This lecture was first delivered at Hillsdale College in 2016. It is the first of a set of two lectures, the second being “American Foreign Policy Today.”

 

The word ‘policy’ comes from the same Greek root as ‘politics.’ Politics means the way in which a people rule and are ruled. The way we rule and are ruled depends upon the political regime under which we live. So for example, if we live under a tyranny we won’t be ‘doing’ much ruling, but we will have a lot of ruling being done to us.

Political regimes have four dimensions:

1. The persons who rule. One, few, or many? Good or bad? In the United States, “We the People” rule, albeit through our elected representatives. Thus we have a republic or representative government, but a democratic republic in the sense that almost all adult citizens can vote and hold office.

2. The institutions, structures, or forms by which the rulers rule. Separated and balanced powers, for example.

3. The way of life, the habits of mind and heart, of the people who rule and are ruled. In the Bible, God’s regime is His “way.” The American “way” includes freedom of worship and of speech, and freedom of commerce. American is a commercial republic.

4. The purpose or purposes of the political community. The purpose of the Iranian regime is to advance the practice of Shi’a Islam, with the intention of hastening the advent of the Hidden Imam. The purpose of the Soviet Union was to advance socialism, form the new ‘Soviet Man,’ and eventually establish worldwide communism. The purpose of the American regime, as stated in the Declaration of Independence, is to secure our natural rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

These four dimensions combine to shape a certain ethos or character in the citizens or subjects of the regime. Policy or the planned action of a political community does or should follow from the character of its regime. This goes for foreign policy as well as domestic policy. When a given policy—slavery, for example—contradicts the principles of our regime, debate will arise. If sufficiently serious, the dispute might even culminate in civil war, or, if a foreign policy, international war.

But when considering foreign policy, there are two more considerations to keep in mind. The phrase ‘foreign policy’ implies that there is ‘us’ and there is ‘them’—insiders and outsiders, citizens and non-citizens. This in turn implies that the world’s human population finds itself divided among discrete if sometimes related populations, each in some significant degree independent of the others—self-ruling or sovereign. To maintain their sovereignty, a people will need to achieve a certain size and also a certain degree of governmental centralization—enough in both instances to defend itself against the many ‘thems’  out there. So we need to classify political communities not only in terms of their regimes but in terms of size and centralization. I’ll call that category ‘the state.’ There are several kinds of ‘states’:

1. The ancient polis or city-state, a small and highly centralized self-governing community. In it, the regime can readily ‘reach into’ nearly every aspect of a family’s life; this makes the question of the character of the regime of a given polis highly ‘interesting’ to its citizens, and very often a matter of intense controversy among them.
2. The ancient empire, huge and decentralized. In it, the regime could not rule its sprawling domain so minutely as in a polis, instead contenting itself with exacting tribute from its possessions in the form of supplies, slaves, and soldiers. The political sociologist Michael Mann has compared the modern Austro-Hungarian Empire to a protection racket, which is exactly how the empires of antiquity ran their domains.
3. The feudal state, large and decentralized. It usually had a king or queen, but this person was only ‘first among equals.’ Other rulers included landed aristocrats, the Catholic Church, and the larger cities. Each of these rulers enjoyed their own sources of soldiers and revenues, independent of the others, including the monarch. If this were a liquid, chemists would call it a colloidal suspension; more-or-less self-ruling globules of power float in a changing but usually stable equilibrium.
4. The modern state, large and centralized. In it, no matter what its regime, we see a powerful capital city which extends its governing tentacles throughout the community to its borders. These ‘tentacles’ are the bureaucracies. Typically, the bureaucrats who staff these governing agencies are loyal not so much to the persons in charge of the regime but to their functions within the bureaucracies. In a modern state, a bureaucrat/administrator/civil servant rules impersonally, thinking of his or her functions as scientific/rationalist in character.

As things worked out, #4 defeated #3, more or less every time. The modern state raised revenues and organized military and police forces more effectively than feudal states did. Once the modern state was introduced, its rulers could dominate neighboring feudal states, forcing those rulers to institute their own centralized or ‘modern’ state apparatuses.

This raised a political problem for non-monarchic regimes and also for limited or ‘constitutional’ monarchies. How could they run states that were sufficiently centralized to stay independent without succumbing to over-centralization and its attendant oppressions? For the American Founders, the answer to this question led to a fifth kind of state: the federal state. Large and partly centralized (especially for foreign-policy purposes but also for commerce) and partly decentralized, leaving important powers in the hands of municipal, county, and state officials), the federal state retained a considerable degree of self-government, which comported well with the American regime of republicanism.

For the American Founders and for the generations that followed them, the questions that arose from federalism were: first, can such a state avoid or at least survive civil war? and second, can it conduct a successful foreign policy against rival states that will attempt to split it up?

The third and final source of foreign politics is what we’ve come to call ‘geopolitics.’ ‘Geo’ means ‘earth’—as in ‘geography.’ So geopolitics means the territory (topography, soils, water resources, and so on) as overlain by a given regime and state, in relation to all other such regimes and states with which it has relations. For much of human life, geopolitics has been regional. For centuries, American Indian nations and tribes had no idea that Europeans existed, and for a long time after they did know they had no idea how many Europeans there were. But today geopolitics is truly worldwide, even if—as President Vladimir Putin of Russia has reminded Ukraine and Georgia—one’s nearest neighbors often remain the most relevant ones.

Geopolitics concentrates our minds on a fact we sometimes forget in the age of the Internet, namely, the world is not flat. We do not really lie in cyberspace, although we sometimes feel as if we do. As I sit here, peacefully tapping away on a keyboard, I easily forget that I need a safe space in which to do so, complete with a network of satellites and electrified wires, along with the scientific, manufacturing, and commercial networks that have invented, marketed, and delivered the computer and its keyboard for me and to me in the first place. We still live in a world where all territories are not created equal. When it comes to controlling key resources and strategic lines of communication, including military transport, the Strait of Gibraltar and Hormuz, the Panama and Suez canals, are simply more important than, say Hillsdale County. Such geopolitical ‘choke points’ will always be fought over in a way that Hillsdale County will not be.

So, when we think about the foreign policy of the American Founders, we need to think about all of these sources of their policy. Let’s start with geography and look at the map. The United States that saw the inauguration of George  Washington as its first president consisted of thirteen states strung along the Atlantic coastline of the middle of the North American continent. It was bordered by regime enemies on all sides:

Amerindian nations and tribes: warrior-oligarchies, but not centralize states, some settled in one location (the ‘civilized’ tribes), some not (the ‘savage’ tribes).

The British Empire: Canada, the Caribbean, and perhaps above all ‘ruling the waves’ in the Atlantic Ocean and in much of the Caribbean. A mixed regime (consisting of a monarchy, an oligarchy [the House of Lords] and a much larger but still minority of the non-titled [the House of Commons]).

The Spanish Empire: Florida, most of the Caribbean, Mexico, and with claims along the Mississippi River. A monarchic regime and a semi-modern imperial state.

The French Empire: ‘Louisiana,’ with more power to rule it than Spain could muster. An unstable republic, then a military oligarchy, then a military despotism. Statist and imperial.

The Americans were also looking at key geopolitical points: their port; the Appalachian and Allegheny mountains, the Mississippi River flowing to New Orleans and into the Gulf of Mexico; the Hudson River, which gave British troops in Canada a straight shot to New York City and a chance to divide New England from the rest of the country.

