” in the 20th century – but also an abuse of their belief in universal rights of individual liberty. The suspicion must be that Liberal imperialism partly served a self-justifying purpose; to ease the consciences of men like Gladstone who – by dint of their subordination to the national interest – were reconciled to a policy of colonialism whether they liked it or not. The need, as some a ledge, was for colonialism to have a justification (Lewis 2002; 341). An irony of 19th century colonialism is that it occurred on the back of such dramatic advances in liberal-enlightenment thinking across the globe – the French and American revolutions, the rapid advancement of the electoral franchise in Britain, and the metaphysical transition of European populaces from subjects to citizens. Yet across colonies – from Africa to Asia – people essentially remained subjects of imperial states. The colony that avoided this paradox, demonstrating the feudal nature of colonialism best was that of the Congo Free State, an independent state run as Leopold II of Belgium’s personal fiefdom (Manning 1988; 60).
Colonialism and it’s brother; imperialism were exploited ruthlessly by Gladstone’s opponents as party political issues. Disraeli was particularly talented at this; in a speech in 1866 he hailed England’s interference in Asia, Australia, Africa and New Zealand as a marker of her global strength (Harcourt 1980; 96). Later, in 1867, he declared the Tory party to be “the national party of England” – and succeeded in exploiting the Russophobia of the time (Ward 1998; 18), frightening Liberals by his “investing patriotism with an irrational force” (ibid. 1980, 19). It was this appeal to national pride and patriotism that invariably made colonialism an appealing policy for those on the right of European domestic polities.
The political logic of colonialism was thus something that could appeal to people of differing political persuasions. Both Liberal imperialism and Tory nationalism proved that the logic of colonialism was a bipartisan belief within the sphere of domestic politics – though for Liberals it was partly a tactical concession to appear to an empire-enthusiastic electorate as imperialist as the most nationalist Conservative, whilst not compromising their sacrosanct philosophical values.
One of the most powerful motivators for colonialism that emanated from the nation-states of the 19th century is another factor linked in part to Liberal imperialism; colonialism as a missionary, Christian mission. This was not something that early 19th century colonialists had any enthusiasm for – the so-called “orientalists” in the British Raj of India particularly averse to what they regarded as unhelpful missionary agitators that had the potential to insight anger in the native populace, and thus endanger trade and commerce. As Robert Dundas, the President of the Board of Control in India explained to Lord Minto, the Governor-General, in 1808:
Nothing could be more unwise than any imprudent or injudicious attempt to induce it by means which should irritate and alarm their religious prejudices…It is desirable that the knowledge of Christianity should be imparted to the native, but the means to be used for that end shall only be such that are free from any political danger or alarm…(Ferguson 2003; 135)
Prudence was the order of the day – the bottom line being financial considerations. But by the mid 19th century the mood had substantially changed with the advent of Queen Victoria’s long reign, and Christian morality and missionary work suddenly in vogue. The power of Christianity to affect progressive change had been demonstrated by the work of British Evangelicals – particularly the ‘Clapham Sect’ – in the abolition of slavery from the British Empire in 1807 (ibid. 2003; 107-19). Religious – Protestant – underpinnings had indeed part of the 17th century rational for British colonies, as a bulwark against the Roman-Catholic empires of continental Europe (Cookson 157; 1997). Christianity was thus far from a hitherto unknown motivator of British colonialism; but what was new by the mid-1800s was its marriage to progressive, liberal enlightenment theory. Native populaces were to be “saved”, whether they liked it or not.
What has to be understood with regards to the work of Evangelical missionaries across all European empires is the moral absolutism of their motives. Unlike Liberal Imperialists, orientalists, businessmen, or avowed nationalists, theirs was a self-motivating mission; unsubordinated to any greater national or material interest, and crucially owing its primary allegiance not to the nation-state, but the Church and God. Theirs was not just a disguised excuse for colonial expansion – as the reaction of British officials in India demonstrates. Missionary work was however fundamentally a product of Victorian morality, and from this perspective it legitimised a European presence in “backward” lands – thus fuelling the logic of colonial rule.
An extension of this sense of spiritual superiority was the European sense of racial superiority, manifesting itself in a belief in native – particularly black African – inferiority. In 1863 Dr James Hunt gave a lecture in Newcastle for the British Association for the Advancement of Science, in which he stated the Negro to be “a separate species of man, located half way between the ape and European man” (Ferguson 2003; 263). Such views were bolstered by the fashion for Darwinism within the scientific community – and the subsequent concept of social Darwinism. This inferiority was twinned to the necessity of the white European mans duty to civilise – ‘The White Man’s Burden’, expressed eloquently by Rudyard Kipling in 1899:
Take up the White Man’s Burden –
Send forth the best of your breed –
Go bind your sons in exile
To serve your captives’ need;
To wait in heavy harness
On fluttered folk and wild –
Your new-caught, sullen peoples,
Half devil and half child.
Take up the White Man’s Burden
And reap his old reward:
The blame of those ye better,
The hate of those ye guard…(Kipling; 1990)
Kipling intention was to appeal to the United States to take up its share of the ‘White Man’s Burden’ – indeed, although a discussion of 19th century colonialism will invariably focus on European colonisers, the importance of such racial ideas twinned with the spiritual notion of ‘Manifest Destiny’ should be noted in the US war with Mexico of 1846-48 (Baym 2005; 355-56). The concept of a ‘burden’ went further than merely providing a convincing rational for colonialism; it stated it to be a mission, a dereliction of duty if a white – particularly Anglo-Saxon – state did not participate.
This entire myriad of reasons contributed towards European colonisation. Although some are indefensible in today’s society – ideas of race for example – it is unfair to regard the logic of colonial expansion as purely a case of exploitation fuelled by national interest. The British Empire played an invaluable role post 1807 in attacking slave traders (Pakenham 1991; 282), and although they may be regarded as naïve or worse in today’s heavily secularised society, Christian missionaries were motivated by altruism above all else. The spread of free trade is also easily preferable to the mercantilist protectionism that had characterise the economic policies of European nations up to the 19th century – though the true extent that trade was ‘free’ can be debated, as there was an undoubted preference for inter colonial trade, leading to the exclusion of rival empire colonies in trade patterns. These are however debates separate to the nature of the question. Whether or not colonialism was beneficial or not, and whether the logic of it was partly an exercise in self-justification, we can see how it found an abundance of logic in the nation-states of the 19th century.
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P. Ward; ‘Red Flag and Union Jack: England, Patriotism and the British Left, 1881-1924’, Boydell Press; 1998
J. Williams; ‘British Commercial Policy and Trade Expansion 1780-1850’ Oxford; 1972
Structural reasons are some of the most pertinent to the question of how colonialism was granted consensual legitimacy by nation states. They are particularly important in that to a certain extent they bypass party political pressures and are – in the case of geographical and British maritime primacy – crucial for explaining why empires took the form they did. One such structural motivator of colonialism was closely linked to one of the defining social upheavals of the 19th century: The industrial revolution. Industrialisation greatly enhanced the productivity of European manufacturing outlets, but particularly Britain; widely considered to be at the forefront of this technological revolution. Industrialisation did however raise questions about over-production, namely; what was to be done with this huge surplus of goods produced? The home market was insufficiently wealthy to accommodate the usage of goods – the rise of a wealthy bourgeoisies middle class not yet a factor (Marx & Engels 1998; 3-4). Overseas colonies did, however, provide a perfect outlet for this overproduction and offset the cost of defending and maintaining them – something Disraeli described as a “millstone around the neck of British tax payers”(Kennedy 1976; 153).
Companies such as Societe de Credit Foncier et de Banque (Banking and Land Credit Society) and the Compagnie des Minerais de fer de Motka (Motka Iron Ore Company) were created in the late 19th century for the purpose of aiding a monopoly for French capital in Algeria (Sartre 1964; 32-33). This was one way in which production could be maximised without any need for goods dumping. In turn colonialists would be expected to buy home products – in the case of Algeria – French agricultural tools and seed, or, as in British India – wool would be shipped from India to mills in Lancashire where it would be spun into cotton products and exported (Ferguson 2003; 16-17). This cyclical business operation funded itself, generating substantial revenues for companies and governments alike and crucially making colonialism a profitable – and therefore logical business.
Once profitable and strategically useful, colonies perpetuated there own existence by the administration and military resources that found logic in their existence. One example of this would be the growth of European – particularly British – naval power to protect colonies (Kennedy 1976; 3). This growth in British naval power was to a large degree a function of Britain’s geographical position, sociological factors and ‘national characteristics’ as outlined in A. T. Mahan’s influential tome of the period: The Influence of Sea Power upon History 1660-1783. Once the British navy was pre-eminent amongst nations following the final defeat of Napoleon in 1815, and the subsequent period of Pax Britannica, then it’s formidable presence not only made far-flung colonies easier to defend, but also led to the creation of naval stations dotted around the globe: Singapore taken over in 1819, the Falkland Islands in 1833, Aden in 1839, Hong Kong in 1841, and Lagos, Fiji, Cyprus, Alexandria, Mombassa and Zanzibar all annexed later in the century (ibid. 1976; 152). This repeated process bolstered the ideal of colonialism, furthering British economic and military hegemony. It is crucial to note that the “millstone” that Disraeli talked of around the neck of British taxpayers was less of an issue when these bases provided such good economic and military returns (Williams 1972; 78).
The logic fuelling colonial expansion was thus realpolitik and economic self-interest. This age-old explanation for nation-states behaviour may forever seem incongruous and paradoxical in an age when a belief in human progressivism in the style of such liberal thinkers as Emmanuel Kant was in vogue. What is crucial to understanding how colonialism became a convincing and inescapable facet of the 19th century narrative is less individual nationalist and racial differences between colonisers and the colonised – though they were important and legitimised many rational for conquest as we shall examine later – but the colonisers function as agents of nation-states. An organised state in the post Westphalia European model acted to protect and project its own interests around the globe (Doyle 1997; 386) – and thus impose their image on un-chartered territory.
The best 19th century example of this feature of colonialism would be the scramble for Africa, where a whole continent of countries was created where previously there had existed individual tribes and tribal boundaries in a flux, and alien to the European concept of settled borders and nation-states. Although it leaps out of the confines of this essay the 20th century saw Anglo-French colonialism carve out a whole set of a new countries in the middle-east – the 1916 Sykes-Picot agreement (Lochery 2004; 18) – out of the ashes of the old Ottoman empire – and with mixed consequences for the world. What is inescapable is less a post-enlightenment faith in liberal progressivism and more a belief in what the Ancient Greek philosopher Thucydides deemed history to be; “constant” rather than progressive (Doyle 1997; 53). It was the concept of national interest – inextricable tied to the very concept of sovereign states that for better or worse helped spawn colonialism.
A notable example of where the concept of realpolitik rode rough shod over political morality is that of the British annexation of Egypt in 1882. Gladstone, the Liberal prime minister, was a progressive totally averse to the kind of cynical, pragmatic realism practiced by Tories such as Benjamin Disraeli and Lord Salisbury, yet he was forced into intervention in Egypt against all his liberal principles by the powerful combination of keeping the Suez Canal open to British shipping – and political pressure from the Whigs, Tories and radicals within his own party (Harrison 1995; 63-70). The bottom line in this situation – as in so many others – was that the logic of colonialism and national interest did not respect the vagaries of Gladstone’s individual morality, and found a clear majority of politicians as subordinate to its whims.
Similarly, reforms to the electoral franchise carried out in 19th century Britain had the unforeseen consequence of increasing popular pressure on politicians to preserve – and where possible extend – the glory of the empire. Technological advances, such as the laying of telegraph cables across the ocean floors connecting distant points of the empire, and the development of steam powered ships, served to solidify links between families based in colonies around the globe – and greatly increase mobility and communications that had hitherto been unreliable and slow. Empire – in a popularly coined phrase – became “flesh and blood” for the populace (ibid. 1995; 71). This popularity of empire – although a societal pressure for colonialism as an end in itself – was caused by the structural necessity of electoral reform – largely relevant to the 1867 Reform Act, which added an additional one and a half million voters onto the roles. It is therefore evidence of the way that even domestic constitutional issues could have a significant impact on colonial aspirations of 19th century Britain.
In the cases of the Habsburg Austro-Hungarian Empire, the Tsarist Russian entity and the Ottoman Turk Empire colonialism and imperialism were less strategies of further enrichment and more to do with the survival of the state in its present form. All of these empires ruled over a multitude of nations and ethnic groups. Once the logic of a large, powerful federation exercising benign yet omnipotent rule from the centre – be it Moscow, Vienna or Constantinople – dried up, then there was little to contain popular ethnic demands for independence. Colonialism was, for these empires, as much a survival mechanism to solidify fractured societies than any grand strategic plan.
Of the various political ideological and societal influences on colonialism the most influential – the ideas of ‘Liberal imperialism’ the ‘white mans burden’, the benefits of free trade and the missionary zeal prevalent in much of 19th century Europe, go a long way to explaining how colonialism found willing protagonists in all walks of society. They are crucial in recognising not only the logic of colonialism, but also the justifications for it.
The idea of ‘Liberal imperialism’ centred largely on the politics and individualism of William Gladstone. Gladstone – as already mentioned – was a deeply religious man of morality. This morality did not encompass the logic of Tory colonialism cum imperialism, though it was a morality that had – as demonstrated by the Egyptian affair – to bow to the demands of state realpolitik. Gladstone, like many liberals of his age managed to accommodate his fundamental enlightenment belief in human rights and self-determination under the guise of ‘Liberal imperialism’. This philosophy deemed colonialism to be desirable on the grounds of spreading knowledge (Harrison 1995; 3), and – unique to Britain – due to what Burke saw as her “pedigree of liberties” as embodied in the Magna Carta (Tamir 1993; 63). This was opposed to nations like Russia and Germany, where none of these liberal-civic preconditions existed – and where identification with the “spirit” of the nation would likely lead to autocracy (Hagel 1967; 218). John Stuart Mill even managed to justify the kind of imperialism as practiced by the Austro-Hungarian Empire in Eastern Europe by noting the “virtue of necessity” of certain nations reconciling themselves “to living together under equal rights and laws” (Tamir 1993; 140).
