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    ‘Multicultural’ Education

    January 12, 2022 by Will Morrisey

    James A. Banks: Cultural Diversity in Education: Foundations, Curriculum, and Teaching. New York: Routledge, 2016.

     

    “As cultural, ethnic, language, and religious diversity increases in the United States and the world, the challenge of educating citizens to function effectively in a pluralistic democratic society deepens.” Banks asserts that this diversity “enriches the nation because it provides alternative ways to view the world and to solve social, economic, and political problems.” It simultaneously poses a new problem, “how to balance diversity and unity,” so that Americans continue to enjoy “a shared civic community in which all groups participate and to which they have allegiance.” Banks would avoid “cultural repression and hegemony” while avoiding “ethnic and cultural separatism and the fracturing of the nation-state.” He claims that this will require “substantially reformed” school curricula and “social structure[s]” and educators who “acquire new knowledge, commitments, and skills.”

    By deploying the term ‘culture’ instead of ‘regime,’ Banks obscures the matter. “Culture” is the key word for anthropologists and sociologists; for them, ‘culture’ consists of ‘mores and folkways.’ Its political equivalent would be ‘way of life.’ Aristotle’s key word, ‘regime,’ comprehends not only a political community’s way of life but its rulers, its ruling institutions, and its purpose(s). Despite the seemingly unpolitical terms he deploys, Banks obviously intends a regime change or revolution, both in the schools and in the United States. The rulers of American schools would reorient their hearts and minds; they would alter the ruling institutions of the schools. School curricula, embodying the purpose of the education on offer, would also be “substantially reformed.” In all, “the goals, norms, and culture of the school” would be transformed into a condition of “educational equality” for all students, whatever their “racial, ethnic, and social-class” character. That is, the purpose of the schools will be a form of political egalitarianism, inasmuch as Banks conceives of “educational” equality as dependent upon all the dimensions that rule educational life.

    This rule consists of five dimensions: “content integration;” the “knowledge construction process;” prejudice reduction, an “equity pedagogy; and “an empowering school culture and social structure.” What does this jargon mean? Content integration means “the extent to which teachers use examples and content from a variety of cultures and groups to illustrate key concepts, principles, generalizations, and theories in their subject area or discipline.” Knowledge construction means “help[ing] students to understand, investigate, and determine how the implicit cultural assumptions, frames of reference, perspectives, and biases within a discipline influence the ways in which knowledge is constructed within it.” That is, whereas content integration appears to take diverse cultural materials for the purpose of illustrating ‘abstractions’ within each discipline, knowledge construction implies the more radical claim that the abstractions themselves are not really abstract; what one calls knowledge is really constructed by cultures. To put it in Platonic-Socratic terms, there is no ‘ascent from the cave’ of opinion, since there is finally nothing more than opinion. 

    Prejudice reduction aims at modifying “students’ racial attitudes” by means of “teaching methods and materials.” Although knowledge is only cultural, and most cultures imbue certain attitudes toward ‘race,’ multicultural education attempts to alter those attitudes, transforming the existing American culture or way of life, evidently in the direction of substantially increased egalitarianism. This begs the question, Where does the principle of egalitarianism come from? From what does it derive its moral and political authority, if not (according the claim of multiculturalism) some culture? Equity pedagogy confirms this egalitarianism with regard to ‘equality of opportunity’; it consists of teaching methods that “will facilitate the academic achievement of students from diverse racial, cultural, and social-class backgrounds.” Not only will teaching methods do this, but the design of the school’s ruling institutions will “empower” these students. As Banks’s argument unfolds, however, it won’t be so much the students who are empowered, and assuredly not elected school boards, but teachers and administrators. Multicultural education will empower them because it demands a particular kind of specialized knowledge in, yes, multicultural education, a kind of knowledge unlikely to be possessed by members of the general public and only to be achieved by students as they work their way through the program of multicultural education.

    With regard to content education, Banks adjures that “the infusion of ethnic and cultural content into the subject area should be logical, not contrived.” He then proceeds to contrive an example of content that illustrates the political inflection of his project. In “language arts,” students may study Ebonics, the English dialect spoken by many African-Americans, by reading and listening “to speeches by such African Americans as Martin Luther King, Jr., Congresswoman Maxine Waters of California, Marian Wright Edelman, Al Sharpton, and President Barack Obama”—evidently not speeches by such African Americans as Frederick Douglass, Booker T. Washington, Condoleeza Rice, or Candace Owens. Evidently, Ebonics speaks ‘Left,’ and only ‘Left.’ In history, content education will include “study about the Aztecs, the Incas, and the Iroquois and other highly developed civilizations that developed in the America prior to the arrival of Europeans in the fifteenth century.” Will such practices as child sacrifice, slavery, cannibalism, and genocide, practiced by some or all of those highly developed civilizations, receive the same attention the atrocities committed by Europeans receive? Evidently not: “concepts such as ‘The New World’ and ‘The European Discovery of America’ are not only ethnocentric and Eurocentric terms but are also normative concepts that serve latent but important political purposes, such as justifying the destruction of Native American peoples and civilizations by Europeans such as Columbus and those who came after him.” Indeed, “The New World” is a concept that “subtly denies the political existence of Native Americans and their nations prior to the coming of the Europeans.” Never has newness carried such weighty political freight. Yet when Miranda looks at the rogues assembled in the last scene of The Tempest and exclaims, “O brave new world, that has such goodly creatures in’t!” and her father gently corrects her with “‘Tis new to thee,” one notices in European civilization a certain self-awareness about the newness of the New World and of its newest discoverers. Is multiculturalism itself not a product of Western civilization, at the same time being one of a long list of claims to rule which characterize every ‘civilization.’

    What justifies multicultural education? Banks explains that we live in “global times,” by which he means that “migration within and across nation-states is a worldwide phenomenon” which exists to a degree seen “never before in the history of the world.” Hundreds of millions now live “outside their nation of birth or citizenship.” This amounts to 3.1% of the world population. Given the fact that this is still a very small percentage of the world population, why does it justify regime change in American education? And, given the admitted need for political union in any nation-state, lest it disintegrate, why would ordinary methods of civic education not suffice to meet the challenge of political ‘acculturation’?

    The answer lies not in “global times” but in Banks’s reconception of rights. “The assimilationist conception,” whereby education is understood to ‘acculturate’ immigrants in accordance with the ‘norms’ of the American regime—regards “the rights of the individual as paramount and group identities and rights as inconsistent with and detrimental to the freedom of the individual.” This is misstated. The natural rights defended by the United States Constitution as it was understood by its framers inhere in human beings as such, and therefore in individuals. The natural rights of persons belonging to a particular ethnic or linguistic group differ in no way from those belonging to any other group. The practical problems arise in securing those rights by matching civil rights and duties to the natural rights those rights and duties are intended to secure. Banks quotes the leftist historian Eric Foner, who claims that it was the Abolitionists, not the Founders, who were “the authors of the notion of freedom as a universal birthright.” In so saying, Foner is either mistaken or lying. The “authors” of the notion of freedom as a universal birthright were the laws of Nature and of Nature’s God. The authors of the document which acknowledged those natural rights were Thomas Jefferson and the members of the Continental Congress who revised his original draft. The authors of the document that established the governing institutions which secured those rights for American citizens were the Framers of the Constitution. The slaves were not citizens; the founding generation made many of them citizens in the northern states but not in the southern states. The Abolitionists wanted to extend slave emancipation to the southern states but could find no way to do so. Their solution was to accept the dismemberment of the Union, which would have done nothing to emancipate the slaves. Abolition only occurred as a result of a vast civil war, foolishly initiated by the southern secessionists, who expected to win it. None of this had anything to do with “group rights.” This notwithstanding, Banks insists that “a differentiated conception of citizenship recognizes that some groups must be treated differently in order for them to attain equity.”

    He also contends that “groups with power and influence usually define their interests as the public interest and the interests and goals of marginalized groups as ‘special interests.'” He overlooks the tendency of “marginalized” groups to do exactly the same thing. Hence the refusal of those who adhere to the claim that “black lives matter” to admit that “all lives matter.” Banks classifies self-identification of human beings into four categories: cultural (race, ethnicity, gender, language, “sexual orientation”), national, regional, and global. This ignores self-identification as individuals and as families. Why does he ignore such obvious categories? Because they interfere with socialism, his obvious regime choice. They interfere with socialism because the ineluctably natural categories of person and family interfere with the ‘groupishness’ that socialism needs and also with the historicism modern socialism endorses. His socialism diverges from older forms of modern socialism because another category he excludes from self-identification is socio-economic class; his version of ‘consciousness’ centers on culture as conceived by anthropologists and sociologists, not on class. 

    The most immediately political form of self-identification is nationality. Here he does address the regime question, although superficially. “In democratic nation-states, each student should develop a commitment to democratic ideals, such as human dignity, justice, and equality,” a commitment shared by the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. All very well, but what should students in China be developing a commitment to? Or students in Russia? Or in Iran? The regimes in those countries utterly despise “democratic ideals.” Are those regimes, are those ‘cultures,’ to be brought to the bar of human rights? And, if ‘culture’ is determinative of cognition, how is that possible? And why is it justified?

    Understandably, Banks prefers to focus on the democratic regimes. His teachers would ensure that students respect nationality while avoiding nationalism. “Some attention should be devoted to a discussion of patriotism, which is a love and devotion to one’s country.” “Teachers should help students understand that people who love their country may have very different views on national events and developments and that criticism of the actions of government leaders is not necessarily unpatriotic.” It is not. On the other hand, it might be quite unpatriotic. So, for example, a substantial number of German-Americans in the 1930s joined groups that excused the Nazi regime in ‘the old country,’ invoking George Washington’s Farewell Address as justification for non-involvement in European wars. Their dissent was not necessarily patriotic, although it was unquestionably nationalistic, in this instance Germanophilic. Although Banks assures his readers that “students can develop a reflective and positive national identification only after they have attained reflective, clarified, and positive cultural identifications,” he offers only the writings of Will Kymlicka as proof of this—a slender reed. What we do know is that a non-nationalistic patriotism is quite possible when founded upon the principles of American constitutionalism, as seen in the Revolutionary War, the Civil War, and the two world wars. It cannot guarantee that Americans will ‘live up to’ those principles any more than socialists can guarantee that instruction in accordance with their principles will guarantee conduct consistent with them.

    “Global identification” poses additional problems for Banks. He deems it necessary “because we live in a global society in which the solutions to the world’s problems require the cooperation of all the nations of the world.” If so, I can only wish the world the very best of luck, given the sharp differences among the regimes ruling those nations. “Most students,” he laments, “have rather conscious identifications with their communities and nation-states, but they often are only vaguely aware of their status as world citizens.” No surprise, there: no one could be more than vaguely aware of his status as a ‘world citizen’ because no one is a world citizen; no one is a world citizen because the world has no civitas. The world does have the ‘law of nations,’ but this depends for its enforcement on the more powerful regimes in the world. Those regimes often do not agree with one another, as they adhere to moral and political principles that not only differ from one another but contradict one another. This becomes obvious even from Banks’s curricular suggestions. Remarking that students have “very few heroes or heroines, myths, symbols, and school rituals…designed to help students develop an attachment to and identification with the global community,” he can only point to Mohandas Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Nelson Mandela, and Kofi Annan as examples. I deem it unlikely to be a coincidence that all of these persons are ‘men of the Left.’ Teachers “should realize that it is vitally important for students to develop a sophisticated understanding of their roles in the world community,” but if there is no real world community then sophistication will incline toward sophistry. And so, if “an important priority of civic education should be to help students develop global dispositions and the ability to think about community and national issues from a global perspective and to use a global lens to view issues, problems, and possible solutions,” such dispositions, such a perspective, and such a lens either will dilute their attachment to their regime by confusing students about the principles at stake, or it will tend to form American students into emulators of Gandhi, King, Mandela, and Annan rather than, for example, of Washington and Lincoln—neither of whom was a ‘globalist’ although both upheld natural rights. Banks prefers to quote an author who lauds “the possibility of both engagement in and enchantment with the world.” The religious language is apt, inasmuch as logic evidently has nothing much to do with this project.

    Banks hopes for “a delicate balance of identifications,” which turns out to be governed by “democratic values exemplified in the constitutions of democratic nation-states, such as justice, human dignity and equality.” Again, on what basis? What justifies a given ‘culture’? What justifies a given political regime—which, according to Banks, depends upon a ‘culture’? 

    He nonetheless confidently recommends the production of “transformative citizens” in schools. Transformative citizens comprise the highest level of citizenship, in Banks’s rank ordering. Merely “legal” citizens have rights and obligations to their nation-state but don’t participate in its governance; “minimal” citizens get out to vote for “conventional candidates and conventional issues”; “active” citizens go beyond voting by writing to their elected representatives, campaigning for candidates, and so forth; “transformative” or “deep” or “postconventional” citizens take action “to actualize values and moral principles beyond those of conventional authority.” That is, they intend to change the regime; whether violent or non-violent, they are revolutionaries. Transformative citizens “promote social justice even when their actions violate, challenge, and dismantle existing laws, conventions, and structures.” That’s the kind of citizenship Banks has in mind. Students in elementary, middle, and high schools should be given a “reimagined and transformed” civic education that “effectively educates students to function in the twenty-first century,” by which he means that ‘the knowledge that underlies its construction needs to shift from mainstream to transformative academic knowledge,” a form of knowledge that “consists of paradigms and explanations that challenge some of the key epistemological assumptions of mainstream knowledge.” That would be deep, indeed, were we to suppose that Banks and his fellow multicultists rank with (for example) G.W.F. Hegel, who did indeed work out a new kind of logic, whatever one may think of it. 

    According to Banks, “mainstream citizenship education” grounded in “mainstream knowledge and assumptions” fails to “challenge or disrupt the class, racial, and gender discrimination within the schools and society,” nor does it prepare them for “what their role should be in a global world.” It emphasizes memorization of “facts about constitutions and other legal documents, learning about various branches of government, and developing patriotism to the nation-state” without inculcating “critical thinking skills, decision making, and action.” By these lights, it must be astonishing that revolutionaries schooled in the old liberal arts could have conceived of the things they did. It is hard to resist the thought that “transformative citizenship education” in “transformative academic knowledge” preparing students “to challenge inequality within their communities, their nations, and the world,” to “develop cosmopolitan values and perspectives,” and to “take actions to create just and democratic multicultural communities and societies” would serve not so much philosophic deepness but an ideological rigor of the Left.

    Consistent with the rhetorical strategy useful for the implementation of his project, Banks offers a history of American education beginning not with the Founders but with the late 19th century ‘nativist’ movement. Banks remarks the anti-Catholic and anti-immigrant edge to nativism, ignoring the fact that George Washington had welcomed Catholics, Jews, along with all major Protestant denominations then in the United States on the basis of their natural right to freedom of religion. Nativism, therefore, flatly contradicted the principles of the American regime and of the education conducted in that regime in accordance with those principles. “The outbreak of the Great War in Europe in 1914 greatly increased the suspicion and distrust of immigrant groups in the United States,” Banks notices, without explaining why Americans might not be suspicious of newly-arrived persons who might incline to supporting one side or another in a foreign conflict, potentially embroiling the United States in that conflict. He acknowledges that the same period saw an intensification of what he calls “the assimilationist ideology,” which was obviously Americans’ attempt to do what every regime (including the one Banks favors) does, namely, to persuade children that the principles of the regime are true. “What in fact happened, however, was that most of the immigrant and ethnic cultures stuck to the bottom of the mythical melting pot,” as “Anglo-Saxon culture remained dominant,” inducing “other ethnic groups…to give up many of their cultural characteristics in order to participate fully in the nation’s social, economic, and political institutions.” But if all cultures are ‘relative,’ equally valuable, what could be wrong with that? Unlike the African slaves, the other immigrants came to their, ahem, ‘new world,’ voluntarily. And as for changing “cultural characteristics,” what else does Banks propose, in his educational regime? 

    Not that everything about “Anglo-Saxon culture” was bad. On the contrary, Banks allows, the influence of that culture “has been, in many cases, positive,” with its “ideals of human rights, participatory democracy, and separation of church and state.” He gives no reason for adjudging these “ideals” “positive.” Such an attempt would involve him in an ‘ascent from the cave,’ the possibility of which he has already denied. 

