Best Intentions

L’enfer est plein de bonnes volontés ou désirs
—St. Bernard of Clairvaux. c. 1150 A.D.

And if anyone knows Chang-Rae Lee,” wrote Penn State English professor Michael Bérubé back in 2006, “let’s find out what he thinks about Native Speaker!” The reason Bérubé gives for doing that asking is, first, that Lee wrote the novel under discussion, Native Speaker—and second, that Bérubé “once read somewhere that meaning is identical with intention.” But this isn’t the beginning of an essay about Native Speaker. It’s actually the end of an attack on a fellow English professor: the University of Illinois at Chicago’s Walter Benn Michaels, who (along with with Steven Knapp, now president of George Washington University), wrote the 1982 essay “Against Theory”—an essay that  argued that “the meaning of a text is simply identical to the author’s intended meaning.” Bérubé’s closing scoff then is meant to demonstrate just how politically conservative Michaels’ work is— earlier in the same piece, Bérubé attempted to tie Michaels’ work to Arthur Schlesinger, Jr.’s The Disuniting of America, a book that, because it argued that “multiculturalism” weakened a shared understanding of the United States, has much the same status among some of the intelligentsia that Mein Kampf has among Jews. Yet—weirdly for a critic who often insists on the necessity of understanding historical context—it’s Bérubé’s essay that demonstrates a lack of contextual knowledge, while it’s Michaels’ view—weirdly for a critic who has echoed Henry Ford’s claim that “History is bunk”—that demonstrates a possession of it. In historical reality, that is, it’s Michaels’ pro-intention view that has been the politically progressive one, while it’s Bérubé’s scornful view that shares essentially everything with traditionally conservative thought.

Perhaps that ought to have been apparent right from the start. Despite the fact that, to many English professors, the anti-intentionalist view has helped to unleash enormous political and intellectual energies on behalf of forgotten populations, the reason it could do so was that it originated from a forgotten population that, to many of those same professors, deserves to be forgotten: white Southerners. Anti-intentionalism, after all, was a key tenet of the critical movement called the New Criticism—a movement that, as Paul Lauter described in a presidential address to the American Studies Association in 1994, arose “largely in the South” through the work of Southerners like John Crowe Ransom, Allen Tate, and Robert Penn Warren. Hence, although Bérubé, in his essay on Michaels, insinuates that intentionalism is politically retrograde (and perhaps even racist), it’s actually the contrary belief that can be more concretely tied to a conservative politics.

Ransom and the others, after all, initially became known through a 1930 book entitled I’ll Take My Stand: The South and the Agrarian Tradition, a book whose theme was a “central attack on the impact of industrial capitalism” in favor of a vision of a specifically Southern tradition of a society based around the farm, not the factory. In their vision, as Lauter says, “the city, the artificial, the mechanical, the contingent, cosmopolitan, Jewish, liberal, and new” were counterposed to the “natural, traditional, harmonious, balanced, [and the] patriachal”: a juxtaposition of sets of values that wouldn’t be out of place in a contemporary Republican political ad. But as Lauter observes, although these men were “failures in … ‘practical agitation’”—i.e., although I’ll Take My Stand was meant to provoke a political revolution, it didn’t—“they were amazingly successful in establishing the hegemony of their ideas in the practice of the literature classroom.” Among the ideas that they instituted in the study of literature was the doctrine of anti-intentionalism.

The idea of anti-intentionalism itself, of course, predates the New Criticism: writers like T.S. Eliot (who grew up in St. Louis) and the University of Cambridge don F.R. Leavis are often cited as antecedents. Yet it did not become institutionalized as (nearly) official doctrine of English departments  (which themselves hardly existed) until the 1946 publication of W.K. Wimsatt and Monroe Beardsley’s “The Intentional Fallacy” in The Sewanee Review. (The Review, incidentally, is a publication of Sewanee: The University of the South, which was, according to its Wikipedia page, originally founded in Tennessee in 1857 “to create a Southern university free of Northern influences”—i.e., abolitionism.) In “The Intentional Fallacy,” Wimsatt and Beardsley explicitly “argued that the design or intention of the author is neither available nor desirable as a standard for judging the success of a work of literary art”—a doctrine that, in the decades that followed, did not simply become a key tenet of the New Criticism, but also largely became accepted as the basis for work in English departments. In other words, when Bérubé attacks Michaels in the guise of acting on behalf of minorities, he also attacks him on behalf of the institution of English departments—and so just who the bully is here isn’t quite so easily made out as Bérubé makes it appear.

That’s especially true because anti-intentionalism wasn’t just born and raised among conservatives—it has also continued to be a doctrine in conservative service. Take, for instance, the teachings of conservative Supreme Court justice Antonin Scalia, who throughout his career championed a method of interpretation he called “textualism”—by which he meant (!) that, as he said in 1995, it “is the law that governs, not the intent of the lawgiver.” Scalia argued his point throughout his career: in 1989’s Green v. Bock Laundry Mach. Co., for instance, he wrote that the

meaning of terms on the statute books ought to be determined, not on the basis of which meaning can be shown to have been understood by the Members of Congress, but rather on the basis of which meaning is … most in accord with context and ordinary usage … [and is] most compatible with the surrounding body of law.

Scalia thusly argued that interpretation ought to proceed from a consideration of language itself, apart from those who speak it—a position that would place him, perhaps paradoxically from Michael Bérubé’s position, among the most rarified heights of literary theorists: it was after all the formidable German philosopher Martin Heidegger—a twelve-year member of the Nazi Party and sometime-favorite of Bérubé’s—who wrote the phrase “Die Sprache spricht”: “Language [and, by implication, not speakers] speaks.” But, of course, that may not be news Michael Bérubé wishes to hear.