Thus the geopolitical need of Americans was strategic depth. Americans wanted western lands not only as a place to settle their burgeoning population; they also wanted them in order to make America harder to overrun militarily.

Americans formulated several policies to satisfy this need: Indian removal and regime change; a standing army and navy to supplement local militias; commercial treaties with foreign countries. In other words, James Madison’s “extended republic,” described in the tenth Federalist, would continue to extend, at least to the lands surrounding the Mississippi River and New Orleans—a task completed with the Louisiana Purchase in 1803. Such an enlarged America would then prove difficult to conquer and desirable to trade with.

In  terms of the American federal state, the principal need was union. How far could the extended republic extend? Would it be a republican empire? How could it be kept together, so that North America would not become another Europe, or even what it was under the Indians—a cockpit of war, prey for European empires playing divide-and-rule with the assistance of their Amerindian allies, both eager to contain the ever-advancing Americans?

And in terms of the American regime of democratic, commercial republicanism aimed at securing our natural right, on this point the philosopher Montesquieu had made a crucial observation known to all of the Founders. Commercial republics, Montesquieu argued, don’t fight wars with one another. To this day, it is simply a fact that commercial republics—republics defined in the American sense of representative governments elected by a very large portion of the adult population—have not fought wars with one another, although of course they have fought many wars against regimes organized around opposing moral and political principles: kingships, tyrannies, oligarchies both military and religious. This means that Americans are likely to include regime change among their several instruments of foreign policy, on the grounds that the more commercial republics there are, the fewer enemies we will have and, consequently, the more peace and prosperity we will enjoy.

These aims of strategic depth, political union, and commercial republicanism can be seen in the two most important foreign-policy documents of the founding period: The Declaration of Independence and George Washington’s Farewell Address. Between these documents we see the United States Constitution, which sets down the ruling structures whereby our foreign policy shall be conducted.

I. The Declaration of Independence

The Declaration was the first act of a truly foreign policy by the United States. The previous Continental Congresses had been congresses of colonies under the British Empire. There had been declarations of Americans’ rights as British citizens within that empire. But the Declaration of Independence makes a different kind of argument.

No document before 1776, anywhere in the world, had been called a “declaration of independence.” Since then, there have been more than 100 such declarations, as new states have emerged from old empires. But few of these have invoked natural rights as the moral foundation or justification of independence. Most such declarations assert national rights.

The great English jurist William Blackstone defined ‘declaration’ as a legal complaint made by a plaintiff in court. In diplomacy, a declaration is a formal international announcement made by an official body. and delivered by an ambassador. Taken together, these two elements mean that the American Declaration is an appeal or complaint based on the law of nations, that body of international customs and treaties governing the conduct of states with one another and with foreign peoples. the most recent and authoritative treatise on the law of nations at the time of the founding was written by the Swiss jurist Emer de Vattel. Titled The Law of Nations, its subtitle was On the principles of the laws of nature, applied to the conduct of nations and sovereigns. That is, the law of nations as understood by Vattel and his students, including the American Founders, had an extralegal criterion, namely, the laws of nature and of nature’s God.

The United States Congress had already issued a declaration of war against the British Empire on July 6, 1775, “A Declaration Setting Forth the Causes and Necessity of Taking up Arms.” But this was a declaration of civil war—as it had to be, absent independence. The 1775 Declaration was distributed in London Canada, and Jamaica—that is, within the British Empire. Not so the 1776 Declaration, which was distributed in many foreign capitals.

This leads to the second unique feature o the 1776 Declaration. It isn’t merely a series of assertions or claims It is a logical syllogism. That is, it is an argument governed by the principle of non-contradiction.

Accordingly, the Declaration follows the formula of a syllogism, beginning with the major premises of the argument (all men are created equal, endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, etc.), going on to the minor premises of the syllogism (the charges against king and parliament, stating actions in contradiction to the major premises, that is, violations of the laws of nature and of nature’s God), and then reaching a conclusion: that these states are, and of right ought to be, free and independent states.

The principle of non-contradiction is the principle of human reason. Human reason or the ability to think logically is the distinctive characteristic of human nature as such. Not only do we need the capacity to reason in order to perceive and understand the laws of nature and of nature’s God, we need it to state our case to other human beings insofar as they are human—that is, insofar as they, too, reason and have the capacity to recognize those natural laws. The regime founded upon the rights of human beings as such will justify its independence by a declaration to its fellow human beings as such.

The Founders were not so naïve as to suppose that all human beings will recognize their claim. That’s why they say, “We hold these truths to be self-evident.” They don’t expect King George III to hold them self-evident, and he didn’t. They submit their logical proof to “a candid world”—meaning, the world insofar as it’s free from prejudice, from passion, ready to deliberate and to consider claims based on right, ready to follow a logical syllogism and to concur with it. This is why the  Declaration can say that Americans hold all nations “Enemies in war, in Peace friends.” To make war on this regime is to make war against a regime that aims at securing the natural rights of all human beings within its jurisdiction. To maintain peace with this regime is to recognize those rights and to endorse those rights—rights which, when secured, establish in practice friendship among all human beings, the species by nature capable of reason and civility. Crucially, the Americans do not say, ‘Those who violate our natural rights are subhuman.’ They say, ‘Those who violate our rights are treating us as subhuman, and we will defend ourselves until they stop doing that.’ Our enemies may act as if they are beasts, but they are not beasts, and with the restoration of peace friendship may be restored with them.

Once the British Empire recognized American independence in 1783, European authorities on public law incorporated the Declaration into the law of nations Previous discussions of international ‘recognition’ of states had concerned individual rulers’ rights of dynastic succession. For example, Henri III of France had been assassinated in 1589; the last of the Valois line, he was replaced by Henri IV, the first king of the Bourbon line. Henri IV was duly recognized as the sovereign of France by the other European states, themselves monarchies. Now, in 1783, the law of nations also needed to include recognition of a sovereign people.

A second consequence of American independence was the promotion of similar regimes of popular sovereignty in the Americas and in changing the way of life of some of the Indian nations. In 1786, the Articles of Confederation Congress signed a treaty with the Chickasaws in upstate New York, making them a protectorate of the United States. The Chickasaws also agreed to certain legal reforms, such as foregoing the practice of “punishing the innocent under the idea of retaliation” and accepting the regulation of their trade by the United States. Several years later, George Washington’s Secretary of State, Thomas Jefferson, began working for the breakup of the Spanish and Portuguese empires in the New World. He met secretly with a Brazilian medical student named José Maio e Barballi, who carried a copy the Declaration of Independence to Brazil.

More importantly, Washington and his Secretary of War Henry Knox determined that “a system of coercion and oppression” imposed on the Indians would “stain the character of the nation” and also be far too expensive of blood and treasure. Washington wanted Army veterans to be granted some of the unsettled lands in the west, partly as payment to them for their services during the war and also, as Washington said, to have a population there “always ready and willing (in cases of hostility) to combat the Savages, and to check their incursions.” The Indians, he said, should be given a fair price for the land “to induce them to relinquish our Territories, and to remove into the illimitable regions of the West.”

Meanwhile, the Brits took their time in turning over western lands to the U. S. and in evacuating their numerous forts. They also encouraged the Indians to harass American settlers; that is, they practiced a ‘containment’ strategy in North America after the war was over.