    Banks traces subsequent efforts to accommodate immigrant and other groups more fully into the American ‘culture.’ These include Horace Kallen’s “cultural pluralism,” Hilda Taba’s “intergroup education,” William Connolly’s “new pluralism.” and finally Banks’s “multicultural education,” which requires not only curricular reform but “total school reform,” including alteration of “the ethnic and racial composition of the school staff, its attitudes, the formalized and hidden curricula, the teaching strategies and materials, the testing and counseling programs, and the school’s norms” as well as “the languages and dialects of the school” and “community participation and input.” “The reform must be systemwide, or systemic, to be effective.” It is what any serious political thinker will see as a regime change in the schools aiming at regime change in the country in which it is undertaken. Students will become “bicultural”—as “comfortable within the adopted culture as he or she is within his or her primordial or first culture.” This suggests that multiculturalism in any profound way is impossible, inasmuch as it would require the integration of many different languages, “norms,” and so on within the same human soul, and to do so within every human soul in the school. But even bicultural education would require a selection of elements from each of the two ‘cultures’ selected, inasmuch as any two ‘cultures’ will feature aspects incompatible with one another. Again, ‘democracy,’ ‘equality,’ and similar locutions will govern this selection, but where do these come from, if not (as Banks has already conceded) from the Anglo-Saxons?

    Inasmuch as the origin of an idea doesn’t necessarily determine its content, there is no reason to suppose that ‘Anglo-Saxon’ ideas (or ‘French’ ideas, or ‘Chinese’ ideas) are not universally valid, except that Banks has already claimed that even mathematics and science are ‘cultural’ products, marked by ‘cultural hegemony.’ In terms of ‘social studies,’ for example, Banks argue that describing the collision of United States citizens with Amerindian nations and tribes in the Midwest as “The Westward Movement” is Eurocentric. “The Lakota Sioux were already in the West”; they weren’t moving at all. (They had, of course, undertaken their own westward movement only a few generations earlier, occupying lands settled by other Amerindians nations and tribes, but Banks doesn’t mention that.) Such a unit in a history class “might be called ‘The Invasion from the East,’ if viewed from the Sioux perspective. “An objective title for the unit might be ‘Two Cultures Meet in the Americas.'” But two ‘cultures’ might meet without warfare. What really happened was that two regimes met, two regimes animated by principles and practices that contradicted one another, leading to war and to the victory of one regime over the other—a common enough occurrence, throughout the course of human events, even within ‘cultures,’ as seen in intra-European, intra-Asian, intra-American, and intra-African wars. 

    To avoid ethnocentricity, Banks applies his “transformative” approach to curricular reform. This involves “the infusion of various perspectives, frames of reference and content from various groups that will extend students’ understandings of the nature, development, and complexity of U.S. society.” So, for example, when studying the American Revolution, students would learn “the perspectives of the Anglo Revolutionaries, the Anglo Loyalists, African Americans, Indians, and the British.” Very good, but this begs the question: who was right? “The emphasis…should be on how the common U.S. culture and society emerged from a complex synthesis and interaction of the diverse cultural elements that originated within the various cultural, racial, ethnic, and religious groups that make up U.S. society.” But evidently, according to Banks, there is no really common U.S. culture, only a “mainstream” culture, which he intends to undermine and replace with elements borrowed from “marginalized” cultures, all arranged in an egalitarian regime pattern which itself derives from members of, well, the dominant culture, such as himself. He adds to this academic exercise a call “to require students to make decisions and to take actions related to the concept, issue, or problem they have studied.” This will “empower them,” “help[ing] them to acquire a sense of political efficacy.” But for what purpose, if not to advance the political regime envisioned by Banks and the schools that adopt his program? 

    Thus, the first part of Cultural Diversity in Education is philosophically incoherent but quite systematic politically. It is likely that Banks understands this, that his ‘theoretical’ claims are aimed at obfuscating the revolutionary character of his politics. And yet the second part of his book essays a discussion of just those “conceptual, philosophical, and research issues” that bedevil his presentation of his “transformative” educational politics.

    He begins with the definition of ‘culture’ offered by the well-known anthropologists Alfred L. Kroeber and Clyde Kluckhorn: “culture consists of patterns, explicit and implicit, of and for behavior acquired and transmitted by symbols, constituting the distinctive achievements of human groups, including their embodiments in artifacts; the essential core of culture consists of traditional (i.e. historically derived and selected) ideas and especially attached values.” As mentioned earlier, this amount to what Aristotle understands as one component of a regime, namely, its Bios ti or way of life. Banks adds that cultures are “dynamic, complex, and changing” but also ‘systematic’ in the sense that “any change in one aspect of a culture affects all of its components.” Within many cultures or “macrocultures” “microcultures” also exist. These microcultures differ from the macrocultures in language, “learning styles,” and many other characteristic Banks has already remarked, but each microculture shares “to some extent” the “national values” upheld by the culture or way of life that predominates in the national state. 

    “Multicultural education suggests a type of education concerned with creating educational environments in which students form a variety of microcultural groups such as race/ethnicity, gender, social class, regional groups, and people with disabilities experience educational equality.” To achieve such “equality,” multiculturalism must be “critical,” a term Banks explicitly borrows from “critical race theory,” a term critical race theory in turn borrows from Marxism (as in Marx’s Critique of Political Economy). This now leads Banks to include economic class and politics in his notion of “ethnicity.” That is, unlike Aristotle, who regards a way of life as a subset of ‘regime,’ Banks follows the anthropologists’ model that makes ‘regime’ a subset of culture. Thus ‘ethnicity’ has little to do with biology, as the root of the word suggests. For example, “some African Americans have so few cultural traits that are Black and so little identification with African Americans as an ethnic group that we might call them ‘Afro-Saxons.'” The same goes with groups whose national origins differ from their existing national location.

    Banks claims that “intergroup problems frequently arise, not because of the nature of the cultural differences between Whites and people of color, but because of the race of the individual or group who exhibits the specific cultural characteristic.” So, Mexican children may be punished for speaking Spanish in school but if whites learn Spanish, if may be “viewed as a useful and esteemed language.” Banks does not pause to consider that the whites in question are likely speaking Spanish in a Spanish class, whereas the Mexican children might be speaking it in order to say things a non-Spanish speaking teacher doesn’t understand. “This kind of racism can be called cultural racism.” On the other hand, it may not be racist at all. It may be the act of a teacher trying to run a class.

    How to explain academic disparities between whites and “people of color”? Banks dismisses explanations based on genetics, going so far as to claim that “race is a social construct.” He also dislikes the “cultural deprivation” argument, which holds that persons of color suffer from “poverty, fatherless homes, and social disorganization” resulting in “cognitive deficits” over time. He remarks that this explanation conflates “cultural difference” with “conditions of poverty.” He rejects the notion that difference in culture should be interpreted as a form of deprivation because it violates “the principles of cultural democracy.” If cultural democracy means treating all ways of life as equal, it undoubtedly is. He endorses Amy Gutmann’s demand that “civic equality recognition require schools to recognize the community cultures and languages of students from diverse groups,” but one must then ask, ‘Recognize’ them in what ways and on what basis? If Banks and Gutmann reply, ‘On the basis of equality,’ why so? 

    The “cultural difference” paradigm “rejects the idea that students of color have cultural deficits”; on the contrary, “African Americans, Mexican Americans, and American Indians have strong, rich, and diverse cultures.” Academic underachievement arises not from cultural deficiencies but from “cultural conflicts.” Therefore, “the school must change in ways that will allow it to respect and reflect the rich cultural strengths of students form diverse groups and use teaching strategies that are consistent with their cultural characteristics.” Banks calls this “equity pedagogy.” As usual, Banks does not provide a criterion by which one can confirm that what he calls rich cultural strength are indeed rich or strong. 

    Banks also rejects explanations based on “cultural ecology,” which maintain that cultural minorities score low on tests because they resist education itself as ‘white.’ He counters that the resistance is not to education but the use of education to achieve cultural assimilation. He prefers the explanation of “protective disidentification,” a process whereby students feel threatened by academic expectations that alienate or seem to degrade them and react by reducing their efforts to meet those expectations. Lower test scores follow. 

    Seeing that he needs some sort of moral criterion for making the judgments he makes, Banks turns to a comparison of “cultural pluralist ideology”—he now acknowledges cultural pluralism as an ideology, dropping the philosophic pretensions he had paraded earlier—with “assimilationist ideology.” Pluralism deems “cultural and ethnic identities” to proliferate “in pluralistic Western societies,” as various groups champion their own “economic and political interests.” “The energies and skills of each member of a cultural or ethnic group are needed to help in that group’s liberation struggle. Each individual member of the group has a moral obligation to join the liberation struggle. Thus, the pluralist stresses the rights of the group over the rights of the individual.” It must be said that the shift from calling this a philosophy to calling it an ideology comes just in time, inasmuch as the “thus” does not follow logically from the premise. It is obvious that the rights of individuals might easily provide the basis for claims of equality, even if the need to organize politically—itself an individual right—will be indispensable to securing those rights.

    More plausibly, cultural pluralists regard minority cultures as important sources of “psychological support” for persons living in “a modernized society controlled primarily by one dominant cultural, economic, and political group.” Since these cultures “are well ordered and highly structured but different from each other and from the mainstream dominant culture,” school curricula “should be revised to reflect the cognitive styles, cultural history, and experiences of cultural groups, especially students of color”; this will reduce their “learning and adjustment problems.” This in turn will begin to provide students with “the skills and commitments needed to participate in civic action to help empower their cultural group.” 

    In his account of the assimilationist ideology, Banks sees a strong confidence in the, well, transformative power of modernity. “The assimilationist tends to see ethnic attachments as fleeting and temporary within a modernized world,” considering “the modern state as universalistic rather than characterized by strong ethnic allegiance and attachments.” Such attachments are deemed “dysfunctional in a modernized civic community”; they “harm the goals of the modern nation-state” by leading to “the Balkanization of society.” In America, assimilationists endorse “values” such as those enunciated in the Declaration of Independence and the United States Constitution. “The school’s primary mission within a democratic society should be to socialize youths into the national civic culture” by promoting “a critical acceptance of the goals, assumptions, and possibilities of democratic nation-states.”

    Banks situates his own “multiculturalist ideology” between those of pluralism and assimilationism. Calling pluralism “useful” because “it informs us about the importance of culture and ethnicity within a society and the extent to which ethnic groups determine the life chances of individuals,” he criticizes it for exaggerating “the extent of cultural pluralism within modern societies,” in view of the “high levels of cultural (if not structural) assimilation” that occurred in the United States and other similar countries. Cultural identities overlap. In failing to recognize this, or in resisting it, pluralists “appear reluctant to prepare students to cope adequately with the real world beyond their ethnic or cultural community.” They have not “clarified, in any meaningful way, the kind of relationship that should exist between competing ethnic groups that have different allegiances and conflicting goals and commitments.” They cannot say how “a strongly pluralistic nation will maintain an essential degree of societal cohesion.”

    As for assimilationists, they do understand the need for “societal cohesion” and design their educational goals and methods accordingly. They fail not so much in their conception of goals but in their methods because “learning characteristics” are not uniform, across culture. They “assume that all students can learn equally well from teaching materials that reflect only the cultural experiences of the majority group.” Banks charges that assimilationists “ignor[e] the reality that most Western societies are made up of many different ethnic and cultural groups.” He offers little or no evidence that assimilationists ignore that reality; indeed, the term ‘assimilationist’ suggests that there are diverse materials to be assimilated. What he really wants to do is to address the regime question, the question that the anthropological concept, ‘culture,’ tends to obscure: “Who defines the common culture? Whom does the definition benefit? Whom does it harm?” Those are political questions. According to Banks, “the common culture needs to be redefined with broad participation by different cultural, ethnic, and language groups,” thereby “reflect[ing] the social realities within the nation, not a mythical, idealized view.” 

    But why so? To be sure, any regime must take account of the different ‘cultures’ or ways of life amongst the populations it rules. As part of the regime, schools must do the same. But the regime will still need to choose among the so-called ‘values’ and practices seen in the various groups. Social “realities” are one thing, the sources of moral and political principles quite another. But this is what Banks’s cultural egalitarianism denies—sort of. Except when it comes to such terms as ‘democracy,’ ‘social justice,’ ‘equity,’ and so on.

    What, then, has he in mind? “In the multicultural, open society envisioned by the multicultural theorist, individuals would be free to maintain their ethnic identities” while participating “effectively within the common culture and across other ethnic cultures.” In a crucial admission, he writes, “Individuals would be free to act consistent with the norms and values of their ethnic groups as long as they did not conflict with the overarching values in a nation state,” such as (in the U.S.) “ideals such as justice, equality, and human dignity,” along with “toleration and recognition.” Indeed, “all members of society would be required to conform to the nation’s idealized values.” Banks modestly, and correctly, allows that “it is very difficult to resolve satisfactorily all the difficult questions inherent within” multiculturalist ideology. He nonetheless insists that it “must” be implemented. Indeed, “ways must be devised for marginalized ethnic groups to gain power in education and to participate in major educational decisions that affect the education of their youths.” One should notice that school boards, elected by majorities in local elections, would likely need to relinquish their authority to multiculturally-inclined professional educators. This has been a major problem with ‘Left’ conceptions of ‘democracy,’ a regime paradoxically inclined toward the imposition of self-defined ‘equality’ from above. Leninist vanguardism was a pathological instance of this, but other instances abound.

    The ‘democratic’ elites Banks favors will engage in “transformative”—i.e., revolutionary or regime-changing—research, which “tries to see the world through the eyes of the people being studied.” But this alone cannot suffice, inasmuch as any competent researcher into the variety of regimes will do, and has done, exactly that, for millennia. That Banks does have something more in mind may be seen in his selection of W.E.B. Du Bois as his example of a transformational researcher. “Du Bois challenged the established historical research that stated that Northern Whites and Southern Blacks incompetently ruled the Southern states during Reconstruction,” showing that “it was during Reconstruction that the Southern states enacted their most progressive legislation, including the establishment of public schools.” Yes, but define ‘progressive.’ Multiculturalism opposes the claim that knowledge is “neutral and objective and that its principles are universal.” But except for the term ‘progressive,’ Du Bois’s revision of “established historical research”—much of it done by ‘Redeemer’ historians politically opposed to the regime change Reconstruction attempted—stands or falls on two bases: facts and a judgment concerning governmental competence. If the criteria for selection of the relevant facts and judgment about them are “compassion and a deep concern about justice and equality,” will these be defined in terms of the “overarching values” of the American “nation-state,” or by some other set of criteria, as suggested by the demand to include minority groups in the political process, while simultaneously giving that process over to educationists? 

    With all that, Banks’s multiculturalism addresses a real issue, on those occasions when it comes down to earth. He cites a study conducted to find the causes of “poor performance on standardized achievement tests” by Amerindian students. The study found that teachers failed “to explain to the students the importance of the test,” resulting in “lack of student concern about test results.” Teachers also tended to denigrate Navajo “culture and language,” an approach which was indeed very unlikely to win their cooperation. The study found “a cultural mismatch between the home and the school,” a mismatch which would require a reconsideration of the teachers’ methods of instruction.

    In Part III of his book, Banks addresses the “teaching strategies” consonant with multicultural education. He identifies six “stages” whereby a student can emerge from the limited horizon of his minority ‘culture.’ Initially, the student suffers from “cultural psychological captivity,” a condition in which “the individual absorbs the negative ideologies and beliefs about his or her cultural group that are institutionalized within the society.” Then the student experiences “cultural encapsulation,” a self-protective stance when he “participates primarily within his or her own cultural community and believes that his or her cultural group is superior to other cultural groups.” Perceived threats to that group provoke anger; he finds a “separatist ideology” attractive. Thus, the first two “stages” are ‘dialectical’ in the Hegelian-Marxist sense of contradictory antinomies, thesis and antithesis. 

    Stage 3 amounts to an initial synthesis: “identity clarification.” Now, “the individual is able to clarify personal attitudes and cultural identity, to reduce intrapsychic conflict, and to develop clarified positive attitudes toward his or her cultural group,” learning the “self-acceptance” Banks deems “a requisite to accepting and responding positively to outside individuals and groups” with a “pride in his or her cultural group [that] is not based on the hate or fear of outside groups.” 