Like Odysseus’ crew, there’s a simple method by which Bérubé could avoid hearing the point: all of the above could be dismissed as an example of the “genetic fallacy.” First defined by Morris Cohen and Ernest Nagel in 1934’s An Introduction to Logic and Scientific Method, the “genetic fallacy” is “the supposition that an actual history of any science, art, or social institution can take the place of a logical analysis of its structure.” That is, the arguments above could be said to be like the argument that would dismiss anti-smoking advocates on the grounds that the Nazis were also anti-smoking: just because the Nazi were against smoking is no reason not to be against smoking also. In the same way, just because anti-intentionalism originated among conservative Southerners—and also, as we saw, committed Nazis—is no reason to dismiss the thought of anti-intentionalism. Or so Michael Bérubé might argue.

That would be so, however, only insofar as the doctrine of anti-intentionalism were independent from the conditions from which it arose: the reasons to be against smoking, after all, have nothing to do with anti-Semitism or the situation of interwar Germany. But in fact the doctrine of anti-intentionalism—or rather, to put things in the correct order, the doctrine of intentionalism—has everything to do with the politics of its creators. In historical reality, the doctrine enunciated by Michaels—that intention is central to interpretation—was in fact created precisely in order to resist the conservative political visions of Southerners. From that point of view, in fact, it’s possible to see the Civil War itself as essentially fought over this principle: from this height, “slavery” and “states’ rights” and the rest of the ideas sometimes advanced as reasons for the war become mere details.

It was, in fact, the very basis upon which Abraham Lincoln would fight the Civil War—though to see how requires a series of steps. They are not, however, especially difficult ones: in the first place, Lincoln plainly said what the war was about in his First Inaugural Address. “Unanimity is impossible,” as he said there, while “the rule of a minority, as a permanent arrangement, is wholly inadmissable.” Not everyone will agree all the time, in other words, yet the idea of a “wise minority” (Plato’s philosopher-king or the like) has been tried for centuries—and been found wanting; therefore, Lincoln continued, by “rejecting the majority principle, anarchy or despotism in some form is all that is left.” Lincoln thereby concluded that “a majority, held in restraint by constitutional checks and limitations”—that is, bounds to protect the minority—“is the only true sovereign of a free people.” Since the Southerners, by seceding, threatened this idea of government—the only guarantee of free government—therefore Lincoln was willing to fight them. But where did Lincoln obtain this idea?

The intellectual line of descent, as it happens, is crystal clear: as Wills writes, “Lincoln drew much of his defense of the Union from the speeches of [Daniel] Webster”: after all, the Gettysburg Address’ famous phrase, “government of the people, by the people, for the people” was an echo of Webster’s Second Reply to Hayne, which contained the phrase “made for the people, made by the people, and answerable to the people.” But if Lincoln got his notions of the Union (and thusly, his reasons for fighting the war) from Webster, then it should also be noted that Webster got his ideas from Supreme Court Justice Joseph Story: as Theodore Parker, the Boston abolitionist minister, once remarked, “Mr. Justice Story was the Jupiter Pluvius [Raingod] from whom Mr. Webster often sought to elicit peculiar thunder for his speeches and private rain for his own public tanks of law.” And Story, for his part, got his notions from another Supreme Court justice: James Wilson, who—as Linda Przybyszewski notes in passing in her book, The Republic According to John Marshall Harlan (a later Supreme Court justice)—was “a source for Joseph Story’s constitutional nationalism.” So in this fashion Lincoln’s arguments concerning the constitution—and thus, the reasons for fighting the war—ultimately derived from Wilson.

 

JamesWilson
Not this James Wilson.

Yet, what was that theory—the one that passed by a virtual apostolic succession from Wilson to Story to Webster to Lincoln? It was derived, most specifically, from a question Wilson had publicly asked in 1768, in his Considerations on the Nature and Extent of the Legislative Authority of the British Parliament. “Is British freedom,” Wilson had there asked, “denominated from the soil, or from the people, of Britain?” Nineteen years later, at the Constitutional Convention of 1787, Wilson would echo the same theme: “Shall three-fourths be ruled by one-fourth? … For whom do we make a constitution? Is it for men, or is it for imaginary beings called states?” To Wilson, the answer was clear: constitutions are for people, not for tracts of land, and as Wills correctly points out, it was on that doctrine that Lincoln prosecuted the war.

James Wilson (1742-1798)
This James Wilson.

Still, although all of the above might appear unobjectionable, there is one key difficulty to be overcome. If, that is, Wilson’s theory—and Lincoln’s basis for war—depends on a theory of political power derived from people, and not inanimate objects like the “soil,” that requires a means of distinguishing between the two—which perhaps is why Wilson insisted, in his Lectures on Law in 1790 (the very first such legal works in the United States), that “[t]he first and governing maxim in the interpretation of a statute is to discover the meaning of those who made it.” Or—to put it another way—the intention of those who made it. It’s intention, in other words, that enables Wilson’s theory to work—as Knapp and Michaels well-understand in “Against Theory.”