Washington and Knox formulated a policy of regime change regarding those Indian tribes which did not choose to move out. Knox wrote, “How different would be the sensation of a philosophic mind to reflect that instead of exterminating a part of the human race by our modes of population that we had persevered through all difficulties and at last imparted our knowledge of cultivating and the arts, to the Aboriginals of the country by which the source of future life and happiness had been preserved and extended. But it has been conceived to be impracticable to civilize the Indians of North America. This opinion is probably more convenient than just.”

In his third annual message to Congress, Washington said, “Commerce with them should be promoted under regulations tending to secure an equitable deportment towards them, and such rational experiments should be made, for imparting to them the blessings of civilization as may, from time to time, suit their condition.”

For this reason, Article XIV of the 1791 Treaty with the Cherokee said: “That the Cherokee nation may be led to a greater degree of civilization and to become herdsmen and cultivators, instead of remaining in the state of hunters, the United States will from time to time furnish gratuitously the said nation with useful implements of husbandry, and further to assist the said nation in so desirable a pursuit, and at the same time to establish a certain mode of communication, the United States will send such, and so many persons to reside in said nation as they may judge proper, not exceeding four in number, who shall qualify themselves to act as interpreters.”

This policy aimed at altering the Chickasaw and Cherokee regimes insignificant ways but only so far as the current condition of those nations would make feasible. Policy as distinguished from principle is contingent, a matter of prudential reasoning and not of theoretical reasoning, which is the kind of reasoning that (for example) discovers natural right. Regime change has remained one important instrument of U. S. foreign policy since independence, but, as with all such instruments, its application must be governed by both natural right and by prudence.

II. The United States Constitution

With independence, American sovereignty—including the power to provide for the common defense and all other foreign-policy powers—went ‘from’ the King of England—the ‘defender of the realm’—to the American people But how would the American people allocate those powers in order to exercise their natural right to self-government, including self-defense, under the laws of nature and of nature’s God? Our first constitution, the Articles of Confederation, proved inadequate to the task. Under it, all national powers—legislative, executive, and judicial—were lodged in one branch of government, the Congress. Most of the legislative powers actually remained in the states. One or more of the states might embroil the others in a war without their consent. Congress was charged with foreign-policy decision making but lacked the legislative power to make the United States sufficiently united, and therefore credible, in international politics—giving it no power to regulate or tax foreign commerce. Further, Congress had no power to protect U. S. rights under the law of nations; Congress could only recommend that the states pass laws to do so. There was no way to frame and implement a coherent foreign policy. Hence the need for what the Preamble to the 1787 Constitution calls “a more perfection Union” to (among other things) “provide for the common defense.”

Under the new Constitution, Congress received the powers to legislate regarding foreign policy: to collect duties and imposts; provide for the common defense; regulate commerce with foreign nations and the “Indian tribes;” and to “define and punish piracies committed on the high seas, and offenses against the laws of nations.” Also among the legislative powers were the power to declare war, grant letters of marque and reprisal—that is, to authorize the use of privateers—and of course to raise and support armies and a navy and to regulate those services. States were not allowed to do most of those things, although they retained the right to raise militias.

The executive branch received the power to command the army, the navy, and the militia of the United States; the president also has the power to negotiate treaties with the advice and consent of the Senate and to appoint ambassadors under those same constraints. The treaty power had been enunciated by John Locke; it is what he calls the “foederative” power; foedus in Latin means “treaty.”

For its part, the Supreme Court has original jurisdiction in all cases concerning ambassadors and consuls.  Cases involving treaties, maritime disputes, cases involving alleged treason, and the like go to the federal judiciary, with the Supreme Court receiving appellate jurisdiction. Treason itself is defined narrowly: levying war against the United States, or adhering to our enemies, “giving them aid and comfort”—serving as a guide to an invading force, for example.

One of the most important features of the new Constitution—overlooked by many commentators, but indispensable to understanding American foreign policies as they intersect with the American regime—may be seen in Article IV, sections 3 and 4, which govern the admission of new states into the Union. “New states may be admitted into this Union,” but only if they have “a Republican form of Government.” We admit them as equals—two senators, and representatives apportion according to the population—but only as equal republics. James Madison and Gouverneur Morris both observed that insofar as a state was controlled by slave-owners it was an aristocracy, not a republic—a point that would turn out to make a difference that eventuated in civil war. But this also had implications for America as an empire. Jefferson called American an empire, but “an empire of liberty.” Previous empires had founded colonies, such as the British colonies in North America, which were subordinate to the central imperial power. But American territories were from the beginning acquired in order to be made into equal states—as befits a regime and an empire founded upon the principle, “All men are created equal.” In addition, the Northwest Ordinance, passed by Congress in the same year the Constitution was framed, stipulated that American citizens in the territory were to be educated in public schools, readied for participation in American civic life at such time as the several parts of the Northwest Territory were sufficiently populous to warrant accession to statehood.

John Locke had justified imperialism under certain conditions. Locke argued that God gave the world to men in common not only for self-preservation but for “the Support and Comfort of their Being.” The right to property derives from this common gift. To survive in nature, each person takes what he needs; this act of taking, this labor, makes what we take our property. No one needs the consent of another to appropriate natural objects needed for survival, for the sustenance of the life to which we have a right. Having “mixed his labor” with nature, man adds to nature; the common possession of nature is of no use to real human beings if they as individuals do not undertake this appropriation. You can eat my lunch, but not on my behalf. Thus the Indian who kills a deer owns that deer. By nature, such appropriation is limited to one’s own use; no waste or destruction can be rightful.

This goes for the appropriation of land, as well. You own it if you mix your labor with it, thereby “inclos[ing] it from the Common.” No one else has just title to that land. Civilization occurs because the natural plenty that supported such free acquisition prevailed in “the first Ages of the World,” but subsequent population increase required civil laws governing and protecting the property so acquired. Such laws allow the increase of the value of the property. Man as such is “the great foundation of property”; it  is better to have a large population than a large territory because human labor is more valuable than the land it works; “of the products of the Earth useful to the Life of man 9/10 are the effects of Labor.” He that “incloses Land” has “a greater plenty from the conveniences of life from ten acres, than he could have from an hundred left to Nature, [and] may truly be said, to give ninety acres to Mankind.”

This is why “the great art of government” is to employ “established laws of liberty to secure protection and encouragement to the honest industry of mankind.” That is, natural right can be secured and enhanced by conventional or positive right. What is more, thanks to the invention of money—a thing that exists by civilizing convention or human law, not nature—human beings can engage in extensive commerce without the risk of spoilage, inasmuch as money, for which perishable goods can be exchanged, doesn’t spoil and isn’t hard to carry. In Locke’s estimation, by establishing civil property rights for English settlers and guarding them by absolute monarchic rule over the Indian tribes and nations (which had a sense of territory but not of property), the British Empire advanced human prosperity and liberty. The settlers objected when the king started to treat them like Indians.

Locke concludes that land rightly belongs to the industrious and rational, not the idle. This is the basis of the right to conquer nomadic and hunting peoples. American Indians, he writes, “are rich in Land, and poor in all the Comforts of Life” because they unknowingly leave vast tracts of land in a condition of relative waste, thus depriving mankind of the best use of that land. They are rather like the aristocratic idlers of Europe—a point Tocqueville would not, more than a century later.

Thus the American “empire of liberty” had two foundations: one was the political and Constitutional/legal foundation of conquering territories in order to elevate them to equal status as states of the Union; the other was the civilizational/economic foundation of the cultivation of land for the use of settled families. Both of these foundations had a moral foundation, namely, securing natural rights.

