Statesmanship & Statesmen According to Willmoore Kendall

Dr Owen examines the views of conservative scholar Willmore Kendall (March 5, 1909 – June 30, 1967), on statesmanship and statesmen.

From The Imaginative Conservative

By Christopher H. Owen, PhD

Henry Clay and Sam Rayburn fit well with Willmoore Kendall’s views of the democratic statesman. Both were skilled politicians who sought the good, avoided extremism, and consciously represented the people in Congress.

For many centuries, scholars have written weighty tomes on statesmanship. In the twentieth century in particular, many students of the American political philosopher Leo Strauss would weigh in emphatically on the subject. Working outside this sacred Straussian circle, Willmoore Kendall, the Oklahoma-born philosopher of democracy, seldom addressed the topic of statesmanship head on. And much of what Kendall did say has been misunderstood. To clarify his views, then, this essay sets forth several aspects of Kendall’s thought relevant to issues of statesmanship. Then it examines the work of two American statesmen who exemplify these ideas.

“A statesman,” said Speaker of the House Thomas Brackett Reed in 1892, “is a successful politician who is dead.” Political success and death later made Reed himself a statesman. Without accepting his definition as such, one can stipulate that all statesmen, including Kendall’s, must exhibit political prowess. In 1828, for example, Noah Webster defined statesman as a person “versed in the arts of government; usually, one eminent for political abilities.” The statesman serves with distinction and gets results. Usually, but not always, he wins. Mark Anthony ‘s legionnaires cut off Cicero’s head and pulled out his tongue. Yet Cicero not Anthony was the statesman.

Kendall’s statesman has to be realistic as well as skilled. Demosthenes and Cardinal Richelieu were both statesmen, for example, but their aims, methods, and results differed tremendously. Each adjusted to circumstances of time and place. For anyone knowing Kendall’s work, one might suppose his theory of statesmanship would uphold democracy in all circumstances. Not necessarily. Though once titled the “ur-democrat,” Kendall knew majority-rule was often impossible. As a Cold War intelligence officer, he argued that the United States foolishly lost China by promoting democracy amid a civil war. Similar contextualizing appeared in Kendall’s scholarship. For years he pondered and ultimately translated and published Rousseau’s Government of Poland. Rousseau advised the Poles to preserve elective monarchy, aristocracy, and serfdom. Both the Genevan philosopher and his American interpreter thought democracy the best form of government. But each knew that statesmen had to adapt principle to reality. Kendall’s statesman, that is, needs political prudence as well as proficiency.

Kendall’s statesman also must possess a well-ordered vision of the good. So far as possible, he has to promote “justice and right,” attributes which Kendall called society’s “true purposes.” Kendall maintained that a “higher law” exists than human convention. Through reason and revelation, human beings discover the nature of justice and the good. “The best regime,” Kendall says, “is that which is best for the nature of man.” Bare self-interest, aka self-preservation, provides a feeble foundation for the good society. It encourages greed and discourages those characteristics—self-sacrifice, honor, and personal dignity—which exemplify the best in humankind. Thus statesmen and citizens alike are duty bound to promote the good society, one which nourishes virtue.

How odd that Willmoore Kendall, whom the Straussian thinker Harry Jaffa infamously and incorrectly labeled a Calhounite, should advocate “higher law” political theory. For antebellum abolitionists were the best-known American advocates of such thinking. In 1854 William Lloyd Garrison famously put higher law into action, publicly burning the Constitution as “a covenant with death” and “an agreement with Hell.” John Brown soon took this principles a step further. By higher law, however, Kendall didn’t mean instant action and the consequences be damned. He saw higher law as necessary for the good society. But he believed it could never be fully realized within history. Mankind’s grasp of its principles will always be limited, seen “through a glass darkly” as per St. Paul. Kendall’s statesman needs to acknowledge higher law as a guide, the lasting truth of “thou shall not steal,” regardless of context. Yet because he acts in history—the human journey in which perfection remains always out of reach—the statesman needs humility. He must recognize limits on putting higher law precepts into practice. Kendall’s statesman, then, will be principled but not doctrinaire.