The central example of “Against Theory,” after all, is precisely about how to distinguish people from objects. “Suppose that you’re walking along a beach and you come upon a curious sequence of squiggles in the sand,” Michaels and his co-author ask. These “squiggles,” it seems, appear to be the opening lines of Wordsworth’s “A Slumber”: “A slumber did my spirit seal.” That wonder, then, is reinforced by the fact that, in this example, the next wave leaves, “in its wake,” the next stanza of the poem. How to explain this event, Knapp and Michaels ask?

There are, they say, only two alternatives: either to ascribe “these marks to some agent capable of intentions,” or to “count them as nonintentional effects of mechanical processes,” like some (highly unlikely) process of erosion or wave action or the like. Which, in turn, leads up to the $64,000 question: if these “words” are the result of “mechanical processes” and not the actions of an actor, then “will they still seem to be words?”

The answer, of course, is that they will not: “They will merely seem to resemble words.” Thus, to deprive (what appear to be) the words “of an author is to convert them into accidental likenesses of language.” Intention and meaning are, in this way, identical to each other: no intention, no meaning—and vice versa. Similarly, I suggest, to Lincoln (and his intellectual antecedents), the state is identical to its people—and vice versa. Which, clearly, then suggests that those who deny intention are, in their own fashion—and no matter what they say—secessionists.

If so, then that would, conversely, make those who think—along with Knapp and Michaels—that it is intention that determines meaning, and—along with Lincoln and Wilson—that it is people that constitutes states, then it would follow that those who thought that way really could—unlike the sorts of “radicals” Bérubé is attempting to cover for—construct the United States differently, in a fashion closer to the vision of James Wilson as interpreted by Abraham Lincoln. There are, after all, a number of things about the government of the United States that still lend themselves to the contrary theory, that power derives from the inanimate object of the soil: the Senate, for one. The Electoral College, for another. But the “radical” theory espoused by Michael Bérubé and others of his ilk does not allow for any such practical changes in the American constitutional architecture. In fact, given its collaboration—a word carefully chosen—with conservatives like Antonin Scalia, it does rather the reverse.

Then again, perhaps that is the intention of Michael Bérubé. He is, after all, an apparently-personable man who nevertheless asked, in a 2012 essay in the Chronicle of Higher Education explaining why he resigned the Paterno Family Professorship in Literature at Pennsylvania State University, us to consider just how horrible the whole Jerry Sandusky scandal was—for Joe Paterno’s family. (Just “imagine their shock and grief” at finding out that the great college coach may have abetted a child rapist, he asked—never mind the shock and grief of those who discovered that their child had been raped.) He is, in other words, merely a part-time apologist for child rape—and so, I suppose, on his logic we ought to give a pass to his slavery-defending, Nazi-sympathizing, “intellectual” friends.

They have, they’re happy to tell us after all, only the best intentions.

Don Thumb

Then there was the educated Texan from Texas who looked like someone in Technicolor and felt, patriotically, that people of means—decent folk—should be given more votes than drifters, whores, criminals, degenerates, atheists, and indecent folk—people without means.
Joseph Heller. Catch-22. (1961).

 

“Odd arrangements and funny solutions,” the famed biologist Stephen Jay Gould once wrote about the panda’s thumb, “are the proof of evolution—paths that a sensible God would never tread but that a natural process, constrained by history, follows perforce.” The panda’s thumb, that is, is not really a thumb: it is an adaptation of another bone (the radial sesamoid) in the animal’s paw; Gould’s point is that the bamboo-eater’s thumb is not “a beautiful machine,” i.e. not the work of “an ideal engineer.” Hence, it must be the product of an historical process—a thought that occurred to me once again when I was asked recently by one of my readers (I have some!) whether it’s really true, as law professor Paul Finkelman has suggested for decades in law review articles like “The Proslavery Origins of the Electoral College,” that the “connection between slavery and the [electoral] college was deliberate.” One way to answer the question, of course, is to pour through (as Finkelman has very admirably done) the records of the Constitutional Convention of 1787: the notes of James Madison, for example, or the very complete documents collected by Yale historian Max Farrand at the beginning of the twentieth century. Another way, however, is to do as Gould suggests, and think about the “fit” between the design of an instrument and the purpose it is meant to achieve. Or in other words, to ask why the Law of Large Numbers suggests Donald Trump is like the 1984 Kansas City Royals.

The 1984 Kansas City Royals, for those who aren’t aware, are well-known in baseball nerd circles for having won the American League West division despite being—as famous sabermetrician Bill James, founder of the application of statistical methods to baseball, once wrote—“the first team in baseball history to win a championship of any stripe while allowing more runs (684) than they scored (673).” “From the beginnings of major league baseball just after the civil war through 1958,” James observes, no team ever managed such a thing. Why? Well, it does seem readily apparent that scoring more runs than one’s opponent is a key component to winning baseball games, and winning baseball games is a key component to winning championships, so in that sense it ought to be obvious that there shouldn’t be many winning teams that failed to score more runs than their opponents. Yet on the other hand, it also seems possible to imagine a particular sort of baseball team winning a lot of one-run games, but occasionally giving up blow-out losses—and yet as James points out, no such team succeeded before 1959.

Even the “Hitless Wonders,” the 1906 Chicago White Sox, scored more runs than their opponents  despite hitting (according to This Great Game: The Online Book of Baseball) “a grand total of seven home runs on the entire season” while simultaneously putting up the American League’s “worst batting average (.230).” The low-offense South Side team is seemingly made to order for the purposes of this discussion because they won the World Series that year (over the formidable Chicago Cubs)—yet even this seemingly-hapless team scored 570 runs to their opponents’ 460, according to Baseball Reference. (A phenomenon most attribute to the South Siders’ pitching and fielding: that is, although they didn’t score a lot of runs, they were really good at preventing their opponents’ from scoring a lot of runs.) Hence, even in the pre-Babe Ruth “dead ball” era, when baseball teams routinely employed “small ball” strategies designed to produce one-run wins as opposed to Ruth’s “big ball” attack, there weren’t any teams that won despite scoring fewer runs than their opponents’.