From this we see that American foreign policy from 1776 to today has been anti-imperialist in the sense that it denies the right of any person or people to subordinate another people perpetually. This doesn’t preclude conquest, if such conquest occurs as the result of a just war and aims at either incorporating the conquered territory into the United States as a state or raising it to the status of an independent but friendly state. A friendly state is likely to be a fellow commercial republic although not necessarily; this depends upon the condition of the people conquered and the disposition of the regime in place toward the United State. The exact territorial limit of the American empire would prove controversial, as would the policy of regime change as the result of victory in war. But if the Founders’ way of understanding moral and political life is correct, these become matters of prudence, not principle.

In the next lecture I will turn to the closest thing to a comprehensive statement of the foreign policy of the American Founders: George Washington’s Farewell Address. I will then conclude with remarks on the continuities and changes we have seen in our foreign policy, especially since our imperial project essentially ended in 1890.

This lecture was first delivered at Hillsdale College in Spring 2016.

 

For a generation now, Americans have confronted terrorists acting in the name of Islam. Self-described Muslim organizations using terrorism as a tactic are rare in American experience, but neither terrorism nor Muslims were unknown to the generation that founded the American regime. They fought a war with the Muslim states of Algiers, Morocco, and Tripoli in the first decade of the nineteenth century. These states sponsored not terrorism but piracy against our shipping. No isolationist when it came to the defense of American commerce on what he called “the great highway of the nations”—the open sea—President Jefferson sent the Navy to the Mediterranean.

As for terrorism, our first act of foreign policy—the Declaration of Independence—describes the depredations of what it calls “the merciless Indian Savages, whose known rule of warfare is an undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes, and conditions.” That is as good a definition of what we now call terrorism as we’re likely to see, and we’ve had it since 1776. Terrorism is savagery deployed as a technique of domination by rulers or would-be rulers.

When thinking of this new (to us) conjunction of terrorism and what the terrorists call Islam, we need to recognize the distinctions the Founders made in both of these conflicts. In the Barbary Wars, Jefferson didn’t fight against all Muslims; America fought only against those who had attacked our shipping. When fighting the American Indian nations during and after the Revolutionary War, George Washington and the other Founders distinguished between what they understood as the “savage” nations and the “civilized” ones. For example, they referred to the Cherokee, Chickasaw, Choctaw, Creek, and Seminole nations as the “Five Civilized Tribes.” Civilized Indian nations that were not allied with the British Empire against us were not the enemy; some of them even fought on our side.

To understand the moral foundation of these policy distinctions, we look to the Declaration, which lays out the fundamental principles of American self-government and therefore of any American policy, foreign or domestic. As we know, the Declaration of Independence isn’t just a list of assertions and complaints. It is a logical syllogism leading to a reasonable conclusion: that these States are and ought to be free and independent. The first premise of that syllogism is that all men are created equal in the sense that their Creator has endowed them with unalienable rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Governments aim at securing those right. In framing any policy, American citizens will seek practical means of securing those rights we share, first as human beings simply, and second as citizens, as Americans. Our government is to secure those rights first and foremost for those it governs, although the rights themselves are shared by all human beings, including our enemies. We respect those rights in foreigners while securing them for ourselves.

As political creatures—as members of this community and no other—Americans have gathered in a network of communities extending from towns to counties to states to the national government. We have constituted a—an orderly governing structure—for this network. What is a ‘regime’?

A regime is the most authoritative form of ruling in a political community. The form of our government, the structure of our ruling institutions, is best called a democratic republic: democratic in the sense that no monarchic dynasty or aristocratic ruling class has title to rule over the rest of us; republican in the sense that on most levels of government “We the People” don’t rule directly but instead frame and execute our laws through representatives we elect for that purpose.

The supreme law of this land, this American political community, is of course the Constitution of the United States. The Constitution doesn’t constitute us as a people—the American people already existed before it was framed. The Constitution constitutes the uppermost of our ruling institutions, the institutions that govern the union of our people and their more local political communities. As the Founders understood, the Constitution also influences the character of the American people by providing us with certain pathways of conduct as we go about our business of governing ourselves. for example, the Constitution sets down certain ways in which ambitious citizens may rise to positions of prominence and authority while closing down other ways.

So we can say that although our Constitution doesn’t constitute us as a people, it helps to define us as a people by reinforcing in us certain habits of conduct—ways of thinking and acting—that conduce to the securing of natural rights for American citizens—what the Declaration identifies as the purpose of government. The Constitution does this in part by expressing our natural rights in terms of civil or legal rights, as seen in the Bill of Rights. Freedom of speech, freedom of religion, and the right to bear arms are all legal guarantees of what we already have ‘in principle’ by the Laws of Nature and of Nature’s God.

More subtly, but also more powerfully, the Constitution secures our natural rights by getting us to rule ourselves along the pathways of self-government just mentioned. Such legal practices as elections to governing offices by means of voting and trials of accused criminals by jury get us into the habit of ruling ourselves by speech, reason, and ballots, rather than by command, demagoguery, and bullets. Those habits are the habits of mind and heart suitable to a self-governing people, a people that rules itself with respect to its members’ own natural rights and those of others—the habits of a democratic republic that nonetheless avoids the passionate misrule, the majority tyranny, of the direct democracies seen in ancient Greece.

In addition to being a democratic republic we are also a commercial republic, and on the same natural-rights foundation. Commerce or trade is the practice of self-government in the realm of economic life. Commerce and trade operate by persuasion not command and coercion. In both our political life and our political economy, Americans rule themselves by consent. Consent isn’t mere assent or acquiescence. Consent means reasoned assent, whether it comes to selecting a Congressman or buying a house. Consent can never mean acquiescence to sheer coercion (necessary though that might sometimes be) if that coercion violated our innocent enjoyment of our rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness because that would contradict, logically violate, the purpose of government itself.

A regime consisting of a tyrant or an oligarchy commanding a military and a secret police enforcing edicts respecting what we buy and sell—with most of the profits going to the tyrant or the oligarchy—would leave a people with very different habits of mind and heart than a people that has established a democratic and commercial republic. To live in a tyranny or an oligarchy is to experience a different mental and moral environment, and the founders of such regimes know that.

What do these remarks on American civics have to do with terrorist organizations fighting under the banner of Islam? Pretty much everything.

As a form of warfare and of ruling that refuses to distinguish ages, sexes, and conditions, terrorism aims at ruling not by reason but by fear. Terrorists attack civilians. This is true of terrorist organizations that do not control territory—the old Irish Republican Army, for example—and those that do, and indeed control sovereign states—the Nazis in Germany, the Bolshevik Party in the Soviet Union, and the Maoists in China. More than that, terrorism is anti-civilian in a much deeper sense. Terrorism attacks civility itself, the habits of self-government by reasoned persuasion. It seeks command with no ‘back-talk.’ And it does so because whether it’s deployed against civilians and civility by the Nazis and Communists of yesterday or the jihadis of today it denies the principle of the American founding—that all men are created equal. Alternatively, it may deny that all those we call men are really men, really human at all.