    The fourth stage occurs when the new synthesis develops a new antimony, called “biculturalism.” This is “a strong desire to function effectively in two cultures.” That is, the new antimony is experienced not as a painful conflict but an erotic longing; the student’s soul has moved from Hegel’s Phenomenology to Plato’s Symposium, so to speak. The final synthesis begins to take shape in the fifth stage, “multiculturalism and reflective nationalism.” Having integrated a second culture into his soul, the student keeps on going, now “able to function, at least beyond superficial levels, within several cultures within his or her nation and to understand, appreciate, and share the values, symbols, and institutions of several cultures within the nation,” experiencing “a more enriched and fulfilling life” ready to “formulate creative and novel solutions to personal and public problems.” By “the nation,” Banks assures us, he means one governed by such “idealized values” as “human dignity and justice.” At the same time, this idealism has been synthesized with realism—an understanding of the United States “as the multicultural and multilingual nation that it is.”

    In the final stage of multicultural education, the student has enlarged his soul still further into “globalism and global competency,” with the “abilities needed to function within cultures within his or her nation as well as within cultures outside his or her own nation in other parts of the world.” Even more remarkably, “this individual has internalized the universalistic ethical values and principles of humankind,” along with “the skills, competencies, and commitments needed to take action within the world to actualize personal values and commitments.” He will be a ‘citizen of the world,’ a true Brussels sprout, prepared for world government at the end of history.

    Banks outlines a curriculum for students at each of these developmental stages. At Stage 1, students “best benefit from monocultural content and experiences that will help them to develop cultural awareness and a heightened sense of cultural consciousness,” learning “how their cultural group has helped to liberate as well as to victimize other cultural, racial, and ethnic groups.” In Banks’s example, “White students” learn “not only about how Whites have oppressed African Americans and Native Americans, but also how Whites have helped these groups to attain justice and rights within our society.” Oddly—but perhaps not so oddly, given his ideological leanings—Banks lauds John Brown as a figure to be studied without so much as mentioning Abraham Lincoln, a rather more thoughtful and historically important figure.

    The Stage 2 curriculum consists of an inward turn, a sort of therapy. Students are granted “an opportunity to examine and understand their hostile feelings toward outside cultural groups”—this, on the assumption that students “develop more positive feelings toward themselves and others only when negative feelings toward other groups are uncovered and expressed in a safe and democratic environment.” The third stage curriculum, guiding the first synthesis, is “designed to reinforce the student’s emerging cultural identity and clarification.” Here, Banks avails himself of the techniques of ‘values clarification,’ pioneered in the 1970s by such educationists as Sidney B. Simon, Merrill Harmon, Leland W. Howe, Louis Raths, and Howard Kirschenbaum. ‘Values clarification’ aimed at decentering the student’s existing moral principles (called ‘values,’ a term borrowed from economics by sociologists) by means of arguments based on moral relativism, thereby compelling them to reformulate his own ‘value system,’ helpfully guided by (of course) the teacher, whose own ‘values’ crucially inflect the outcome. In effect, Banks’s “multicultural education” does this on an even grander scale. [1] One sees this many times in the course of the book, as when he pauses to recommend some “tentative conclusions” that “might” be reached when students address questions on affirmative action, housing discrimination, and school desegregation.

    The fourth, “bicultural,” stage’s curriculum leads to understanding another culture in its own terms. This brings the student to the final stage, resulting in “a global sense of cultural literacy” and a consequent exposure to “moral and value alternatives” other than those of his own culture. At the same time, Banks expects the student to “embrace” ‘values’ “such as human dignity and justice, that are needed to live in a multicultural community and global world society.” Cultural, national, regional, and global ‘identities’ will all be balanced, albeit “never totally,” Banks hastens to caution.

    All of this aims at regime change founded upon the “transformative academic knowledge” so yielded, in which students “must be given opportunities to construct knowledge themselves so that they can develop a deep understanding of the nature and limitations of knowledge,” which, Banks again claims, “reflects the social, political, and cultural context in which it is formulated.” Banks thus proposes an educational project that does not so much attempt to leave the Platonic-Socratic cave of one’s regime by a philosophic ascent guided by reason but to move the student ‘horizontally’ (democratically, if you will) by expanding the boundaries of his ‘cultural’ territory. Socrates’ rational construal will give way to Banks’s cultural construction and reconstruction. Because he regards such figures as Socrates as culture-bound, he rejects the traditional canon that has been “used to define, select, and evaluate knowledge in the school, college and university curriculum of the United States and in other Western nations,” a canon that “has traditionally been European-centric and male-dominated.” His anthropological notion of ‘culture’ precludes him from considering that reason or revelation might transcend ‘culture,’ making the culture in which a line of reasoning or an insight of revelation irrelevant to its truth.

    Part of the difficulty stems from Banks’s egalitarianism. Philosophy and prophecy are not widely experienced. Banks wants students to achieve something like the effects of philosophizing and of prophetic insight by a means accessible to everyone. It is a kindly thought. 

    It is not necessarily an accurate or equitable one. For example, he writes that “from the perspective of the Lakota Sioux, the Anglo settlers in the West were invaders and conquerors.” Undoubtedly so, but from the perspective of the Lakota Sioux, their own settlement of that territory was also a westward movement, whereas from the perspective of the half dozen or so Amerindian nations and tribes the Sioux warriors defeated upon arrival, they were invaders and conquerors. Similarly, we read that “ethnic heroes selected for study and veneration” in schools “are usually those who helped Whites conquer or oppress powerless people rather than those who challenged the existing social, economic, and political order.” Leaving aside the question of whether nations like the Iroquois, the Sioux, and the Comanche were really “powerless people,” did the ‘Whites’ not challenge the existing social, economic, and political order of Amerindians? Regimes get challenged quite often, by all manner of people. The more important questions are, What is the character of the regime being challenged? Are the challengers right? Perspectivism doesn’t get you to philosophy.

    Banks nevertheless insists, “a curriculum designed to empower students must be transformative in nature and must help students develop the knowledge, skills, and values needed to become social critics who can make reflective decisions and can implement their decisions in effective personal, social, and civic action,” thanks to a curriculum in which “multiple voices are heard and legitimized.” But how so, if they contradict one another? And if this curriculum “can teach students to think” by learning “to consider the author’s purposes for writing or speaking, his or her basic assumptions, and how the author’s perspectives or point of view compares with that of other authors and resources,” why do Banks’s examples always point in one direction? At times this leads him to rather odd pairings, as when he invites teachers to have their students compare Christopher Columbus’s journal entry on the Taino people he encountered in the Caribbean with an archeologist’s imagined reconstruction of “a day in the life of the Tainos” coupled with a 1992 story set 500 years earlier about a twelve-year-old Taino girl. Banks lauds empathy, but empathy isn’t the same as imagining things. A better Banksian proposal is to teach “a key concept, revolution,” by studying “three American revolutions”: the Pueblo Revolt of 1680s, the 1776 revolution by the American colonists, and the Mexican Revolution of 1810. This is simply an exercise in what academics call comparative politics, and one need not be a multicultist to undertake it.

    The real aim of all this is social action. Predictably, the choice of actions will be guided by teachers who serve as cultural mediators and agents of “change,” teachers who “help students understand the desirability of and possibility for social change,” going so far as to encourage the students’ “sense of moral outrage.” What sort of change? Outrage triggered for what purpose? Well, “many such teacher participated in social action in the 1960s and 1970s to promote social justice and civil rights” as those things were propounded by the New Left. (He’s evidently not talking about such ‘Sixties phenomena as Goldwater Girls or Students for Nixon.) Banks rightly observes that “teaching, like social science, is not a value-free activity,” but his “involved observers” of student action “should support and defend moral and ethical positions that are consistent with democratic values and ideals” as defined by Tom Hayden, Eldridge Cleaver, and Mark Rudd.

    Despite his Popper-like rhetoric about openness and democracy, Banks uses the word “must” with great frequency, as in his averral that teachers “must be informed, critical, socially conscious, and ethical change agents who are committed to social, political, cultural, and educational equality.” Another example: “To create democratic and just schools, colleges, and universities, the established concepts and knowledge systems must not privilege any particular racial, ethnic, social-class or gender group, but must reflect the experiences of the diverse groups that make up the nation-state. Consequently, the cultures of the nation’s schools, as well as the curricula, must be reformed in ways that institutionalize and legitimize the knowledge systems, perspectives, ideologies, and behaviors of diverse ethnic, racial, cultural, social-class, and language groups. This requires that more liberatory and multicultural paradigms and canons be constructed and institutionalized within the nation’s educational institutions.” It can hardly be said that Banks himself doesn’t know what a regime is, although his presentation of educational and national regime change in anthropological and sociological terms might obscure his knowledge from his readers. Whether offering “egalitarian books and stories” on “sex-types” to students aged three to five or claiming that mental retardation and giftedness are “socially constructed categories,” and most obviously when urging educators to “attempt institutional or systematic reform of the total school,” Banks consistently urges his readers to demand changes derived from ‘Left’ ideology, often in the guise of arguing for perspectivism. The disadvantage of doing so is that he never gets around to justifying his claim to rule, by turns to ‘culture’ and to ‘science,’ neither of which can account for its basis in terms of moral and political reasoning. This can lead to some moments of exquisite comedy, as when he writes, “Teachers with an assimilationist ideology will most likely teach a unit on the U.S. Civil War differently than will teachers with a multicultural ideology.” He is thinking of the ‘perspectives’ of slaves and Indians, but a truly multicultural teacher might well begin with a lesson infused with empathy for the slaveholders. 

    Banks concludes with several “principles for teaching and learning in a multicultural society.” Among them is the recommendation that “the curriculum should help students understand that knowledge is socially constructed,” along with the complaint that “students often study historical events, concepts, and issues only or primarily from the points of view of the victors.” “This kind of teaching privileges mainstream students—who most often identify with the victors or dominant groups—and cause many students of color to feel left out of the American story.” Since students of color most likely benefit from a revolution animated by the principle, ‘all men are created equal’; since they also benefit from a civil war in which the winners abolished slavery; since they benefit from victory over the Axis in the Second World War; since they benefit from the victory of the civil rights movement over proponents of laws segregating the races, it might be argued that the perspective of the winners can be quite salubrious. British imperialists, Southern oligarchs, Nazi tyrants, and ‘unreconstructed’ white bigots were the ones who were “silenced, ignored, or marginalized” by those victories. Neither triumphalism nor the valorization of the defeated will be encouraged by a ‘social-studies’ pedagogy affirming natural rights and the kind of regimes that secure them.

     

     

    Note

    1. For a discussion of ‘values clarification’ and its roots in John Dewey’s educational theories, see Paul Eidelberg and Will Morrisey: Our Culture ‘Left’ or ‘Right’: Littératteurs Confront Nihilism (Lewiston: The Edwin Mellen Press, 1992, pp. 101-122.

    Filed Under: American Politics

    The Statesmanship of Word and Deed: Abraham Lincoln

    December 29, 2021 by Will Morrisey

    Diana Schaub: His Greatest Speeches: How Lincoln Moved the Nation. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2021.

     

    The distinction between speech and deed concerns the statesman somewhat in the way the distinction between theory and practice concerns the philosopher. The Greek word logos means both speech and the reason that can make speech coherent, make speech truly itself. If Plato takes preeminence among philosophers who consider the relation between logos and praxis, Abraham Lincoln may have earned that honor among statesmen. Or so one might well think, after reading Diana Schaub’s magisterially attentive meditation on his three “greatest speeches,” the Address to the Young Men’s Lyceum at Springfield, Illinois, the Gettysburg Address, and the Second Inaugural Address. In those speeches, Lincoln intended to recover the American Union, “re-conjoining word and deed, promise and performance,” without muddling them together in sophistical or demagogic appeals to passion. Reasoned speech requires thoughts and words free from contradiction; sophistry, the deliberate attempt to confuse minds, and demagoguery, the deliberate attempt to inflame them, both stand as perennial enemies of statesmanship and philosophy, including political philosophy. More profoundly and therefore more dangerously, certain schools of philosophy, gaining momentum in the universities during Lincoln’s lifetime, attempted to ‘synthesize’ theory and practice. These philosophic doctrines of ‘immanence’—melding thought and speech and deed in accordance with a new kind of logic which posits and then claims to overcome all contradictions in theory and in practice—brought on a politics not of statesmanship but of ‘leadership,’ a politics practiced by politicians who sought to persuade the rest of us that that they marched on the ‘cutting edge of History.’ Tyrannies hard and soft have resulted. By keeping straight the distinction between the natural rights of human beings discoverable by reason and the civil or conventional rights which may not fully protect those natural rights in practice, Lincoln, resisted the characteristic tyranny of the American regime of his time, the tyranny of slave-holding, based on the claim that human beings may rightly be owned by other human beings who enjoy neither a right to property themselves nor, allegedly, a property in their natural rights. If, as the Declaration states, governments are instituted to secure those unalienable but violable rights, and if tyrannical souls always live among us, ever ready to deploy the arts of sophistry and demagogy in their quest for unanswered rule, beckoning us to depart from “the timeless principles of self-government” as a prelude to replacing it with government by themselves without our consent, then “Lincoln’s greatest speeches matter as intensely today as when first delivered,” 

    There is, Schaub writes, a “necessary sequence of logos and praxis, the way in which our saying leads to our doing.” This introduces the element of timing into statesmanship. In politics as in warfare and love, timing matters. Lincoln’s three speeches address three crucial dates when the course of events in America turned: 1787 (the framing of the U.S. Constitution), 1776 (the issuing of the Declaration of Independence), and 1619 (the introduction of African slaves with the earliest English colonial settlements, an act that inflected both subsequent acts). In each of those years, persons who were founding new political communities chose between liberty and tyranny. Lincoln notices the distinction between chronos and kairos—natural time and the ‘revealed’ or ‘providential’ time marked when we date our years from the birth of Christ. And, just as the philosophers of ‘immanence’ would synthesize theory and practice, so they would synthesize natural and providential time, claiming that the course of events, now re-named ‘History,’ unfolds logically or ‘dialectically’ over time, leading to the End Time, the End of History, not as the culmination of a plan conceived by a Creator-God, a holy God, separate from His creation and from the events He guides within it, but as the culmination, the purpose, of the dialectical unfolding of the ‘Absolute Spirit,’ embodied in a nature that evolves toward that purpose. Lincoln is no historicist, neither a ‘progressive’ nor a ‘declinist.’

    The Lyceum Address concerns 1787 but it also invokes the memory of the president of the Constitutional Convention and his later Farewell Address, “verbal echoes” from which Schaub rightly detects in Lincoln’s speech. In that speech, George Washington calls America’s Constitutional union, these United States, “a main Pillar in the Edifice of your real independence,” as distinct from but motivated by the independence-in-speech seen in the Declaration. Washington calls the Union “a main prop of your liberty,” your self-government. Lincoln remarks the decay of some of these pillars and props. They have decayed because the sectionalism Washington warned against, regional factionalism, has corroded them. As Washington upholds the Union by urging his fellow citizens to obey the law, and especially the supreme law of the land, the Constitution, calling this “sacredly obligatory upon all,” Lincoln urges the citizens of his time to make reverence for the Constitution and the laws enacted under it their “political religion.” And as Washington warns “against the dangerous effects of ‘the strongest passions’ and the “cunning, ambitious, and unprincipled men” who would “usurp for themselves the reins of Government,” so Lincoln “disparages passion—calls it “our enemy”—and puts us on guard against the unbounded ambition of the republic-destroyers. Both statesmen regard virtue as indispensable to perpetuating America’s political institutions; institutions do not maintain themselves, however prudently designed they may be. “It is on this score especially that Lincoln’s address is the more profound one,” Schaub writes, “cut[ting] deeper in its analysis of the passions of both the few and the many, deeper in its grappling with the human temptation to tyranny, deeper in its portrait of the mob and its motived, deeper in its understanding of public opinion, and, consequently, deeper in its rhetorical presentation.”

    It is also important to notice Lincoln’s seemingly passing remark on the value of the American land, the territory ruled by the self-governing people. It is the most important feature of nature for Americans, aside from their human nature. “We find ourselves in the peaceful possession of the fairest portion of the earth, as regards extent of territory, fertility of soil, and salubrity of climate.” The youths he addresses know what he’s talking about. They know that the American Midwest consists of an immense expanse of rich soil crisscrossed by a river system that reaches south to the Gulf of Mexico. No other continent has that, and by the 1830s Americans now govern it and farm it, having ousted the many societies and replaced them with one unified federal state—a giant free trade zone. The political institutions he would have his fellow citizens perpetuate guard them from tyranny and their land from war. But those institutions now face the peril of lawlessness which, unchecked, will undermine not only those institutions but the prosperous way of life the institutions support. Although (with some exaggeration) he denies that the land can be seized by any foreigner or alliance of foreigners, homegrown disunion is another matter. For his part, Washington had devoted the second half of his Farewell Address to elaborate a foreign policy of nonintervention in foreign wars, the eschewal of inveterate hatreds and habitual affections for foreign nations; Lincoln’s America faced no such threat in the 1830s, its foreign policy limited to dealing with the weak and disunited Amerindian nations and tribes, and to the question of tariffs on foreign goods. But that favorable condition could change if disunion provided an opportunity for foreign powers to play divide-and-conquer in North America, as they had done with the Indians in the previous century.