British colonialism was also seen as an instrument for spreading the benefits of free trade, another liberal ideal that can be regarded as an early form of globalisation – and an effective tool for sowing the seeds of interdependence between different colonies that may have otherwise been competitors under the old mercantile trading of old (Harrison 1995; 3). This new fashion for liberal economics helped cement economic interdependence between British colonies and thus furthered the logic of colonialism and empire.
However, the liberal economist Adam Smith – a famous critic of all forms of colonialism, regarding it as unprofitable and immoral – correctly pointed out the inherent contradictions in this ‘Liberal imperialism’, noting:
It fits perfectly with the sense of superiority inhering in ‘ethnocentric nationalism’ (however) imperialism is essentially a derogation, even a contradiction, of the main tenet of ‘polycentric nationalism’ – the right of each nation to realise itself in perfect autonomy, so as to be able to contribute to mankind (Smith 1983; 257).
As Smith points out not only was imperialism anathema to a liberal’s faith in rights of self-rule – what would be termed “self-determination” in the 20th century – but also an abuse of their belief in universal rights of individual liberty. The suspicion must be that Liberal imperialism partly served a self-justifying purpose; to ease the consciences of men like Gladstone who – by dint of their subordination to the national interest – were reconciled to a policy of colonialism whether they liked it or not. The need, as some a ledge, was for colonialism to have a justification (Lewis 2002; 341). An irony of 19th century colonialism is that it occurred on the back of such dramatic advances in liberal-enlightenment thinking across the globe – the French and American revolutions, the rapid advancement of the electoral franchise in Britain, and the metaphysical transition of European populaces from subjects to citizens. Yet across colonies – from Africa to Asia – people essentially remained subjects of imperial states. The colony that avoided this paradox, demonstrating the feudal nature of colonialism best was that of the Congo Free State, an independent state run as Leopold II of Belgium’s personal fiefdom (Manning 1988; 60).
Colonialism and it’s brother; imperialism were exploited ruthlessly by Gladstone’s opponents as party political issues. Disraeli was particularly talented at this; in a speech in 1866 he hailed England’s interference in Asia, Australia, Africa and New Zealand as a marker of her global strength (Harcourt 1980; 96). Later, in 1867, he declared the Tory party to be “the national party of England” – and succeeded in exploiting the Russophobia of the time (Ward 1998; 18), frightening Liberals by his “investing patriotism with an irrational force” (ibid. 1980, 19). It was this appeal to national pride and patriotism that invariably made colonialism an appealing policy for those on the right of European domestic polities.
The political logic of colonialism was thus something that could appeal to people of differing political persuasions. Both Liberal imperialism and Tory nationalism proved that the logic of colonialism was a bipartisan belief within the sphere of domestic politics – though for Liberals it was partly a tactical concession to appear to an empire-enthusiastic electorate as imperialist as the most nationalist Conservative, whilst not compromising their sacrosanct philosophical values.
One of the most powerful motivators for colonialism that emanated from the nation-states of the 19th century is another factor linked in part to Liberal imperialism; colonialism as a missionary, Christian mission. This was not something that early 19th century colonialists had any enthusiasm for – the so-called “orientalists” in the British Raj of India particularly averse to what they regarded as unhelpful missionary agitators that had the potential to insight anger in the native populace, and thus endanger trade and commerce. As Robert Dundas, the President of the Board of Control in India explained to Lord Minto, the Governor-General, in 1808:
Nothing could be more unwise than any imprudent or injudicious attempt to induce it by means which should irritate and alarm their religious prejudices…It is desirable that the knowledge of Christianity should be imparted to the native, but the means to be used for that end shall only be such that are free from any political danger or alarm…(Ferguson 2003; 135)
Prudence was the order of the day – the bottom line being financial considerations. But by the mid 19th century the mood had substantially changed with the advent of Queen Victoria’s long reign, and Christian morality and missionary work suddenly in vogue. The power of Christianity to affect progressive change had been demonstrated by the work of British Evangelicals – particularly the ‘Clapham Sect’ – in the abolition of slavery from the British Empire in 1807 (ibid. 2003; 107-19). Religious – Protestant – underpinnings had indeed part of the 17th century rational for British colonies, as a bulwark against the Roman-Catholic empires of continental Europe (Cookson 157; 1997). Christianity was thus far from a hitherto unknown motivator of British colonialism; but what was new by the mid-1800s was its marriage to progressive, liberal enlightenment theory. Native populaces were to be “saved”, whether they liked it or not.
What has to be understood with regards to the work of Evangelical missionaries across all European empires is the moral absolutism of their motives. Unlike Liberal Imperialists, orientalists, businessmen, or avowed nationalists, theirs was a self-motivating mission; unsubordinated to any greater national or material interest, and crucially owing its primary allegiance not to the nation-state, but the Church and God. Theirs was not just a disguised excuse for colonial expansion – as the reaction of British officials in India demonstrates. Missionary work was however fundamentally a product of Victorian morality, and from this perspective it legitimised a European presence in “backward” lands – thus fuelling the logic of colonial rule.
An extension of this sense of spiritual superiority was the European sense of racial superiority, manifesting itself in a belief in native – particularly black African – inferiority. In 1863 Dr James Hunt gave a lecture in Newcastle for the British Association for the Advancement of Science, in which he stated the Negro to be “a separate species of man, located half way between the ape and European man” (Ferguson 2003; 263). Such views were bolstered by the fashion for Darwinism within the scientific community – and the subsequent concept of social Darwinism. This inferiority was twinned to the necessity of the white European mans duty to civilise – ‘The White Man’s Burden’, expressed eloquently by Rudyard Kipling in 1899:
Take up the White Man’s Burden –
Send forth the best of your breed –
Go bind your sons in exile
To serve your captives’ need;
To wait in heavy harness
On fluttered folk and wild –
Your new-caught, sullen peoples,
Half devil and half child.
Take up the White Man’s Burden
And reap his old reward:
The blame of those ye better,
The hate of those ye guard…(Kipling; 1990)
Kipling intention was to appeal to the United States to take up its share of the ‘White Man’s Burden’ – indeed, although a discussion of 19th century colonialism will invariably focus on European colonisers, the importance of such racial ideas twinned with the spiritual notion of ‘Manifest Destiny’ should be noted in the US war with Mexico of 1846-48 (Baym 2005; 355-56). The concept of a ‘burden’ went further than merely providing a convincing rational for colonialism; it stated it to be a mission, a dereliction of duty if a white – particularly Anglo-Saxon – state did not participate.
This entire myriad of reasons contributed towards European colonisation. Although some are indefensible in today’s society – ideas of race for example – it is unfair to regard the logic of colonial expansion as purely a case of exploitation fuelled by national interest. The British Empire played an invaluable role post 1807 in attacking slave traders (Pakenham 1991; 282), and although they may be regarded as naïve or worse in today’s heavily secularised society, Christian missionaries were motivated by altruism above all else. The spread of free trade is also easily preferable to the mercantilist protectionism that had characterise the economic policies of European nations up to the 19th century – though the true extent that trade was ‘free’ can be debated, as there was an undoubted preference for inter colonial trade, leading to the exclusion of rival empire colonies in trade patterns. These are however debates separate to the nature of the question. Whether or not colonialism was beneficial or not, and whether the logic of it was partly an exercise in self-justification, we can see how it found an abundance of logic in the nation-states of the 19th century.
Bibliography
N. Baym; ‘A People and a Nation’, Houghton & Mifflin, New York & Boston; 2005
J.E. Cookson; ‘The British Armed Nation 1793-1815’, Clarendon Press, Oxford; 1997
M. Doyle; ‘Ways of War and Peace’ Norton & Company, New York & London; 1997
N. Ferguson; ‘Empire: How Britain Made the Modern World’, Penguin Books; 2003
G. Hagel; ‘Hagel’s Philosophy of Right’, Oxford University Press; 1967
F. Harcourt; ‘Disraeli’s imperialism, 1866-1868: a question of timing’ Oxford; 1980
R. T. Harrison; ‘Gladstone’s Imperialism in Egypt’, Greenwood Press; 1995
P. Kennedy; ‘The Rise and fall of British Naval Mastery’, London; 1976
R. Kipling; ‘War Stories and Poems’ Oxford; 1990
J. Lewis; ‘Cultural Studies: the basics’, Scope Publications; 2002
N. Lochery; ‘Why Blame Israel?’, Icon Books; 2003
P. Manning; ‘Francophone Sub-Saharan Africa’, Cambridge University Press; 1988
K. Marx & F. Engels; ‘The Communist Manifesto’, Oxford; 1998
T. Pakenham; ‘The Scramble for Africa’, Abacus History; 1991
J-P. Satre; ‘Colonialism and Neo-colonialism’, Routledge; 2001
Y. Tamir; ‘Liberal Nationalism’ Princeton University Press; 1993
P. Ward; ‘Red Flag and Union Jack: England, Patriotism and the British Left, 1881-1924’, Boydell Press; 1998
J. Williams; ‘British Commercial Policy and Trade Expansion 1780-1850’ Oxford; 1972
Burkean conservatism: less an ideology than an anti-ideology?
Charles W. Kegley and Eugene R. Wittkopf in their book ‘World Politics, Trend And Transformation’ define an ideology as: “A set of core philosophical principles that leaders and citizens collectively hold about politics, the interests of political actors, and the ways people ought to ethically behave”. Via this definition I will examine the case for a conservative ideology and the parallel idea of it as an anti-ideology before arriving at a conclusion. One of the ironies of Burke’s ‘Reflections’ is that as a man he placed enormous value in “ancient principles”, yet this ancient dogma would be regarded centuries later as the foundations of modern conservatism. Yet the contradictions within this conservative school of thought perpetuate the difficulties in prescribing it into set ‘ideology’ or ‘anti-ideology’ camps, something I will examine in the conclusion.
One of the recurring themes in Burke’s ‘Reflections’ is the high value he attaches to the idea of stability over justice and a deep respect for existing institutions. Burke is adamant that such institutions like the monarchy are “positive” and operate within the “spirit of our constitution”, and of “inestimable value to our liberties”. This faith in the virtues of stability and hereditary principle are key philosophies of Burke’s. Whether or not this can be interpreted as evidence of a specific conservative ideology is ambiguous. The old grandees of the USSR Communist party undoubtedly believed in the value and totalitarian stability of their institutions, and could be reasonable described as conservatives compared to their reforming liberal counterparts such as Gorbachev. Yet their conservative faith was based on principles of law, order and society very different to Burke’s, a point that highlights the difficulty in establishing a trans-national ideological code of conservatism.
Within the UK conservatism evolves to fit differing definitions with each passing generation. Burke believed in “eternal society” and like Rousseau believed in the concept of a cult community in opposition to what he regarded as the destabilising hegemony of the liberal individualist cult, twinned with the idea of an Englishman’s fundamental connections with the revered institutions of the land. Whereas the late 20th century apostle of conservatism Margaret Thatcher testified to they’re being “no such thing as society”. Conservatism can thus be seen as an abstract belief, applicable to differing ideological systems and nations and a guarantee of the status quo, even if the ideological status quo can differ radically for different polities, substantiating the case for conservatism being a purely reactionary, ‘un-ideology’.
Yet if the genetics of ideology are that of a core set of “philosophical principles” then conservative faith in institutions can be regarded as ideological, by its universal philosophical applicability. It may be irrelevant that these institutions justify a plethora of differing ideologies, from radical Marxism to classical Liberalism; the faith in institutions is enough to substantiate the idea of universal conservative ideology. Furthermore that this faith in the sanctity of existing bodies of law and order persists in modern day conservative parties is surely evidence of one strain of consistent ideology. That the modern day Tory party opposed Tony Blair’s plans for the abolishing of the centuries old post of Lord Chancellor in the British government is evidence of this consistency in opposition to reform, validating the theory of a conservative ideology.
Yet whereas Marx and classical liberals such as Smith and Schumpeter attach paramount importance to the economy in their respective beliefs conservatism essentially subjugates the economy to a position subordinate to the polity. As in realist mercantilist economics, where wealth and industry are subordinate to the whims and needs of the state as a rational functioning unit competing in a permanent Thomas Hobbes-style “state of war” with other nations, traditional conservatism does not subscribe any specific role or ideological imperatives to the economy. It is arguably the sole post-modernist ideology to neglect such a crucial facet of political life, negating its relevance, importance and questioning its acceptance as a timeless ideology. Just as the British Labour party was forced away from its old socialist beliefs to navigate towards election victory in the mid nineties, ditching clause 4 of its party manifesto, so arguably was Margaret Thatcher negating Burke’s sovereign realist heritage with her domineering obsession in free-market, classically liberal economics. Thatcher’s beliefs were a reaction to economic necessity, a necessity that conservatives such as Burke place as that of secondary importance. Within ‘Reflections’ it is perhaps the notable absence of talk of economics and “wealth of nations” that contributes to the impression of conservatism as an empty ideology.
Burke’s view of human nature provides similar ambiguities with regards to conservatism legitimate place within the pantheon of ideologies. Burke passionately describes how it is “natural” for Englishmen to; “fear God, look up with awe to Kings; with reverence to priests; and with respect to nobility” describing how “we cherish” old prejudices and “should employ their sagacity to discover the latent wisdom which prevails in them This reverence for existing norms of behaviour is given special place in Burke’s ‘Reflections’, as a counterweight to ideals of revolution and violent change. It also illuminates a conservative idea of human nature, in which God fearing, institutionalised benevolence on the part of populace is beneficial for internal stability and a thoroughly utilitarian approach to societies needs. Burke, like the ancient Greek philosopher Thucydides believes in a stasis with regards to human nature in history, and in stark contrast to liberals and socialists dismisses the idea of developmental historical truth. It was after all Burke who first referred to the “great unwashed mass of humanity”. This dictates a pessimistic view of human nature that dominates conservative thought to this day.
