Perhaps it is a credit to Mr. Kirk that I came to like his hero less and less throughout the reading of this book. Russell Kirk's lifelong intellectual project depended on Burke's putative greatness. His most popular and influential work, The Conservative Mind puts Burke at the center of all things conservative; he is, to Kirk, the root from which all True Conservatives spring, and against which all must be judged. Men as disparate as John Randolph and Henry Adams find themselves occupying the same intellectual tree (notwithstanding that Adams despised Randolph) all because Kirk finds in them some relation to Burke. And for the past seventy years, to be a conservative is to be a Burkean, for better or for worse.
This biography largely highlights the worse. The best, of course, is Burke's writing itself. He was a master writer and orator, and if Kirk overpraises him in the pantheon of all-time greats, it is not by much. His Reflections on the French Revolution is undoubtedly a work of genius. The passion bursting through all his oratory is a lesson for all attempting to write and speak.
But while his greatest work is good as gold, his life, career, and legacy are marred by his weaknesses of philosophy and character. This biography is largely a record of his career as philosopher and statesman. (The author notes how little of Burke's personal life we are privy to, and that this attempt to hide his deepest self was intentional on Burke's part.) In both realms, Burke was inadequate to the tasks with which he was confronted. The rhetorical fervor that shines through all his speeches will ever be immortal, but the intellectual project Burke, and even more Russell Kirk, tried to build has been kept alive in spite of itself. Those seeking to combat liberal change must look elsewhere for a perennial conservatism, and a biography of Burke as opposed to his writings shows why this is so.
Burke was aware of his genius from the beginning of his career to the end; aware that his faculties could have been applied to any field of endeavor, from the bar to literary journals to Adam Smith's professorship of Moral Philosophy in Edinburgh. His choice to run for (or more accurately, be placed in) Parliament was driven in part by economic necessity, certainly in large part by vanity. It was a place for his genius to shine, a practical medium for his philosophical beliefs and the force of his character.
What was the philosophy? Whiggism. This might be defined as a worship of the events of 1688, a conscious forgetting of anything that happened a century and a half before that date, and a latent ignoring of its necessary effects a century hence. One must ground this fact in the consciousness of every Whig: The Glorious Revolution was a usurpation by oligarchs of a legitimate, humane, and conservative king. If it was more peaceful than 1789, it is only because a king had paid the ransom of blood forty years before. If James II was a tyrant, then Louis XVI was too; by such standard, certainly the Sun King deserved to lose his head. The crux of the matter is that England's last Catholic monarch sought to reorient the constitution of England towards what it had been before a half-century usurpation, theft, and murder begun in earnest under a genuine tyrant, Henry VIII. He did so cautiously and conservatively; he sought to restore to Catholic some of their civil rights and to assert some of the kingly perogratives against the merchant class oppressing the great mass of Englishmen. He was dethroned because he was interested in acting like a king.
It was not until George III that England had another king interested in acting like a king. The freedoms that he planned to bestow on the recently conquered Quebecois were similar to those James would have granted to English Catholics. The sanctions he sought to impose against the disobedient aristocrats in America may have been imprudent, but they were not tyrannical. Chesterton notes that the proper role for a king is as the protector of the great mass of people against the aristocrats; the great fault of English history, to him, was Richard II's failure to defend the people against the mad aristocrats that would soon oppress the people and depose him. From Bolingbroke, King George had a familiarity with this role. It paid off; Kirk notes that the mad and beleaguered George was mourned by the people upon his death. One wonders how he would have been perceived by the royalists in America had the revolution not succeeded. Would they have appreciated the rebellions (Shays, the Whiskey) that needn't have happened?
Against the French regicides, Burke defended the monarchy with fervor and blood. But the monarchy he defended was only a paper one. When one understands this, it makes Burke's entire crusade seem comedic; it is like a man fighting a duel over the honor of a mannequin wife. In his conception, the sovereign of England was still the king--but only in acting through Parliament. His ideal monarch was, indeed, a mere figurehead, a front of legitimacy for a body whose highest accomplishment was the beheading of a king. Burke's particular treatment of George, especially through the regency crisis driven by George's temporary madness, is embarassing, and Kirk elides much of it. His general treatment is simply incoherent. He is a believer in the English constitution of 1790, not because of any principles it is based on (because those principles were based completely on the lies of oligarchs), but because he lives in 1790 England.
The Glory of Europe? Where was this indignation for when the Puritans smashed the churches, the aristocrats plundered the monasteries, Parliament murdered a king and deposed another? Certainly all nations go through ugly political intrigues, but not all nations proudly build their constiutions out of them. Our vaunted "free speech" rights arise in large part out of the "Seven Bishops" case which was a usurpation of the legitimate powers of James II. The attempt to apply moral principles to these usurpations ex post facto constitutes ninety percent of the English philosophical tradition. Burke's attempts to apply this philosophy as a force for counter-revolution can only be based on sentiment, not on principle.
This is Burke the philosopher. Burke the statesmen should not be too praised either. The William Hastings affair is a rhetorical victory for blowhards, but a moral disgrace to Burke and anyone with any scruples towards an overzealous prosecutor. William Hastings oversaw the functions of an increasingly overmatched East India Company, whose political intrigues and invidiousness brought shame to England. Nonetheless, Hastings was mostly free of direct involvement in rank dealings. When he returned to England, he expected to live in quiet retirement. Instead, he was subjected to a witchhunt of eight years' length, all for the vanity of Edmund Burke.