    Lincoln would have Americans understand their circumstance as a sort of account book, a ledger in which they owe moral debts to the men who wrote the law that constituted their federal government, the means of their self-government in a republican regime wherein the lawmakers represent the people. Thanks to the Founders, Americans have legally inherited a portion of nature, the American land, and a government of liberty, a “political edifice,” a work of art, a convention that secures for them that land and secures—for most of them—another portion of nature, the rights inherent in their own nature as human beings. In guaranteeing the natural right of the people peaceably to assemble, the Constitution or supreme law of the land distinguishes “the people” from “a mob.” Mob violence is Lincoln’s immediate concern in the Address. For Lincoln (pace, Dr. King), “democratic citizenship does not admit of ‘civil’ disobedience,” since (as the Apostle Paul insists, speaking of monarchs) even unjust laws must be obeyed until repealed, lest acts even of righteous disobedience descend the slippery slope to unrighteous ones, animated by a spirit of disrespect for laws in general, preventing the perpetuation of our political institutions.

    Schaub carefully distinguishes between perpetuation and conservation or preservation. To conserve or preserve, say, a bowl of cherries “involve[s] altering the original…as a hedge against future need.” But to perpetuate is to keep something as it originally was, “to cause it to endure indefinitely.” “Lincoln’s subject of perpetuation requires an inquiry into the nature of time and causation. It hints at metaphysical as well as political questions.” Lincoln chooses the word with prudent irony respecting practice, too. The most impassioned advocates of slavery were called the “Perpetualists,” Schaub recalls. “Lincoln countered that the perpetuity of the Union could be secured only by placing slavery back where the founders had originally placed it, namely, ‘in the course of ultimate extinction.'” This, for the protection not only of American’s liberty but also for the protection of their ‘geography,’ their territory, the material foundation of their prosperity. 

    Americans secure their liberty through the political institutions Lincoln seeks to perpetuate. Mob rule threatens those institutions. The Framers famously separated three branches of government, assigning to each a distinct power. The lawless, wild, and furious judgments of worse than savage mobs, combine executive, legislative, and judicial functions in one set of hands—Thomas Jefferson’s definition of tyranny. What the mobs, and the spirit of mobs, would amalgamate in destructive passion Lincoln would separate in accordance with the spirit of reason, of making distinctions, of thinking on the lines of the principle of non-contradiction. Just as he distinguishes theory from practice, speech from deed, so in his address he insists on life-saving and liberty-saving dualities, dualities that exist not only perpetually, ‘abstractly,’ but over time, in the course of events, never to be synthesized in a grand culmination of that course, but always present, as the course is always present. And so “Lincoln gives two very different accounts of the founding generation; he gives two very different accounts of the lynchings that occurred in Mississippi and St. Louis; analytically, he divides the effects of mob rule into two categories (direct and indirect); he discerns two types of danger (current and prospective) and, accordingly, offers two different solutions (reverence and reason); finally, he examines the problem of the passions in its different manifestations in the few and the many (those timeless political categories)” which instance themselves throughout time.

    Schaub takes up “the most dramatic of these doublings,” his “stories of mob rule in action,” first. Lincoln concedes that the victims of the mobs deserved to die. This concession “disposes his audience to listen to him by validating their instinctive hostility to wrongdoers”; at the same time, “he renders their concern with justice less heatedly angry and more coolly calculative,” in part by adding a touch of humorous understatement to his narratives and by leaving race out of them. In a very Washingtonian move, “rather than appealing altruistically to their concern for others, he appeals instead to their self-interest, but in a way that demonstrates the linkage between [the vigilantes’ and their defenders’] self-interest and the cause of law-abidingness,” showing that people blinded by rage might turn on some of their own, and then on “the truly innocent.” Worst of all, “since popular opinion was in sympathy with their conception of justice the perpetrators went unpunished,” onlookers who have no sense of justice at all take heart. The “lawless in spirit” will then become “lawless in practice,” and the vigilantes, who “meant to crack down on crime,” embolden criminals. Seeing this, good citizens lose confidence in the regime of republicanism, since “the really dangerous opportunists are not the petty criminals but the tyrannically inclined,” the ultimate enemies of the rule of law and of republican self-government, to whom the desperate people will look “for deliverance” from lawlessness. Under these conditions, “‘We the People’ become willing to trade anarchic liberty for despotic security, or at least the demagogic promise of it.” In their passionate fear of lawlessness, they will fall prey to those who speak to them in the fake-rational accents of unreason. And he brings it all home to his listeners by citing a local instance of such violence, the murder of the Abolitionist publisher Elijah Lovejoy by a mob in Alton, Illinois, the previous year.

    What to do? “The solution is absolute law-abidingness” in practice and in sentiment. Inasmuch as the laws are their own, “democratic citizens should obey not out of fear but out of reverence.” Lincoln proposes the adoption of this reverence for the law as “the political religion of the nation”—the italics marking Lincoln’s acknowledgment of the strangeness of such a formulation in American ears, accustomed as they are to a religion that binds its adherents to the Kingdom of God in Heaven, no earthly kingdom or republic. Lincoln’s reasonable slippery-slope argument on the malign effects of lawlessness may be sound but it will not suffice; “he highlights the role of habituation and piety in shaping a deferential attitude toward the law.” He is asking students to think about education as part of his own effort to educate them to citizenship, to adulthood, to responsibility.

    And he sees the problem with this religion. “Law at its best seeks justice, but it is never identical to justice; moreover, sometimes law is used to establish and maintain injustice.” “Let me not be understood as saying there are no bad laws,” he concedes. “Not only was slavery legal in half the states of the union, but the entire nation was under a constitutional obligation to return fugitive slaves to bondage.” Nonetheless, “all disobedience,” including disobedience to bad laws, “is uncivil and destructive of civil government.” Washington and his colleagues had upheld their right to revolution, but revolution is uncivil, an appeal not to human law but to natural right. “Short of that exigency there is only acknowledgment of the majority’s legitimate power through its ballots to determine the motion of the body politic”; the majority rightly rules not because it is always right in its rule but because it has the “rightful authority” to rule, an authority “grounded in the truth of natural equality and its logical corollary, government by consent.” Even nonviolent civil disobedience violates civility; if Mohandas Gandhi or Martin Luther King can nullify a law, why not John C. Calhoun’s South Carolina? The same thing goes for abolitionists who peacefully break the fugitive slave law as well the mobs who murder them. However, Elijah Lovejoy acted as a publisher. He wasn’t breaking the law. “It might be possible to persuade even those who despised the abolitionists as fanatics that the promulgation of abolitionism is constitutionally protected speech.” This might then lead to asking “whether abolitionist doctrine is right or wrong.” And that in turn “would require the public to reflect on both the moral and the constitutional status of slaver, including the possibility of a disjunction between those two.” Lincoln here shows the way to reverse the slippery slope into lawlessness and tyranny, the way to climb back up that hill towards a civil way of life, a regime of liberty. He shows young men, that portion of the population most susceptible to impolitic passions, why they should want the reciprocal ruling and being-ruled of political life by showing them the attractions of being ‘politic’ or prudent, not boyish. At the same time, in other speeches, he showed politically immature abolitionists the error of their own ways, the folly of their often-inflammatory rhetoric, rhetoric which invites responses in kind from slaveholders—a dynamic that can only lead to disunion.

    Lincoln was far from unmindful of the immediate political circumstances in which he delivered his address. He was a Whig. Newly elected president Martin Van Buren, a Democrat, had delivered an inaugural address earlier in 1837 in which he viewed America’s future “without foreboding.” Van Buren put the entire blame for “local violence” on the backs of abolitionists. “For him the spirit of civility and compromise was to flow in one direction only. Deference, in word and deed, must be accorded the sensitivities of the slaveholders.” “Lincoln’s ultimate aim in the Lyceum Address is to dispel this democratic complacency,” which will exacerbate disunion, not prevent it. While democracy or majority rule flows from natural equality, when it oppresses the minority, it is an imperfect expression of it; democrats (and Democrats) need to see that. Two decades later, Lincoln would argue against Senator Stephen Douglas’s doctrine of ‘popular sovereignty’ in the newly settled American territories on these same grounds.

    Having raised the matter of majority rule and its relation to tyranny, “Lincoln now delves into that ancient staple of political thought: the distinction between the few and the many, including how that distinction affected the nation’s founding and how it will affect the future.” Looking back at the Founders, he “reveals that [the young Americans’] political ancestors were composed of two distinct human types, possessing divergent motives,” “two sets of animating passions.” In 1776 (and now Lincoln shifts his gaze to the revolution that issued in the Constitution, not ‘1787’ itself), the few, the Founders, were passionate for celebrity, fame, and distinction, whereas the many were united in the passions of hate for the British and revenge for injuries the British had inflicted upon them. These “self-serving passions,” ruling on the one hand the noblest, on the other hand the least noble minds, “were happily, but coincidentally, mustered for the cause of civil and religious liberty.” Both wanted popular self-government in America—an unproven “proposition,” not a self-evident truth, even if it rested upon self-evident truths. Securing self-evident natural rights may be the purpose of government, but can popular self-government do that? The Founders sought the glory that would attend to such a success, and until recently, during the lives of the founding generation, that glory itself proved a powerful motive for sustaining the proposition. The 1787 Constitution was designed to give future such lovers of fame pathways to celebrity and distinction that would keep the many safe from them, indeed, to engage the few in the task of continuing to secure the natural rights of the many. Separation of powers, checks and balances, federalism—these don’t suppress ambition but harness it “to the duties of office and the public good.” 

    Lincoln applauds the Framers’ work. The Constitution’s arrangement of ruling offices will indeed satisfy would-be Congressmen, governors, even presidents. But among these few there will number still rarer souls, those “(maybe just one) for whom even the highest office would be small potatoes,” one for whom the broad horizons of a large republic will seem painfully restrictive. An Alexander, a Caesar, a Napoleon (dead only a generation back) belong to “the family of the lion, or the tribe of the eagle.” “A natural predator behaves as if entitled to take what it likes,” as if a law unto itself. So much more will this “man-beast” who acts as if he’s a god, this “towering genius,” dismiss the protests of the many weaklings that he intends to put beneath him. (Indeed, as ‘King of Beasts,’ the lion must debase his human subjects.) It is noteworthy that family and tribe are sub-political groups; self-governing political communities consist of them, but are not reducible to them, unless disunion ruins those communities, giving the chieftains of those families or tribes, the warlords, a chance to elevate themselves to rule. [1] The tyrannical man-beast comes out of the less-than-political milieus of family and tribe, bringing his unpolitical habits with him as he quests for the supreme unpolitical, non-consensual office by means of deceptive speech and bold actions. 

    He can be stopped, but only if the many remain united with each other, attached to the government and the laws, and generally intelligent—smart enough to recognize an aspiring tyrant when they hear him. This generation lacks the passion of the people of the revolutionary generation, having no foreign enemy to hate (partly as a result of their representatives’ inclination to pursue Washington’s advice on permanent alliances). As for intelligence, they have no memory of the revolution or the revolutionaries, as nature in the form of death has silenced them in the march of time. The God of Biblical religion solves this dilemma by sending His Holy Spirit in the stead of His crucified and resurrected Son. For the American civil religion, Lincoln has proposed, is there a “political equivalent” of the Holy Spirit, who remains alive after the Apostles have died? Mere histories will not rekindle those passions; even the stories recorded in the Bible serve only as ways of sensitizing the reader’s mind to the presence of the Holy Spirit, who alone can turn a soul around. Lincoln points rather to the spirit of the laws, enunciated in “the fundamental charters that govern communal life,” where readers will follow the live thoughts of men now dead, think along their lines of thought, reason along with them. “A nation founded upon a text has an ever-renewable resource for perpetuity not available to other nations,” nations that rely on mere stories, traditions, which may come to seem irrelevant to life in changed circumstances.

    While “passion has helped us” up to now, Lincoln says, it “can do so no more,” and will soon “be our enemy,” incubator of lawlessness among the many, tyrants among the few. For the new generation of Americans, and for every generation after it, “a passionate and impassioning politics is likely to be divisive.” Unlike speakers who tell the young to ‘find your passion,’ Lincoln invites them to find it and then rule it with reason. We otherwise fall into “hyper-partisanship, hate-filled invective, insufferable self-righteousness, and general nastiness.” Add divisions based on territory, on land, and you head for civil war. Lincoln does not foolishly imitate the Enlightenment philosophes who imagined the rule of reason (and of self-conceived ‘philosophers’) simpliste. He persuades as Washington did, by invoking moral sentiments, mixing rational judgment with feeling, but avoiding passions, which would overbear reason. (Even compassion, seemingly so commendable, “quite naturally provokes anger at those who cause the suffering” which the compassionate soul feels along with the sufferer.) While “the old props” for American constitutional republicanism “were the passions of the few and the many during the revolutionary period” and beyond it, now we need “pillars rather than props”—pillars made of the “sober reason” recoverable by reading the writings of the Founders. “Self-government in the collective depends on self-government within the self,” on the rule of reason in individual souls. The call for reverence for the laws, for “political religion,” “nest[s] within this more comprehensive call for reason.” That is “political reverence is itself an instantiation of reason.” When Lincoln advises the young fathers-to-be to “let reverence for the laws be breathed by every American mother to the lisping babe”—struggling to learn to speak, and eventually to reason—who “prattles in her lap,” he puts the natural reverence of the child who “literally looks up, in love and fear, to its mother” in the service of “political reverence,” which “must be deliberately inculcated,” taught in homes and in young men’s lyceums. This won’t be a family of the lion or the lioness but a family of men and women who know that they need security beyond what the family can provide.

    Lincoln ends his Lyceum Address with a paean not to a mother but a father, a father with no natural offspring of his own but with political offspring—to George Washington, the Father of his Country. Let us revere “his name to the last,” so that ‘during his long sleep,” we have permitted “no hostile foot to pass over or desecrate his resting place.” This parallels Lincoln’s assurance at the beginning of his address that the foot of no foreign conqueror will ever do that. If American sons of Washington remain true to him, no native foot will desecrate his resting place, either; no factious, uncivil warrior will overturn the regime that aims at securing unalienable rights for its citizens. Schaub remarks that such an awakening of Washington from his grave will require “the Second Coming of Christ” and the fulfillment of “the Christian promise of the resurrection of the body and the life everlasting,” whereby the perpetuation of American political institutions will no longer be necessary. But until that day, it will be. “Lincoln suggests that the political order must contend against the same forces of sin and death that have characterized the human situation since the fall of mankind. The new pillars of intelligence, morality, and constitutional reverence, ‘hewn from the solid quarry of sober reason,’ are the political analogue to the rock of Peter.”

    What of Lincoln himself? Edmund Wilson, along with a host of others, accused him of being the Alexander, the Caesar, the Napoleon, the man-beast tyrant of America. And indeed, what would inspire a man of Lincoln’s towering genius (to say nothing of his towering height as a physical giant among the men of his generation) to work for the perpetuation of our political institutions instead of his ascendancy over their wreckage? In his own Farewell Address, delivered at Springfield, Illinois before his departure for the White House in the city named after Washington, he told his friends that he faced a task “greater than that which rested upon Washington,” who had the passions of the few and the many on his side, the side of republicanism and natural right. This “greater task of saving the Union” can indeed satisfy the soul of him who is by nature of the family of the lion and the tribe of the eagle, but who finds family and tribe insufficient for the securing of those natural rights only governments of, by, and for the people can secure.