With regards to the imprisonment of the Queen of France in the revolution, Burke remarks: “I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped from their scabbards to avenge even a look that threatened her with insult. But the age of chivalry is gone; that of sophisters, economists, and calculators succeeded”. The case for the age old Tory propensity towards a belief that society and human nature is actually getting worse could possible be made from this extract, but a more relevant question may be; is a supposed ideology that bases legitimacy of institutions in as abstract and indefinable a notion as human nature ever a realistic, coherent political philosophy for governance?
Grounds for ideological reconciling do however conceivably exist within such a structured, assertive view of humans. That conservatives, unlike the ideologue utopians of liberalism and socialism recognise clear faults in human nature place it squarely within the remit of the “philosophical principles” and “ethical behaviour” required for a supposed ideology. That this is an abstract notion, one which is hard to prove could also be a point in favour of conservatives as more ideological coherent than there Marxist or liberal counterparts, in that on such key conservative issues as institutions, human nature and a commitment to heritage they are more ideologically in tandem than any of there rivals. Liberals, on their key issue of economics vary hugely, between the all-out libertarian ‘laissez-faire’ Adam Smith approach and the welfarist, interventionist approach of ‘New liberals’ of the Lloyd George school. Similarly, with Marxists, on the key ideological issue of world proletariat revolution, disciples of Marx vary, Trotsky in favour of spreading the doctrine of revolution far and wide, whilst Stalin was content with his policy of ‘socialism in one country”. Both Marxism and socialism have huge scope for interpretation within them. Arguably conservatism greatest ideological strength is its inherently pessimistic static approach to human nature, perfectly summed up by Burke’s remarks on democracy; “A perfect democracy is, therefore, the most shameless thing in the world” and the staid veneration of institutions and modes of governance that are common to conservatives of all ages.
Burke’s explicitly anti-democratic leanings are in contrast to forms of liberalism and socialism that are profoundly democratic, bringing into doubt whether conservatism necessitates a contract between “leaders and citizens”. It is also worth considering that if a prerequisite of an ideology is a belief in the way people ought to “ethically behave” then conservatism fails. An esteemed conservative belief in the lack of natural ‘rights of man’ in contrast to Locke, Paine etc means that ethics are surely made redundant by the overwhelming necessity for subservience to existing institutions, and the man-made artificial law codes of these institutions. Conservatism in Burke’s form leaves questions of ethics solely to the church, a body Burke has much evident respect for; “The body of all true religion consists, to be sure, in obedience to the will of the Sovereign of the world, in a confidence in His declarations, and in imitation of His perfections”. This therefore robbing conservatism as an ideology of the chance to dictate ethics to the masses, unlike for example socialism, or communism which in extremities reject religion as an ideal.
Conclusively it is difficult to evaluate as to whether conservatism necessarily fits the mould of the explicitly ideological. The traditional subservience to monarchy and other regal forms of establishment, as well as the explicit rejection of much enlightenment thinking via the unthinking subjugation to religious authority would fit the idea of it as an anti-ideology, incorporating medieval ideas of religion and divine rule of kings with a post Cromwell acceptance of Parliaments sovereignty and role in public life. But the consistency in much conservative thought with regards to institutions and the bleak view of human nature validates the strength of conservatism as a school of thought; whether that makes it explicitly ideological is doubtful.
Like its antithesis, feminism, conservatism in Burke’s form in ‘Reflections’ governs certain issues with iron resolve, yet cannot be accepted in all circumstances because of its failure to address certain issues, such as the role of its beliefs in the functioning of the economy, or the question, surely that there are times in governance of nations when radical decisions are called for? Burke’s ‘Reflections’ contain more critique of change than an ideology necessitates, meaning it is to sum up an ideology of the status quo, rather than one of change or dynamics like socialism or liberalism potentially are.
One of the recurring themes in Burke’s ‘Reflections’ is the high value he attaches to the idea of stability over justice and a deep respect for existing institutions. Burke is adamant that such institutions like the monarchy are “positive” and operate within the “spirit of our constitution”, and of “inestimable value to our liberties”. This faith in the virtues of stability and hereditary principle are key philosophies of Burke’s. Whether or not this can be interpreted as evidence of a specific conservative ideology is ambiguous. The old grandees of the USSR Communist party undoubtedly believed in the value and totalitarian stability of their institutions, and could be reasonable described as conservatives compared to their reforming liberal counterparts such as Gorbachev. Yet their conservative faith was based on principles of law, order and society very different to Burke’s, a point that highlights the difficulty in establishing a trans-national ideological code of conservatism.
Within the UK conservatism evolves to fit differing definitions with each passing generation. Burke believed in “eternal society” and like Rousseau believed in the concept of a cult community in opposition to what he regarded as the destabilising hegemony of the liberal individualist cult, twinned with the idea of an Englishman’s fundamental connections with the revered institutions of the land. Whereas the late 20th century apostle of conservatism Margaret Thatcher testified to they’re being “no such thing as society”. Conservatism can thus be seen as an abstract belief, applicable to differing ideological systems and nations and a guarantee of the status quo, even if the ideological status quo can differ radically for different polities, substantiating the case for conservatism being a purely reactionary, ‘un-ideology’.
Yet if the genetics of ideology are that of a core set of “philosophical principles” then conservative faith in institutions can be regarded as ideological, by its universal philosophical applicability. It may be irrelevant that these institutions justify a plethora of differing ideologies, from radical Marxism to classical Liberalism; the faith in institutions is enough to substantiate the idea of universal conservative ideology. Furthermore that this faith in the sanctity of existing bodies of law and order persists in modern day conservative parties is surely evidence of one strain of consistent ideology. That the modern day Tory party opposed Tony Blair’s plans for the abolishing of the centuries old post of Lord Chancellor in the British government is evidence of this consistency in opposition to reform, validating the theory of a conservative ideology.
Yet whereas Marx and classical liberals such as Smith and Schumpeter attach paramount importance to the economy in their respective beliefs conservatism essentially subjugates the economy to a position subordinate to the polity. As in realist mercantilist economics, where wealth and industry are subordinate to the whims and needs of the state as a rational functioning unit competing in a permanent Thomas Hobbes-style “state of war” with other nations, traditional conservatism does not subscribe any specific role or ideological imperatives to the economy. It is arguably the sole post-modernist ideology to neglect such a crucial facet of political life, negating its relevance, importance and questioning its acceptance as a timeless ideology. Just as the British Labour party was forced away from its old socialist beliefs to navigate towards election victory in the mid nineties, ditching clause 4 of its party manifesto, so arguably was Margaret Thatcher negating Burke’s sovereign realist heritage with her domineering obsession in free-market, classically liberal economics. Thatcher’s beliefs were a reaction to economic necessity, a necessity that conservatives such as Burke place as that of secondary importance. Within ‘Reflections’ it is perhaps the notable absence of talk of economics and “wealth of nations” that contributes to the impression of conservatism as an empty ideology.
Burke’s view of human nature provides similar ambiguities with regards to conservatism legitimate place within the pantheon of ideologies. Burke passionately describes how it is “natural” for Englishmen to; “fear God, look up with awe to Kings; with reverence to priests; and with respect to nobility” describing how “we cherish” old prejudices and “should employ their sagacity to discover the latent wisdom which prevails in them This reverence for existing norms of behaviour is given special place in Burke’s ‘Reflections’, as a counterweight to ideals of revolution and violent change. It also illuminates a conservative idea of human nature, in which God fearing, institutionalised benevolence on the part of populace is beneficial for internal stability and a thoroughly utilitarian approach to societies needs. Burke, like the ancient Greek philosopher Thucydides believes in a stasis with regards to human nature in history, and in stark contrast to liberals and socialists dismisses the idea of developmental historical truth. It was after all Burke who first referred to the “great unwashed mass of humanity”. This dictates a pessimistic view of human nature that dominates conservative thought to this day.
With regards to the imprisonment of the Queen of France in the revolution, Burke remarks: “I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped from their scabbards to avenge even a look that threatened her with insult. But the age of chivalry is gone; that of sophisters, economists, and calculators succeeded”. The case for the age old Tory propensity towards a belief that society and human nature is actually getting worse could possible be made from this extract, but a more relevant question may be; is a supposed ideology that bases legitimacy of institutions in as abstract and indefinable a notion as human nature ever a realistic, coherent political philosophy for governance?
Grounds for ideological reconciling do however conceivably exist within such a structured, assertive view of humans. That conservatives, unlike the ideologue utopians of liberalism and socialism recognise clear faults in human nature place it squarely within the remit of the “philosophical principles” and “ethical behaviour” required for a supposed ideology. That this is an abstract notion, one which is hard to prove could also be a point in favour of conservatives as more ideological coherent than there Marxist or liberal counterparts, in that on such key conservative issues as institutions, human nature and a commitment to heritage they are more ideologically in tandem than any of there rivals. Liberals, on their key issue of economics vary hugely, between the all-out libertarian ‘laissez-faire’ Adam Smith approach and the welfarist, interventionist approach of ‘New liberals’ of the Lloyd George school. Similarly, with Marxists, on the key ideological issue of world proletariat revolution, disciples of Marx vary, Trotsky in favour of spreading the doctrine of revolution far and wide, whilst Stalin was content with his policy of ‘socialism in one country”. Both Marxism and socialism have huge scope for interpretation within them. Arguably conservatism greatest ideological strength is its inherently pessimistic static approach to human nature, perfectly summed up by Burke’s remarks on democracy; “A perfect democracy is, therefore, the most shameless thing in the world” and the staid veneration of institutions and modes of governance that are common to conservatives of all ages.
Burke’s explicitly anti-democratic leanings are in contrast to forms of liberalism and socialism that are profoundly democratic, bringing into doubt whether conservatism necessitates a contract between “leaders and citizens”. It is also worth considering that if a prerequisite of an ideology is a belief in the way people ought to “ethically behave” then conservatism fails. An esteemed conservative belief in the lack of natural ‘rights of man’ in contrast to Locke, Paine etc means that ethics are surely made redundant by the overwhelming necessity for subservience to existing institutions, and the man-made artificial law codes of these institutions. Conservatism in Burke’s form leaves questions of ethics solely to the church, a body Burke has much evident respect for; “The body of all true religion consists, to be sure, in obedience to the will of the Sovereign of the world, in a confidence in His declarations, and in imitation of His perfections”. This therefore robbing conservatism as an ideology of the chance to dictate ethics to the masses, unlike for example socialism, or communism which in extremities reject religion as an ideal.
Conclusively it is difficult to evaluate as to whether conservatism necessarily fits the mould of the explicitly ideological. The traditional subservience to monarchy and other regal forms of establishment, as well as the explicit rejection of much enlightenment thinking via the unthinking subjugation to religious authority would fit the idea of it as an anti-ideology, incorporating medieval ideas of religion and divine rule of kings with a post Cromwell acceptance of Parliaments sovereignty and role in public life. But the consistency in much conservative thought with regards to institutions and the bleak view of human nature validates the strength of conservatism as a school of thought; whether that makes it explicitly ideological is doubtful.
Like its antithesis, feminism, conservatism in Burke’s form in ‘Reflections’ governs certain issues with iron resolve, yet cannot be accepted in all circumstances because of its failure to address certain issues, such as the role of its beliefs in the functioning of the economy, or the question, surely that there are times in governance of nations when radical decisions are called for? Burke’s ‘Reflections’ contain more critique of change than an ideology necessitates, meaning it is to sum up an ideology of the status quo, rather than one of change or dynamics like socialism or liberalism potentially are.
Robert Nozick and Distributive Justice
Robert Nozick’s concept of justice rests on a limited role for the state in all areas of human life. It is how justice is defined that determines whether or not Nozick’s favoured pattern guarantees justice. If justice is defined as the servant of legitimacy, as proprietarians such as Nozick claim then “from each as they choose, to each as they are chosen” is perfectly justifiable, provided that transactions between consenting adults fall within the mandates of the law. But for utilitarians, such as Bentham and Mill, justice is not defined by legitimacy of actions but the welfare of the populace. Similarly for Rawls and other contractarians – justice is perceived to be an egalitarian concept. This essay will scrutinise Nozick’s arguments, and those of philosophical opponents, before arriving at a conclusion.
At its core Nozick’s theory rests on Locke’s ‘state of nature’ – ensuing anarchy – that leads humans to a transcendental desire for some form of authority . Limited governance arises from a combination of human self-interest, and the consensual legitimacy that such institutions are granted by the populace. Criticism of Nozick can include this Lockean theme, is it right that government should pay homage to such vagaries as ‘natural rights’? Is any system that evolves out of anarchy and then seeks limited philosophical advancement too rigid and inadaptable to changing societal values to guarantee justice? If the concept of legitimacy becomes contested, then can such a state even guarantee coherent justice?
However the strength of the Nozickian argument is the conservative assumption of pre-existing, humanitarian conceptions of morality. This, combined with rational self-interest provides not just the tools for human advancement, but morality, and henceforth legitimacy – that guarantees societal justice. The lack of any favoured societal groups, and the initial absence of hierarchy in the immediate aftermath of anarchy means that legitimacy – or legality – of ownership of property, tools and money is conferred. The subsequent human trade that ensues throughout history – Nozick’s “historical principle of justice” – provided it remains with the boundaries of institutional law is legitimate, and just, no matter what the distribution of end results. Nozick’s argument is all the more effective by his reliance on core human characteristics; man as a rational self-interested being, endowed with a strong sense of morality. These humanitarian certainties present for millennia – as Hobbes and other realists would testify to – provide a degree of vindication for Nozick’s thought, ensuring justice based on legitimacy of action and significantly, justice based on equality of opportunity.