Applying religious teachings directly to political questions was therefore “problematic,” especially in America. The United States wasn’t a chosen nation like ancient Israel, not “a nation with the soul of a Church,” not a propositional entity based on a set of doctrines but rather a people. A Christian society, yes, but with a secular government. When Brent Bozell, Jr., Kendall’s protege, began to dabble in Catholic integralism, Willmoore warned him that “God is hard to manage.” This deep-seated distrust of the doctrinaire extended beyond the political claims of religion. Kendall, for example, regarded Ludwig von Mises’ “absolute fidelity to free enterprise” as rigid to the point of absurdity.

He also reacted negatively to Barry Goldwater’s celebrated words from 1964: “Extremism in the defense of liberty is no vice. Moderation in pursuit of justice is no virtue.” By asserting political views as sacred truths, this approach threatened democratic deliberation. Any group inflexibly committed to a moralistic politics—whether abolitionists, integralists, libertarians, prohibitionists, or Goldwaterites—was proclaiming that justice must be done, even if the heavens fall. Kendall’s responded: “heaven can indeed fall, and it can hurt the heads it hits mighty bad.” Aggressive assertions of moral rectitude, that is, can and often do have disastrous and unforeseen political consequences. Kendall’s statesman knows that extremism can be a vice, even when defending liberty, and that moderation can be a virtue, even when pursuing justice.

Wherever suitable, Kendall believed representative democracy the best form of government. Talented democratic leaders will be his greatest statesmen. Kendall’s abiding life interest was to promote self-government by the people. He believed majority rule possible for large, modern nations. Kendall knew direct democracy was poorly suited for the modern world. Instead, the best political system for modern democracy was established by the U.S. Constitution as explicated in The Federalist. To support this claim, Kendall expanded upon Federalist #10. Diverse factions in a large country, that is, do not merely balance one another out through elections—more or less automatically—and prevent tyranny, as per Madison. Rather, representatives from particular places, with many diverse interests, meet face to face in Congress to deliberate. There, through a process of give and take, elected legislators consciously harmonize the interests of their locales and work out a national consensus reflecting the considered understandings of the people.

To Kendall deliberation is the beating heart of democracy. Elected representatives talk things through. Their give and take promotes stability and preserves majority rule. Impediments to hasty action—a two-house legislature, staggered Senate elections, etc.—are not barriers to democracy. They’re safeguards. By slowing down proposed reforms, the system allows consensus to develop. When enacted, changes reflect “the deliberate sense” of the American people, as forged by their representatives under the influence of higher law principles, and not the fickleness of a mere crowd. Within this system Congress rules supreme. Through impeachment, control of salaries, and so forth, Congress ultimately controls all facets of government. Kendall’s ideal statesman, then, will belong to this dominant and most democratic part of government.

His democratic statesman also has to remain close to the people. A Congressman understands the ins and outs of his locale, knows its movers and shakers, appreciates local virtues and vices. He can talk to constituents about real issues, not babble about generalities as presidents do. Moreover, he can exemplify the very ethos of his community. He is not merely the community’s agent but also serves as its representative type. Kendall suggests that members of Congress are to be the “best men” of their communities, respected as persons who embody community values. Such men inject a neo-aristocratic element into democracy and help build the balanced polity beloved by Aristotle.

Yet as a democratic leader, Kendall’s statesman will focus on the welfare of the people. He must possess the qualities of the good shepherd from the Gospel of John. He can’t be a “hireling” serving in government mainly for money. He can’t be an absentee landowner never in contact with the flock. Like the biblical shepherd who faces down the wolf, the statesman “lays down his life” for his country. The people know and trust him. He knows them intimately. He speaks their language; they hear his voice and defer to his judgment. Such mutual self-knowledge closes the people’s ears to siren songs which would lead them astray. Unlike a shepherd, however, the democratic statesman is himself one of the people and removable by them.

Kendall’s statesmen are neither supermen nor saints. Being skilled doesn’t mean every initiative succeeds; being realistic doesn’t rule out miscalculation. The statesman’s personal morality is less important than his public actions. He might make money from politics or have a disordered home life. No problem: so long as he is competent and his concern for the good and for the people comes first. In any case, should the representative stray too far from the fold—betray or embarrass the community—voters can oust him at the next election.