    The Gettysburg Address begins squarely with ‘1776.’ The Declaration of Independence moves from abstract truths in its major premises to particular facts in its minor premises to a logical conclusion stating actions to be taken. Lincoln’s much shorter address integrates “highly abstract” language (“there isn’t a proper noun to be found, with the single exception of God) with recollections of specific events, also ending with a logical conclusion. It begins with an unusual formulation, “four score and seven years ago.” Schaub explains this King James Bible language as Lincoln’s reminder to his listeners, many of them ardent readers of Scripture, that the United States has gone past the Biblically noted human lifespan of threescore and ten years, “forc[ing] us to wonder whether there are similar limits on the lifespan of mankind’s political collectives.” “Brought forth” is another Biblical locution, an image of childbirth, associated however not with bloodlines nor with autochthony (“ours is not a blood-and-soil patriotism”) but with ideas. The American ‘child’ was conceived in liberty, not in a bedroom, and dedicated (baptized, as it were) to a proposition, that all men are created equal. The separation from physical nature is completed by the thought that it was a group of fathers, not a mother, who gave birth to the American nation. In this, the Founders resemble Moses, the nursing father of Israel, giver of laws given him by the nursing, providential Father God. [2]

    Schaub remarks the double meaning of “conceived”: physical-sexual and mental-ideational, action and thought—distinct but related. “Before the nation could be brought forth into practical realization, it had to be thought of or imagined.” “The new nation was conceived not in sin or sorrow”—adultery or rape—but “in liberty.” Since liberty means self-government, not license, the conception of the United States was as immaculate as a human act can be.

    And the nation so conceived was dedicated to a proposition of human equality. Lincoln here departs from the Declaration, which calls equality a self-evident truth, evidently because human nature, with unalienable rights, was created by God, whereas the United States was made by men, who can at best dedicate themselves, and their nation, to that equality. In this sense, equality isn’t an axiom but “a theorem that must be demonstrated in practice.” In choosing “proposition” instead of “axiom,” Lincoln “wants to highlight the needfulness of translating an abstract truth into concrete political form.” Self-government is “the corollary of equality,” but as the mob rule of the 1830s and the attempted secession of the 1860s demonstrated, not all Americans share the Founders’ view, that “We hold these truths to be self-evident.” The slaveholders and their apologists denied that all men are created equal; the generational transmission of what should be self-evident truths had fallen prey to sophists and demagogues who confused minds and whipped up passions that left those truths implausible to many. The Founders held human equality to be self-evident; the British regime and their American partisans did not. In proclaiming independence, the Founders made the British regime and its partisans ‘foreign.’ By Lincoln’s time, however, the sons of the new republican regime of popular self-government themselves had factionalized, one side attempting to found a still newer regime on American soil, a regime dedicated to the proposition that all men are not created equal, that some rule by natural right over others. 

    “In his opening paragraph, in thirty words, Lincoln has performed an act of remembrance. His description of ‘our fathers’ is meant to make his audience reverential. But, at the same time, the generative imagery conveys the message that each successive cohort of Americans is essential to the maturation or completion of the founding. The needed proof is ongoing.” The proof has implications beyond America. “At stake is the very possibility of political life based on such premises…. The failure of the American experiment would constitute the failure of popular government altogether,” in view of the almost uniquely favorable conditions that prevail on the North American continent. If a president duly elected under the Constitution may be rejected by a substantial body of citizens, does that not amount to a rejection of the Constitution itself? Does secession, like mob rule, not imply anarchy, or perhaps the proof of force, of bullets, over proofs of reason, of ballots? “The dynamic of despotism was such that the rejection of first principles led inexorably to an assault not only on majority rule but on other constitutional rights as well”—an assault seen even before secession, in the censorship of abolitionist literature in the southern mails and the ‘gag rule’ in Congress. The defense of slavery finally required the planned death of civil liberty in America, the abortion of the nation conceived in liberty.

    What is being dedicated at Gettysburg is a cemetery, a house of the dead. But, as Schaub writes, Lincoln “goes to some lengths not to utter the word ‘cemetery,” calling it instead “a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation”—the one “so conceived and so dedicated”—might live. The resting place has been placed on a battlefield, a field of action, and that action must continue if that nation is to live. The battle itself had instanced a rare invasion of the Confederate troops on territory held by the Union, on the remaining land of liberty. If America has remained secure from foreign invasion, as Lincoln expected in the 1830s, it has not remained secure from internal invasion by troops commanded by a seditious faction. Altogether, Lincoln judges it “fitting and proper” to dedicate a part of the battlefield to those who have rested from the task of defeating the attempt to sunder the American republic and to deny the principles of that republic in theory and in practice, ruining the regime that makes the extensiveness, fertility, and salubrity of the American land serve the good of the people on it. Parts of that land, including Gettysburg, have become battlefields in the struggle over what regime will rule that land and that people.

    “But in a larger sense,” Lincoln writes, “we can not dedicate—we can not consecrate—we can not hallow—this ground.” Schaub calls Lincoln’s “But” “the most significant use of the word in the literature of the English-speaking peoples.” It was the action of the soldiers, not the words uttered by the speakers and heard by the audience, which has already dedicated, consecrated, and hallowed it. “Lincoln pivots from words to deeds.” As a speaker who is also a doer, Lincoln would emphasize we in each segment of that segment, three ‘we’s’ that parallel the three he’d enunciated in the previous paragraph, where he said, “we are engaged in a great civil war,” “we are met on a great battlefield of that war,” and “we have come to dedicate a portion of that field.” In that paragraph, he called attention to our actions, things “we” have successfully done; in this third paragraph he calls attention to the inadequacy of speech alone to accomplish the ends it proposes. Unlike the consecration of the host in the Roman Catholic Church, words have yet to be made flesh in American; God has created all men equal in their rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, but dedication to securing that equality in a political regime has not sufficed to such a securing. Lincoln therefore “speaks for practical effect,” urging his listeners to put the words of the Declaration into practice. “Lincoln, like Pericles before him in his Funeral Oration, must redirect the energies of his audience to something more productive than mourning.” He wants Americans not so much to dedicate a cemetery to those who can no longer act but to dedicate themselves to right action in “the cause of self-government,” a cause “proper to us as Americans, and proper to us as free and equal human beings.” In so doing, he “remind[s] the listener of the essential similarity of the living and the dead,” whose cause is the same as our cause. “We must act as they did. It is not enough for the nation to have been dedicated or for the cemetery to be dedicated; we must be dedicated.” Lincoln thereby turns the truths of the Declaration (it was, after all, only a declaration) “into a task.” 

    To do this, he begins with the dedication of the nation and of the cemetery, moves to the devotion to the cause seen in the actions of the dead soldiers, and finally to resolution: “that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.” Schaub observes, “whether used as a verb or a noun,” ‘resolve’ “is a practical word that has both mathematical and political applications.” Legislative assemblies pass resolutions; mathematicians solve problems, prove or disprove propositions. Here and now, “the answer to the question of whether the nation will endure is to be found through resolve. To be effective, dedication and devotion must take the form of resolve,” replacing unsteady and often self-contradictory passions. In real life, in which the rational laws of Nature and of Nature’s God prevail, there’s no such thing as a lion-eagle. Tyranny is incoherent.

    To be untyrannical, civil laws must comport with natural laws. As Lincoln maintained in the Lyceum Address, there can be bad laws. If all laws were bad, if law itself were bad, no one would reverence them and no one would resolve to obey them. Behind any set of laws stands the regime that enacted them. “Lincoln’s fidelity to republicanism is visible…in the trusting manner by which he addresses fellow citizens”; “letting them know what needs to be done and how it can be done, he leaves it to them.” At Gettysburg he talks about these dead and us, the living, but not about himself. Today, “humility has disappeared as an element of rhetoric” (Muhammad Ali put a stake in it) but it is “in no way at odds with loftiness of aim.” “After all, mere personal fame and fortune are not particularly lofty, whereas the achievement of self-government is.” The Union, the nation under God, and the republican regime are all greater than even Lincoln, and Lincoln knows it. 

    Lincoln even submits himself to the laws of grammar. He is “a master of prepositions,” those words that indicate “the relations between things.” Such relations are not synthetic; the things retain their integrity, even and in some cases especially in relation to one another. His best-remembered set of prepositions is “government of the people, government by the people, government for the people.” Schaub “giv[es] these relations a Lockean gloss,” suggesting that government of the people refers to the social contract, the consent of the governed, that government by the people refers to the form consent takes “in a constitutional democracy,” and government for the people means government for the people’s benefit, for the common good. Such government is never ‘over’ the people. Another possibility is that government of the people means exactly that: the people are governed, but they govern themselves. The people both rule and are ruled—Aristotle’s definition of politics strictly speaking. They govern themselves for their own good, to secure their unalienable natural rights with conventional laws. 

    The problem has been that “the people” have excluded slaves from the regime. The “new birth of freedom” the nation—now more fully understanding what God requires of the nation that lives under Him—will now recognize “the civic claims of black Americans” and do so, it should be noticed, not only by abolishing slavery and the laws that buttressed it but by changing the regimes of slaveholding—oligarchies with aristocratic pretensions—which had prevented the United States from being a fully republican regime. “The principle for which the war was fought was the principle of free elections,” the principle that prefers ballots to bullets, the legal set of actions that bespeaks freedom. The old birth of freedom acknowledged the universality of natural rights but did not fully embody it; its conception was right, but the child was bound too tightly by the swaddling clothes. As Schaub nicely puts it, “the liberty of the opening” of the Address “was associated with conception, not birth, whereas freedom itself is now the thing born.” Now, “the original conception in liberty could progress toward the actual birth of freedom as a consequence of the renewed dedication to equality.” In this regard, one good effect Lincoln had a fellow American was to bring Walt Whitman to his senses or, more precisely, to his right mind. In his poetry, Whitman famously intoned, “Do I contradict myself? Very well, I contradict myself. I am large, I contain multitudes.” Yet when thinking of the emancipation of American slaves, when thinking as it were prosaically, he called it “that parturition and delivery of our at last really free Republic, born again, henceforth to commence its career of genuine homogeneous Union, compact, consistent with itself”—no longer self-contradictory. Lincoln might be said to write prose poetry, poetry governed by reason not impassioned effusion.

    “It’s important to remember that the freedom Lincoln heralds is an infant freedom, in need of further maturation.” It will need Constitutional amendments to solemnize it. For its maturation it will also need to acquire “moral and intellectual virtue through the disciplines of habit and study,” since “as a nation, we have done better in extending freedom than in educating for it.” Lincoln began this task at the Young Men’s Lyceum and continued it as president. 

    The supreme teacher is God. “According to Lincoln, the superintendence of God plays a role in the new birth of freedom.” His “hint here of a politically active, justice-seeking, providential order, setting certain limits upon human action, will come to fruition in his Second Inaugural,” to which Schaub now turns.

    “If Gettysburg is Lincoln’s war speech, then the Second Inaugural is his peace speech”—peace being the purpose of war, as Aristotle teaches. “Just as he fought the war with resolution rather than fervor, he wages the peace with charity rather than pride.” Lincoln knows that Biblical charity differs from mere material generosity or liberality; it means loving the good for other persons. Charity thus requires knowing that person as he really is, knowing what the good is, and knowing what the good is for that person. In 1865, reconciliation of the American factions “requires truth-telling and an inquiry into the cause of the war.” It requires education. In a later speech, Lincoln will make equal education of whites and newly freed blacks a central task of Reconstruction, as he planned it, along with conferral of the right to vote on the freedmen.

    In our own days, the New York Times (which I understand to be a newspaper published in New York City’s Borough of Manhattan) has formulated an educational curriculum called the 1619 Project. Schaub judges that “the Second Inaugural is the original and better 1619 Project.” While both ‘projects’ “share the conviction that Americans must fully feel and acknowledge the nation’s foundational wrong,” slavery, Lincoln’s version is superior in “historical accuracy,” “psychological realism,” and “political prudence.” He takes account of obstacles to reconciliation, which included “the temptations of northern moralistic arrogance, southern regressive resentment, white race hatred, and Black rage”—none of which have disappeared in the near century and a half since Lincoln wrote. By interpreting the war in a way “designed to blunt the force of each of these passions,” Lincoln follow “the spirit of reparative atonement.”

    Once again, the word “I” enjoys no prominence. And unlike the Gettysburg Address, the Second Inaugural doesn’t use “we” very often, either. This time, the noteworthy word is “all.” The war was ‘us-versus-them,’ as any war must be. The peace speech “is a speech about the whole, about how to put ‘the whole population’ of a fractured country together.” Here as before, he shapes “public sentiment,” that “conjoining of judgment and feeling,” now to “support the practical and immensely difficult work ahead.” To do so, he directs American minds to consideration of the past, initially to the time of the First Inaugural in 1861. He recalls that at that time “no one wanted war,” that the conflict “was over the Union,” that the unwanted war came anyway as a result of actions taken and choices made, and finally that the war was therefore no accident but the “logical result” of those actions and choices. In considering the actions and choices of that time, he clearly favors the Unionists while still assigning some moral responsibility for the war to them.

    What, then, caused the war? It wasn’t immediately a war of religion, since both sides, as Lincoln puts it, “read the same Bible, and pray to the same God,” invoking “His aid against the other.” The war came instead from a difference of opinion over slavery. Although “slavery and color are entwined with one another” in America, Lincoln “does not use the word ‘race,’ characteristically inviting his readers to think of a difference between peoples that is “only skin deep.” He describes slavery as “a peculiar interest,” a condition whereby, in Schaub’s elaboration, “human beings become a commodity in which other human beings”—the “oligarchic few”—hold “an economic interest.” In a speech delivered before he became president, he had “described how the meaning of the Declaration was obscured by the lust for profit: ‘the plainest print cannot be read through a gold eagle,'” the coin of the American realm at that time. If the few are of the tribe of nature’s eagle in a grandly dangerous sense, the many are of the tribe of conventional eagle in a petty but in some way no less dangerous sense, at least when it comes to countenancing slavery, and therefore tyranny, in their midst. Lincoln now declares, “All knew that this interest was, somehow, the cause of the war,” and in honesty every American should understand this to be true, despite the niaiseries of the Confederacy’s defenders, then and now, who pretend it was all a conflict over ‘states’ rights.’ (States’ rights to be sure, but the states’ rights to do what, if not to enact and preserve laws enforcing slavery? No one familiar with the Congressional debates of the 1850s can honestly believe that slavery wasn’t the issue that divided the American house.)

    “Lincoln now declares that the abolition of slavery is more fundamental than a Confederate victory would have been, even though such a victory would have dealt a death blow to the nation and a devastating blow to the cause of self-government.” Popular governments had failed before, and have failed since, but “a war fought between white citizens over the fate of Black slaves that leads to the emancipation of four million men, women and children is something both ‘fundamental and astounding.'” One is tempted to call it ‘exceptional.’ 

    But what has God to do with it? During the war, in their prayers, Unionists and Secessionists alike have “weaponized” “the bond of Christian belief,” praying to the one God to rally to “their side.” Midway through the speech, Lincoln makes religion “the main topic,” as he attempts “to reverse this partisan appropriation of divine power.” But if reverence for the laws could be offered as America’s civil religion in the 1830s, that will no longer suffice during a civil war, when a faction has broken the supreme law of the land by sundering the Union. Religion must now address the condition of war. True enough, “God may be the God of Battles, but not in the sense traditionally understood and invoked.” First, the God of the Bible makes the curse of Adam, that he shall work by the sweat of his brow, universal. If you do not work by the sweat of your brow but coerce others to work for you, you are a tyrant and no faithful lover of God or of neighbor. Work is the means of liberty in this post-lapsarian world. Free labor brings what human beings may in this life enjoy when it comes to hope, energy, progress, and improvement; free labor cultivates thought, empowering reason to rule in practice. This implies a firm if toned-down judgment against slavery. But also, “Judge not that ye be not judged,” a Biblical monition Lincoln aims at the victorious Unionists. He wants no triumphalism among the winners, who have also lost many of their own sons. In both the Lyceum Address and the Second Inaugural, Lincoln urges his fellow citizens to understand self-government as the rule of reason, the rule of the distinctively human capacity, despite the radical change in circumstance that nearly three decades of political turmoil, civil and uncivil have wrought. 

    “How to explain these unanswered prayers?” It could be that there is no God to hear them, but Lincoln “either rejects or suppresses this atheistic possibility.” God doesn’t always answer our prayers because His purposes are not our purposes and, absent revelation, we don’t know what those purposes are. In the Civil War, “God’s intention has disclosed itself slowly and through our mutual suffering.” That suffering has indeed been mutual, an experience that unites rather dividing us, because all human beings have sinned, and rightly suffer. “While using religion for political purposes, Lincoln does so to encourage humility rather than pride or certainty,” the way we sinners prefer to use it. Slavery, Lincoln tells his fellow citizens, has not been “Southern slavery or African slavery but ‘American Slavery'”; sin “belongs to the nation, the punishment is meted out to both North and South.” Northerners didn’t own slaves who harvested cotton and tobacco, but they wore the first and smoked the second; in fact, even free blacks (one in ten of all black Americans) enjoyed those privileges, too. “Lincoln’s strategy is to nationalize the wrong,” not “to racialize it.” He invites all Americans to pray not for victory, which by now was nearly assured, but for peace. 