The problem for Nozick and other advocates of proprietarian justice is that of regimes upholding an allocation that stems from unjust or unrectified history. Nozick might approve of US constitutional procedure but his emphasis on historical rather than structural indices should logically force him to withhold approval from that society, as the holdings of Native Americans have obviously been violated by European colonisation . Similarly, are we to judge holdings that stem from aristocracy as unjust? Nozick comments that;
(Rectification) “Will make use of its best estimate of subjunctive information about what would have occurred…if the injustice had not taken place. If the actual description of holdings turns out not to be one of the descriptions yielded by the principle, then one of the descriptions yielded must be realised” .
The problem with this is its obvious ambiguity. Nozick’s talk of “estimates” and “what would have occurred” do not provide a reliable device for compensation. In the absence of such a device there is an palpable opportunity for not just the continuation of injustice based on illegitimacy of acquisitions – an injustice an Nozick’s own terms – but the opportunity for injustice of state action taken to rectify such illegitimacy – again, a violation of Nozick’s central tenant of individualism. Just as Hayek dismisses claims for distribution based on “moral merit” as vague and unworkable given the vagaries of individual circumstance, so we must in part dismiss Nozick’s rectification claim by the same standards.
Where his arguments based on essential elements of human nature bolster the logic of his philosophy, being of intrinsic value to free and democratic societies and providing a philosophical framework that is dictated by human nature, rather, than as socialists seek to do, dictate what it should be, this laissez-faire approach is at its weakest when confronted by injustice in historical holdings. This weakness thus upsets Nozick’s pattern of justice based on legitimacy.
One of the strongest arguments for Nozick’s conception of justice is its relation to democracy. Where proprietarians, utilitarians, and contractarians all differ on what constitutes justice within a given society, they will all readily accept democracy as the prerequisite of what their particular ideal is based upon. But this is not necessarily the case. With all processes of thought that favour an equitable distribution, and “current time-slice principles” there is a substantial tension between democracy and socialistic aims. As F.A. Hayek describes, a desire for equality necessitates control over production and distribution, and thus engenders a substantial loss of personal freedom;
“Economic control is not merely control of human life which can be separated form the rest; it is the control of the means for all our ends” .
More bluntly put by the English philosopher Hilaire Belloc;
“The control of the production of wealth is the control of human life itself” .
The strength of Nozick’s theory of justice is its compatibility with true democracy. As he points out in ‘Distributive Justice’, the lack of any central distribution, no person or group entitled to control all the resources and deciding how they are doled out is the hallmark of a genuinely free society . The egalitarian nature of the justice favoured by Rawls, for example is paradoxical in that the equality it aspires to is purely theoretical, but the methods for distribution are as materialistic as the most mercenary capitalist, with the state controlling the resources, who the favoured societal groups are and what proportion of the nations wealth people should receive. As Hayek again points out;
“The power that a multi-millionaire, who may be my neighbour and perhaps my employer, has over me is very much less than that which the smallest fonctionaire possesses who wields the coercive power of the state” .
By contrast Nozick’s laissez-faire conception of justice is in one sense an appeal to materialism that perversely safe guards the theoretical maxim of freedom better than any ideology that bases the theory of equality as its rasion de’etre. Even Marx noted this compelling link between capitalism and democracy, noting that the evolution of private property – with free markets – had been the precondition for the evolution of all democratic freedoms . Given that its is Nozick’s proprietarianism, above all other theories of justice, that regards justice as the servant of free and legitimate trade – something he demonstrates by use of the fictitious basketball player Wilt Chamberlain -we can infer that Nozick’s philosophy is the one true servant of democracy, and the freedom of the individual that is part of our western, liberal conception of justice.
This freedom does however throw up interesting theoretical quandaries. Nozick uses Lockean “natural rights” as the cornerstone of his beliefs, implying transcendental, empirical values that presumably a “just” Nozickian society would incorporate into law. But does this not clash with the stated aim of the minimal state to be; “extremely liberal in civil life”? How do we institutionalise and protect “natural rights”? Are they even recognizable? These questions are not – within the confines of this essay – easily answerable.
It is obvious that anything more than the minimal state to a die-hard proprietarian transgresses people’s rights – and therefore justice. But what if, as a result of democracy, voters demanded more than the minimal state? Would Nozick – like J. S. Mill and the tension between his utilitarian beliefs and his sacrosanct belief in individual liberty – have to disregard one in favour of the other? The suspicion must be, similar to Mill, that he would disregard democratic voices in favour of such socialist idealism, even if they formed a majority. This does not mean democracy would be disregarded – democracy being after all, the ultimate safeguard of individual liberty and legitimacy of transactions Nozick holds dear – but it highlights the volatile nature of the electorate, rendering Nozick’s conception of justice “to each as they choose…” vulnerable to democratic whims, one of which could be to insist on a link between natural rights and welfare.
In conclusion it is perfectly possible to reconcile a Nozickian conception of legitimacy with justice, but it is to a large degree dependent on an individuals conception of justice. A true proprietarian in the mould of Nozick needs to be able to stomach considerable social inequality in his model society – just as a socialist needs to realise the obvious loss of freedom his utopia would result in. Ultimately, a judgement is needed on which choice constitutes a freer, more just society. Egalitarian concepts may narrow inequality, but it is at the price not just of the freedom of consenting adults to engage in the trade of their choice, but of arguable the progress and dynamism of society at large. Inequality was narrower in the old Soviet Union than in the USA, but few would argue that the former constituted a beacon of a just, dynamic society. Equality, when it becomes the end in itself, endangers not only the justice of historical transactions, but also the fabric of democracy itself.
It is possible, to an extent within Nozick’s system for inequality to be tolerable by virtue of the ‘Pareto Optimalist’ – someone who views inequality of holdings as justifiable provided everyone benefits materially . Ironically, this is the view that John Rawls espouses in his justification of justice as fairness. It again demonstrates the flexibility of Nozick’s beliefs and their role, not just as a function of political theory, but as justly tied to our shared human values and aspirations.
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At its core Nozick’s theory rests on Locke’s ‘state of nature’ – ensuing anarchy – that leads humans to a transcendental desire for some form of authority . Limited governance arises from a combination of human self-interest, and the consensual legitimacy that such institutions are granted by the populace. Criticism of Nozick can include this Lockean theme, is it right that government should pay homage to such vagaries as ‘natural rights’? Is any system that evolves out of anarchy and then seeks limited philosophical advancement too rigid and inadaptable to changing societal values to guarantee justice? If the concept of legitimacy becomes contested, then can such a state even guarantee coherent justice?
However the strength of the Nozickian argument is the conservative assumption of pre-existing, humanitarian conceptions of morality. This, combined with rational self-interest provides not just the tools for human advancement, but morality, and henceforth legitimacy – that guarantees societal justice. The lack of any favoured societal groups, and the initial absence of hierarchy in the immediate aftermath of anarchy means that legitimacy – or legality – of ownership of property, tools and money is conferred. The subsequent human trade that ensues throughout history – Nozick’s “historical principle of justice” – provided it remains with the boundaries of institutional law is legitimate, and just, no matter what the distribution of end results. Nozick’s argument is all the more effective by his reliance on core human characteristics; man as a rational self-interested being, endowed with a strong sense of morality. These humanitarian certainties present for millennia – as Hobbes and other realists would testify to – provide a degree of vindication for Nozick’s thought, ensuring justice based on legitimacy of action and significantly, justice based on equality of opportunity.
The problem for Nozick and other advocates of proprietarian justice is that of regimes upholding an allocation that stems from unjust or unrectified history. Nozick might approve of US constitutional procedure but his emphasis on historical rather than structural indices should logically force him to withhold approval from that society, as the holdings of Native Americans have obviously been violated by European colonisation . Similarly, are we to judge holdings that stem from aristocracy as unjust? Nozick comments that;
(Rectification) “Will make use of its best estimate of subjunctive information about what would have occurred…if the injustice had not taken place. If the actual description of holdings turns out not to be one of the descriptions yielded by the principle, then one of the descriptions yielded must be realised” .
The problem with this is its obvious ambiguity. Nozick’s talk of “estimates” and “what would have occurred” do not provide a reliable device for compensation. In the absence of such a device there is an palpable opportunity for not just the continuation of injustice based on illegitimacy of acquisitions – an injustice an Nozick’s own terms – but the opportunity for injustice of state action taken to rectify such illegitimacy – again, a violation of Nozick’s central tenant of individualism. Just as Hayek dismisses claims for distribution based on “moral merit” as vague and unworkable given the vagaries of individual circumstance, so we must in part dismiss Nozick’s rectification claim by the same standards.
Where his arguments based on essential elements of human nature bolster the logic of his philosophy, being of intrinsic value to free and democratic societies and providing a philosophical framework that is dictated by human nature, rather, than as socialists seek to do, dictate what it should be, this laissez-faire approach is at its weakest when confronted by injustice in historical holdings. This weakness thus upsets Nozick’s pattern of justice based on legitimacy.
One of the strongest arguments for Nozick’s conception of justice is its relation to democracy. Where proprietarians, utilitarians, and contractarians all differ on what constitutes justice within a given society, they will all readily accept democracy as the prerequisite of what their particular ideal is based upon. But this is not necessarily the case. With all processes of thought that favour an equitable distribution, and “current time-slice principles” there is a substantial tension between democracy and socialistic aims. As F.A. Hayek describes, a desire for equality necessitates control over production and distribution, and thus engenders a substantial loss of personal freedom;
“Economic control is not merely control of human life which can be separated form the rest; it is the control of the means for all our ends” .
More bluntly put by the English philosopher Hilaire Belloc;
“The control of the production of wealth is the control of human life itself” .
The strength of Nozick’s theory of justice is its compatibility with true democracy. As he points out in ‘Distributive Justice’, the lack of any central distribution, no person or group entitled to control all the resources and deciding how they are doled out is the hallmark of a genuinely free society . The egalitarian nature of the justice favoured by Rawls, for example is paradoxical in that the equality it aspires to is purely theoretical, but the methods for distribution are as materialistic as the most mercenary capitalist, with the state controlling the resources, who the favoured societal groups are and what proportion of the nations wealth people should receive. As Hayek again points out;
“The power that a multi-millionaire, who may be my neighbour and perhaps my employer, has over me is very much less than that which the smallest fonctionaire possesses who wields the coercive power of the state” .
By contrast Nozick’s laissez-faire conception of justice is in one sense an appeal to materialism that perversely safe guards the theoretical maxim of freedom better than any ideology that bases the theory of equality as its rasion de’etre. Even Marx noted this compelling link between capitalism and democracy, noting that the evolution of private property – with free markets – had been the precondition for the evolution of all democratic freedoms . Given that its is Nozick’s proprietarianism, above all other theories of justice, that regards justice as the servant of free and legitimate trade – something he demonstrates by use of the fictitious basketball player Wilt Chamberlain -we can infer that Nozick’s philosophy is the one true servant of democracy, and the freedom of the individual that is part of our western, liberal conception of justice.
This freedom does however throw up interesting theoretical quandaries. Nozick uses Lockean “natural rights” as the cornerstone of his beliefs, implying transcendental, empirical values that presumably a “just” Nozickian society would incorporate into law. But does this not clash with the stated aim of the minimal state to be; “extremely liberal in civil life”? How do we institutionalise and protect “natural rights”? Are they even recognizable? These questions are not – within the confines of this essay – easily answerable.
It is obvious that anything more than the minimal state to a die-hard proprietarian transgresses people’s rights – and therefore justice. But what if, as a result of democracy, voters demanded more than the minimal state? Would Nozick – like J. S. Mill and the tension between his utilitarian beliefs and his sacrosanct belief in individual liberty – have to disregard one in favour of the other? The suspicion must be, similar to Mill, that he would disregard democratic voices in favour of such socialist idealism, even if they formed a majority. This does not mean democracy would be disregarded – democracy being after all, the ultimate safeguard of individual liberty and legitimacy of transactions Nozick holds dear – but it highlights the volatile nature of the electorate, rendering Nozick’s conception of justice “to each as they choose…” vulnerable to democratic whims, one of which could be to insist on a link between natural rights and welfare.
In conclusion it is perfectly possible to reconcile a Nozickian conception of legitimacy with justice, but it is to a large degree dependent on an individuals conception of justice. A true proprietarian in the mould of Nozick needs to be able to stomach considerable social inequality in his model society – just as a socialist needs to realise the obvious loss of freedom his utopia would result in. Ultimately, a judgement is needed on which choice constitutes a freer, more just society. Egalitarian concepts may narrow inequality, but it is at the price not just of the freedom of consenting adults to engage in the trade of their choice, but of arguable the progress and dynamism of society at large. Inequality was narrower in the old Soviet Union than in the USA, but few would argue that the former constituted a beacon of a just, dynamic society. Equality, when it becomes the end in itself, endangers not only the justice of historical transactions, but also the fabric of democracy itself.
It is possible, to an extent within Nozick’s system for inequality to be tolerable by virtue of the ‘Pareto Optimalist’ – someone who views inequality of holdings as justifiable provided everyone benefits materially . Ironically, this is the view that John Rawls espouses in his justification of justice as fairness. It again demonstrates the flexibility of Nozick’s beliefs and their role, not just as a function of political theory, but as justly tied to our shared human values and aspirations.
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Why were casualties so high during the American Civil War?
The American civil war was the first major conflict of the industrial age. It was thus influenced by the advent of mechanisation and the development of modern weaponry in a way that had hitherto been unimaginable. In keeping with the cliché that Generals and commanders are adapted to fighting the “last war”, there was a tactical – perhaps even strategic – lag in adapting to the deadly influence of modernity. For all that Generals such as Robert E. Lee and others are admired for their qualities as leaders and individuals, there was undoubtedly a reluctance to abandon obsolete tactics that were not just merely ineffective – but actively harmful to the side employing them. This was one key area where – initially at least – contemporary thought had not yet acclimatised to the realities of industrialisation. The other lag was in medical treatment. Modern arms scourged unimaginable numbers of men, yet treatment remained at a primitive level – further worsened by the sheer numbers of men involved. All these reasons and others are contributory factors as to why casualties were so high during the civil war.