As Kirk makes clear, there was never any chance of conviction after the articles of impeachment had been found, and the matter was transferred to the Peers. In other words, it was a sham prosecution, and the bulk of the proceedings were a show trial led by Burke himself. From a pragmatic perspective, it was not even necessary. Burke was astoundingly correct in saying that colonial rule in India needed reform. And in Pitt's India Act, such reform they got. The matter should have ended there. Instead, Burke continued with nebulous complaints that Hastings had run afoul of the "natural law," an exposing the faults of colonial rule with complaints that should have been kept in Parliament or addressed to the king (not that the Whig would have gone to the man who had most power and incentive to rule India in a way Burke thought just).
This was the height of unscrupulousness. Recourse to the Natural Law in matters of moral philosophy is often instructive. In practical politics, it is mostly incoherent; in the role of the prosecutor it is tyrannical--and this is the role Burke adopted to harass his enemy for nigh a decade. Not even Kirk can put up much of a defense to Burke's ranting here. He notes that Burke's manifest defeat at trial has been awarded the booby prize of being read in classrooms full of future colonial adminstrators. The tedious exercise of finding moral victory in defeat is one Kirk must partake in often, because Burke was so often hopelessly defeated. It is true that defeat in temporal matters should not sour us to just causes, for such causes often fail in the temporal realm not because God sides with the injustice, but because He wants us to understand that temporal matters are not ends in themselves. But Burke took himself to be a practical politician; his battles were not ones forced upon him, but ones he chose. As such, one has a reasonable expectation of him that he not lose all the time. One also has to push back against the notion of the "virtuous loser" which Burke and his conservative acolytes have held out after being summarily quashed by the Left. Whether they know it or not, they are misapplying the Christian principle of sacrifice to the secular sphere. Temporal defeats are not goods in themselves; they are in fact great evils, ones which no sane person would endure if not owed a later victory. When St. Paul, facing martyrdom, could exclaim that he had won his race, he was referring not to the temporal sphere, where he was pathetically defeated, but to the celestial, where a diadem was waiting. He never makes the mistake of thinking temporal defeats are good in themselves; this would be the same error in thinking that temporal benefits can be their own end. But this is not true; the victory was and is in putting temporal things, both good and evil, in their proper place, which is always below the Ultimate Goodness of God.
Burke was fundamentally religious, but only accidentally a Christian. This could be said of all of Burke's most dedicated followers (perhaps of most Anglicans). His confusion of Christian notions with temporal things might be seen as one aspect of the Modernist heresy that had been growing since Craemer. Embracing defeat for its own sake turns one's own suffering into his own reward. The diadem the "lost cause" conservative accepts is bestowed not by the grace of God, but by his own pride. Burke's attempt to be a voice crying in the wilderness of opposition should be derided, not lauded. His last testament, having his body buried in an unmarked grave lest it be exhumed and defiled, a la Cromwell, was an act of cowardice. It showed, without a doubt, how pride and vanity drove him. (The counterexample of another English politician, Thomas More, is instructive: his beheading made it easier to propagate his relics. I was able to touch his jawbone 3,000 miles away from the Tower; if he had "kept his head" who would care if his bones were dust?)
But I repeat: The Hastings trial was a disgrace, and one that should mar our impression of Burke. Let history judge Hastings as it will. But Burke as prosecutor had no right to seek conviction on the vague and specious notions of natural law. I am in no way against the use of Christian Natural Law. I believe Christian Natural Law indeed requires the rule of lenity, which states that where a law is ambiguous, it be read in a way that benefits the defendant. Applying this fundamental rule here, where the law was not only ambiguous but unwritten, Hastings should have never been subjected to any prosecution whatsoever. But Burke carried on his sham prosecution not because he expected success, but he wanted to share his genius with the world. The evil extends beyond his egoism; we might see it in the sham trials of our own day. One can easily think of Nuremberg, where vague recourse to Natural Law effectively negated the legitimacy of any civil government liberals didn't like; this is the necessary implication if "just following orders (i.e. civil law)" is not a defense. Applying the "Natural Law" is so often just a facade thrown over victor's justice; victor's justice which is itself a negation of any universal law besides "might makes right."
Burke's greatness lives in his writings. His fervor is immortal. He is rightly classed amongst the Romantics, and it is no surprise that the poets who survived into old age found such a comrade in Burke and his work. But founding an intellectual program on such a man must be in vain. Comparing Burke to Cicero is apt, for while there are Platonists, Aristotleans, Thomists, there are no Tulliysts. One can admire and emulate Cicero; one cannot act through his works, because he did not lay down enough intellectual grist to bear unique fruits. The same is true of Burke. He was a sophist, not a philosopher. Insofar that he had a philosophy, it derives from a strange brew of Hobbes, Locke, and Anglican divines, all of whom were apologists for liberal change and theft. Burke was prescient and wise, but it was due to his faculty of sense, not an acquired wisdom. Burke remains a literary feast, but true wisdom is better (and more easily) found elsewhere.