After 1958, however, there were a few teams that approached that margin: the 1959 Dodgers, freshly moved to Los Angeles, scored only 705 runs to their opponents’ 670, while the 1961 Cincinnati Reds scored 710 to their opponents 653, and the 1964 St. Louis Cardinals scored 715 runs to their opponents’ 652. Each of these teams were different than most other major league teams: the ’59 Dodgers played in the Los Angeles Coliseum, a venue built for the 1932 Olympics, not baseball; its cavernous power alleys were where home runs went to die, while its enormous foul ball areas ended many at-bats that would have continued in other stadiums. (The Coliseum, that is, was a time machine to the “deadball” era.) The 1961 Reds had Frank Robinson and virtually no other offense until the Queen City’s nine was marginally upgraded through a midseason trade. Finally, the 1964 Cardinals team had Bob Gibson (please direct yourself to the history of Bob Gibson’s career immediately if you are unfamiliar with him), and second they played in the first year after major league baseball’s Rules Committee redefined the strike zone to be just slightly larger—a change that had the effect of dropping home run totals by ten percent and both batting average and runs scored by twelve percent. In The New Historical Baseball Abstract, Bill James calls the 1960s the “second deadball era”; the 1964 Cardinals did not score a lot of runs, but then neither did anyone else.

Each of these teams was composed of unlikely sets of pieces: the Coliseum was a weird place to play baseball, the Rule Committee was a small number of men who probably did not understand the effects of their decision, and Bob Gibson was Bob Gibson. And even then, these teams all managed to score more runs than their opponents, even if the margin was small. (By comparison, the all-time run differential record is held by Joe DiMaggio’s 1939 New York Yankees, who outscored their opponents by 411 runs: 967 to 556, a ratio may stand until the end of time.) Furthermore, the 1960 Dodgers finished in fourth place, the 1962 Reds finished in third, and the 1965 Cards finished seventh: these were teams, in short, that had success for a single season, but didn’t follow up. Without going very deeply into the details then, suffice it to say that run differential is—as Sean Forman noted in the The New York Times in 2011—“a better predictor of future win-loss percentage than a team’s actual win-loss percentage.” Run differential is a way to “smooth out” the effects of chance in a fashion that the “lumpiness” of win-loss percentage doesn’t.

That’s also, as it happens, just what the Law of Large Numbers does: first noted by mathematician Jacob Bernoulli in his Ars Conjectandi of 1713, that law holds that “the more … observations are taken into account, the less is the danger of straying from the goal.” It’s the principle that is the basis of the insurance industry: according to Caltech physicist Leonard Mlodinow, it’s the notion that while “[i]ndividual life spans—and lives—are unpredictable, when data are collected from groups and analyzed en masse, regular patterns emerge.” Or for that matter, the law is also why it’s very hard to go bankrupt—which Donald Trump, as it so happens, has—when running a casino: as Nicholas Taleb commented in The Black Swan: The Impact of the Highly Improbable, all it takes to run a successful casino is to refuse to allow “one gambler to make a massive bet,” and instead “have plenty of gamblers make series of bets of limited size.” More bets equals more “observations,” and the more observations the more likely it is that all those bets will converge toward the expected result. In other words, one coin toss might be heads or might be tails—but the more times the coin is thrown, the more likely it is that there will be an equal number of both heads and tails.

How this concerns Donald Trump is that, as has been noted, although the president-elect did win the election, he did not win more votes than the Democratic candidate, Hillary Clinton. (As of this writing, those totals now stand at 62,391,335 votes for Clinton to Trump’s 61,125,956.) The reason that Clinton did not win the election is because American presidential elections are not won by collecting more votes in the wider electorate, but rather through winning in that peculiarly American institution, the Electoral College: an institution in which, as Will Hively remarked remarkably presciently in a Discover article in 1996, a “popular-vote loser in the big national contest can still win by scoring more points in the smaller electoral college.” Despite how weird that bizarre sort of result actually is, however, according to some that’s just what makes the Electoral College worth keeping.

Hively was covering that story in 1996: his Discovery story was about how, in the pages of the journal Public Choice that year, mathematician Alan Natapoff tried to argue that the “same logic that governs our electoral system … also applies to many sports”—for example, baseball’s World Series. In order “to become [World Series] champion,” Natapoff noticed, a “team must win the most games”—not score the most runs. In the 1960 World Series, the mathematician wrote, the New York Yankees “scored more than twice as many total runs as the Pittsburgh Pirates, 55 to 27”—but the Yankees lost game 7, and thus the series. “Runs must be grouped in a way that wins games,” Natapoff thought, “just as popular votes must be grouped in a way that wins states.” That is, the Electoral College forces candidates to “have broad appeal across the whole nation,” instead of playing “strongly on a single issue to isolated blocs of voters.” It’s a theory that might seem, on its face, to have a certain plausibility: by constructing the Electoral College, the delegates to the constitutional convention of 1787 prevented future candidates from winning by appealing to a single, but large, constituency.