Around the time of the 9/11 attacks, an Arab television station aired a film in which a three-year-old girl was asked, “What are the Jews?” “The Jews,” she answered dutifully, “are apes and pigs.” Such a catechism of contempt flows from the rejection of natural right; it forms habit of mind and heart consistent with a regime of tyranny. Tyranny enshrines not the natural right to life but the right to kill. Sure enough, in places where the rejection of equal natural rights prevails—specifically, in those countries where Islam is understood to subordinate non-Muslims—the legal code enforces the status of dhimmitude upon non-Muslims, who are entitled to live only on condition of strict subordination, enforceable by penalty of death. Exclusion from citizenship is the price of survival. Your life depends upon giving up the means of defending your life. a full civic life may be lived only if you believe rightly—’rightly,’ that is, according to the one or the few who rule you. To be religiously incorrect is to be politically incorrect, and to be politically incorrect is to be treated as less than fully human.

The Declaration of Independence concludes with the foundational principle of American foreign policy. Americans regard other countries to be “Enemies in War, in Peace Friends.” Those who make war against the United States have invariably been those who deny that all men are created equal and reject the regime animated by that ‘equality principle,’ the regime of democratic and commercial republicanism. The United States has fought more than 200 wars in the 240 years since independence, since it first needed a foreign policy. It has never fought a war against any democratic and commercial republic. Today, the main geopolitical rivals of the United States—China, Russia, Iran, and the several jihadi-terrorist organizations—all reject the founding principle of the American regime, reject the regime itself, and adhere instead to some principle that denies natural rights, whether on the basis of Marxism, nationalism, or Islamism.

During his presidency, George Washington—hailed as ‘first in war and first in peace,’ first in dealing with both enemies and friends of the regime founded upon natural right—enunciated the basic terms of American policy, foreign and domestic. Like all policies, they were intended to fit the circumstances of the time and place in which they were advanced, but their guiding principles are as permanent as human nature. The principles underlying his domestic and foreign policies were the same.

How, then, would Washington think about Islam? There were few if any Muslims in the United States in the 1790s, but we do know what Washington thought about religious congregants generally. Among his first acts as president were his letters to the major American religious congregations—his own Episcopalians, but also Presbyterians, Methodists, Catholics, Quakers, and, perhaps most importantly, Jewish congregants in Newport, Rhode Island. Although European regimes had established one or several types of Christianity as politically privileged, Washington’s America was having none of that. The government o the United States, he told all of them, welcomes members of any religious confession insofar as they conduct themselves as good citizens of the United States. Although many American Protestants had looked with asperity at Catholics, and peoples around the world had persecuted Jews, Washington and the other founders cared only that citizens act like citizens—obeying the laws enacted by their legislatures, respecting the civil and natural rights of their fellow-citizens. No set of religious practices consistent with American constitutional law will be grounds for denial of civil rights by the American federal government.

Notice the great advantage to thinking and arguing this way. Washington and his fellow Americans didn’t need to decide who is a real Christian, a real Jew, or a real Muslim. Europeans needed to do that because once they had established a particular church or religious confession as politically relevant to the question of who gets to rule and who must obey they needed some way of separating the sheep from the goats. Americans need look only at conduct.

This means that Muslims who are citizens in American today must never be denied their civil rights—deprived of life and liberty, including the civil liberties of voting, serving on juries, and holding property—so long as they abide by American law. Conversely, any attempt to substitute laws that contradict American law without the consent, the reasoned assent, of their fellow non-Muslim citizens must not be permitted. Europe has attempted to live a civic life that allows enclaves of Muslims to frame their own laws, some of which contradict the laws of France, Germany, and the other countries where they live. That’s not for America, where all men are recognized as having been treated equal, entitled to equal protection under the laws.

So, that is how Washington and the Founders would understand Islam and anyone who describes himself as a Muslim. A person who sincerely regards himself or herself as a faithful Muslim will have nothing to fear from the regime of the United States insofar as he or she refrains from attacking American citizens or otherwise undermining their natural and civil rights. This principle holds in policy foreign or domestic, and it holds in regard to any system of religious or political beliefs. If you disagree with American principles, you are free to do so peacefully—that is, in speech—although of course this will alert American citizens to your opposition to their principles, just as it would if you were espousing monarchism, fascist or communist tyranny, or any other regime hostile in principle to our regime.

What about the ‘terrorist’ end of the equation? There is a moral question here as well as a political and military dimension.

In terms of morality, it’s sometimes said that one man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom-fighter. It’s usually Americans who say that, not our enemies, who aren’t stupid enough to leave themselves morally indecisive when targeting us. Empirically speaking, it’s true enough to say that the people we call terrorists often call themselves freedom-fighters, or soldiers of God, or some such thing. But let’s follow that thought to the end. It’s equally true, empirically, that one man’s freedom is another man’s slavery. What the late Osama bin Laden called freedom was tyranny to the late Dr. Albert Einstein, and vice-versa. By the same token, we’ve seen that one man’s man is another man’s ape or pig. While Dr. Einstein may have been a man to us, to that Muslim three-year-old and her educators he was an unclean animal, and deserved to be treated as an unclean animal.

So the real question is, which are we? Will we acquiesce in being classified as apes or pigs? Will we acquiesce if others are? Will we accept the consequences of such classification, consequences we all see very plainly?

The Founders refused classification as mere subjects of the British king and his empire. He and it acted tyrannically, in their judgment, and their foreign policy toward him and it was to deny that classification and to fight that rule. Insofar as the British, the Spanish, the Germans, the Russians—all ruled by regimes opposed to the democratic and commercial republican regime of the United States, regimes denying the existence of natural rights for human beings as such—insofar as those nations made war against us, we treated them as enemies. The same goes for regimes claiming to be Muslim, whether or not those regimes have organized themselves into sovereign states or networks of ‘non-state actors.’

With regard to terrorism, seen by the Founders in the actions of those Indian nations who violated the natural-rights standards of just war by deliberately killing the innocent, the American policy that defeated it was imperial rule or removal of the uncivilized nations or tribes and regime change for the civilized tribes and nations. Washington developed his policy toward the civilized tribes with the help of his Secretary of War, Henry Knox. The administration provided them with tools of agriculture in order to settle them on the land so that they no longer needed to range widely over poorly defined territories to hunt and to gather. With such settlement, within well-defined borders, Amerindians could in principle live in peace with the United States as sovereign nations on the North American continent. This is the origin of the foreign policy we now call ‘regime change.’ Then as now, sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t.

With the inveterately savage tribes, however, war and conquest, followed by American territorial expansion into the conquered lands, was the Administration’s policy, and remained America’s policy from then on. And rightly so: empire means rule, and if an enemy intends either to rule or to ruin you, you had better defeat him and rule him or ruin him, until he changes his ways. Territorial seizure has always been recognized by the law of nations—itself derived from the law of nature—as a legitimate punishment for those who fight unjust wars. The great period of American imperialism did not begin with the Spanish-American War in the 1890s, as so many textbooks foolishly say. American imperialism flourished between 1790 and 1890; it went from sea to shining sea, as the song goes. The difference between it and the British and other European empires Americans abhorred was that it was, as Secretary of State and then President Thomas Jefferson called it, an empire of liberty—meaning, the new territories incorporated into the American Union as states enjoyed equal status under the Constitution with the original thirteen states. In the United States, there was no distinction between an imperial center or ‘metropole’—say, England—and its colonies—America or India.

It is important to acknowledge that Americans sometimes violated their own imperial principles. The Creek and Cherokee nations, civilized nations which had agreed to settle within recognized territorial boundaries, were driven from their rightful lands along the infamous “Trail of Tears.” Then and on other occasions, it was the Americans who acted as savages. Tyranny and savagery have no racial or religious boundaries, any more than liberty and civility do.