In summary, the highest sort of Kendallian statesman must be skilled and prudent. He must work for the timeless good while retaining humility about being able to achieve it. He must represent the views of his constituents and serve as an exemplar of their best qualities. He needs to stay close to the people and look to their welfare. If an American, he’ll likely make his mark in Congress. Success and personal rectitude are desirable but not mandatory.

Willmoore Kendall was famous for his acid tongue and generally sparing with words of praise. It’s easier to know which aspiring statesmen he disliked—FDR, JFK—than to discover whom he admired. Kendall neither specifically praised nor disparaged the two statesmen discussed below. He would have supported some of their policies and opposed others. Rather, the author has selected these men based on Kendall’s criteria for statesmanship.

First comes Henry Clay (1777-1852), aka The Great Compromiser. Among his jobs were Speaker of the House, Secretary of State, US Senator (often seen as its greatest member ever), and founder of the Whig Party. His accomplishments included pushing through the Missouri Compromise, framing the Compromise of 1850, and establishing the American System of tariffs and public works to promote economic growth. Clay had the political prowess requisite for statesman status. He possessed flexibility and prudence. A Congressional warhawk, he helped start the War of 1812, but as signer of the Treaty of Ghent he helped end it. His tariff legislation provoked the Nullification Crisis of 1832-33. To make South Carolina follow federal law, President Andrew Jackson prepared for a bloody invasion. Clay acquiesced to a bill letting the president use force but then negotiated a reduced tariff to end the crisis peacefully. In 1834 Clay asserted the power of Congress by pushing through an official censure of Jackson, the only time Congress has ever censured a president.

Clay knew higher law had to undergird government but was reluctant to impose his views forcefully. The son of a preacher, he avoided church membership until shortly before his death. Yet he invoked God on many public occasions. Clay opposed slavery on moral grounds but owned slaves. He repeatedly sponsored efforts to abolish the institution gradually in Kentucky (the first in 1798, the last in 1849). Meanwhile, he denounced demands for immediate emancipation as disruptive, counter-productive, and unconstitutional. Clay wanted to end slavery but also to preserve national unity and peace. In the crises of 1819-21, 1832-33, and 1849-50, he negotiated compromises on slavery-related questions which pulled the nation back from dissolution and war. If slavery could have been abolished without war, perhaps only Henry Clay could have achieved it.

In 1850, said he, “I know no South, no North, no East, no West, to which I owe any allegiance.” His loyalty was to the Union and to Kentucky. He believed the nation would benefit from the American System. Meanwhile, the program helped his state. Tariffs protected Kentucky’s hemp industry, including hemp grown at Ashland, his own plantation. In 1830 Clay cited high principle to fight Jackson’s veto of the Maysville Road Bill. But the defeated bill would have boosted Lexington’s economy by linking it to the Ohio River. Clay was certainly a “statesman for the Union,” as his chief biographer proclaims. Maintaining the Union was his chief goal in life. Meanwhile, he worked for Kentucky.

Henry Clay embodied the ethos of his state. Two duels merely boosted his local reputation for bravery and honor. His anti-slavery but anti-abolitionist stance reflected Kentucky’s position as a border state. His love of horse racing and whiskey mirrored local habits. Many Kentucky Derby winners trace their lineages back to Ashland thoroughbreds. A bon vivant, Clay regularly had barrels of whiskey shipped from the Oscar Pepper Distillery in Lexington to Washington to lubricate the wheels of political discourse. Happily, one may still purchase bottles of Old Henry Clay Rye Whiskey from the same distillery. So when Kentuckians sent Henry Clay to Washington, they sent one of their own, the best representation of themselves, to advance their interests in the national capital. He was what Kendall thought a statesman should be, a democratized aristocrat, working for the good, and representative of his time and place.

Only Kendall’s second statesman of democracy served longer than Clay as Speaker of the House. In personality and appearance he stood poles apart from the flamboyant Kentuckian. Sam Rayburn (1882-1961), aka Mr. Sam, haled from Fannin County in northeastern Texas. After a poverty-stricken boyhood spent chopping cotton near the town of Bonham, he worked his way through college and law school, laser focused on political success. He served almost fifty years in the House, continuously in office from 1913 until his death in 1961, including seventeen years as Speaker. Rayburn worked best behind the scenes, jawboning with other politicians from diverse parts of the country, usually after hours and over drinks. In these “Board of Education” meetings one sees Kendall’s legislative deliberation at work, albeit in an informal setting.

