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Henry Sidgwick- Eye of the Universe

Page 109

by Bart Schultz


  portant influence, tending to reduce the number of competing electoral combi-

  nations to two. It seems not unlikely, however, that such combinations would be

  very transient, and would vary from place to place, if the sole concern of the

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  Henry Sidgwick: Eye of the Universe

  electors were to choose representatives for the purpose of legislation: the decisive

  impulse towards a permanently dual organisation of parties appears to be given by

  entrusting to the constituencies, along with the election of members of a central

  legislative assembly, the practical choice of the chief or leading members of the

  central executive. This choice . . . takes place in strikingly different forms in the English and American systems respectively; still, its effect both at the quadren-nial presidential elections in the United Sates, and at ordinary general elections

  in England, is to concentrate the interest of the whole country on an electoral

  struggle, in which, if any political combination does not form part of the victori-

  ous majority, it has failed so far as this contest is concerned. This gives a powerful and continually operating inducement to the absorption of minor parties in one

  or other of two great combinations; the force of which is further increased in the

  United States by the ‘Spoils system’ – the practice of making extensive changes

  in the minor posts of the executive to reward members of the winning party –

  and by the control over legislation which the veto gives to the President; while in

  England, again, it is importantly increased by the practical control over legislation which the Cabinet has come to possess. (EP –)

  Thus it is that two permanently opposed and competing parties tend

  to gain control over the political process. Relatedly, “the hostile criti-

  cism of governmental measures, carried on in the press and public meet-

  ings, is mainly directed and largely supplied by the systematic effort of

  a defeated party to discredit and supplant its dominant rival.” Although

  this system may make for a certain stability in the political world, foster

  party feeling in the average citizen, and help to ensure that “the lead-

  ers of the opposition tend to criticise keenly, from desire to oust the

  holders of power, and yet circumspectly, being aware of the responsi-

  bilities and difficulties which success, bringing power, must entail,” it

  is on balance a serious handicap to high-minded leadership. Rendering

  party spirit “more comprehensive and absorbing,” it means that “the

  sentiment of ‘loyalty to party’ becomes almost as tenacious and exact-

  ing as patriotism, and sometimes almost equally independent of intellec-

  tual convictions; so that a man remains attached to his party from old

  habit and sentiment, or from fear of being called a renegade, when he

  can no longer even imagine that he holds its ‘fundamental principles.’ ”

  (EP –) But once “sentiment and habit are thus semi-unconsciously

  substituted in many cases for intellectual agreement as the bond of party-

  union, the fundamental principles of either party become obscure” and

  attacks on the opposition become more “factious and disingenuous.”

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  Thus, even beneficial legislation has to be avoided by the party in power,

  if and when “it can be successfully discredited by partisan ingenuity.”

  (EP )

  Indeed, an oily insincerity and hypocrisy poison the whole political

  process:

  [T]he dual system seems to have a dangerous tendency to degrade the profession

  of politics: partly from the inevitable insincerity of the relation of a party leader to the members of his own party, partly from the insincerity of his relation to

  the party opposed to him. To keep up the vigour and zeal of his own side, he

  has to maintain the fiction that under the heterogeneous medley of opinions and

  sectional interests represented by either the ‘ins’ or the ‘outs’ at any particular

  time there is a fundamental underlying agreement in sound political principles;

  and he has to attribute to the other side a similar agreement in unsound doctrines.

  Thus the best political talent and energy of the country acquires a fatal bias in the direction of insincere advocacy; indeed the old objection against forensic advocacy

  as a means of obtaining right judicial conclusions – that one section of the experts

  employed are professionally required to make the worse seem the better reason –

  applies with much more real force here than in the case of the law-courts. For in

  the case of the forensic advocate this attitude is frankly avowed and recognised by

  all concerned: every plain man knows that a lawyer in court is exempt from the

  ordinary rule that binds an honest man only to use arguments which he believes

  to be sound; and that it is the duty of every member of a jury to consider only

  the value of an advocate’s arguments, and disregard, as far as possible, the air of

  conviction with which they are uttered. The political advocate or party leader

  tends to acquire a similar professional habit of using bad arguments with an air

  of conviction where he cannot get good ones, or when bad ones are more likely to

  be popularly effective; but, unlike the forensic advocate, he is understood, in so