American foreign policy—imperialist and often but not always justifiably so, on this continent, politically isolationist but commercially and sometime militarily wide-ranging elsewhere around the world—changed as our circumstances changed, as any policy must. By 1900, modern technology—telegraphs, steam-powered warships, and soon the first weapon of mass destruction, poison gas—forced Americans to reconsider their preference for military non-involvement in overseas conflicts. Our foreign policy regarding political and military alliances could no longer follow a fixed rule but rather became more than ever a matter of prudential reasoning: Is it wise to enter the Great War because Imperial Germany is sinking our merchant ships? (It was, Jefferson thought, in the Mediterranean when the Barbary States were plundering them). Is it wise to re-arm as fascists rampage through Europe and militarists in Japan set out to conquer East Asia? What about Soviet-backed Communist revolutionaries in Greece and Turkey, Korea and Vietnam? And today, we look for a policy against Muslim terrorists.

This policy won’t be an imperial project, as we have no interest and little capacity from which the terrorists seek to strike at us. The regime-change strategy pursued by the Bush Administration was animated by the right principle, but in practice it failed—perhaps because Americans had forgotten exactly what a regime is, and how hard it is to change one. That strategy worked in the aftermath of the Second World War, but those circumstances differed from the ones that prevailed in Afghanistan and Iraq sixty years later, and it may also be that the Americans of ‘the greatest generation’ had a clearer sense of what they were about.

Any American foreign policy must first understand what America is, what we stand for. Confusion on that basic point can only yield confused policy. After clarifying who we are, the next priority for American citizens who think about our foreign policy must be to identify the primary enemies of our regime and rank them in order of danger. Clearly, China is the most powerful of these potential threats; Russia ranks second; Iran and the terrorists it sponsors (as well as those it doesn’t sponsor) come in third. In dealing with the terrorists we must take care not to exhaust ourselves, leaving our country vulnerable to more formidable powers. The last priority is the strategic one: choosing allies, calibrating diplomatic, economic, and military actions to weaken and eventually defeat the terrorists. No simple rule can guide us in that strategy because it’s a matter of practical judgment under circumstances that change. In such judgments we should take care to guard our sovereignty, our self-government, by recurring to the principles of the Declaration of Independence, which can and should both animate our actions and restrain them.

This lecture has been delivered at Hillsdale College Summer Hostel programs. It is the first of two lectures on American education; the second is on the educational ideas of the Progressive movement.

 

In order to conduct politics according to a written constitution, it is helpful to have a citizenry that can read. And if they can read a logical syllogism like the Declaration of Independence with understanding, so much the better.

American citizens of the founding generation found themselves in the midst of the Second Great Awakening, the movement that gave us, among other things, the institution of the Sunday school. Many Americans of that generation learned to read in Sunday school. By 1790, almost every male American citizen in New England could read and write, and the vast majority of women could, as well. New Englanders were the most literate population in the world at that time. The literacy rates declines as one headed further south, but estimates are that even in the states with the lowest literacy rates, seventy to seventy-five percent of male citizens could read and write.

This doesn’t mean that the American Founders were satisfied with our schools. The great political revolution or regime which they had undertaken required a new kind of education. One of the most famous founding-generation Americans, Noah Webster—of dictionary fame—complained that American schools lacked what he called “proper books.” There was no shortage of books as such. In fact, schoolboys memorized Demosthenes and Cicero and even debates in the British Parliament, which Webster judged to be “excellent specimens of good sense, polished style and perfect oratory.” But there were two problems: products of “foreign and ancient nations,” these speeches were “not very interesting to children.” What is more, “they cannot be very useful” to American children, who are not Brits, anymore. “Every child in America should be acquainted with his own country;” “know “the history of his own country”; “lisp the praise of liberty”; and learn about “those illustrious heroes and statesmen, who have wrought a revolution in her favor.” The “principal” American textbook, then, should consist of a essays “respecting the settlement and geography of America; the history of the late revolution [Webster was writing in 1788], and of the most remarkable characters and events that distinguished it, and a compendium of the principles of the federal and provincial governments.” “These are interesting objects to every man; they call home the minds of youth and fix them upon the interests of their own country, and they assist in forming attachments to it, as well as in enlarging the understanding.” Webster saw that a child can learn to read by reading about American things; that by calling the children’s minds home to their own town, state, and country citizens will result, men and women ready to think and speak together about governing themselves.

Far from rejecting the wisdom of foreigners—wisdom, after all, is wisdom wherever it comes from—Webster cites “the great Montesquieu,” who teaches “that the laws of education ought to be relative to the principles of the government. In despotic governments, the people should have little or no education, except what tends to inspire them with a servile fear,” because “information is fatal to despotism.” In monarchies—what we would call constitutional or limited monarchies—education should differ depending on which class of citizen the student comes from. In such political communities, each citizen should not only ‘know his place’ but know the things appropriate to that place. There is no point in teaching rhetoric to a shoemaker if the shoemaker lives in a monarchic regime, and so will have no place to exercise his oratorical skills beyond the local tavern. Which could only lead to trouble.

But, Webster continues, now quoting Montesquieu directly, “in a republican government the whole power of education is required.” “Here,” Webster observes, “every class of people should know and love the laws. This knowledge should be diffused by means of schools and newspapers; and an attachment to the laws may be formed by early impressions upon the mind.” Some fifty years later, a young Illinois lawyer named Abraham Lincoln would say almost exactly the same thing in his now-famous Address to the Young Men’s Lyceum in Springfield, Illinois.

Webster even insists that “a system of education as gives every citizens an opportunity of acquiring knowledge and fitting himself for places of trust” is one of the two “fundamental articles” of republican regimes; the other is equal opportunity to “acquir[e] what his industry merits”—an opportunity granted when the aristocratic systems of primogeniture and land monopoly are abolished, as indeed they are in the Constitution and the Northwest Ordinance. Education and economic liberty together “are the fundamental articles; the sine qua non of the existence of the American republics.” It would be, he writes, an act of “absurdity” for Americans to copy “the manners and adopt the institutions of Monarchies.”

Although several states, including Thomas Jefferson’s Virginia, have provided for colleges and academies “where people of property may educate their sons,” they have made “no provision… for instructing the poorer rank of people, even in reading and writing.” Thus, while their “constitutions are republican,” their “laws of education are monarchical.” Webster therefore advocates the establishment of public schools.

What is more, “When I speak of a diffusion of Knowledge, I do not mean merely a knowledge of spelling books, and the New Testament. An acquaintance with ethics, and with general principles of law, commerce, money and government, is necessary for the yeomanry of a republican state.” Indeed, “the more generally knowledge is diffused among the substantial yeomanry, the more perfect will be the laws of a republican state” because the citizens will be able to choose good representatives an also take on governing responsibilities themselves, in turn.

With respect to ethics, “The virtues of men are of more consequence to society than their abilities; and for this reason, the heart should be cultivated with more assiduity than the head.” He concludes:

Until such a system shall be adopted and pursued, until the Statesman and Divine shall unite their efforts in forming the human mind, rather than lopping [off] its excrescences, after it has been neglected; until Legislators discover that the only way to make good citizens and subjects, is to nourish them from infancy; and until parents shall be convinced that the worst of men are not the proper teachers to make the best; mankind cannot know to what a degree of perfection society and government may be carried. American affords the fairest opportunities for making the experiment, and opens the most encouraging prospect of success.