The influence of new technology and industrialisation is an obvious starting point. In Napoleon’s day the flintlock musket was the standard infantry firearm, with an effective range of at most 100 yards (Fuller; 1961, 99). By the time of the war with Mexico of 1846 ‘smoothbore’ single-shot muskets had a maximum range of 250 yards, then, during the Crimean war, British and French troops carried a rifle that bore the fruits of development by French army Captain Claude Minie, and American Harper’s Ferry armourer James H. Burton. This “Minie ball” bullet, used in the famous American Springfield and British Lee-Enfield rifles, had an effective range of three to four hundred yards – a development that put defenders at a massive advantage vis-à-vis those on offence (McPherson; 1988, 475).
In relation to the war aims and tactics of the belligerents, this technological breakthrough inevitably led to dramatically increasing casualties. The Unions political imperative meant offence was a necessary strategy in order to put down the rebellion, defence and inertia a la McClellan was both at odds with this imperative and public opinion. Similarly, in the Confederacy although political realities were very different, and in part incongruous with a heavy reliance on strategic offence, the rebels – despite their position as the defensive side – needed to carry the war to the north if they were to stand any chance of European diplomatic recognition. Although Confederate generals remained for the most part unaffected by the noise of public opinion (Donald; 1962, 48-49), they were products of a military tradition at West Point that placed a high premium on a tactical offence in close-order infantry – something that had been highly successful for the United States army in the war with Mexico, (Mahon; 1961, 57-68), but sat ill with the advent and mass usage of rifles in combat in the years proceeding that conflict.
This intellectual tradition – within the context of civil war conflict, was more a curse than a blessing. Time and time again, whether it was Burnside’s Union charge at Fredericksburg in December 1862, or Meade’s disastrous Rebel charge at Gettysburg on the 3rd of July 1863, or even the relatively unconventional Grant at Cold Harbour on the 3rd of June 1864 (Fuller; 104) – Generals showed the traditions of yesteryear to be both ineffectual against organised defences with vastly improved firepower, and a hard habit to kick, something that undoubtedly furthered the grim toll of death and injury during the war.
Though the likes of Lee were traditionalists in the sense that they believed in a strictly professional, military sphere of activity, untainted by political and public pressure, this did not make them immune to the pervasive romanticism of the martial southern spirit, a spirit that gloried above all else in the “valour of the charge” (Luvaas; 1959, 476). It is notable that of all army commanders, Union and Confederate, Lee had the highest casualty rates – something directly attributable to his emphasis on an “offensive defence” (McPherson; 472). This would not be the first, or last, example of southern headiness getting detached from realities on the ground. But it was nonetheless a delusion that was shared – in part through necessity – by the commanders of the north, and a further incentive towards obsolete tactics that only served to increase the dead and dying.
A caveat to criticism must however be added in one important respect: that of battlefield communications. Dense, regimented units were to an extent a function of pre-radio age battles (ibid; 476), with commanders finding large units tricky to lead in the heat of battle – something accentuated by the large numbers of previous-amateurs and conscripted men involved in battle (Luvaas; 63-64). Men dispersed over a large area were even more of a challenge, something that tended to reinforce the traditional approach to attack – in concentrated groups. That this offered a huge target to well-armed defenders was in part a function of historical timing; technology had served to increase the defenders lot, but not as yet provided attackers with a suitable organisational medium. Under a century later the German Blitzkrieg would master the synthesis between communication and offence in a deadly effective manner. Even during the First World War, communications had modernised to the extent that coordination along the hundreds of miles of western front was possible – making such mass attacks as at the Somme possible. Communications were not, however, suitable for dispersed attacks in the 19th century – another factor that contributed to the high rate of casualties.
It must be emphasised that although military discipline was – particularly at the start of the war – shambolic by today’s standards (Donald; 1960, 83-85), the glue that held units together was the same martial spirit and courage that inspired commanders. Linderman noting that discipline “was best where it was most required – in battle”, and that “it was the pursuit of courage and the flight from cowardice that upheld the discipline essential to the cohesiveness of civil war armies” (Linderman; 1987, 29). It may seem a moot point, but this widespread militarism – in part institutionalised by culture and values, by definition increased the number of men on the battlefield willing to risk their lives – and indeed losing them, from the very first day of the war. This was largely a product of intense nationalism of the type Europe experienced at the outbreak of the First World War, swelling army sizes and thus transforming warfare from almost an art form conducted by relatively small groups of professionals, into a mass vocation involving the collective effort of a large percentage of the male populace. The introduction of conscription only served to accentuate this factor: “hitherto soldiers had been costly, now they were cheap; battles had been avoided, now they were sought, and however heavy the losses they could rapidly be made good by the muster roll” (Fuller; 35). It is a simple truth – an increase in the number of armed belligerents in war will inevitable lead to an increase in casualties.
At an ideological level the French revolution had in part recast the roles of individuals within society; emphasising that to serve as a soldier was to be more, not less of a citizen (Keegan; 1993, 357). Clausewitz noting “the whole weight of the people” being thrown behind a hitherto unimaginable effort, and Foch commenting on those “destined to throw into the fight all the resources of the nation; they were to set themselves the goal, not a dynastic interest, not of the conquest or possession of a province, but the defence or propagation of physical ideas” (Fuller; 34), this point being particularly relevant to the civil war. ‘Total war’ is a misnomer given the horrors of the 20th century – what is true is the civil war’s place as the first modern war, involving the collective efforts – and suffering – of the citizenry on behalf of political ideals. For both sides, there could be no compromise. This predominantly evident in casualty figures for south, where an estimated 4% of southern people, black, white, civilian, and soldier, died as a result of the conflict, either through battle or disease, disease often propagated in civilians – particularly in the later stages of the war – by malnutrition. The figure of 4% exceeded the human cost of as a percentage of any country in World War I and was only outstripped in the Second World War by the region between the Rhine and the Volga (McPherson; 1996, 66) – a staggering fact that only serves to demonstrate the nexus between mass effort and mass casualties on all fronts.
The clash between modernity and antiquity is a recurrent theme throughout the civil war – free labour versus slavery, modern weaponries incongruity with the tactics of old, and industrialisations pre-eminence over agrarianism. Industrialisation is perhaps a sin quo non-factor in explaining the root cause of mass casualties. At the start of the war, northern industry geared up to produce two million rifles, something the south could not hope to match – and partly responsible for the two to one ratio of Confederate to Union causalities during the Seven Days battles (McPherson; 1988, 475). Technology was the cause, but improved manufacturing capabilities – be they in northern factories, or European ones who exported en masse to the Confederacy by 1863 (ibid, americancivilwar.org) – were the enablers of mass slaughter.
Any discussion about civil war casualties would not be complete without a reference to the impact of disease on casualty figures. By the end of the war in 1865, Union battlefield fatalities numbered 110,000. Twice as many – 224,580 – died of disease, a ratio in all likelihood shared by the Confederates. So rampant was disease and illness in the civil war that historian Paul Steiner has called it “natural biological warfare” (Linderman; 115). It was an aft repeated maxim of the civil war soldier that it was easier to die in combat than go to the hospital (ibid; 130), where awaited unfortunate casualties nurses with little training, medicals science “with little to offer” and doctors “inferior as healers to the nurse volunteers” (ibid; 28-29). The concept of a lag between technological advances and tactical awareness has been discussed already – what also existed, with vastly more lethal consequences, was a serious lag between advances in medical science and treatment to offset the ravages of improved firearms.
The relentless pace of the conflict, and the jingoism and mass enlistments that greeted the outbreak of war did not help the situation. One investigation into Union army enlistment procedures in 1861 concluded that up to 25% of recruits should have been rejected for medical reasons (McPherson; 1988, 326), a fact vividly illustrated by the testimony of a soldier in the Union army by the name of Stevens, commenting on the 77th New York’s campaign in the Virginia peninsula: “at times one might sit in the door of his tent and see as many as six or seven funeral parties bearing comrades to their resting places”. In that campaign, the New York regiment had started in November 1861 with 1000 men – standard regiment size. By June 1862, after a harsh winter and with the heat of summer kicking in, all that was left were 250 men (Linderman; 115), this before the regiment even went into combat.
Compared with past conflicts deaths from disease in the civil war were however, proportionately not as conspicuous – Britain experienced a men killed in battle to deaths from disease ratio of 1 to 8 in the Napoleonic wars and 1 to 4 in the Crimea (McPherson; 1988, 487) To take the most recent war circa 1861 – the Crimean war – which had involved a total of roughly 1,860,000 combatants, disease took a higher proportional toll, but the higher total number of soldiers in the civil war – just over 3.8 million – insured a significantly higher number of men died as a result of disease: 372,000 in the civil war compared to about 244,000 in the Crimea (wikipedia.org). Once again the sheer number of participants in the conflict insured much higher casualty figures than there otherwise would have been – obscuring the truth that compared to these European wars, and the United States last war with Mexico (civilwarhome.com/medicinehistory.htm), mortality rates from disease and injury were proportionately declining.
The scale of the war accentuated death and illness not just on the battlefield and in the boot camp, but on the home front as well. This of acute relevance to the south, primarily in the later stages of the war when Union advances had restricted land area suitable for food production, and where priority usage of transportation links such as railroads was given to military traffic (McPherson; 1988, 619). Death and disease amongst refugees, fleeing the war zones of the south, is another factor that McPherson rightly notes as being of importance when tallying up the true costs of the war – some estimates putting them as high as 50,000 (ibid; 619-620).
In part this was motivated by the pervasive southern fear of ‘Billy Yank’ and the terror that he may bring – a fear aptly demonstrated by Sherman’s march. Once again this demonstrated how a war between peoples and ideas conflated civilians and military, in contrast to the dynastic wars of old in Europe (Teschke; 2002, 6-18) – though mercifully for the south, genocide was not a factor in Sherman’s or any other Union commanders marches. The affect, however, was in part similar. Through systematic targeting of southern livestock, communications, and resources, Sherman did indeed make Georgia and the Carolinas “howl”, and prove that regrettably from a moral standpoint, modern warfare of peoples and nationalism inevitably meant war against peoples – with the associated rise in civilian deaths.
The level of casualties exhibited by the American civil war can be seen as results of all of the above factors – and more philosophically as part of the development of war throughout history. As already mentioned, war has evolved over time. First from being primarily a tool of monarchical, gentrified interests, then, post French revolution a clash of peoples and national interests. The 20th century saw ideology as the catalyst to war – something that allied to the natural evolution of weaponry served to bring war to its destructive zenith: a la 1939-45. With each advance brings more chaos and suffering, and further conflation between combatants and non-combatants – in the nuclear age beyond recognition. The civil war – though not an ideological clash in the way many of the wars of the post-1918 period were – marks an epoch in combining industrialisation, mass participation and idealism – with all the casualties that that implies.
2431 words
Bibliography
David Herbert Donald; ‘Why the North Won’, Collier Books, 1962
Major-General J.F.C. Fuller; ‘The conduct of war 1789-1961’, Methuen & Co, ltd, 1961
John Keegan; ‘A History of Warfare’, Hutchinson London, 1993
Gerald F. Linderman; ‘Embattled Courage’, The Free Press, 1987
Jay Luvaas; ‘The military legacy of the civil war’, University of Chicago Press, 1959
John K. Mahon; ‘Civil War Infantry Assault Tactics’, Military Affairs 25, 1961
James M. McPherson; ‘Battle cry of Freedom’, Penguin, 1988
James M. McPherson; ‘Drawn with the Sword’, Oxford University Press, 1996
Benno Teschke; ‘Theorizing the Westphalia System of States: International Relations from Absolutism to Capitalism’, European Journal of International Relations, 2002
www.civilwarhome.com
www.wikipedia.org
The influence of new technology and industrialisation is an obvious starting point. In Napoleon’s day the flintlock musket was the standard infantry firearm, with an effective range of at most 100 yards (Fuller; 1961, 99). By the time of the war with Mexico of 1846 ‘smoothbore’ single-shot muskets had a maximum range of 250 yards, then, during the Crimean war, British and French troops carried a rifle that bore the fruits of development by French army Captain Claude Minie, and American Harper’s Ferry armourer James H. Burton. This “Minie ball” bullet, used in the famous American Springfield and British Lee-Enfield rifles, had an effective range of three to four hundred yards – a development that put defenders at a massive advantage vis-à-vis those on offence (McPherson; 1988, 475).
In relation to the war aims and tactics of the belligerents, this technological breakthrough inevitably led to dramatically increasing casualties. The Unions political imperative meant offence was a necessary strategy in order to put down the rebellion, defence and inertia a la McClellan was both at odds with this imperative and public opinion. Similarly, in the Confederacy although political realities were very different, and in part incongruous with a heavy reliance on strategic offence, the rebels – despite their position as the defensive side – needed to carry the war to the north if they were to stand any chance of European diplomatic recognition. Although Confederate generals remained for the most part unaffected by the noise of public opinion (Donald; 1962, 48-49), they were products of a military tradition at West Point that placed a high premium on a tactical offence in close-order infantry – something that had been highly successful for the United States army in the war with Mexico, (Mahon; 1961, 57-68), but sat ill with the advent and mass usage of rifles in combat in the years proceeding that conflict.
This intellectual tradition – within the context of civil war conflict, was more a curse than a blessing. Time and time again, whether it was Burnside’s Union charge at Fredericksburg in December 1862, or Meade’s disastrous Rebel charge at Gettysburg on the 3rd of July 1863, or even the relatively unconventional Grant at Cold Harbour on the 3rd of June 1864 (Fuller; 104) – Generals showed the traditions of yesteryear to be both ineffectual against organised defences with vastly improved firepower, and a hard habit to kick, something that undoubtedly furthered the grim toll of death and injury during the war.
Though the likes of Lee were traditionalists in the sense that they believed in a strictly professional, military sphere of activity, untainted by political and public pressure, this did not make them immune to the pervasive romanticism of the martial southern spirit, a spirit that gloried above all else in the “valour of the charge” (Luvaas; 1959, 476). It is notable that of all army commanders, Union and Confederate, Lee had the highest casualty rates – something directly attributable to his emphasis on an “offensive defence” (McPherson; 472). This would not be the first, or last, example of southern headiness getting detached from realities on the ground. But it was nonetheless a delusion that was shared – in part through necessity – by the commanders of the north, and a further incentive towards obsolete tactics that only served to increase the dead and dying.