    One might still ask, was the suffering God inflicted upon Americans just? How can such an immense punishment, more than Americans would suffer in the two world wars of the next century, be the act of a just God? Lincoln replies that God has been not only just but merciful. Have Americans shed as much blood in shooting and cutting each other as have been drawn by the slaveholder’s lash? Hardly. And “the shedding of blood is fundamentally not an assault on a body but on a being made in the image of God,” whose injuries the God who made him might well in justice avenge. Have they spent as much treasure in this war as they accumulated “by the bond-man’s two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil,” since he first was brought here to Jamestown, Virginia in 1619? No. With her usual perspicacity, Schaub notes that Lincoln writes “bond-man” here, not “slave.” “Bond-man” is “an old English term” emphasizing the “personhood” of the servant. The King James Bible uses it “to remind the Hebrews of their deliverance,” as when the prophet tells them to “remember when thou wast a bondman in Egypt,” eventually “redeemed” by the LORD. Lincoln draws the analogies of the Israelites to African-American slaves and of the American people to Pharaoh. He might also be reminding Americans that they were bondmen in America, under ‘Pharaoh’ George III. If that civil war pitted English against English, this civil war, also a “war between brothers” in a House Divided, “is divine chastisement for the other brothers’—the Black brothers—enslavement.” Had they not suffered even more severely than the American English had suffered at the hands of the men the Declaration calls “our British brethren”?

    Schaub suspects that Lincoln learned of the malign inheritance of 1619 from William Grimshaw’s History of the United States. Grimshaw writes about the Dutch slavers who sold slaves purchased on the eastern coast of Africa to Virginia planters at that time, an event he describes as “a climax of human cupidity and turpitude.” He went on to describe the then-ongoing emancipation of slaves in the North to advocate an end to “domestic bondage in the remaining states, citing the words of the Declaration and the instruction of George Washington” in his Last Will and Testament to emancipate the slaves at Mount Vernon. Lincoln himself “consistently argued that political necessity left the founders no choice but to accommodate the pre-existing colonial injustice, even as they pronounced it a grievous wrong,” but in the Second Inaugural he now “adds the somber thought that submission to necessity does not negate the weight of the past and its moral obligation.” Unlike the current 1619 Project, however, which “argues that the nation is irredeemably racist, racist from the beginning and racist throughout,” Lincoln regards 1776 not as “a continuation of the spirit of 1619 but its antithesis, and that “1787, too, although pragmatic in its compromises, was anti-slavery in principle,” unlike the Confederate constitution of 1861, which “enshrined the spirit of 1619” by stipulating that no law “denying or impairing the right of property in negro slaves shall be passed,” and that “the institution of negro slavery, as it now exists in the Confederate States, shall be recognized and protected” not only in the existing Confederate states but by any subsequent territories annexed by that confederation. 

    Schaub pauses to remark that “we should never forget that the enslavement of Africans was a global phenomenon,” with the Arab-Muslim trade beginning more or less as soon as Muslims advanced into Africa, a millennium before 1619; of the 10.7 million Africans who survived their cruel shipment to the Americas, 3.6 percent went to North America, the remainder to Central and South America and the Caribbean.  Of those who came to the United States, the vast majority arrived between 1810 and 1860; this “means that roughly 80 percent of those ever enslaved in North America were freed in consequence of the Civil War. The price was high: “One soldier died for every seven persons enslaved from 1619 to 1865; and one soldier died for every six persons freed by the 13th Amendment.” Even then, Lincoln implied, not every drop of blood “drawn from the lash” had been repaid by the blood of Americans; were it so, the judgment of the Lord would remain “true and righteous altogether.” 

    Southern theologians and laity alike didn’t like the sound of that. They explained away their losses in the war as a test of God’s chosen people, not as punishment for their sins. “Lincoln does what he can to help southerners admit their error,” but (as it happened) to little more effect than his plea in the First Inaugural for southerners not to secede had had. 

    Undeterred, Lincoln ends his speech by calling on Americans to “strive on to finish the work we are in” in the spirit of malice toward none, charity for all. “The aim of the speech has been to arrive at this call to action,” in that spirit—in Schaub’s words, “to imbue the demands of duty with an overarching spirit of kindness and patience.” Having “started with all Unionists in the first paragraph,” he expands “all” to both Unionists and Disunionists in the second, widens it to include “the slaves and their stolen labor” in the third. “Finally, Lincoln calls on his listeners to feel ‘charity for all,’ to strive ‘to do all’ that accords with peace properly understood, closing with a global extension to all nations”: in Lincoln’s words, “to do all which may achieve and cherish a just, and a lasting peace, among ourselves, and with all nations.” Charity and peace: the Second Inaugural, with its new birth or baptism at the price of blood sacrifice, is America’s ‘new testament.’ [3]

     

    Notes

    1. Lion and eagle together make a griffin, the mythological being depicted in Christian iconography as the beast of the Apocalypse. On a more down-to-earth level, the lion is a predator on land, the eagle a predator from the air who attacks and devours the groundlings. These are predators the rich American land might support. For a consideration of the predator-tyrant at sea, Melville’s Moby-Dick may be consulted. The tyrant of the sea turns out not to be the whale but the man, Ahab, aided by his demonic familiars.
    2. For further discussion of Lincoln’s Biblical allusions on this point, especially Numbers 11, see Will Morrisey: Self-Government, The American Theme: Presidents of the Founding and Civil War (Lanham: Lexington Books, 2003, 178-179. 
    3. See Ibid. 180-181.

     

    Filed Under: American Politics

    Washington Politics during World War Two

    December 7, 2021 by Will Morrisey

    Nancy Beck Young: Why We Fight: Congress and the Politics of World War II. Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2013.

    H. G. Nicholas, ed.: Washington Dispatches 1941-1945: Weekly Reports from the British Embassy. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1981.

     

    The military, geopolitical, and diplomatic history of the Second World War may be described as familiar. But the war years also saw an important shift in American domestic government, whereby the New Dealers’ administrative state, envisioned by President Wilson and established by President Roosevelt, was firmly cinched in. Nancy Beck Young provides a scholarly overview of this task. The eminent Oxford philosopher and political observer Isaiah Berlin, who wrote the Dispatches for British Foreign Secretary Anthony Eden, offers a week-by-week account of these goings-on, along with any other “attitudes and movements of opinion in the USA considered to be of importance to Anglo-American relations.” Young’s account affirms Berlin’s preliminary assessment, that “the war transformed normal life in the United States far less than in the United Kingdom”; that whereas in Great Britain “everything was centralized and totally subordinated to the war effort…in the USA this was not so; that political and economic life to a considerable degree continued as before, and that this fact, in particular some of the pressures and internecine feuds between individuals and power blocs, inherited from the New Deal and even earlier times, continued to characterize it, and themselves affected the war effort”; this was especially so respecting “the attitude of Congress, which in this respect was very different from that of Parliament.” It could hardly have been otherwise, given the separation of executive and legislative powers in the United States Constitution. This notwithstanding, as Young, with the advantage of hindsight, can see much more clearly than Berlin, under the contentious surface of Washington politics at this time the delegation of power from Congress to administrative agencies was being prepared; the Supreme Court, evidently chastened by FDR’s landslide election victories, would draw back from its forthright defense of the Locke-Madison nondelegation doctrine in the years after the war. In doing so, it would attempt to ‘constitutionalize’ a fourth branch of government, now called ‘the administrative state.’

    During these years, Young writes, “members of Congress fought two wars, the well-known war against the Axis powers and the less well-known war about the New Deal.” In the latter conflict, “moderates and conservatives” in Congress “use[d] World War II to revise the New Deal” in a struggle “about the nature of the state,” a struggle that limited the New Deal regime but also preserved it. Young forthrightly describes the New Deal as “a revolution,” one that “the legislative branch redefined in the decade following its creation,” a redefinition issuing in “the vital center warfare state liberalism of the 1950s.” The scaling back of the New Deal was essential “to institutionalize the New Deal economic order.” This became possible because Congress saw a regime-based factional disputes between “hardcore conservatives and liberals (New Dealers),” a circumstance in which moderates could position themselves to serve as a balance-wheel between the two sides, thereby establishing “the dominant patterns for postwar politics: the solidification but never complete acceptance of New Deal statism” wherein debate continued “about the scale, scope, and purpose of the federal government.” 

    Although Keynesian economics and economic regulation thereby survived, such “social issues” as refugee policy, racial discrimination, and “hunting Communist spies” persisted unresolved, as they “were not important enough for moderates [in Congress] to waste their political capital on, especially when struggles about the economy were intense, and, from their perspective, more relevant to the war effort.” The regnant Democratic Party itself factionalized on the non-economic issues, with Southern Democrats (for example) successfully resisting attempts to end legal segregation in their region. And even on economics, while Southern and Western Democrats supported the New Deal generally, they resented the use of “their regions as colonial economies for the northeast,” as mere sources of raw materials for industrial capitalists and workers there. Meanwhile, among conservative Republicans and Democrats, the efforts of some at “overcoming isolationism, a key component of conservatism since the end of World War I, proved to be the biggest obstacle” to unity. The Pearl Harbor attack weakened isolationism for the remainder of the war, and the threat of Soviet communism kept it in abeyance for the duration of the Cold War that followed. Conservatives were thus freed to concentrate their minds on preventing “the federal government leviathan from becoming permanent and eliminating individual economic liberty,” a threat they saw in President Roosevelt’s use of executive orders not as means of enforcing Congressional legislation but as “a device for unilateral policymaking initiatives”—a tactic Senator Robert Taft of Ohio saw as an attempt to make Congress “the mere shell of a legislative body.” Indeed, during the war Congress increasingly turned less to legislating and more to overseeing executive branch activities, with committees investigating the conduct of the war and the presence of Communists in the federal government. 

    The economic dimension of the New Deal regime centered on what Young calls “resource management, especially taxation and price control.” In their opposition to this, “conservative congressmen learned, much to their chagrin, that the New Deal was too powerful to be erased, while liberal congressmen lamented it was not powerful enough to be expanded.” This “New Deal ethos”—meaning reliance on an activist regulatory government—became “a permanent part of the American polity, but in an altered form skewed away from welfare and toward warfare,” at least during the war years themselves. The struggle was nothing less than “a contest over the meaning of the Constitution in the twentieth century.” While “lawmakers compelled President Franklin D. Roosevelt and the mushrooming federal bureaucracy to scale back some of the more grandiose plans for empowering nonelected experts,” it “constructed a resource management policy regarding taxation and price control that made permanent a circumscribed but still activist state.” By the 1940s, a substantial number of Congressmen had grown “weary of the president,” but with “the coming of the war” they could scarcely enjoy “the luxury of divorcing themselves from the White House” and its resident Commander-in-Chief. “The war necessitated the political deference to the White House, but this short-term solution constituted an institutional mistake from a long-range perspective” by “further entrench[ing] a presidency-centered orientation to the federal government.” At the same time, the need to fight the common enemies overseas diluted the “ideological underpinnings” of the political struggles of the 1930s, bringing instead a “liberalism” that “was more pragmatic” and thus more palatable to moderates. Conservatives, who would have liked to use wartime Congressional committee investigations as means “to destroy the New Deal,” couldn’t go too far without being seen as hindrances to the war effort. Neither liberals nor conservatives could press the advantages they enjoyed as forcefully as they would have liked. 

    This notwithstanding, liberals had the edge. Although the Price Control Bill of 1941 and the Emergency Price Control Act of 1942 provoked “increasing hostility to the administration” in Congress, serious opposition proved impossible in the face of accusations that anyone who opposed these measures—which effectively transferred substantial lawmaking powers from Congress to federal agencies, substituting regulations for actual laws—was ‘objectively’ pro-fascist, obstructing the orderly conduct of the war by enabling war profiteers to rip off their fellow Americans. The New Dealers could continue “to operate over the separation of powers”; “Congressional Democratic success on resource management early in the war defined what was and was not possible in the highly charged partisan war over New Deal liberalism.” 

    The test came in the 1942 Congressional elections “The Republican Party ran against the domestic war effort,” with its “command economy” of rationing, price control, limits to commerce and trade. With full employment suddenly restored thanks to the war industries, the Democrats lost in their domestic saliency what they gained from patriotic sentiment. “Wage and price controls angered both workers and farmers, two key constituencies for the Democrats.” And even wartime patriotism proved a mixed blessing for New Dealers early in the war, since the United States and its allies met frightening battlefield reverses. As a result, conservative Republicans made substantial electoral gains, although Democrats maintained majorities in both houses. With New Deal liberals weakened, “moderates and conservatives forced a redefinition and constriction of liberalism away from the experimental approaches of the 1930s, previewing what would dominate domestic politics in the postwar years.” Whereas “FDR had originally planned for his 1943 State of the Union address to be a forceful brief for postwar domestic reform,” his allies in Congress and on the Supreme Court persuaded him that such an appeal “would be read as a declaration of war on Congress,” ruining his relations with it “for the duration of his tenure.” Hence FDR’s prudent rhetoric about how “Dr. New Deal” would now stand aside for “Dr. Win the War”—a change of physicians not even conservatives could protest. 

    Sharp disagreement on tax policies continued, however. Senator Sam Rayburn complained that “the president paid too much attention to ‘bad advice from some smart alecks he has around him,” meaning his well-educated, liberal minded advisors who had “no appreciation for how Congress functioned.” From then on, Young observes, “all of Congress’s efforts to assert its coequal role with the president the burgeoning imperial presidency presented a major, ongoing challenge to lawmakers interested in following the edicts of the Constitution regarding governance.” 

    Although “labor politics proved the most contentious of the wartime resource management issues before Congress,” the exigencies brought on by the war forced both liberals and conservatives, union leaders and businessmen, to strengthen the underlying structure of the New Deal regime, “prevent[ing] a return to the pre-New Deal ethos.” Could the United States government “compel work in a total war”? Could “and should” that state “compel employers to disregard gender and race”?

    These questions were paramount because “the production of war material as the leading U.S. contribution to the war effort,” with some 10.5 million new workers taking jobs during the war, a number that “far outstripped civilian workers among the other Allied and Axis nations.” When FDR coined the phrase “Arsenal of Democracy,” he stamped it on real metal. Even the notorious internment of Japanese American citizens served the domestic side of the war effort; the Works Progress Administration built and oversaw most of the internment camps, where the internees were put to farm work.

    Objections to compulsory labor centered on the meaning of such a policy for the American regime. Young quotes a Democrat Oklahoma congressman, Wesley E. Disney, who explained that both democratic self-government and the federalism which supported it were threatened: “I think that the States and the legislatures and the courthouses are where democracy is. This thing up here”—the federal government—is “the superstructure of democracy,” but it’s “down here” in the states and municipalities “where you and I, the humblest citizens, has a right to assert himself.” Federally mandated and regulated work “turns the individual over to an administrative system where he has no legal right to assert himself and no recourse to the ballot.” Ohio Republican Senator Robert A. Taft argued similarly: since “we are fighting for a democratic system of government,” we shouldn’t “suspend any more of our own freedom than necessary” to win that fight.

    Seeing what they supposed to be an opportunity, several union leaders called strikes, demanding higher wages for their members. This backfired in the short term, as Americans had no patience with workers attempting to use a national crisis for their own material benefit, especially since other Americans were being pushed into working without the benefit of union membership. In the long run, however, the political economy of the war accustomed Americans to bureaucratic rule by a centralized state; also, seeing that the unions were not allowed to exploit their organized power in wartime, Americans saw that their sway could be limited in peacetime. There would be no proletarian takeover of the United States, although union members did win wider powers to file grievances against employers. Such compromises more fully instantiated the New Deal to a degree that might have proved impossible had the Depression ended without American entry into a world war.