Yet, recall Stephen Jay Gould’s remark about the panda’s thumb, which suggests that we can examine just how well a given object fulfills its purpose: in this case, Natapoff is arguing that, because the design of the World Series “fits” the purpose of identifying the best team in baseball, so too does the Electoral College “fit” the purpose of identifying the best presidential candidate. Natapoff’s argument concerning the Electoral College presumes, in other words, that the task of baseball’s playoff system is to identify the best team in baseball, and hence it ought to work for identifying the best president. But the Law of Large Numbers suggests that the first task of any process that purports to identify value is that it should eliminate, or at least significantly reduce, the effects of chance: whatever one thinks about the World Series, presumably presidents shouldn’t be the result of accident. And the World Series simply does not do that.

“That there is”—as Nate Silver and Dayn Perry wrote in their ESPN.com piece, “Why Don’t the A’s Win In October?” (collected in Jonah Keri and James Click’s Baseball Between the Numbers: Why Everything You Know About the Game Is Wrong)—“a great deal of luck involved in the playoffs is an incontrovertible mathematical fact.” It’s a point that was


argued so early in baseball’s history as 1904, when the New York Giants refused to split the gate receipts evenly with what they considered to be an upstart American League team (Cf. “Striking Out” https://djlane.wordpress.com/2016/07/31/striking-out/.). As Caltech physicist Leonard Mlodinow has observed, if the World Series were designed—by an “ideal engineer,” say—to make sure that one team was the better team, it would have to be 23 games long if one team were significantly better than the other, and 269 games long if the two teams were evenly matched—that is, nearly as long as two full seasons. In fact, since it may even be argued that baseball, by increasingly relying on a playoff system instead of the regular season standings, is increasing, not decreasing, the role of chance in the outcome of its championship process: whereas prior to 1969, the two teams meeting in the World Series were the victors of a paradigmatic Law of Large Numbers system—the regular season—now many more teams enter the playoffs, and do so by multiple routes. Chance is playing an increasing role in determining baseball’s champions: in James’ list of sixteen championship-winning teams that had a run differential of less than 1.100: 1, all of the teams, except the ones I have already mentioned, are from 1969 or after. Hence, from a mathematical perspective the World Series cannot be seriously argued to eliminate, or even effectively reduce, the element of chance—from which it can be reasoned, as Gould says about the panda’s thumb, that the purpose of the World Series is not to identify the best baseball team.

Natapoff’s argument, in other words, has things exactly backwards: rather than showing just how rational the Electoral College is, the comparison to baseball demonstrates just how irrational it is—how vulnerable it is to chance. In the light of Gould’s argument about the panda’s thumb, which suggests that a lack of “fit” between the optimal solution (the human thumb) to a problem and the actual solution (the panda’s thumb) implies the presence of “history,” that would then intimate that the Electoral College is either the result of a lack of understanding of the mathematics of chance with regards to elections—or that the American system for electing presidents was not designed for the purpose that it purports to serve. As I will demonstrate, despite the rudimentary development of the mathematics of probability at the time at least a few—and these, some of the most important—of the delegates to the Philadelphia convention in 1787 were aware of those mathematical realities. That fact suggests, I would say, that Paul Finkelman’s arguments concerning the purpose of the Electoral College are worth much more attention than they have heretofore received: Finkelman may or may not be correct that the purpose of the Electoral College was to support slavery—but what is indisputable is that it was not designed for the purpose of eliminating chance in the election of American presidents.

Consider, for example, that although he was not present at the meeting in Philadelphia, Thomas Jefferson possessed not only a number of works on the then-nascent study of probability, but particularly a copy of the very first textbook to expound on Bernoulli’s notion of the Law of Large Numbers: 1718’s The Doctrine of Chances, or, A Method of Calculating the Probability of Events in Play, by Abraham de Moivre. Jefferson also had social and intellectual connections to the noted French mathematician, the Marquis de Condorcet—a man who, according to Iain McLean of the University of Warwick and Arnold Urken of the Stevens Institute of Technology, applied “techniques found in Jacob Bernoulli’s Ars Conjectandi” to “the logical relationship between voting procedures and collective outcomes.” Jefferson in turn (McLean and Urken inform us) “sent [James] Madison some of Condorcet’s political pamphlets in 1788-9”—a connection that would only have reaffirmed a connection already established by the Italian Philip Mazzei, who sent a Madison a copy of some of Condorcet’s work in 1786: “so that it was, or may have been, on Madison’s desk while he was writing the Federalist Papers.” And while none of that implies that Madison knew of the marquis prior to coming to Philadelphia in 1787, before even meeting Jefferson when the Virginian came to France to be the American minister, the marquis had already become a close friend, for years, to another man who would become a delegate to the Philadelphia meeting: Benjamin Franklin. Although not all of the convention attendees, in short, may have been aware of the relationship between probability and elections, at least some were—and arguably, they were the most intellectually formidable ones, the men most likely to notice that the design of the Electoral College is in direct conflict with the Law of Large Numbers.