  doing, to imply his personal belief in the validity of his argument and the truth

  of the conclusions to which he desires to lead up. And the case is made worse by

  the fact that political advocacy is not controlled by expert and responsible judges,

  whose business it is to sift out and scatter to the winds whatever chaff the pleader

  may mingle with such grains of sound argument as his belief affords; the position

  of the political advocate is like what that of a forensic advocate would be, if it was his business to address a jury not presided over by a judge, and largely composed

  of persons who only heard the pleadings on the other side in an imperfect and

  partial way. (EP –)

  This “demoralising effect of politics under the party system” is really

  behind a great many of Sidgwick’s political concerns, including his con-

  viction that the “business of statesmanship” should be as far as possible

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  Henry Sidgwick: Eye of the Universe

  unremunerated. The business of keeping a party together and victorious,

  if it becomes a trade, becomes “a vile trade.” The party politician would

  seem to compare very unfavorably even to Sidgwick’s earlier nemesis, the

  hypocritical priest.

  As we shall have occasion to see, this attitude was one that Sidgwick

  developed in
collaboration with his friend Bryce, whose American Com-

  monwealth, which influenced him profoundly, was filled with indictments

  of the corruptions of American party politics and explanations of why

  the “best men” did not go into politics to begin with. American cul-

  ture, the culture of democracy, was, Bryce argued, vital and strong, but

  this had little to do with the character of politicians. Still, Bryce, even

  more than Sidgwick, admired the marriage of aristocracy and democ-

  racy to be found in the American Constitution. It was the cultural

  and institutional moderating of democratic passions – and inexpertise –

  that these old academic Liberals admired so. And whatever their differ-

  ences with the antidemocratic conservatism of figures like Henry Sumner

  Maine, who regarded the British democratic reforms of the eighties as

  the beginning of the end of civilization, they certainly agreed that the

  merits of these newer forms of aristocracy needed to be driven home

  to a public that was showing too much reckless enthusiasm for social

  change.

  Sidgwick admits that it is difficult to gauge the dangers of party very

  exactly, since they largely depend on “the condition of political morality,”

  but he does not doubt that they are grave. The potential solutions are

  “partly political, partly moral.” Thus, making “the Supreme Executive

  elected by the legislature, with subordinate officials holding office inde-

  pendently of party ties” would help, as would withdrawing substantial por-

  tions of legislative and administrative work “from the control of the party

  system, under the influence of public opinion, aided by minor changes

  in parliamentary rules and in the customary tenure of executive offices.”

  (EP ) Establishing a custom such that, barring a vote of no confidence,

  ministers need not resign because their legislation was defeated – “unless

  the need of these measures was regarded by them as so urgent that they

  could not conscientiously carry on the administration of public affairs

  without them” – might also help to “allow free play to the natural working

  of political convictions without increasing the instability of government”

  (EP –). And some increased reliance on the referendum might also

  work in this direction.

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  But in the end, Sidgwick thinks the most important question is the

  moral one:

  Finally, the operation of the party-system might be checked and controlled – more

  effectually than it now is in England and the United States – by a change in current

  morality, which does not seem to be beyond the limits of possibility. It might be

  regarded as the duty of educated persons generally to aim at a judicial frame of

  mind on questions of current politics, whether they are inside parties or outside.

  If it is the business of the professional politician to prove his own side always in the right, it should be the point of honour of the ‘arm-chair’ politician, if he belongs

  to a party, to make plain when and why he thinks his party in the wrong. And

  probably the country would gain from an increase in the number of persons taking

  a serious interest in politics who keep out of party ties altogether. (EP –)