A caveat to criticism must however be added in one important respect: that of battlefield communications. Dense, regimented units were to an extent a function of pre-radio age battles (ibid; 476), with commanders finding large units tricky to lead in the heat of battle – something accentuated by the large numbers of previous-amateurs and conscripted men involved in battle (Luvaas; 63-64). Men dispersed over a large area were even more of a challenge, something that tended to reinforce the traditional approach to attack – in concentrated groups. That this offered a huge target to well-armed defenders was in part a function of historical timing; technology had served to increase the defenders lot, but not as yet provided attackers with a suitable organisational medium. Under a century later the German Blitzkrieg would master the synthesis between communication and offence in a deadly effective manner. Even during the First World War, communications had modernised to the extent that coordination along the hundreds of miles of western front was possible – making such mass attacks as at the Somme possible. Communications were not, however, suitable for dispersed attacks in the 19th century – another factor that contributed to the high rate of casualties.
It must be emphasised that although military discipline was – particularly at the start of the war – shambolic by today’s standards (Donald; 1960, 83-85), the glue that held units together was the same martial spirit and courage that inspired commanders. Linderman noting that discipline “was best where it was most required – in battle”, and that “it was the pursuit of courage and the flight from cowardice that upheld the discipline essential to the cohesiveness of civil war armies” (Linderman; 1987, 29). It may seem a moot point, but this widespread militarism – in part institutionalised by culture and values, by definition increased the number of men on the battlefield willing to risk their lives – and indeed losing them, from the very first day of the war. This was largely a product of intense nationalism of the type Europe experienced at the outbreak of the First World War, swelling army sizes and thus transforming warfare from almost an art form conducted by relatively small groups of professionals, into a mass vocation involving the collective effort of a large percentage of the male populace. The introduction of conscription only served to accentuate this factor: “hitherto soldiers had been costly, now they were cheap; battles had been avoided, now they were sought, and however heavy the losses they could rapidly be made good by the muster roll” (Fuller; 35). It is a simple truth – an increase in the number of armed belligerents in war will inevitable lead to an increase in casualties.
At an ideological level the French revolution had in part recast the roles of individuals within society; emphasising that to serve as a soldier was to be more, not less of a citizen (Keegan; 1993, 357). Clausewitz noting “the whole weight of the people” being thrown behind a hitherto unimaginable effort, and Foch commenting on those “destined to throw into the fight all the resources of the nation; they were to set themselves the goal, not a dynastic interest, not of the conquest or possession of a province, but the defence or propagation of physical ideas” (Fuller; 34), this point being particularly relevant to the civil war. ‘Total war’ is a misnomer given the horrors of the 20th century – what is true is the civil war’s place as the first modern war, involving the collective efforts – and suffering – of the citizenry on behalf of political ideals. For both sides, there could be no compromise. This predominantly evident in casualty figures for south, where an estimated 4% of southern people, black, white, civilian, and soldier, died as a result of the conflict, either through battle or disease, disease often propagated in civilians – particularly in the later stages of the war – by malnutrition. The figure of 4% exceeded the human cost of as a percentage of any country in World War I and was only outstripped in the Second World War by the region between the Rhine and the Volga (McPherson; 1996, 66) – a staggering fact that only serves to demonstrate the nexus between mass effort and mass casualties on all fronts.
The clash between modernity and antiquity is a recurrent theme throughout the civil war – free labour versus slavery, modern weaponries incongruity with the tactics of old, and industrialisations pre-eminence over agrarianism. Industrialisation is perhaps a sin quo non-factor in explaining the root cause of mass casualties. At the start of the war, northern industry geared up to produce two million rifles, something the south could not hope to match – and partly responsible for the two to one ratio of Confederate to Union causalities during the Seven Days battles (McPherson; 1988, 475). Technology was the cause, but improved manufacturing capabilities – be they in northern factories, or European ones who exported en masse to the Confederacy by 1863 (ibid, americancivilwar.org) – were the enablers of mass slaughter.
Any discussion about civil war casualties would not be complete without a reference to the impact of disease on casualty figures. By the end of the war in 1865, Union battlefield fatalities numbered 110,000. Twice as many – 224,580 – died of disease, a ratio in all likelihood shared by the Confederates. So rampant was disease and illness in the civil war that historian Paul Steiner has called it “natural biological warfare” (Linderman; 115). It was an aft repeated maxim of the civil war soldier that it was easier to die in combat than go to the hospital (ibid; 130), where awaited unfortunate casualties nurses with little training, medicals science “with little to offer” and doctors “inferior as healers to the nurse volunteers” (ibid; 28-29). The concept of a lag between technological advances and tactical awareness has been discussed already – what also existed, with vastly more lethal consequences, was a serious lag between advances in medical science and treatment to offset the ravages of improved firearms.
The relentless pace of the conflict, and the jingoism and mass enlistments that greeted the outbreak of war did not help the situation. One investigation into Union army enlistment procedures in 1861 concluded that up to 25% of recruits should have been rejected for medical reasons (McPherson; 1988, 326), a fact vividly illustrated by the testimony of a soldier in the Union army by the name of Stevens, commenting on the 77th New York’s campaign in the Virginia peninsula: “at times one might sit in the door of his tent and see as many as six or seven funeral parties bearing comrades to their resting places”. In that campaign, the New York regiment had started in November 1861 with 1000 men – standard regiment size. By June 1862, after a harsh winter and with the heat of summer kicking in, all that was left were 250 men (Linderman; 115), this before the regiment even went into combat.
Compared with past conflicts deaths from disease in the civil war were however, proportionately not as conspicuous – Britain experienced a men killed in battle to deaths from disease ratio of 1 to 8 in the Napoleonic wars and 1 to 4 in the Crimea (McPherson; 1988, 487) To take the most recent war circa 1861 – the Crimean war – which had involved a total of roughly 1,860,000 combatants, disease took a higher proportional toll, but the higher total number of soldiers in the civil war – just over 3.8 million – insured a significantly higher number of men died as a result of disease: 372,000 in the civil war compared to about 244,000 in the Crimea (wikipedia.org). Once again the sheer number of participants in the conflict insured much higher casualty figures than there otherwise would have been – obscuring the truth that compared to these European wars, and the United States last war with Mexico (civilwarhome.com/medicinehistory.htm), mortality rates from disease and injury were proportionately declining.
The scale of the war accentuated death and illness not just on the battlefield and in the boot camp, but on the home front as well. This of acute relevance to the south, primarily in the later stages of the war when Union advances had restricted land area suitable for food production, and where priority usage of transportation links such as railroads was given to military traffic (McPherson; 1988, 619). Death and disease amongst refugees, fleeing the war zones of the south, is another factor that McPherson rightly notes as being of importance when tallying up the true costs of the war – some estimates putting them as high as 50,000 (ibid; 619-620).
In part this was motivated by the pervasive southern fear of ‘Billy Yank’ and the terror that he may bring – a fear aptly demonstrated by Sherman’s march. Once again this demonstrated how a war between peoples and ideas conflated civilians and military, in contrast to the dynastic wars of old in Europe (Teschke; 2002, 6-18) – though mercifully for the south, genocide was not a factor in Sherman’s or any other Union commanders marches. The affect, however, was in part similar. Through systematic targeting of southern livestock, communications, and resources, Sherman did indeed make Georgia and the Carolinas “howl”, and prove that regrettably from a moral standpoint, modern warfare of peoples and nationalism inevitably meant war against peoples – with the associated rise in civilian deaths.
The level of casualties exhibited by the American civil war can be seen as results of all of the above factors – and more philosophically as part of the development of war throughout history. As already mentioned, war has evolved over time. First from being primarily a tool of monarchical, gentrified interests, then, post French revolution a clash of peoples and national interests. The 20th century saw ideology as the catalyst to war – something that allied to the natural evolution of weaponry served to bring war to its destructive zenith: a la 1939-45. With each advance brings more chaos and suffering, and further conflation between combatants and non-combatants – in the nuclear age beyond recognition. The civil war – though not an ideological clash in the way many of the wars of the post-1918 period were – marks an epoch in combining industrialisation, mass participation and idealism – with all the casualties that that implies.
2431 words
Bibliography
David Herbert Donald; ‘Why the North Won’, Collier Books, 1962
Major-General J.F.C. Fuller; ‘The conduct of war 1789-1961’, Methuen & Co, ltd, 1961
John Keegan; ‘A History of Warfare’, Hutchinson London, 1993
Gerald F. Linderman; ‘Embattled Courage’, The Free Press, 1987
Jay Luvaas; ‘The military legacy of the civil war’, University of Chicago Press, 1959
John K. Mahon; ‘Civil War Infantry Assault Tactics’, Military Affairs 25, 1961
James M. McPherson; ‘Battle cry of Freedom’, Penguin, 1988
James M. McPherson; ‘Drawn with the Sword’, Oxford University Press, 1996
Benno Teschke; ‘Theorizing the Westphalia System of States: International Relations from Absolutism to Capitalism’, European Journal of International Relations, 2002
www.civilwarhome.com
www.wikipedia.org
What does the politics of Gun Control tell us about the American way doing government and politics?
Of the many social issues that pulsate within the sphere of American political life, gun control is one of the few to burn with consistent magnesium brightness. To supporters and opponents alike, the issue is of seminal importance, cutting as it does to the heart of rival conceptions of the efficacy of governmental power: government as an enabler or regulator; guardian of cherished liberties or responsible modern pragmatist; conservative or liberal. Whilst these debates fiercely ensue, they do so against a backdrop of judicial power that in one sense renders popular discourse void; the law is what the Supreme Court of the United States (SCOTUS) says it is. As in the issue of abortion and the hugely contentious Roe v Wade decision, it is a central paradox of American political life that so much ink – and sadly blood – can be spilt on these issues amongst legions of rival clans whilst ultimate power in the worlds leading democracy rests not with the people – but nine unelected judges.
The Supreme Court’s involvement in the issue of gun control is a direct consequence of Constitutional governance – and all the ambiguities and interpretations that stem from this. It is notable that for all the polemic and deep divisions on the issue of gun control, both sides still reason with reference to the constitution. Although the second amendment is ambiguous, and – as a series of SCOTUS decisions have demonstrated – no barrier to pro gun control rulings (Cottrol 1994: 22-27), it is widely interpreted even by gun control advocates as a “constitutional right” to firearms (Singh 2003: 367). It is notable that despite a consistent majority of Americans over the last half century favouring tighter gun control laws (ibid: 361-363; Spitzer 2004: 100) gun control advocates – whether they be Bill Clinton in the 1990s or Senator John McCain in his failed bid for the Republican presidential nomination in 2000 (Singh: 370) – still couch their argument in terms of the “responsible” or “rational” gun laws that will not amend the so-called core right to firearms ownership.
This “core right of ownership” is however, like much of the Bill of Rights, ambiguous and open to interpretation. Advocates of increased gun control point to the collective nature of the Second Amendment: specifically its talk of a “well regulated Militia”, implying there to be no barrier to government’s ability to legislate on gun issues. Opponents of gun control – specifically but not exclusively the National Rifle Association (NRA) – will emphasise the later part of the Second Amendment, specifically the comment: “the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed”. This forms what is known as the “individualist interpretation” of the Second Amendment; gun ownership under this interpretation is an inalienable right, regardless of talk of a regulated Militia (Spitzer: 37-40).
Such legal and grammatical wrangling are however almost entirely academic. These arguments are not important in allowing scholarly investigators to come up with a definitive answer to the Second Amendment riddle – there will almost certainly never be a consensus; as demonstrated by the ambiguity of the Supreme Court in their last Second Amendment case to date: United States v. Miller (1938) (Cottrol: 27-29). Rather, it demonstrates the continuing importance and relevance of the constitution to modern US politics. To protagonists on both sides of the dispute, 18th century words are of 21st century importance. It is notable that in perhaps no other democratic nation is the issue of gun ownership discussed in terms of “rights” (Wroe 2002: 97). In Britain and other countries, the absence of a Second Amendment guaranteeing any such “right” means the issue is discussed broadly on utilitarian grounds: if a majority of the population and politicians are in favour of a total ban on handguns, this can became law. In America, even if – inconceivably – a majority of the population were in favour of a total ban on handguns, it is equally inconceivable that such a law – barring an amendment – would be deemed constitutional. The paradox of American political life mentioned in the introduction: the abundance of democracy, coupled with real and practical limits on popular majority expression, brings to mind a quote from John Stuart Mill: “If all mankind minus one were of one opinion, and only one person were of the contrary opinion, mankind would be no more justified in silencing that one person, than he, if he had the power, would be justified in silencing mankind”.
If the realities of United States governance to a certain degree insulate opponents of gun control from popular pressure, it does nothing to abate the passion and vigour with which the issue is debated across the width and breadth of the nation. Like abortion and capital punishment, the issue of gun control revolves around more than just legal and political principles; in a very real sense it involves issues of life and death. With justification does Spitzer quote one NRA insider as likening the group to “a religion”; in the 1930s it was not uncommon for the NRA – then primarily an organisation of hunters and farmers – to work with gun control advocates on certain projects, notably in crafting gun regulations for Washington DC (Spitzer: 76; 109). Since then however, the group has become more fundamentalist: with the goal of opposing any regulation, major or minor (ibid: 82).
This fundamentalist streak is in part what explains the effectiveness of the NRA and lobby groups like it. The majority of the American public are in favour of increased gun control laws; but they are a passive majority. They are not interested enough to make gun control a key factor in deciding how they vote, in contrast to pro-gun activists who are an “active” minority; and as far as politicians are concerned, this arguably counts for more (Wroe 2002: 96). This “active minority” of gun lovers will vote on a “for-us-or-against-us” basis (Spitzer: 84), making them politically more important – despite their minority status. As McKeever notes of the American governmental system: “majority opinion is not channelled to have the greatest impact. Nor is it well funded or organised. It is simply politically ineffective” (McKeever 1999: 9).