Along with the other prominent members of the founding generation who wrote on education, Webster saw a firm connection between political self-government, republicanism, and the need for moral self-government and certain kinds of learning. These included the intellectual fundamentals, of course, along with the moral fundamentals seen in the New Testament. But they also included the economic and political fundamentals, “the general principles of law, commerce, money, and government.” Glancing at Americans right now, one may be pardoned for thinking that we would be better off if every public school student learned such “general principles” of self-government.

More politically prominent Americans than Webster wrote extensively about education in America. I will discuss three of them: Benjamin Franklin, John Adams, and Thomas Jefferson. But behind them all we see the educational advice of the English philosopher, John Locke, who of course had such a decisive influence on the argument they made in the Declaration of Independence, which those three men drafted. So I shall begin with a brief look at Locke’s seminal book, Some Thoughts Concerning Education, published in numerous editions beginning in 1693 and carefully revised several times by Locke.

The first thing to notice about Locke’s book is its intended audience. Locke does not address the upper aristocracy; on the contrary, he ridicules such men as frivolous and rather useless. The aristocrat, “always with his cup at his nose”—one that often contains liquids stronger than chocolate, coffee, or tea—cannot be depended upon to take intelligent charge of his son’s education. Locke instead addresses the father of “the Young Gentleman,” meaning the gentry class or lower portion of the landed aristocracy. It is in them that Locke sees the kingdom’s continued and future greatness because they show the traits of rationality and industry that the pampered and idle lords and ladies will seldom if ever display. As it happened, one of the key features of Great Britain’s rise to dominance of the seas and of commerce, and not incidentally of its successful transition from monarchism to republicanism in the centuries following Locke, would be the way in which the gentry class made its transition from the mores of feudal, warrior aristocrats to those of what one nineteenth-century writer would call “captains of industry.”

Locke was a home-schooler; his gentry could afford to be. But he also dislikes the boys’ schools: “Children who live together strive for Mastery.” The constant supervision by and contact with adults is far better. The two teachers of the Young Gentleman will be his father and the tutor his father hires. Although Locke doesn’t yield an inch to even the most Calvinist divines in taking a jaundiced view of the nature of children—he says that they love liberty but love “Power and Dominion” even more—he denies the tutor any power to punish them corporally. Even the father should strictly bridle his onw anger while punishing the boy, interspersing calm admonitions between the spanks. Locke recommends this course because he regards the authority of example as more powerful than either coercion or mere precept. The boy will resent being ruled by force and, much worse, eventually may emulate such rule, developing habits of tyrannizing, to which his own nature makes him all too susceptible.

And even such firmness as Locke does recommend ought to be relaxed as soon as possible. The father should ask his son’s advice on appropriate subjects, especially those concerning the management of the estate. Listen to the boy’s idea, and when he comes up with a good one, pretend it’s his very own, and follow it. Such a mild form of freedom actually increases the father’s authority by adding to his son’s esteem for him. This quickens the child’s maturation, substituting serious considerations for childish concerns: “The sooner you treat him as a Man, the sooner he will be one.”

Locke decries the old scholastic education—animated by the Christian Aristotelianism fashionable in most of the schools of his time—but also rejects the abstract and indeed mathematical education that one might derive from the example of that decided anti-Scholastic, René Descartes. Locke wants above all a useful education, intended to prepare the Young Gentleman “to judge right of Men, and manage his Affairs with them.” With them, not over them. He wants to inculcate “the knowledge of a Man of Business, a Carriage suitable to his Rank, and to be Eminent and Useful in his Country according to his Station.” Not so much the aristocrat’s warlike or battlefield courage but courage in the sense of “the quiet Possession of a Man’s self, and an undisturb’d doing his Duty, whatever Evil besets, or Danger lies in his way” is the Lockean way. Locke readies his country for the courage of the stiff upper lip, soon regarded as a national character trait.

Accordingly, Locke discourages influences that appeal to the imagination—whether imagined fear, which will effeminate the mind, or imagined glories, which will harden it against reason. Poetry, painting—anything that engages the passions by making them seem noble–are to be firmly discouraged. If a child has what Locke calls “a Poetick Vein, ’tis to me the strangest thing in the World , that the Father should desire, or suffer it to be cherished, or improved. Methinks the parents should labor to have it stifled, and suppressed, as much as may be…. There are very few instances of those, who have added to their Patrimony by any thing that they have reaped” from the Mounts of Parnassus.”

In the commercial-republican regime of America, Locke’s emphasis on education for one’s social “station”—what Montesquieu would call a “monarchic” bias—hardly got much play, except in some parts of the South, where a gentry class had established itself during colonial times. As did Webster, Americans generally wanted schools for large numbers of citizens, not only for the few. But Franklin, Adams, and Jefferson all share Locke’s esteem for usefulness, for the practical virtues of citizenship and commerce.

In proposing a college for Pennsylvania in 1749, Benjamin Franklin cited “the great Mr. Locke” and his “much esteemed” treatise on education. Nor is this idle praise; in his extensive footnotes to the proposal, Franklin quotes Locke far more extensively than any other writer. Following Locke’s lead, Franklin emphasized the need for a “more useful Culture of young Minds” than that seen (for example) in the aristocratic pastime of gardening. Along with the obvious curricular choices—mathematics, English, geography, morality—Franklin insists on the study of history broadly understood. Not only will reading histories teach political oratory, but it will also teach “the necessity of a Publick Religion”—specifically, Christianity—and the “advantages” of constitutions. Franklin wanted to prepare American students for thinking about constitutions some quarter-century before he signed the Declaration of Independence, and nearly forty years before he sat in the Philadelphia Convention. The study of history can also lead to discussions of right and wrong, justice and injustice, which in turn lead to debate and therefore to reasoning. Finally, “natural history” and the “history of commerce” can complement one another, if the study of nature leads to improved techniques of agriculture. Tellingly, Franklin includes no separate study of theology, contenting himself with saying in a footnote, “To have in View the Glory and Service of God, as some express themselves, is only the same Thing in other Words” for “Doing Good to Men,” thereby “imitat[ing] His Beneficence.”

Notice that Franklin does not follow Locke in insisting on private tutoring. He is proposing a college. “Youth will come out of this School fitted for learning any Business, Calling or Profession, except such wherein Languages are required [theology, for example]; and tho’ unacquainted with any ancient or foreign tongue, they will be Masters of their own, which is of more immediate and general Use.” Time Europeans spend learning foreign languages will thereby accrue to “such a Foundation of Knowledge and Ability, as, properly improved, may qualify them to pass thro’ and execute the several offices of civil Life, with Advantage and Reputation to themselves and Country.”

After the independence and republican regime change Franklin had long prepared was realized, he took a particular interest in the schooling of freed slaves. As early as 1763, on a visit to a Sunday school for black children, he concluded that “their Apprehension seems as quick, their Memory as strong, and their Docility in every Respect equal to that of white Children. You will wonder perhaps that I should ever doubt it, and I will not undertake to justify all my Prejudices, nor to account for them.” In a public address in 1789, Franklin called for a “national policy” of slave emancipation. “Slavery is such an atrocious debasement of human nature, that its very extirpation, if not performed with solicitous care, may sometimes open a source of serious evils.” The “galling chains, that bond his body, do also fetter his intellectual faculties, and impair the social affections of his heart” because he who is treated like “a mere machine” finds his reason “suspended” and his conscience stifled, having been “chiefly governed by the passion of fear.” Recall that this is precisely the thing Locke wanted to avoid when criticizing the use of corporal punishment—the very punishment that a slave finds himself subjected to not only in childhood but throughout his life. “Under such circumstances, freedom may often prove a misfortune to himself, and prejudicial to society.” Corporal punishment instills fear, and fear, Montesquieu teaches, animates despotism.