    Refugee policy proved unresolvable. After the surge in immigration prior to the First World War, sentiment against Europeans increased during the war itself, and Congress shut the door in the 1920s. In the months before Pearl Harbor, the debate over Roosevelt Administration policies strengthening military preparedness became entwined with some extraordinarily nasty rhetoric about the alleged menace of “Jewish bankers”—to the extent that Nevada Democrat M. Michael Epstein was compelled to remind his colleagues that “we live in a democracy” founded on the principle that “all men are created equal regardless of race, creed or color; and whether a man be a Jew or Gentile he may think what he deems fit.” Unfortunately, when it came to admitting Jewish refugees from the Nazi-ruled nations, “race and racial prejudice not governmental theory dominated,” and FDR “was unwilling to do much to alleviate the problem.” In this, compromise was no option, and the “restrictionist anti-Semites” in Congress shrewdly avoided any “anti-New Deal rhetoric” in the debates. As for those House of Representatives members who supported sending Jewish refugees to Palestine, in Young’s estimation they displayed “self-promotion more than commitment to mitigating the refugee crisis.” Almost all were from New York State, playing to the substantial number of Jewish constituents there. The senators who supported political Zionism, including Missouri’s Harry Truman, were more principled, “motivated more by political ideology than state voter demographics.” In this, they courageously opposed constituent sentiment, as 75% of Americans opposed refugee immigration and nearly half held European Jews “partially responsible for the actions Hitler had taken against them.” Even after the enormity of those actions began to be understood and publicized, many blamed the messengers, with more than 50% of the respondents in one poll complaining that “Jewish Americans had too much influence in the country.” Such attitudes made it “all but impossible for Congress to act on the most significant wartime humanitarian challenge before it.” In this, democracy acted as it often had done in ancient Greece: against justice. Although American republicanism or representative government was designed, in Madison’s famous words, “to refine and enlarge the public views,” it proved unable to do so, despite Congressional hearings in which members discussed the possibility of Hitlerian genocide as early as mid-1939. As early as 1933, Republican New York Congressman Hamilton Fish had submitted a resolution condemning “economic persecution and repression of Jews” in newly-established Nazi Germany; during the war, he sponsored numerous temporary tourist visa applications for European Jews and he even undertook “secret, unauthorized diplomatic relations with the British and the French to try to have space opened for a million refugees in Africa”—all to the indignation of Roosevelt, who regarded foreign policy as his exclusive domain and evinced little sympathy for the victims. Fish simply lacked the political standing to take meaningful charge of the matter. “Because there was no dominant voice in the war era about this matter, the restrictionists carried the day, at least until the war ended” and “the discovery of the death camps proved that the brutal facts” served “as a better leader than any president of member of Congress.” Neither the democratic republicanism left over from the old regime nor the administrative statism advanced by the new regime vindicated the natural rights of foreigners.

    What about the natural and civil rights of American citizens? In the third and last domain Young chooses to consider in detail, the New Dealers’ stated esteem for civil liberties (and especially civil liberties for African Americans) within the framework of an administrative state that might threaten those liberties were also subordinated to the war effort.

    Putting the matter plainly, Young writes, “The fulmination of racist southern demagogues dominated the political discourse and prevented an expansion of New Deal economic liberalism to include civil rights liberalism.” This is clearly but not adequately stated, inasmuch as civil rights liberalism would have been consistent with the principles if not the practice of the old regime, grounded as it was on equal natural rights. In fact, the pre-New Deal progressivist liberalism endorsed so-called ‘race science’ as one dimension of progress; some Americans had done so before Progressivism existed, as seen in the writings of John C. Calhoun and many others. Lynchings of innocent black Southerners continued, albeit more discreetly than before. This notwithstanding, Northern blacks continued to align themselves with the New Deal, encouraged by the favorable stand taken on civil rights by northern Democrats and frustrated by the failures of latter-day Republicans to act vigorously in their defense. The Supreme Court’s ruling in the 1944 case, Smith v. Allright, reversing a 1935 ruling, backed up civil rights advocates by judging the Texas practice of all-white political primaries unconstitutional. But this, Young insists, only “emboldened” the Southerners, who used it as a talking point for continued assertion of ‘states’ rights.’ In the untender words of South Carolina Democrat Ellison D. Smith, “I’m still for white supremacy and those who don’t like it can lump it. Those who vote for me I’ll be much obliged. Those who don’t can go to hell.” 

    While standing on solid ground respecting civil rights, Young much more dubiously classifies the investigation of Communist penetration of the U.S. government as another civil liberties issue. “The earliest anti-Communist activists targeted the New Deal in the continuing congressional assault on liberalism and the statist policies developed in the period” beginning with the establishment of the New Deal itself. Young dismisses these efforts as attempts “to halt the New Deal, not to root out communism,” but she fails to consider the New Dealers’ endorsement of a ‘popular front’ strategy in the mid-thirties, whereby New Dealers welcomed socialists and communists in a coalition conceived as ‘one big Left.’ Given the malignant character of the existing communist regime in the Soviet Union, why might this intention not reflect poorly on New Deal liberalism, and surely on the judgment of New Dealers? In his capacity as chairman of the House Un-American Activities Committee, Texas Representative Martin Dies (himself a New Dealer, during the first Roosevelt term) proceeded to “damage the New Deal coalition and narrow the options for reformers in the postwar era.” 

    The core of Young’s error may be seen in her claim that “circulation of rumors conflating a legitimate political ideology—liberalism—within the mainstream of the American political tradition with communism—a political ideology that for better or worse terrified many Americans”—did the aforementioned damage. Congressional conservatives “implied [that] New Deal liberalism was actually foreign and antithetical to the nation’s political tradition.” But was it? The New Dealers’ immediate ideological predecessors, the Progressives, surely did not regard their enterprise as integral to the American political tradition. They rejected natural rights for historical rights and dismissed the U.S. Constitution as the product of an outmoded ‘Newtonian’ understanding of nature, to be rightly replaced by the more accurate ‘Darwinian’ understanding of nature as evolutionary or ‘historicist.’ The New Dealers made Progressivism more practical, less ‘idealistic,’ but they never backed away from historicism and from the rejection of the Constitutional separation of the separation of powers. They continued to regard the Constitutional as an ‘elastic’ or ‘living’ document—that is, one properly to be ‘reinterpreted’ in ways unrelated and indeed opposed to the plain meaning of the words on its pages. Obviously, this is not to say that New Deal liberalism was ‘as bad as’ or ‘the same as’ communism or fascism. The historicism of Hegel is not the historicism of Marx, the historicism of Marx not the same as that of Woodrow Wilson or of John Dewey (themselves not identical). But the New Deal coalition in its broadest form blurred these distinctions, easily lost during a war in which the Soviet Union fought on our side—sort of—until the end of the war when Stalin decided to hold on to his territorial gains and to install communist regimes on the nations his troops had conquered.

    “Dies willed to postwar anti-Communists a method and a language through which liberalism could be discredited. His work to that end far surpassed any of the economic conservatives during the 1940s or the social conservatives who fought against refugee and civil rights reforms.” This “crusade against statist political solutions” to social and economic problems “slowly expanded and threatened the center left warfare state iteration of the New Deal order made permanent in the 1940s.” She cannot simply mean the tactics of Wisconsin Republican Senator Joseph McCarthy in the early 1950s, which failed to derail that moderate New Dealism; she must mean the critique of New Dealism, and of the anti-anticommunism of many Democrats in the 1970s and 1980s, enunciated by Governor and then President Ronald Reagan. But Reagan, who had been a Democrat (albeit one who supported the anti-communist Harry Truman not the Popular Frontist Henry Wallace in the late ‘Forties) scarcely qualifies as a ‘McCarthyite.’ 

    These flaws aside, Young does provide a serviceable overview of American politics during the war. The collection of dispatches authored by Isaiah Berlin sent from the British embassy where he was posted, necessarily provides a more detailed account of these struggles, one in many ways sharper-eyed than that of Young but nonetheless oddly consonant with her latitudinarian views of communism. To his credit, Berlin seems to have sobered up about the communists after the war, perhaps as a result of his 1945 conversation with the Russian poet Anna Akhmatova, who had been cruelly persecuted by Soviet operatives for decades.

    Berlin understands that as a democratic republic the United States is largely ruled by public opinion; his task was to provide British Foreign Secretary Anthony Eden and Prime Minister Churchill with “information about changing attitudes and movements of opinion in the USA on issues considered to be of importance to Anglo-American relations.” The “rapturous unity” that followed the Pearl Harbor attack quickly gave way “to an atmosphere of criticism”—not of America’s involvement in the war but of inefficiencies attendant to fighting it, particularly in the Office of Civilian Defense, where James Landis was quickly brought in to assist the stumbling Director, Fiorella La Guardia, who had retained his office as mayor of New York City while signing on the the federal post. “It is typical of Mr. Roosevelt’s administrative methods, when one of his officials is criticized, not to displace him but to appoint somebody else to do the same job.” 

    When it came to the American public’s opinion of Great Britain, Berlin saw that much work needed to be done. “I am concerned by the indications that the innate inclination to think and hear ill of our country and of us so readily comes to the surface,” although “the heads of the Administration are wholeheartedly convinced that our two countries must work in the closest harmony during the war and after.” And even some senior administrative officials prefer to “deal with international problems…untrammeled by consideration of the views of other governments.” He can only recommend “unremitting effort, patience and much wisdom to remedy” the difficulties, “clearly stand[ing] or fall[ing] by what we are,” understanding “that Americans are foreigners to us and we to them.”

    The year 1942 sees little in American military activity, although “the news of the landing of United States forces in Africa” in late fall “was like cool water to a parched throat,” counteracting as it did “the feeling of frustration and meaninglessness which has been a depressing feature in recent months.” Berlin understands that no troops would arrive in Europe until the following year. In the meantime, he keeps track of American domestic politics, including the Congressional elections.

    Given the entrance into the war of the Soviet Union on the side of the Allies, Berlin reports frequently on the investigations of Congressman Martin Dies into the presence of Communists in the Roosevelt Administration, beginning with the Board of Economic Warfare, chaired by the Communist sympathizing Vice President, Henry Wallace. Berlin disparages Dies’ efforts, wishing that he would pay more attention to America’s native fascists, who “are still uncurbed and very vocal in their advocacy of the new form of ‘America First,’ which consists of concentrating on the defense of the American mainland and Hawaii to the exclusion of all else.” By contrast, the American Communists, “following the strict Party line” dictated by the Kremlin, “are for all-out war effort with no discussion of wages.” This has caused a split between the thoroughly anti-Communist American Federation of Labor and the Congress of Industrial Organizations, as fourteen of the forty-four unions in the latter consortium “are reported to be under Communist domination,” and not just by Dies. Similarly, the Catholic Church, with its many Irish-American (and therefore anti-English) members, finds itself split between isolationists, led by the “Radio Priest” Father Charles Edward Coughlin, and such supporters of the war effort as New York’s Cardinal Francis Spellman, a Roosevelt confidant who served as FDR’s emissary to Pope Pius XII. Berlin finds “a considerable fear of Communism” in both official and business circles, “while in the country generally there is no enthusiasm for Russia comparable to that felt in the United Kingdom.”

    Berlin classifies “the anti-Administration forces” in the election campaign into seven main groups: “virulent subversive bodies” that adhere to some form of fascism; the former members of the disbanded America First Committee (“timid businessmen and all those who fear and distrust the central government”); first- and second-generation German- and Italian-Americans, mostly anti-Fascist but “connected by ties of sentiment with their European kinsmen or anxious not to be reminded of the Europe from which they have escaped”; “Anglophobes or Russophobes,” such as “the Irish and Roman Catholics”; those Republicans who “think it important to maintain active political opposition in order to achieve a more effective prosecution of the war”; “groups with special grudges against the administration,” such as the small businessmen without defense contracts; and “Wall Street, fearing State Socialism.” Taken together, this amounts to thirty percent of the population “willing to discuss peace terms with the German Army if Hitler were disposed of” and ten percent who “would make peace with Hitler on the status quo.” “For a “far too wide a section of the American people this is not even yet a really popular war,” nor will it become so “until a great body of American troops begins to take part in actual fighting.” In response to Stalin’s impatience with Americans for failing to open a second front against the Axis in Europe, “a few newspapers…have “ask[ed] what Russia did to open a Second Front when the democracies were at bay in the West.”

    On domestic matters, “numerous speakers in Congress have been publicly and privately exclaiming against usurpation of their legislative powers by growing power of bureaucracy,” sentiments Berlin attributes to corporate interests who regard the New Deal as an effort to “bind them more and more closely to central government by systematic economic subventions for which they and their representatives in Congress pay price of political independence.” Business interests point to the fact that “business enterprise is winning the war by its efforts” in manufacturing war supplies and that “the end of the war will provide unprecedented opportunities for business expansion,” which private enterprise must seize in order to “sav[e] the country from a permanent bureaucratic totalitarianism.” However, “political observers [have] agreed that past interpretations of [the U.S.] Constitution, particularly under wartime presidents, gave [the] President immense undefined powers” on the basis that the safety of the state is the supreme law. 

    Some corporate interests, fronted by the potential presidential candidate Wendell Willkie and the publisher Henry Luce, envision a postwar American “economic imperialism.” Willkie “has failed to make any substantial inroads into [a] Republican machine which remains essentially nationalistic,” a fact that, Berlin worries, “does not augur too well for an enlightened post-war policy on [the] part of [the Republican Party.” Both Republican factions are opposed by Vice President Wallace and others who “are dreaming of a kind of world New Deal,” having prepared “blueprints to reorganize the world in order to secure the best distribution of persons and things with a bold programme, which ignores racial and political differences” and aims at “spending the vast natural resources of the United States upon world reconstruction.” Berlin deprecates this one-worldism as “the New Deal as the New Islam, divinely inspired to save the world.” “The clash between those who plan world social and economic arrangements and the dynamic militant technocrats [of capitalism] is perhaps the most important political manifestation at the moment.” While “the isolationist tradition must be expected to reassert itself” after the war “to a degree that cannot now be measured,” “against it may be set perhaps a growing recognition that for [the] United States to get into one war may have been bad luck but to have got into two looks like something wrong with the system.” Berlin himself evidently favors “a United Nations outlook,” but sees clearly enough that such a thing will run into American opposition to the Soviet Union, which “the new Congress is very far” from esteeming.

    In the Congressional elections, the Democrats suffered “much heavier losses than anyone expected both in House and in Senate,” retaining only “nominal control” of the House and similarly unsure control of the Senate, given the Southern Democrats’ tendency to ally with the Republicans against the Administration on “domestic and economic issues.” The Democrats will lose experienced committee chairmen. They now control only half of the state governorships, with Republicans winning in “most important states, such as New York and California.” “For the first time since New Deal came into power Republicans are within striking distance of control in both House and Senate.” Although Berlin cautions that many elections were decided on local interests, not the “big vital and topical national issues which have provided Democrats with big majorities of [the] last few years,” he sees that of the “three great political forces” supporting the New Deal—the labor unions, the farmers, and the average American who had been thrown out of work by the Depression—only labor now supports the Roosevelt Administration. The farmers have lost manpower to conscription and resent this; the Forgotten Man has found employment in the war industries. While “isolationism was not an issue in [the] election,” neither has pre-war isolationism been judged an electorally punishable crime by the voters. The “New Deal must therefore lean for its power not on Congress but on [the] patronage and power of an Administration in office”—much enhanced by the construction of a centralized administrative state. Thus, “despite congressional losses the leaders of [the] New Deal are in no mood to compromise.” 

    In sum, by the end of 1942 Berlin judged that “dislike for the New Deal is, I think, now directed mainly against theoretical ‘intellectual’ planning and its exponents,” with “a large part of American sentiment” evidently “unwilling to be committed to endorsement for this country of [the] degree of social planning which is apparently winning favor with British and European thought.” This has discouraged some of the New Dealers themselves—for example, Secretary of the Interior Harold Ickes, who has been quoted as having said “The New Deal was beat.” 

    The beginning of 1943 features discussion of Vice President Wallace’s most recent effusion, calling an international air force and an “international authority for world projects.” His “enthusiastic praise for Wilson whom,” he judges, “the people of the United States had failed,” prefaced a warning that Germany was already planning World War III, a horror that “only economic justice and international cooperation could prevent.” Congresswoman Clare Booth Luce dismissed Wallace’s “global thinking” as “globaloney,” much to the delight of the conservative press, and “it is clear that Mrs. Luce expresses popular sentiment prevailing at this moment on [this] subject more accurately than do her opponents,” which include Mrs. Roosevelt. For himself, Berlin prefers the more sober Cordell Hull; the Secretary of State has won the respect of conservative Republicans while “genuinely abhor[ring] isolationism as a species of sin.” The shift in Republican opinion reflects a sense that pre-war isolationism has begun to fade, replaced by “varying degrees of nationalism” in opposition to “liberal internationalists whether of [the] Wallace or [the] Hull variety.” Berlin continues to worry about American “dreams of world domination” after the war; “while they may yield to Mr. Hull’s or the President’s wiser counsels, their strength must not be discounted.” Americans worry more about “Russian post-war purposes” than Berlin evidently does; the felt “need to prevent spread of Russia and Communism over Europe after the war” prevails not only “among churches and the Republican Party” but in the State Department, the military, and “sections of [the] Office of Strategic Services.” Later in the year, Massachusetts Republican senator Henry Cabot Lodge would give a speech in which he reasoned that “since the other great powers conceived their vital interests clearly—Britain with her desire to preserve her Empire, Russia with her territorial aims in Eastern Europe—it was high time for the United States to do likewise if they are not to be left without the strategic imports which at the present rate of expenditure they will have need of after the war”; he went on “to pour a practical man’s scorn on the notion of world or regional reorganization unsupported by a previous attempt to harmonize their national purposes by the major allies.”