The implications for US government and politics should be clear. It is tempting to dismiss the passion and vitriol with which the issue of gun control is debated as evidence of mere partisan frivolity – subordinate to the far more important task of lobbying and donating to political parties. But this is the NRA’s greatest strength. There may exist multifarious sources of income and potential donors to American politicians; but there are only a finite number of votes. Where a substantial – albeit minority – chunk of voters are prepared to put one issue above all else, politicians cannot afford to ignore their demands. In this respect partisanship has very real electoral consequences.
Opposing them proponents of gun control are no less ardent or determined in their position. In May of 2000, partly in response to the Columbine High School killings a year earlier in Littleton, Colorado, a group of approximately 200,000 mothers congregated in Washington DC for a “million mom march” – demanding tougher gun control measures (Singh: 370). With the two groups heated rhetoric – with NRA talk of “jack booted” fascist federal law enforcement agents and certain gun control advocates talk of “killing machines”, the window for debate as noted by Spitzer, is narrow (Spitzer, quoted in Singh 2003: 371). In often-literal terms do the opposing sides view each other as “enemies” (Spitzer: 74); and although with fewer overtly religious overtones as with the debate over abortion, the gun issue none the less captures the evangelical essence of American attitudes towards democracy and personal freedom.
A slightly less altruistic gene of the American political being displayed by the issue of gun control is businesses close role in pressure group politics and the business of lobbying politicians. A good example being the intimate relationship between the NRA and the firearms industry; both of who have a vested interest in promoting the aforementioned “individualistic” conception of the second amendment. Spitzer notes a “revolving door” operating between business and the NRA, with cooperation “in tandem to generate new kinds of target sports in order to draw in more people as gun users, and to create methods for new gun designs, as a way to prod what the gun industry considered sluggish sales in the 80s and 90s” (ibid: 79-80).
The nexus between the two is real and effective, as can be judged by the success the duo have had in getting Congress to restrict liability lawsuits against manufacturers of firearms (Barone & Cohen 2005: 18). For all involved – businessmen, congressmen, and NRA lobbyists – this victory was a demonstration of classic ‘iron triangle’ politics: the firearms industry was the obvious direct beneficiary; Republican congressmen who voted overwhelmingly for the bill could receive further donations from such groups and demonstrate their free market credentials to voters; and NRA lobbyists could market it as a victory for gun ownership in America and their business allies. Departing from the issue of gun control albeit briefly, it is notable that such an iron triangle in favour of lax gun lawyers and limited business liability pales into insignificance next to those revolving around farm subsidies and defence spending. With the later in particular, it is still obvious how prescient the remarks of Dwight Eisenhower were on the undue influence of the military industrial complex and all the iron triangles associated with it in his 1961 farewell to the nation (McKeever: 269).
Closely related is the issue of lobbying. Lobbying exists in all manner of democracies, but it is in America – with its multiple tiers of government; tradition of loose party loyalty; and the large sums needed for any aspiring politician at nearly all levels of government – that really feeds the lobbying profession. ‘The Institute for Legislative action’ is the official lobbying arm of the NRA. Created in 1975 it has in recent years been responsible for as much as 25% of the total NRA budget, this best illustrated by the figures for total ILA spending in 1988 of $20.2 million; by 1992 this figure had risen to $28.9 million (Spitzer: 81).
Political Action Committees or ‘PAC’s are the other side of the lobbying coin. These are a direct off shoot of the 1974 Federal Campaign Act, which put strict limits on individual and corporate contributions and thus forced individuals and groups to come up with new ways of financing campaigns. In particular, although there is a $5000 limit to any candidate’s primary campaign, and a further $5000 limit on the actual campaign, there is no limit to the amount of ‘soft money’ PAC’s have the ability to raise (McKay 2005: 270-271). This is money that does not go directly to a candidate or campaign; spent instead on such causes as the 2004 anti-John Kerry ‘Swift Boat Veterans For Truth’ advertisements (Barone & Cohen: 35); which remain within the letter of the law so long as they provide information about a candidate – and refrain from endorsing or advocating the defeat of a particular candidate (Nelson quoted in Singh 2004: 124).
With regards the NRA, their PAC – the ‘Political Victory Fund’ – was able to raise $20 million worth of funds for the 1999-2000-election cycle – money spent on state and federal elections (Spitzer: 82). Several points are made abundantly clear about US government and politics from the perspective of the role of interest groups. In a similar vain to the constitution, interest groups and PAC’s effectively endorse the status quo and stymie majority politics. So long as groups such as the ILA and the Political Victory Fund have the ability to withhold funds for campaigns, use negative advertising against pro-gun control candidates – and exploit the fact that they, unlike most United States politicians, have reach and influence over arguably all branches of government – state and federal – they remain a formidable weapon in the armoury of anti gun control forces.
Least anyone is under the illusion that the money in American politics resides solely with conservative agents such as Second Amendment individualists, it is instructive to look at the funds available to liberal – pretty much uniformly pro-gun control – political advocates. One of the most striking facts of the last presidential election in 2004 was that for all the talk of the Republicans as the party of big business and all the funds that go with that, it was the Democrats who actually raised the most money: the Kerry campaign, the Democratic National Committee, and anti-Bush PAC’s spent some $344 million on ads during the campaign; whilst the Bush campaign, the Republican National Committee and pro-Bush PAC’s spent some $289 million (Barone & Cohen: 28). As far as the pervasive influence of big money goes in US politics, it is an equal opportunities game; a necessary adjunct for effective campaigning even if – as the Kerry campaign showed – it is ultimately spent on a losing cause.
If proof were needed that the passage of gun control legislation through Congress is fraught with difficulty, then it is evident in the fate of two pieces of gun control legislation: the 1968 Gun Control Act; and the 1993 Brady Bill. The 1968 Gun Control Act was partly a response to the assassinations of John F. Kennedy, Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King; Lyndon Johnson calling on members of the Houses of Congress “in the name of sanity…in the name of safety and in the name of an aroused nation to give America the gun control law it needs” (Spitzer: 114). This did not however stop congressional amendments and spoiling tactics from anti-control legislators: conservative Republicans and southern Democrats. The ability to filibuster – as with Strom Thurmond’s 24 hour marathon filibuster of the 1960 Civil Rights Act – delay, obstinate, and block potential legislations passage out of the committee stages (just 10% of potential legislation makes it out of committees) is a running theme in Congress, and something inherent in the structure of the US legislature (McKay: 172-178). In the case of the 1968 Gun Control Act, 45 attempts were made to amend the legislation (18 accepted, 27 rejected, with wins and losses for both sides); meanwhile, in the Senate there were 17 formal amendment motions, of which 9 were accepted and 8 rejected (Spitzer: 114). The Bill did make it onto the statute books – but in an emasculated form. Although it banned among other things the interstate shipment of arms and ammunition to private individuals, the sale of guns to minors, drug addicts, felons, and mental incompetents – the core of Johnson’s original proposals: that there be blanket registration and licensing of all gun users – disappeared in the quicksand’s of Congressional bargaining (ibid: 115).
The Brady Bill’s fate was different – but similar in effect. Named after Ronald Reagan bodyguard James Brady, who was paralysed in the 1981 attempt on Reagan’s life, the core proposals of this Bill included a five-day waiting period (for states that did not already have one) in which background checks could be made on gun buyers (Singh: 362). Congress passed the act in 1993; but by 1997 sufficient resentment had accrued of the Bill’s compulsion for the administration of background checks for law enforcement agents from Arizona and Montana to launch a legal case against the Brady Bill as a violation of the federalist principle of the Tenth Amendment. In Printz v. United States (1997) by a 5-4 margin, the Supreme Court ruled with the plaintiffs – that the Brady Bill was a violation of states rights (McKeever: 95-96). It was thus void.
Both Bill’s demonstrate to varying degrees the difficulties faced by gun control advocates in advancing their agenda. The 1968 Act is indicative of the problems all creative legislature faces in Congress: that it runs against entrenched interests, beliefs, practices, and the structurally conservative bias of the Houses of Congress. The Brady Bill demonstrates the exact same principle – but on a national scale. In a nation designed both practically and philosophically around distrust of government power, particularly central government, such Bills run against not just the federalist laws of the land, but the ideological creed of the nation as well.
It is notable that of the recent gun related cases to come before the SCOTUS, it was the Tenth, not Second Amendment, used by the court to render federal legislation null. The Brady Bill was one, the other being the case of the Gun Free Schools Act of 1990, which made it a federal offence to carry a firearm within 1,000 feet of a school. The court also ruled this – like the Brady Bill – unconstitutional on Tenth Amendment grounds, in United States v. Lopez (1995) (Vile 1999: 173). Whereas the Second Amendment is in part ambiguous and vague, the Tenth leaves no one in much doubt as to the veracity and scope of federal power. This effectively acts as a barrier to any legislation – pro or anti gun – that does not respect both the Tenth Amendment and existing state laws. The plethora of gun laws at state and local level – 20,000 by some estimates (Singh: 359) – but the relative absence of them federally demonstrates this to be one issue, like so many in US politics, where the individual states still reign supreme.
Another significance of federalism as relevant to the issue of gun control is in its reflection of regional political differences, and the real divide between the politics of urban – generally liberal, Democratic – cities, and that of rural – predominantly conservative, Republican – areas. The regional trend is obvious: the more rural your constituency, the more likely you are to oppose gun control measures – the opposite being true for urban areas. Of the 52 votes in the senate in favour of extending the 1994 ban on assault weapons, just 12 of those senate votes came from states that voted for anti-gun control George W. Bush in 2004 (Barone & Cohen 2005). In terms of House votes, those in the 108th Congress who came from the most rural congressional districts voted uniformly to restrict gun liability damages – just as those from the smallest and most urban districts voted against (ibid). As one would expect from such a big, diverse nation, federalism reflects very real cultural and political differences.
What one can learn about American politics above all else with relation to the issue of gun control is the power of the constitution. The constitution is explicit on the role of federalism, and thus on the limits of the government in Washington DC to legislate nationally. This point is crucial for any understanding of the functioning of US politics: a “Eurocentric” view of politics tends towards viewing centralised political power as the most important and relevant on all issues of governance; an example being the aftermath of the Dunblane massacre in Scotland in 1996, when the British government took steps to ban possession of all handguns (Singh: 371). This is an archetypal example of the powers of a democratic unitary state, but totally irrelevant to American politics. The major players in Washington can only act with a limited mandate on gun control and many other issues; for the simple reason that they lack the authority to do any more.
The last, obvious, point in relation to this issue is the Second Amendment – and the debatable “right” to ownership that this entails. Simply put, where firearms ownership can be interpreted to any degree as a “right” – constitutional, and inert – it robs contemporary politicians of powers of alteration. The issue of gun control demonstrates above all else the conservative bias of constitutional government, the reverence for the Bill of Rights, and the extent to which politicians in the world’s foremost democracy are themselves curiously powerless.
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Bibliography
Michael Barone & Richard E. Cohen: ‘The Almanac Of American Politics 2006’; National Journal Group; Washington DC 2005
Robert J. Cottrol: ‘Gun Control And The Constitution: Sources and Explorations on the Second Amendment’; Garland Publishing, New York & London 1994
David McKay: ‘American Politics & Society’; 6th edition; Blackwell Publishing 2005
David McKay, David Houghton and Andrew Wroe: ‘Controversies In American Politics And Society’; Blackwell Publishers 2002
Robert McKeever, John Zvesper, Richard Maidment: ‘Politics USA’; Prentice Hall 1999
Robert Singh: ‘Governing America: The Politics of a Divided Democracy’; Oxford University Press 2003
Michael J. Spitzer: ‘The Politics of Gun Control’; 3rd edition CQ Press 2004
M.J.C. Vile: ‘Politics in the USA’; Routledge 1999
Joseph F. Zimmerman: ‘Contemporary American Federalism – The Growth Of National Power’; Praeger 1992
The Supreme Court’s involvement in the issue of gun control is a direct consequence of Constitutional governance – and all the ambiguities and interpretations that stem from this. It is notable that for all the polemic and deep divisions on the issue of gun control, both sides still reason with reference to the constitution. Although the second amendment is ambiguous, and – as a series of SCOTUS decisions have demonstrated – no barrier to pro gun control rulings (Cottrol 1994: 22-27), it is widely interpreted even by gun control advocates as a “constitutional right” to firearms (Singh 2003: 367). It is notable that despite a consistent majority of Americans over the last half century favouring tighter gun control laws (ibid: 361-363; Spitzer 2004: 100) gun control advocates – whether they be Bill Clinton in the 1990s or Senator John McCain in his failed bid for the Republican presidential nomination in 2000 (Singh: 370) – still couch their argument in terms of the “responsible” or “rational” gun laws that will not amend the so-called core right to firearms ownership.
This “core right of ownership” is however, like much of the Bill of Rights, ambiguous and open to interpretation. Advocates of increased gun control point to the collective nature of the Second Amendment: specifically its talk of a “well regulated Militia”, implying there to be no barrier to government’s ability to legislate on gun issues. Opponents of gun control – specifically but not exclusively the National Rifle Association (NRA) – will emphasise the later part of the Second Amendment, specifically the comment: “the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed”. This forms what is known as the “individualist interpretation” of the Second Amendment; gun ownership under this interpretation is an inalienable right, regardless of talk of a regulated Militia (Spitzer: 37-40).