Therefore, “Attention to emancipated black people, it is… to be hoped, will become a branch of our national policy,” “a serious duty incumbent upon us.” “to instruct to advise, to qualify those, who have been restored to freedom, for the exercise and enjoyment of civil liberty, to promote in them habits of industry, to furnish them with employments suited to their age, sex, talents, and other circumstances, and to procure their children an education calculated for their future situation in life; these are the great outlines of the plan which we have adopted, and which we conceive will essentially promote the public good, and the happiness of these our hitherto too much neglected fellow-creatures.” As with whites, the education of black students will be preeminently useful, with an insistence on “a deep impression of the most important and generally acknowledged moral and religious principles.” Franklin proposes a “Committee of Guardians” which would place the students in apprenticeships. Like Locke, Franklin wants useful citizens, but unlike Locke he wants them on American, republican terms—without the rigid class distinctions that Locke needed to work with (and to some extent around and against) in England.

John Adams shared Franklin’s well-known esteem for modern science: “Man,” he wrote, “by the Exercise of his Reason can invent Engines and Instruments, to take advantage of the Powers of Nature, and accomplish the most astonishing Designs.” He also saw that this conquest of nature promised both great good and evil. Education for boys and girls alike must therefore include education in philanthropy, patriotism, and “the art of self-government, without which they never can act as a wise part in the government of societies, great or small.” “The study and practice of the exalted virtues of the Christian system… will happily tend to subdue the turbulent passions of men.”

Although necessary, such study and practice will not only suffice. “There is no simple connection between knowledge and virtue,” Adams observed, and that goes for the knowledge of Christian virtue as well as the knowledge of modern science. This is true partly because social elites often devise means to “keep the people in ignorance, and… to conceal truth and propagate falsehood,” sometimes in the name of high moral principles. Educators may deceive, even as they claim to educate.

These reservations notwithstanding, Adams thought that much more might be done toward improving the character of the American people through education. Education is “more indispensable, and must be more general, under a free government than any other,” inasmuch as the governing element in any regime must be educated, and in the American regime the people are sovereign. Education must therefore be redefined in terms of self-government: “The whole people must take upon themselves the education of the whole people, and must be willing to bear the expenses of it.” School districts no larger than one square mile must be maintained at public expense. In each school (and here Adams departs from Webster) the children must not be taught to “adore their generals, admirals, bishops, and statesmen.” Don’t adore Washington but “the nation which educated him.” Why? Recalling a lesson of ancient Greek history, Adams remarks, “If Thebes owes its liberty and glory to Epaminondas, she will lose both when he dies. But if the knowledge, the principles, the virtues, and the capacities of the Theban nation produced an Epaminondas, her liberties will remain when he is no more.”

Adams’s educational system would have been locally governed, but it would include one national institution. Republics cultivate eloquence. Inasmuch as “it is not to be disputed that the form of government has an influence upon language, and language in its turn influences not only the form of government, but the temper, the sentiments, and manners of the people,” Congress should frame a national academy, modeled on those in France, Spain, and Italy, for “correcting, improving, and ascertaining the English language.” In this century, Adams observed, French has succeeded Latin as the main language of Europe; yet it has not been universally established and “it is not probable that will” be. “English is destined to be in the next and succeeding centuries more generally the language of the world than Latin was in the last or French in the present age,” thanks to “the increasing population of America” and “the influence of England in the world.” An American Academy would help to ensure that the coming empire of English—we would call it a cultural empire—will speak well, in order to govern itself well. Speaking well, with precision and vigor, itself exemplifies self-government.

Finally, no consideration of the educational ideas of the American Founders would be complete without considering the Sage of Monticello. Thomas Jefferson endorsed the Enlightenment project of “diffusion of knowledge among the people,” which he called “the sure foundation” of liberty and happiness. He considered prerevolutionary France an object lesson of how a benevolent and amiable people “surrounded by so many blessings from nature, are yet loaded with misery by kings, nobles, and priests,” who kept them in subjection by keeping them in ignorance.

Civic education serves as both gateway to and guardian of all other kinds. Ordinary citizens and those best endowed by nature to govern ordinary citizens as their representatives should partake of it. Political history will show the people, “possessed… of the experience of other ages and countries,” to “know ambition under all its shapes,” and so be “prompt[ed] to exert their natural powers to defeat its purposes.” Beyond civic education, a liberal education will render the best-endowed citizens “worthy to receive, and also to guard the sacred deposit of the rights and liberties of their fellow citizens.”

Specifically, in Virginia Jefferson advocated the establishment of public school districts “wherein the great mass of the people will receive their instruction” in Greek, Roman, modern European, and American history and in “the first elements of morality,” which consist of instruction in “how to work out their own greatest happiness, by showing them that it does not depend on the condition of life in which chance has placed them, but is always the result of a good conscience, good health, occupation, and freedom in all just pursuits.”

There is a link between these two tracks of instruction, between history and morality. The link is experience. Historical study provides students with a far wider range of experience than they could ever attain if students were “confined to real life.” The better students, and also the wealthier ones, will go on to instruction in Greek and Latin; “I do not pretend that language is science,” but it is “the instrument for the attainment of science,” and in Jefferson’s day scientists conducted much of their business in Greek and Latin. From this system, “twenty o the best geniuses will be raked from the rubbish annually,” statewide, and “half of these will be sent to William and Mary College to be liberally educated.” A liberal education as the culmination of an education for self-government should not be confused with dilettantism, the product of “self-learning and self-sufficiency.” Such autodidacticism leads men “possessing Latin and sometimes Greek, a knowledge of the globes, and the first six books of Euclid, to imagine and communicate this as the sum of science,” sending graduates into the world “with just taste enough of learning to be alienated from industrious pursuits and not enough to do service in the ranks of science”. No more than Locke and Franklin does Jefferson intend education to disable citizens from usefulness, even if the public education he has in mind is broader than theirs.

Jefferson advocated not the founding of a national academy but a national university. Although the “ordinary branches” of education are not to be removed from “the hands of private enterprise, which manages so much better all the concerns to which it is equal,” the most advanced sciences need public support. While this did not occur, Jefferson’s final project, the founding of the University of Virginia, was designed to accomplish the same end on the state level. Although public, the university as Jefferson envisioned it was to be very compactly organized, with a minimum of bureaucracy. There were to be no divisions among the students—no ‘freshmen’ or ‘seniors’—and the courses of study were to be entirely elective. That is, Jefferson’s university was to maximize both equality and liberty. Self-government at the University of Virginia would have needed few or no administrators, only teachers and students learning together. Architecturally, Jefferson designed the campus to resemble a village, very much the educational equivalent of the Jeffersonian ‘ward republic.’

When considering the plans of all these writers, their shades of difference notwithstanding, we are left with a sense of the way in which they conceived the purposes of education, the ways of educating, the subjects taught as congruent with the regime they were intent on establishing: a democratic and commercial republic designed to secure the unalienable rights of Americans. When the American Progressives planned an educational system fit for their new republic, they thought no less coherently.