In particular, they would have been aware of the marquis’ most famous contribution to social thought: Condorcet’s “Jury Theorem,” in which—as Norman Schofield once observed in the pages of Social Choice Welfare—the Frenchman proved that, assuming “that the ‘typical’ voter has a better than even chance of choosing the ‘correct’ outcome … the electorate would, using the majority rule, do better than an average voter.” In fact, Condorcet demonstrated mathematically—using Bernoulli’s methods in a book entitled Essay on the Application of Analysis to the Probability of Majority Decisions (significantly published in 1785, two years before the Philadelphia meeting)—that adding more voters made a correct choice more likely, just as (according to the Law of Large Numbers) adding more games makes it more likely that the eventual World Series winner is the better team. Franklin at the least then, and perhaps Madison next most-likely, could not but have been aware of the possible mathematical dangers an Electoral College could create: they must have known that the least-chancy way of selecting a leader—that is, the product of the design of an infallible engineer—would be a direct popular vote. And while it cannot be conclusively demonstrated that these men were thinking specifically of Condorcet’s theories at Philadelphia, it is certainly more than suggestive that both Franklin and Madison thought that a direct popular vote was the best way to elect a president.

When James Madison came to the floor of Independence Hall to speak to the convention about the election of presidents for instance, he insisted that “popular election was better” than an Electoral College, as David O. Stewart writes in his The Summer of 1787: The Men Who Invented the Constitution. Meanwhile, it was James Wilson of Philadelphia—so close to Franklin, historian Lawrence Goldstone reports, that the infirm Franklin chose Wilson to read his addresses to the convention—who originally proposed direct popular election of the president: “Experience,” the Scottish-born Philadelphian said, “shewed [sic] that an election of the first magistrate by the people at large, was both a convenient & successful mode.” In fact, as William Ewald of the University of Pennsylvania has pointed out, “Wilson almost alone among the delegates advocated not only the popular election of the President, but the direct popular election of the Senate, and indeed a consistent application of the principle of ‘one man, one vote.’” (Wilson’s positions were far ahead of their time: in the case of the Senate, Wilson’s proposal would not be realized until the passage of the Seventeenth Amendment in 1913, and his stance in favor of the principle of “one man, one vote” would not be enunciated as part of American law until the Reynolds v. Sims line of cases decided by the Earl Warren-led U.S. Supreme Court in the early 1960s.) To Wilson, the “majority of people wherever found” should govern “in all questions”—a statement that is virtually identical to Condorcet’s mathematically-influenced argument.

What these men thought, in other words, was that an electoral system that was designed to choose the best leader of a nation would proceed on the basis of a direct national popular vote: some of them, particularly Madison, may even have been aware of the mathematical reasons for supposing that a direct national popular vote was how an American presidential election would be designed if it were the product of what Stephen Jay Gould calls an “ideal engineer.” Just as an ideal (but nonexistent) World Series would be at least 23, and possibly so long as 269 games—in order to rule out chance—the ideal election to the presidency would include as many eligible voters as possible: the more voters, Condorcet would say, the more likely those voters would be to get it right. Yet just as with the actual, as opposed to ideal, World Series, there is a mismatch between the Electoral College’s proclaimed purpose and its actual purpose: a mismatch that suggests researchers ought to look for the traces of history within it.

Hence, although it’s possible to investigate Paul Finkelman’s claims regarding the origins of the Electoral College by, say, trawling through the volumes of the notes taken at the Constitutional Convention, it’s also possible simply to think through the structure of the Constitution itself in the same fashion that Stephen Jay Gould thinks about, say, the structure of frog skeletons: in terms of their relation to the purpose they serve. In this case, there is a kind of mathematical standard to which the Electoral College can be compared: a comparison that doesn’t necessarily imply that the Constitution was created simply and only to protect slavery, as Finkelman says—but does suggest that Finkelman is right to think that there is something in need of explanation. Contra Natapoff, the similarity between the Electoral College and the World Series does not suggest that the American way of electing a head of state is designed to produce the best possible leader, but instead that—like the World Series—it was designed with some other goal in mind. The Electoral College may or may not be the creation of an ideal craftsman, but it certainly isn’t a “beautiful machine”; after electing the political version of the 1984 Kansas City Royals—who, by the way, were swept by Detroit in the first round—to the highest office in the land, maybe the American people should stop treating it that way.

Baal

Just as ancient Greek and Roman propagandists insisted, the Carthaginians did kill their own infant children, burying them with sacrificed animals and ritual inscriptions in special cemeteries to give thanks for favours from the gods, according to a new study.
The Guardian, 21 January 2014.

 

Just after the last body fell, at three seconds after 9:40 on the morning of 14 December, the debate began: it was about, as it always is, whether Americans ought to follow sensible rules about guns—or whether they ought to be easier to obtain than, say, the right to pull fish out of the nearby Housatonic River. There’s been a lot of words written about the Sandy Hook killings since the day that Adam Lanza—the last body to fall—killed 20 children and six adults at the elementary school he once attended, but few of them have examined the culpability of some of the very last people one might expect with regard to the killings: the denizens of the nation’s universities. After all, it’s difficult to accuse people who themselves are largely in favor of gun control of aiding and abetting the National Rifle Association—Pew Research reported, in 2011, that more than half of people with more than a college degree favored gun control. And yet, over the past several generations a doctrine has gained ground that, I think, has not only allowed academics to absolve themselves of engaging in debate on the subject of gun control, but has actively harmed the possibility of accomplishing it.