Rayburn always held high the powers of Congress. Asked late in life how many presidents he’d served under, he said none but that he had served with quite a few. When presidents spoke disrespectfully to him, he hung up the phone. In the 1930s he was a key figure in passing laws restricting monopolies and regulating Wall Street trading. His most important national service came in August 1941. FDR had left town. Speaker Rayburn marshaled his vast parliamentary skills, using both carrots and sticks, to push through the Service Extension Act of 1941. The bill (to preserve military conscription) faced intense opposition. It passed the House by a single vote. When Pearl Harbor came four months later, the US Army was far readier to respond than had it failed. Thus, Rayburn possessed the prudence and prowess of a statesman.

Rayburn wasn’t an avid churchgoer, but he acknowledged Christian principles throughout his career. Each person’s task, he said, was to help people “live together as brothers and as children of God.” Yet he remained aware of real limits in achieving such ideals. His changing position on civil rights is illustrative. As the son of an impoverished and embittered Confederate veteran, this evolution took time. Until the 1950s Rayburn opposed most civil rights initiatives. He advised Roosevelt and Truman to move slowly to avoid segregationist backlash in the South. Then Rayburn changed. He opposed the Dixiecrats in 1948, refused to sign the Southern Manifesto of 1956, and helped secure passage of the Civil Rights Acts of 1957 and 1960.

Much like Willmoore Kendall, Rayburn saw the issue of civil rights as having “genuine civil war potential” and wanted to minimize violent conflict. The sagacious way forward was to work patiently through Congress. There—once consensus developed that civil rights legislation was necessary and good—change could happen without social carnage.  As attested by the forty-one “martyrs” now remembered at the Civil Rights Memorial in Montgomery, Alabama, the backlash when it came was bad enough. Had the federal government pushed much faster, Rayburn (and Kendall) believed the conflict would have been far bloodier. Meanwhile, Rayburn’s growing openness to civil rights legislation mirrored that of his state and his district, allowing him to retain the good will of constituents.

Service to the people of his district remained paramount to Rayburn. His most cherished accomplishment for them was pushing forward the Rural Electrification Act of 1936. When the law passed, only 3% of the farms of his district were electrified. At the end of his career virtually all were. This initiative—together with dams, roads, and other public works—provided tangible, lasting benefits to Rayburn’s constituents. “Drudgery, darkness, and muddy roads,” said Mr. Sam, “are not conducive to anything that is good.” Trusting “the judgment of the people,” he pledged to “do what was right.” Rayburn saw voters as his ultimate “tribunal.” They in turn showed deference to him as “a man of energy, intelligence, and integrity,” their man sent to Washington to manage national exigencies.

Mutual trust between representative and represented was key. In his own person, Rayburn embodied the ethos of northeastern Texas. Late in life Rayburn joined his deceased father’s congregation of foot-washing Baptists. Such folk, like many in his rural district, were poor, proud, and honest. He sought to epitomize their best qualities. Though “a high standard of living” was desirable, he once said, “a high standard of life” was more valuable still. With feigned modesty, Rayburn once proclaimed: “I will not deny that there are men in the district better qualified than I to go to Congress, but gentlemen, these men are not in the race.” He was the district’s best man, its democratized aristocrat. Rayburn loved political power, had a fierce temper, but was indifferent to money. He refused all gifts, never took junkets, and died with a modest estate. A lavish lifestyle would not have gone down well back home in Bonham.

Thus, Clay and Rayburn fit well with Kendall’s views of the democratic statesman. Both were skilled politicians who sought the good, avoided extremism, and consciously represented the people in Congress. More than 30,000 people attended Clay’s funeral in Lexington in 1852. His tomb took nearly ten years to complete. It’s a stone mausoleum holding up an ornate 120- foot column topped with a statue of a well-coiffed Clay. Mere hundreds attended Rayburn’s funeral in Bonham, but the crowd included three presidents and a president to be. Buried amidst his family, the Speaker’s grave is marked by a modest flat stone engraved only with his dates and name: “Mr. Sam Rayburn.”

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The featured image combines a painting of Sam Rayburn (1941) and a painting of Henry Clay (1842) by John B. Neagle. Both files are in the public domain and appear here courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.