    Speculation and preparation for the 1944 presidential campaign has seized Washington by March. Minnesota Governor Harold Stassen appears as a rising star on the Republican side, mixing internationalism (a world police force, supervision of airways and seaways by a United Nations organization, lowering of trade barriers, a declaration of universally recognized human rights) with “a strong anti-New Deal bias in internal affairs.” Some Democrats are rumored ready themselves against a Roosevelt fourth term, too, including Postmaster General and Democratic Party National Chairman James Farley, who hopes to draw Catholic voters away from FDR toward James F. Byrnes. Berlin considers this unlikely; Byrnes is a loyalist (FDR had appointed him first to the Supreme Court and then to two major posts in his wartime administration); further, “persons close to [the] White House say that the President is fully resolved to stand again.” 

    Foreign Secretary Eden’s arrival in Washington sparks suspicions in some quarters that the Brits harbor “a desire to mediate between Russia and the United States,” an “attempt by Britain to recover her traditional position as the manipulator of balance of power between Russia and [the] United States as formerly between France and Germany,” a game Americans do “not wish to see…started again.” In April, the president sent his Assistant Secretary of State for Latin American Affairs and ‘Brain-Truster’ Adolf Berle out to assure Americans that Russia will be too busy after the war with the “vast task of internal reconstruction” to undertake a project of expansion into Europe and that, even it it does, the “notion of a cordon sanitaire of buffer states on Russia’s western border was an outworn concept of bad old diplomacy and stultified by modern air power.” Such talk was embarrassed in the following month, when news of the Soviet massacre of Polish army officers in the Katyn Forest reached the United States, but Berlin is reassured that “strong pro-Polish sentiments in [the] United States outside [the] Catholic Church has been rare.” Indeed, pro-Soviet sentiments had been bolstered by Stalin’s conciliatory May Day speech, wherein he announced the dissolution of the Comintern, which “all sides consider…as a deliberate step on the part of Stalin towards [an] understanding with the West,” with “Russophile liberals acclaim[ing] it without reservation as confirming their brightest hopes.” Berle thinks that “Stalin had decided to make clear to the Russian public that [the] era of revolutionary adventures and international conspiracies was over.” Roosevelt knew differently, but didn’t much care. Near the end of the year he told the Greek ambassador that “no fuss would be made by the United States Government about the incorporation of the Baltic States by Soviet Russia, and that after much trouble an appropriate formula to cover this had at last been found”; moreover, FDR confessed that “he was thoroughly tired of the Polish problem, and had told the Polish Ambassador so in clear language.”

    At mid-year, the New Deal shifts a bit to the ‘Right,’ spurred by FDR’s concern that the Southern Democrats might break with the party altogether if the likes of Wallace are not reigned in. FDR had lost patience with Wallace as an administrator; his chairmanship of the Board of Economic Warfare had “failed to do what was expected of it, to resolve inter-departmental disputes in external economic affairs without requiring perpetual reference to [the] President”; the Board’s chief of staff, Wallace ally Milo Perkins, had “maladroitly administered” his underlings “and was a principal source of both confusion and delay in many fields.” “Only old Jacobins of [the] New Deal who follow Wallace and Perkins feel betrayed and they must support [the] President in any case.” Although Berlin could not know it at the time, this prepared the way for the replacement of Wallace with Harry Truman on the Democratic Party ticket as the vice-presidential candidate in 1944. “The New Deal once again has been sacrificed to [the] war effort.” Moderate public opinion in the country “seems profoundly bored with Wallace and New Deal ideals,” issuing a collective yawn in response to his July speech, in which he signaled his intention “to continue as principal champion of New Deal liberalism.” “The present policy of the left wing of the New Deal is to continue to support the President with remorseless fidelity despite his deviations, while fiercely attacking interests which they conceive to be hostile to him, whether or not this suits the President’s actual purposes.” Dr. New Deal had indeed given place to Dr. Win the War.

    1944 begins with the embarrassment of the risible Willkie. The Soviets by now are driving the German army back across Eastern and Central Europe, reigniting the Polish question. Willkie published an article “warning the minorities”—i.e., Europeans now occupied, or about to be occupied, by the Red Army—against “undue agitation but advocating the need for an equitable arrangement, to be found in consultation with Russia, to adjust the status of the border states.” Even such a mild hint has proven a target for Pravda, “which suddenly pitched into him as a political gambler, meddler and opportunist of the first water”—this, after frequently praising him in the past as “a true friend of the USSR.” “As there are few persons in this country familiar with the sardonic pleasure which the USSR is liable to take in tripping up its over-zealous bourgeois suitors when these are guilty of tactless behavior, there is very general surprise” at this move, felt most acutely by the “completely dazed” Willkie. (This minor tempest didn’t prevent Willkie from defeating Dewey in the Republican Party primary election in Wisconsin, a few months later.) As for American Poles, some “are trying to pin their hopes on Churchill inasmuch as they do not expect any further genuine aid from the President.” In Washington, Berlin observes, “there is no great love for Russia but there is great respect and admiration, and general sentiment, discernible in the press and in conversation of young ‘tough-minded’ Washington and other executives whose temper is likely to shape American policy in future years, is that Russia is doing [the] only sensible thing for a rising great continental power”; such American ‘realists’ expect that they may well come to a “direct understanding with Russia,” without the British as an intermediary.

    Berlin is pleased to report that the leading Republican presidential ‘hopeful,’ New York governor Thomas Dewey, opposes any such move, being suspicious of “Russian secretiveness” and sympathetic toward Churchill, “who, he felt, was being blackmailed into a European invasion which would be bloody though doubtless inevitable.” Dewey is firmly allied with the firm anti-Communist, John Foster Dulles, who entertains such globalist illusions as “international control of military establishments” and “protection of religious and intellectual liberty,” despite the existence of the Soviet Union, which might be expected to have a say in postwar arrangements. Berlin is nonetheless encouraged that both men are “genuinely favorable to American participation in world affairs” and to “an Anglo-American alliance.” 

    D-Day brings on “a general tone of opinion” that is “sensible and not over-enthusiastic,” as Americans expect “large casualties.” “There is no observable change in [the] normal life of the country.” Given the “almost automatic tendency of [the] United States press and public to attribute all good things to American authorship there has been relatively little emphasis on primacy of American troops” in the invasion, although perhaps not enough credit given do “justice to our part in [the] enterprise.” 

    The July party conventions yield no surprises. Dewey wins the Republican Party nomination, though he is no one’s real favorite and distrusted by GOP ‘machine’ politicians; “he looked to them a disturbingly cold, tight-lipped, uncommitted and, from their point of view, tricky personality, who might easily not prove wholly amenable” to them “and was, above all, very much not one of themselves.” As it happened, the hapless Willkie would die less than a month before the election. The Democrats—an “unstable amalgamation of interests (conservative Southerners, northern Negroes, labor unions, left-wing radicals, Catholics, foreign-born groups and large city machines) brought together by fortuitous, historical and geographical circumstances and held together more by a common interest in retaining political power than by any single political or economic philosophy,” but “happily for us…not generally divided over [the] President’s foreign policy”—have “finally acquiesced in [the] fact that Mr. Roosevelt was their only possible leader for [the] coming election.” The drama thus centered on the selection of his running-mate. FDR smartly let the Wallaceites and anti-Wallaceites “fight it out” within limits he imposed by circulating a list of acceptable candidates while protesting his preference for Wallace. “In so doing he deftly transferred bad feeling which was inevitable in [the] selection of a Vice-President whatever happened, from his own shoulders to those of party bosses.” The bosses, “who held [the] balance of power” between the liberals and the Southern conservatives, chose Senator Harry Truman, whom Berlin judges as “something of a lightweight,” albeit a likeable, honest, affable, and modest one. He has won accolades during the war for his fair-minded chairmanship of a special Senate committee charged with investigating waste, scandal, and inefficiency in the war effort. “He has never been one of the closest intimates of [the] White House,” and “his capacity to fill [the] presidential chair in an emergency raises obvious questions.” From an electoral standpoint, however, he is an improvement over the silly and controversial Wallace, and that is likely what won the favor of Party bosses. “No one can say with any assurance what will happen to the Democratic Party in [the] next four years, though, depending on post-war conditions, extensive realignments [are] seen quite on the cards.” 

    Unsurprisingly, FDR wins reelection, albeit with a smaller popular majority than in his three previous presidential campaigns. When it came right down to it, “To Roosevelt’s Gladstone there was no discernible potential Disraeli.” “Almost as significant as [the] President’s own re-election was [the] defeat both in primaries and in [the] elections themselves of leading isolationists in [the] Senate and also [the] House.” “For the first time since Woodrow Wilson it is not wholly certain whether the isolationists can on paper muster [the] fatal one-third of Senators required to block a treaty”—namely, the treaty proposing a postwar ‘United Nations.’ Such opposition clearly come to the surface in the Senate debate following the Dumbarton Oaks conference in August; concerns about American sovereignty and involvement in future foreign wars win little sympathy from Professor Berlin, a firm advocate of Anglo-American alliance. The main cloud on the Democrats’ political horizon remains the Southern part of their coalition, consisting of men who “are uneasily wondering whether they are not traveling in the company of a Frankenstein’s monster,” namely, the liberal groups who will, they anticipate, toss them aside at some opportune moment. Berlin correctly predicts that “the combination of Republicans and Southern Democrats…will one day burst through” the existing party framework and radically transform the present party system to allow for the new political and economic realities,” although “this seems unlikely during Mr. Roosevelt’s regime.” 

    The Yalta Conference of February 1945 settled the borders of the Central and Eastern European states, in effect insuring that the Communists would rule them. This was not understood by many at the time. Berlin concerns himself primarily with the ‘optics,’ remarking that “to have the American public believe that Yalta was an American success would be a cheap price to pay for acceptance of American participation in settlement of European problems.” By June, “the myth of Mr. Roosevelt as a great and wise mediator between the powerful figures of Mr. Churchill and Marshal Stalin, whose policies might otherwise have come into open collision,” had become “deeply embedded in the popular consciousness of the American people.” Berlin correctly reports that the “Polish settlement will be [the] main center of controversy,” with “Congressmen from Polish areas of Illinois and Michigan” condemning Yalta “as another Munich.” He regards such protests as manageable, as Americans generally “sympathize with the Poles but accept the inevitable,” namely, Communist rule over a nation now occupied by the Red Army. 

    Roosevelt’s death follows in April. “There is everywhere a recognition that his abiding place in history is secure if only because he brought into existence a full-fledged new policy in domestic and in foreign affairs alike…. Moreover, he has altered, perhaps in perpetuity, the concept of the duties and function of the United States Government in general and of the Presidency in particular. It is so far a cry from the days when President Coolidge could say ‘The business of the Government of the United States is business’ that most Americans scarcely realize that the tradition of positive action towards social welfare with which the automatically identify the duties of any United States President…and which now seems so permanent, was established so recently and by the efforts of relatively so few men and women.” “If there is strong, and probably justified, expectation of the relaxation of centralized Washington control and of profoundly personal government,” in the eyes of most Americans, FDR’s policies, foreign and domestic, “will and should be carried on in the manner for which he had, in the end, secured the positive approval of the vast majority of the nation.”

    In the event, the Communists begin to overplay their strong hand, in America and internationally. In New York City, the Communist Party has allied with the Democratic machine pols of Tammany Hall, “combin[ing] some of the dirtiest and most effective politicians in New York City.” “New Dealers seem to have realized too late what they had let themselves in for,” as this sort of thing diminishes the likelihood of “a straight New Deal victory in 1948, say under Mr. Wallace”—as it indeed would prove. In foreign policy, President Truman, eventually the beneficiary of such Popular Front-like dealings, has sent FDR’s trusted advisor Harry Hopkins to Moscow in an attempt “to convey to the Kremlin the dangerous effect of present Soviet policies [in Europe] upon American public opinion and the United States Government and to collect sufficient information about the present Soviet position to enable the American Government to determine its course of action whilst reassuring public opinion that it has an ‘independent policy’ of its own.” 

    The defeat of the British Conservative Party and the consequent removal of Churchill as Prime Minister causes an initial “a shock of astonishment” among Americans “that was almost reminiscent of the reactions to the Pearl Harbor bombing.” They cannot understand what they took to be “a strange ingratitude on the part of the British electorate.” Berlin calculates the effects: first, British foreign policy “in the coming weeks” will be watched carefully, “and this in itself will have the salutary effect of arresting the recent trend to ignore our role and concentrate on the purposes of the Big Two”; American support for Great Britain will shift, as “liberals and left-wingers,” highly critical of Churchill’s firm opposition to the Communist in Greece, “will once against tend to rally to our side,” now that the Labour Party controls the government; finally, American conservatives and business interests now “feel very much alone on a choppy collectivist sea,” whereas “the pressures on the Truman Administration from ‘left of center’ seem likely to increase.” 

    The final major events Berlin assesses are the nuclear bomb attacks on Hiroshima and Nagasaki and the consequent surrender of Japan before the Soviets could intervene in the Pacific. “The psychological impact of these events upon the public, especially of the atomic bomb, was greater than anything America had experienced in the war, even Pearl Harbor, and profound changes in the currents of thought seem inevitable.” Initially, “stories of the atomic bomb appealed to everything most typical in the American nature,” as “the lurid fantasies of the comic strips seemed suddenly to have come true” while at the same time fantasizing that the Bomb “will end all war” and nuclear power “will revolutionize human life.” Almost immediately, “along with a thrill of power and the instinctive pleasure at the thought of Japan in abject surrender, America’s deep-rooted humanitarianism has begun to assert itself and this secondary revulsion has been very marked in private conversation although it has not yet appeared in the press,” as “there is a good deal of heart-searching about the morality of using such a weapon, especially against an enemy already known to be on his last legs.” Berlin seems most interested in the Bomb’s political effect: that it “is doing more than Pearl Harbor or the war to obliterate the last vestiges of the isolationist dream, and in this sense it is a new weapon in the hands of the internationalists.” Almost as satisfyingly, “the fact that the bomb is a British-American-Canadian invention has been recognized,” giving “a fillip” to the notion of “Anglo-American teamwork.” 

    As for the Soviets, Americans expect them to be developing a nuclear weapon of their own. By August, it has become “daily more evident that the United States of America sees Soviet Russia as its only rival for world supremacy and at the same time has no desire to become unnecessarily embroiled with her.” News of a treaty between the Kremlin and the anti-Communist Chiang Kai-Shek regime in China proves an “immense relief,” since “the possibility of America becoming involved in a Far Eastern dispute on China’s side has hung like a cloud over all those who hold that peace primarily depends on the cultivation of harmonious relations between the two great world powers.” The Communist Chinese would soon have a say in that, but Berlin returns to London well before Mao’s victory.

    Taken together, Berlin and Young show how the regime change effected by the New Deal was consolidated during the Second World War, and in many ways thanks to the exigencies imposed on Americans by that war. As a member of the British Embassy staff in Washington, Berlin understandably concentrates his mind on President Roosevelt and his operatives; with the advantage of hindsight, Young can offer a more balanced account that delves into the actions of Congressmen. Both recognize the importance of public opinion in consolidating the regime change, as such earlier Progressives as Woodrow Wilson had emphasized, a generation earlier. If a democratic republic would now become a mixed-regime republic with a powerful ‘aristocratic’ element seen in an empowered permanent bureaucracy, popular voices would still continue to be heard and to be attended to, albeit in more problem-ridden ways. Confident that it could assuage the worries of ‘the democracy’ by a combination of presidential rhetoric or ‘leadership’ and bureaucratic regulation of largesse, the new elites looked to the future confidently. For a long time, they were right to be confident.

     

     

    Filed Under: American Politics

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