Having said that, of course, it is important to acknowledge that virtually all academics—even those who consider themselves “conservative” politically—are in favor of gun control: when for example Texas passed a law legalizing carrying guns on college campus recently Daniel S. Hamermesh, a University of Texas emeritus professor of economics (not exactly a discipline known for its radicalism), resigned his position, citing a fear for his own and his students’ safety. That’s not likely accidental, because not only do many academics oppose guns in their capacities as citizens, but academics have a special concern when it comes to guns: as Firmin DeBrabander, a professor of philosophy at the Maryland Institute College of Art argued in the pages of Inside Higher Ed last year, against laws similar to Texas’, “guns stand opposed” to the “pedagogical goals of the classroom” because while in the classroom “individuals learn to talk to people of different backgrounds and perspectives,” guns “announce, and transmit, suspicion and hostility.” If anyone has a particular interest in controlling arms, in other words, it’s academics, being as their work is particularly designed to foster what DeBrabander calls “open and transformative exchange” that may air “ideas [that] are offensive.” So to think that academics may in fact be an obstacle towards achieving sensible policies regarding guns might appear ridiculous on the surface.

Yet there’s actually good reason to think that academic liberals bear some responsibility for the United States’ inability to regulate guns like every other industrialized—I nearly said, “civilized”—nation on earth. That’s because changing gun laws would require a specific demands for action, and as political science professor Adolph Reed, Jr. of the University of Pennsylvania put the point not long ago in Harper’s, these days the “left has no particular place it wants to go.” That is, to many on campus and off, making specific demands of the political sphere is itself a kind of concession—or in other words, as journalist Thomas Frank remarked a few years ago about the Occupy Wall Street movement, today’s academic left teaches that “demands [are] a fetish object of literal-minded media types who stupidly crave hierarchy and chains of command.” Demanding changes to gun laws is, after all, a specific demand, and to make specific demands is, from this sophisticated perspective, a kind of “sell out.”

Still, how did the idea of making specific demands become a derided form of politics? After all, the labor movement (the eight-hour day), the suffragette movement (women’s right to vote) or the civil rights movement (an end to Jim Crow) all made specific demands. How then has American politics arrived at the diffuse and essentially inarticulable argument of the Occupy movement—a movement within which, Elizabeth Jacobs claimed in a report for the Brookings Institute while the camp in Zuccotti Park still existed, “the lack of demands is a point of pride?” I’d suggest that one possible way the trick was turned was through a 1967 article written by one Robert Bellah, of Harvard: an article that described American politics, and its political system, as a “civil religion.” By describing American politics in religious rather than secular terms, Bellah opened the way towards what some have termed the “non-politics” of Occupy and other social movements—and incidentally, allow children like Adam Lanza’s victims to die.

In “Civil Religion in America,” Bellah—who received his bachelor’s from Harvard in 1950, and then taught at Harvard until moving to the University of California at Berkeley in 1967, where he continued until the end of his illustrious career—argued that “few have realized that there actually exists alongside of and rather clearly differentiated from the churches an elaborate and well-institutionalized civil religion in America.” This “national cult,” as Bellah terms it, has its own holidays: Thanksgiving Day, Bellah says, “serves to integrate the family into the civil religion,” while “Memorial Day has acted to integrate the local community into the national cult.” Bellah also remarks that the “public school system serves as a particularly important context for the cultic celebration of the civil rituals” (a remark that, incidentally, perhaps has played no little role in the attacks on public education over the past several decades). Bellah also argues that various speeches by American presidents like Abraham Lincoln and John F. Kennedy are also examples of this “civil religion” in action: Bellah spends particular time with Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address, which he notes that poet Robert Lowell observed is filled with Christian imagery, and constitutes “a symbolic and sacramental act.” In saying so, Bellah is merely following a longstanding tradition regarding both Lincoln and the Gettysburg Address—a tradition that, however, that does not have the political valence that Bellah, or his literal spiritual followers, might think it does.

“Some think, to this day,” wrote Garry Wills of Northwestern University in his magisterial Lincoln at Gettysburg: The Words that Remade America, “that Lincoln did not really have arguments for union, just a kind of mystical attachment to it.” It’s a tradition that Wills says “was the charge of Southerners” against Lincoln at the time: after the war, Wills notes, Alexander Stephens—the only vice president the Confederate States ever had—argued that the “Union, with him [Lincoln], in sentiment rose to the sublimity of a religious mysticism.” Still, it’s also true that others felt similarly: Wills points out that the poet Walt Whitman wrote that “the only thing like passion or infatuation” in Lincoln “was the passion for the Union of these states.” Nevertheless, it’s a dispute that might have fallen by the historical wayside if it weren’t for the work of literary critic Edmund Wilson, who called his essay on Lincoln (collected in a relatively famous book Patriotic Gore: Studies in the Literature of the American Civil War) “The Union as Religious Mysticism.” That book, published in 1962, seems to have at least influenced Lowell—the two were, if not friends, at least part of the same New York City literary scene—and through Lowell Bellah, seems plausible.

Even if there was no direct route from Wilson to Bellah, however, it seems indisputable that the notion—taken from Southerners—concerning the religious nature of Lincoln’s arguments for the American Union became widely transmitted through American culture. Richard Nixon’s speechwriter, William Safire—since a longtime columnist for the New York Times—was familiar with Wilson’s ideas: as Mark Neely observed in his The Fate of Liberty: Abraham Lincoln and the Civil Liberties, on two occasions in Safire’s novel Freedom, “characters comment on the curiously ‘mystical’ nature of Lincoln’s attachment to the Union.” In 1964, the theologian Reinhold Niebuhr published an essay entitled “The Religion of Abraham Lincoln,” while in 1963 William J. Wolfe of the Episcopal Theological School of Cambridge, Massachusetts claimed that “Lincoln is one of the greatest theologians in America,” in the sense “of seeing the hand of God intimately in the affairs of nations.” Sometime in the early 1960s and afterwards, in other words, the idea took root among some literary intellectuals that the United States was a religious society—not one based on an entirely secular philosophy.