Such legal and grammatical wrangling are however almost entirely academic. These arguments are not important in allowing scholarly investigators to come up with a definitive answer to the Second Amendment riddle – there will almost certainly never be a consensus; as demonstrated by the ambiguity of the Supreme Court in their last Second Amendment case to date: United States v. Miller (1938) (Cottrol: 27-29). Rather, it demonstrates the continuing importance and relevance of the constitution to modern US politics. To protagonists on both sides of the dispute, 18th century words are of 21st century importance. It is notable that in perhaps no other democratic nation is the issue of gun ownership discussed in terms of “rights” (Wroe 2002: 97). In Britain and other countries, the absence of a Second Amendment guaranteeing any such “right” means the issue is discussed broadly on utilitarian grounds: if a majority of the population and politicians are in favour of a total ban on handguns, this can became law. In America, even if – inconceivably – a majority of the population were in favour of a total ban on handguns, it is equally inconceivable that such a law – barring an amendment – would be deemed constitutional. The paradox of American political life mentioned in the introduction: the abundance of democracy, coupled with real and practical limits on popular majority expression, brings to mind a quote from John Stuart Mill: “If all mankind minus one were of one opinion, and only one person were of the contrary opinion, mankind would be no more justified in silencing that one person, than he, if he had the power, would be justified in silencing mankind”.
If the realities of United States governance to a certain degree insulate opponents of gun control from popular pressure, it does nothing to abate the passion and vigour with which the issue is debated across the width and breadth of the nation. Like abortion and capital punishment, the issue of gun control revolves around more than just legal and political principles; in a very real sense it involves issues of life and death. With justification does Spitzer quote one NRA insider as likening the group to “a religion”; in the 1930s it was not uncommon for the NRA – then primarily an organisation of hunters and farmers – to work with gun control advocates on certain projects, notably in crafting gun regulations for Washington DC (Spitzer: 76; 109). Since then however, the group has become more fundamentalist: with the goal of opposing any regulation, major or minor (ibid: 82).
This fundamentalist streak is in part what explains the effectiveness of the NRA and lobby groups like it. The majority of the American public are in favour of increased gun control laws; but they are a passive majority. They are not interested enough to make gun control a key factor in deciding how they vote, in contrast to pro-gun activists who are an “active” minority; and as far as politicians are concerned, this arguably counts for more (Wroe 2002: 96). This “active minority” of gun lovers will vote on a “for-us-or-against-us” basis (Spitzer: 84), making them politically more important – despite their minority status. As McKeever notes of the American governmental system: “majority opinion is not channelled to have the greatest impact. Nor is it well funded or organised. It is simply politically ineffective” (McKeever 1999: 9).
The implications for US government and politics should be clear. It is tempting to dismiss the passion and vitriol with which the issue of gun control is debated as evidence of mere partisan frivolity – subordinate to the far more important task of lobbying and donating to political parties. But this is the NRA’s greatest strength. There may exist multifarious sources of income and potential donors to American politicians; but there are only a finite number of votes. Where a substantial – albeit minority – chunk of voters are prepared to put one issue above all else, politicians cannot afford to ignore their demands. In this respect partisanship has very real electoral consequences.
Opposing them proponents of gun control are no less ardent or determined in their position. In May of 2000, partly in response to the Columbine High School killings a year earlier in Littleton, Colorado, a group of approximately 200,000 mothers congregated in Washington DC for a “million mom march” – demanding tougher gun control measures (Singh: 370). With the two groups heated rhetoric – with NRA talk of “jack booted” fascist federal law enforcement agents and certain gun control advocates talk of “killing machines”, the window for debate as noted by Spitzer, is narrow (Spitzer, quoted in Singh 2003: 371). In often-literal terms do the opposing sides view each other as “enemies” (Spitzer: 74); and although with fewer overtly religious overtones as with the debate over abortion, the gun issue none the less captures the evangelical essence of American attitudes towards democracy and personal freedom.
A slightly less altruistic gene of the American political being displayed by the issue of gun control is businesses close role in pressure group politics and the business of lobbying politicians. A good example being the intimate relationship between the NRA and the firearms industry; both of who have a vested interest in promoting the aforementioned “individualistic” conception of the second amendment. Spitzer notes a “revolving door” operating between business and the NRA, with cooperation “in tandem to generate new kinds of target sports in order to draw in more people as gun users, and to create methods for new gun designs, as a way to prod what the gun industry considered sluggish sales in the 80s and 90s” (ibid: 79-80).
The nexus between the two is real and effective, as can be judged by the success the duo have had in getting Congress to restrict liability lawsuits against manufacturers of firearms (Barone & Cohen 2005: 18). For all involved – businessmen, congressmen, and NRA lobbyists – this victory was a demonstration of classic ‘iron triangle’ politics: the firearms industry was the obvious direct beneficiary; Republican congressmen who voted overwhelmingly for the bill could receive further donations from such groups and demonstrate their free market credentials to voters; and NRA lobbyists could market it as a victory for gun ownership in America and their business allies. Departing from the issue of gun control albeit briefly, it is notable that such an iron triangle in favour of lax gun lawyers and limited business liability pales into insignificance next to those revolving around farm subsidies and defence spending. With the later in particular, it is still obvious how prescient the remarks of Dwight Eisenhower were on the undue influence of the military industrial complex and all the iron triangles associated with it in his 1961 farewell to the nation (McKeever: 269).
Closely related is the issue of lobbying. Lobbying exists in all manner of democracies, but it is in America – with its multiple tiers of government; tradition of loose party loyalty; and the large sums needed for any aspiring politician at nearly all levels of government – that really feeds the lobbying profession. ‘The Institute for Legislative action’ is the official lobbying arm of the NRA. Created in 1975 it has in recent years been responsible for as much as 25% of the total NRA budget, this best illustrated by the figures for total ILA spending in 1988 of $20.2 million; by 1992 this figure had risen to $28.9 million (Spitzer: 81).
Political Action Committees or ‘PAC’s are the other side of the lobbying coin. These are a direct off shoot of the 1974 Federal Campaign Act, which put strict limits on individual and corporate contributions and thus forced individuals and groups to come up with new ways of financing campaigns. In particular, although there is a $5000 limit to any candidate’s primary campaign, and a further $5000 limit on the actual campaign, there is no limit to the amount of ‘soft money’ PAC’s have the ability to raise (McKay 2005: 270-271). This is money that does not go directly to a candidate or campaign; spent instead on such causes as the 2004 anti-John Kerry ‘Swift Boat Veterans For Truth’ advertisements (Barone & Cohen: 35); which remain within the letter of the law so long as they provide information about a candidate – and refrain from endorsing or advocating the defeat of a particular candidate (Nelson quoted in Singh 2004: 124).
With regards the NRA, their PAC – the ‘Political Victory Fund’ – was able to raise $20 million worth of funds for the 1999-2000-election cycle – money spent on state and federal elections (Spitzer: 82). Several points are made abundantly clear about US government and politics from the perspective of the role of interest groups. In a similar vain to the constitution, interest groups and PAC’s effectively endorse the status quo and stymie majority politics. So long as groups such as the ILA and the Political Victory Fund have the ability to withhold funds for campaigns, use negative advertising against pro-gun control candidates – and exploit the fact that they, unlike most United States politicians, have reach and influence over arguably all branches of government – state and federal – they remain a formidable weapon in the armoury of anti gun control forces.
Least anyone is under the illusion that the money in American politics resides solely with conservative agents such as Second Amendment individualists, it is instructive to look at the funds available to liberal – pretty much uniformly pro-gun control – political advocates. One of the most striking facts of the last presidential election in 2004 was that for all the talk of the Republicans as the party of big business and all the funds that go with that, it was the Democrats who actually raised the most money: the Kerry campaign, the Democratic National Committee, and anti-Bush PAC’s spent some $344 million on ads during the campaign; whilst the Bush campaign, the Republican National Committee and pro-Bush PAC’s spent some $289 million (Barone & Cohen: 28). As far as the pervasive influence of big money goes in US politics, it is an equal opportunities game; a necessary adjunct for effective campaigning even if – as the Kerry campaign showed – it is ultimately spent on a losing cause.
If proof were needed that the passage of gun control legislation through Congress is fraught with difficulty, then it is evident in the fate of two pieces of gun control legislation: the 1968 Gun Control Act; and the 1993 Brady Bill. The 1968 Gun Control Act was partly a response to the assassinations of John F. Kennedy, Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King; Lyndon Johnson calling on members of the Houses of Congress “in the name of sanity…in the name of safety and in the name of an aroused nation to give America the gun control law it needs” (Spitzer: 114). This did not however stop congressional amendments and spoiling tactics from anti-control legislators: conservative Republicans and southern Democrats. The ability to filibuster – as with Strom Thurmond’s 24 hour marathon filibuster of the 1960 Civil Rights Act – delay, obstinate, and block potential legislations passage out of the committee stages (just 10% of potential legislation makes it out of committees) is a running theme in Congress, and something inherent in the structure of the US legislature (McKay: 172-178). In the case of the 1968 Gun Control Act, 45 attempts were made to amend the legislation (18 accepted, 27 rejected, with wins and losses for both sides); meanwhile, in the Senate there were 17 formal amendment motions, of which 9 were accepted and 8 rejected (Spitzer: 114). The Bill did make it onto the statute books – but in an emasculated form. Although it banned among other things the interstate shipment of arms and ammunition to private individuals, the sale of guns to minors, drug addicts, felons, and mental incompetents – the core of Johnson’s original proposals: that there be blanket registration and licensing of all gun users – disappeared in the quicksand’s of Congressional bargaining (ibid: 115).
The Brady Bill’s fate was different – but similar in effect. Named after Ronald Reagan bodyguard James Brady, who was paralysed in the 1981 attempt on Reagan’s life, the core proposals of this Bill included a five-day waiting period (for states that did not already have one) in which background checks could be made on gun buyers (Singh: 362). Congress passed the act in 1993; but by 1997 sufficient resentment had accrued of the Bill’s compulsion for the administration of background checks for law enforcement agents from Arizona and Montana to launch a legal case against the Brady Bill as a violation of the federalist principle of the Tenth Amendment. In Printz v. United States (1997) by a 5-4 margin, the Supreme Court ruled with the plaintiffs – that the Brady Bill was a violation of states rights (McKeever: 95-96). It was thus void.
Both Bill’s demonstrate to varying degrees the difficulties faced by gun control advocates in advancing their agenda. The 1968 Act is indicative of the problems all creative legislature faces in Congress: that it runs against entrenched interests, beliefs, practices, and the structurally conservative bias of the Houses of Congress. The Brady Bill demonstrates the exact same principle – but on a national scale. In a nation designed both practically and philosophically around distrust of government power, particularly central government, such Bills run against not just the federalist laws of the land, but the ideological creed of the nation as well.
It is notable that of the recent gun related cases to come before the SCOTUS, it was the Tenth, not Second Amendment, used by the court to render federal legislation null. The Brady Bill was one, the other being the case of the Gun Free Schools Act of 1990, which made it a federal offence to carry a firearm within 1,000 feet of a school. The court also ruled this – like the Brady Bill – unconstitutional on Tenth Amendment grounds, in United States v. Lopez (1995) (Vile 1999: 173). Whereas the Second Amendment is in part ambiguous and vague, the Tenth leaves no one in much doubt as to the veracity and scope of federal power. This effectively acts as a barrier to any legislation – pro or anti gun – that does not respect both the Tenth Amendment and existing state laws. The plethora of gun laws at state and local level – 20,000 by some estimates (Singh: 359) – but the relative absence of them federally demonstrates this to be one issue, like so many in US politics, where the individual states still reign supreme.
Another significance of federalism as relevant to the issue of gun control is in its reflection of regional political differences, and the real divide between the politics of urban – generally liberal, Democratic – cities, and that of rural – predominantly conservative, Republican – areas. The regional trend is obvious: the more rural your constituency, the more likely you are to oppose gun control measures – the opposite being true for urban areas. Of the 52 votes in the senate in favour of extending the 1994 ban on assault weapons, just 12 of those senate votes came from states that voted for anti-gun control George W. Bush in 2004 (Barone & Cohen 2005). In terms of House votes, those in the 108th Congress who came from the most rural congressional districts voted uniformly to restrict gun liability damages – just as those from the smallest and most urban districts voted against (ibid). As one would expect from such a big, diverse nation, federalism reflects very real cultural and political differences.
What one can learn about American politics above all else with relation to the issue of gun control is the power of the constitution. The constitution is explicit on the role of federalism, and thus on the limits of the government in Washington DC to legislate nationally. This point is crucial for any understanding of the functioning of US politics: a “Eurocentric” view of politics tends towards viewing centralised political power as the most important and relevant on all issues of governance; an example being the aftermath of the Dunblane massacre in Scotland in 1996, when the British government took steps to ban possession of all handguns (Singh: 371). This is an archetypal example of the powers of a democratic unitary state, but totally irrelevant to American politics. The major players in Washington can only act with a limited mandate on gun control and many other issues; for the simple reason that they lack the authority to do any more.
The last, obvious, point in relation to this issue is the Second Amendment – and the debatable “right” to ownership that this entails. Simply put, where firearms ownership can be interpreted to any degree as a “right” – constitutional, and inert – it robs contemporary politicians of powers of alteration. The issue of gun control demonstrates above all else the conservative bias of constitutional government, the reverence for the Bill of Rights, and the extent to which politicians in the world’s foremost democracy are themselves curiously powerless.
Word Count: 3293
Bibliography
Michael Barone & Richard E. Cohen: ‘The Almanac Of American Politics 2006’; National Journal Group; Washington DC 2005
Robert J. Cottrol: ‘Gun Control And The Constitution: Sources and Explorations on the Second Amendment’; Garland Publishing, New York & London 1994
David McKay: ‘American Politics & Society’; 6th edition; Blackwell Publishing 2005
David McKay, David Houghton and Andrew Wroe: ‘Controversies In American Politics And Society’; Blackwell Publishers 2002
Robert McKeever, John Zvesper, Richard Maidment: ‘Politics USA’; Prentice Hall 1999
Robert Singh: ‘Governing America: The Politics of a Divided Democracy’; Oxford University Press 2003
Michael J. Spitzer: ‘The Politics of Gun Control’; 3rd edition CQ Press 2004
M.J.C. Vile: ‘Politics in the USA’; Routledge 1999
Joseph F. Zimmerman: ‘Contemporary American Federalism – The Growth Of National Power’; Praeger 1992
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