  From this last injunction, one can appreciate just how much there was

  behind Sidgwick’s celebration of the sympathetic but trained minds of

  a nobler stamp who would be leaders in philanthropic work and the ed-

  ucators of public opinion generally, bringing to it the refined arguments

  hammered out in endless discussion societies and meetings of minds. Here

  was the growth of sympathetic understanding – of a Socratic/Apostolic

  sort – that would characterize the eager utilitarian politician in the effort

  to be genuinely practical, to avoid party and international strife. Here was

  the sense of justice, in Sidgwick’s view, and the lesson would also inform

  his essays on Practical Ethics, reflecting his work with the Ethical Culture

  Society in the s. What is more, it is impossible to contemplate the

  core of Sidgwick’s political thinking in this respect without recalling his

  passionate concern with hypocrisy and religious conformity, the ques-

  tions of subscription and professional duty. True, one can certainly feel

  the effects of his proximaty to the Balfour clan, and appreciate why in his

  later years he tended to vote more independently, going with the Tories

  in a way he would never have considered when younger. But his object,

  manifestly, was to avoid the demoralizing effects of “insincere advocacy”

  and party politics, to engage in the kind of moral leadership that was a

  descendant of the Millian clerisy, though one adapted to a new, rougher,

  and more Darwinian era. And it was one that carried at least some odor of

  the qualified version of Whitmania advanced by Noel and Symonds, with

  the effort to befriend all ranks.

  This is a heavy burden to place on the aristocratic element in his political

  vision. But there is no mistaking the parallel between Sidgwick’s politics

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  Henry Sidgwick: Eye of the Universe

  and his views of the clergy and ethics. Indeed, on this sensitive topic, the

  Elements expounds at some length on points of direct relevance to the

  discussion of the dualism of practical reason. Thus, when the question is

  posed of whether the state should teach morality, and posed in its most

  relevant form, in relation to “a civilised community in which there is

  either no religion having general acceptance or important influence, or

  else only religions that have no important connection with morality,” the

  answer would bring to the fore “one of the most fundamental questions

  of moral philosophy: viz. whether the performance of social duty can be

  proved scientifically – with as strong a ‘consensus of experts’ as we find in

  established sciences generally – to be certainly or most probably the means

  best adapted to the attainment of the private happiness of the agent.”

  Now, even if the answer were affirmative, it would not follow that morality

  “ought to be based on self-interest alone.” Sidgwick’s point, which lucidly

  captures all his nervousness about the destructive potential of the dualism

  of practical reason, is only that “it would clearly be an important gain to

  social wellbeing to correct the erroneous and short-sighted views of self-

  interest, representing it as divergent from duty, which certainly appear

  to be widely prevalent in the most advanced societies, at least among

  irreligious persons.” For the government to supply teachers of this view

  might even be “indirectly individualistic in its aim, since to diffuse the

&nb
sp; conviction that it is every one’s interest to do what is right would obviously

  be a valuable protection against mutual wrong,” though it would probably

  detract from the credibility of such teachers if they were salaried servants

  of the state. (EP –)

  Were this the case, the political economists and psychical researchers

  would presumably have their work cut out for them as cultural functionar-

  ies. But this last objection is even stronger “if we regard it as impossible

  to prove by ordinary mundane considerations that it is always the indi-

  vidual’s interest in the present condition of human society to do his duty;

  or if, granting the evident coincidence of self-interest and duty, it is still

  held that self-regard should not be the normal motive to moral action.”

  In these cases,

  the only teaching likely to be effective is such as will powerfully affect the emo-

  tions of the taught, no less than their intellects; we should, therefore, gener-

  ally speaking, need teachers who themselves felt, and were believed to feel, sin-

  cerely and intensely, the moral and social emotions that it was their business to

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  stimulate; and governmental appointment and payment would hardly seem to

  be an appropriate method of securing instructors of this type. If a spirit of de-

  votion to a particular society or to humanity at large, and readiness to sacrifice

  self-interest to duty, are to be persuasively inculcated on adults, the task should,

  generally speaking, be undertaken by persons who set an example of self-devotion

  and self-sacrifice; and therefore by volunteers, rather than by paid officers.

  (EP –)

  Under these circumstances, as Sidgwick’s own life attested, the dualism

  of practical reason made the promotion of social harmony a much more

  difficult enterprise: recall again how he did not wish his own philosophy

  to affect the larger populace in the way that it had affected Myers. Tommy

  Green and Johnnie Symonds (and Jane Addams) were better volunteers

  than the self-doubting philosopher. Still, in his own energetic way, he

  clearly did his bit for the cause of culture, even if he himself was fitted

 

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