At least when it comes to Lincoln, at any rate, there’s good reason to doubt this story: far from being a religious person, Lincoln has often been described as non-religious or even an atheist. His longtime friend Jesse Fell—so close to Lincoln that it was he who first suggested what became the famous Lincoln-Douglas debates—for instance once remarked that Lincoln “held opinions utterly at variance with what are usually taught in the church,” and Lincoln’s law partner William Herndon—who was an early fan of Charles Darwin’s—said that the president also was “a warm advocate of the new doctrine.” Being committed to the theory of evolution—if Lincoln was—doesn’t mean, of course, that the president was therefore anti-religious, but it does mean that the notion of Lincoln as religious mystic has some accounting to do: if he was, it apparently was in no very simple way.

Still, as mentioned the view of Lincoln as a kind of prophet did achieve at least some success within American letters—but, as Wills argues in Lincoln at Gettysburg, that success has in turn obscured what Lincoln really argued concerning the structure of American politics. As Wills remarks for instance, “Lincoln drew much of his defense of the Union from the speeches of [Daniel] Webster, and few if any have considered Webster a mystic.” Webster’s views, in turn, descend from a line of American thought that goes back to the Revolution itself—though its most significant moment was at the Constitutional Convention of 1787.

Most especially, to one James Wilson, a Scottish emigrant, delegate to the Constitutional Convention of 1787, and later one of the first justices of the Supreme Court of the United States. If Lincoln got his notions of the Union from Webster, then Webster got his from Supreme Court Justice Joseph Story: as Wills notes, Theodore Parker, the Boston abolitionist minister, once remarked that “Mr. Justice Story was the Jupiter Pluvius [Raingod] from whom Mr. Webster often sought to elicit peculiar thunder for his speeches and private rain for his own public tanks of law.” Story, for his part, got his notion from Wilson: as Linda Przybyscewski notes in passing in her book, The Republic According to John Marshall Harlan (a later justice), Wilson was “a source for Joseph Story’s constitutional nationalism.” And Wilson’s arguments concerning the constitution—which he had a strong hand in making—were hardly religious.

At the constitutional convention, one of the most difficult topics to confront the delegates was the issue of representation: one of the motivations for the convention itself, after all, was the fact that under the previous terms of government, the Articles of Confederation, each state, rather than each member of the Continental Congress, possessed a vote. Wilson had already, in 1768, attacked the problem of representation as being one of the foremost reasons for the Revolution itself—the American colonies were supposed, by British law, to be fully as much British subjects as a Londoner or Mancunian, but yet had no representation in Parliament: “Is British freedom,” Wilson therefore asked in his Considerations on the Nature and Extent of the Legislative Authority of the British Parliament, “denominated from the soil, or from the people, of Britain?” That question was very much the predecessor of the question Wilson would ask at the convention: “For whom do we make a constitution? Is it for men, or is it for imaginary beings called states?” To Wilson, the answer was clear: constitutions are for people, not for tracts of land.

Wilson also made an argument that would later be echoed by Lincoln: he drew attention to the disparities of population between the several states. At the time of the convention, Pennsylvania—just as it is today—was a much more populous state than New Jersey was, a difference that made no difference under the Articles of Confederation, under which all states had the same number of votes: one. “Are not the citizens of Pennsylvania,” Wilson therefore asked the Convention, “equal to those of New Jersey? Does it require 150 of the former to balance 50 of the latter?” This argument would later be echoed by Lincoln, who, in order to illustrate the differences between free states and slave states, would—in October of 1854, at Peoria, in the speech that would mark his political comeback—note that

South Carolina has six representatives, and so has Maine; South Carolina has eight presidential electors, and so has Maine. This is precise equality so far; and, of course they are equal in Senators, each having two. Thus in the control of the government, the two States are equals precisely. But how are they in the number of their white people? Maine has 581,813—while South Carolina has 274,567. Maine has twice as many as South Carolina, and 32,679 over. Thus each white man in South Carolina is more than the double of any man in Maine.

The point of attack for both men, in other words, was precisely the same: the matter of representation in terms of what would later be called a “one man, one vote” standard. It’s an argument that hardly appears “mystical” in nature: since the matter turns, if anything, upon ratios of numbers to each other, it seems more aposit to describe the point of view adopted here as, if anything, “scientific”—if it weren’t for the fact that even the word “scientific” seems too dramatic a word for a matter that appears to be far more elemental.

Were Lincoln or Wilson alive today, then, it seems that the first point they might make about the gun control debate is that it is a matter about which the Congress is greatly at variance with public opinion: as Carl Bialik reported for FiveThirtyEight this past January, whenever Americans are polled “at least 70 percent of Americans [say] they favor background checks,” and furthermore that an October 2015 poll by CBS News and the New York Times “found that 92 percent of Americans—including 87 percent of Republicans—favor background checks for all gun buyers.” Yet, as virtually all Americans are aware, it has become essentially impossible to pass any sort of sensible legislation through Congress: a fact dramatized this spring by a “sit-down strike” in Congress by congressmen and congresswomen. What Lincoln and Wilson might further say about the point is that the trouble can’t be solved by such a “religious” approach: instead, what they presumably would recommend is that what needs to change is a system that inadequately represents the people. That isn’t the answer that’s on offer from academics and others on the American left, however. Which is to say that, soon enough, there will be another Adam Lanza to bewail—another of the sacrifices, one presumes, that the American left demands Americans must make to what one can only call their god.